Land of the King

Chapter 73: The Empty Peace

4451 E.L.

In a blast of dragonfire, thousands were incinerated instantly, their dying screams haunting all who heard them, but Aravorn unflinchingly sent more soldiers into the grinder. If the war was to be won, they had to win here.

The Arnorians had driven Valyria back beyond the Rammas Rómen and reclaimed all their pre-war territory but the Valyrians still had one last drop of strength assembling in the Rhoyneland, one last army they could use to attack the Rammas again, and so his father had ordered the wearied Arnorian army, an army on the brink of mutiny, to prepare for one last offensive, the invasion of the Rhoyneland. One last offensive to break the Valyrian front and end the war.

Aravorn had marched his army down the Rhoyne from the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe, using the mighty river Rhoyne to shield them from the fire and they had been near unchallenged until they had almost reached the city that had once been Ny Sar. It had been waiting for them there, ready to stop their invasion in its tracks. The Last Glaurung.

Its brethren had both died, the first in the Drowning, and the second in the province of Tálnandor by the sacrifice of Lord Boromir and his army four years prior. Now the last confronted them and if their invasion was to succeed, it had to die.

Over and over, his army charged into the jaws of death as the Glaurung incinerated them. In the skies above, the dragons descended upon the flanks and rear of the Arnorian force. Had it not been for the waters of the Rhoyne, they would have long since failed. The Valyrians had thrown everything they had against this invasion. A massive army supported by their last Glaurung and over a hundred dragons.

Aravorn turned to his giant battalions, almost all overwhelmingly female by this point, to assemble on the hills and take up anti-dragon roles to allow the water mages to focus on the Glaurung. If the beast was to die, they had to use the Rhoyne to kill it.

For a whole day, the Arnorian and Valyrian armies faced off against each other along the banks of the Rhoyne, dragons falling from the sky in the dozens as thousands burned beneath them. Neither side able to force the other to relent.

The Arnorian cavalry were all eviscerated when they attempted to flank while the Valyrian infantry failed to dislodge the Arnorian giants and archers from the hills. In the midst of it all, the Glaurung fought with the water mages as they tried breaking its armour off.

By sundown, the Glaurung at long last was killed, drowning in the Rhoyne after the water mages finally pulled it in without interference from the dragons in the sky who were driven off by the Arnorian giants. But the price of their 'victory' was a heavy one. Half of the army was dead and the dragons had taken advantage of their mages's distraction to reduce most of them to bone and ash.

The Valyrians, who were even more bled than they were, were withdrawing to Ny Sar and though he could pursue them, what was the point? There was no way he would be able to take Ny Sar fast enough to hold it against Valyrian reinforcements, not even if he drowned the city, if he even could with the few water mages he had left. And there were still dozens of dragons flying above Ny Sar.

Many had harbored hopes that with an invasion of the Rhoyne, Arnor could undo the losses of the Second Dragon War and restore the Rhoynar to their ancient homeland. In Aravorn's mind, that was always a fool's dream. Ghoyan Drohe, the last truly Rhoynar city in the world, had been destroyed in the Dagor Bragollach and in the fifty years since the Second Dragon War, the Valyrians had done nothing less than an extermination of the inhabitants that had fallen under their yoke, enslaving and massacring them all. The former Rhoynar lands had been resettled by Valyrian subjects. There were no Rhoynar to greet Aravorn's army as liberators as they invaded. Only a fearful, hateful, and resentful Valyrian populace. And even if they drove them out, who would replace them? The last Rhoynar were now part of Westeros, either in Arnor or in the North, Norda as it was becoming known now with the fusion of the two cultures.

"Your Highness, shall we besiege Ny Sar?" one of his subordinates asked as the officers gathered to discuss their next move.

Aravorn laughed bitterly, painfully, "With what army my lord? Half our men are dead or dying and our water mages and giants have taken heavy losses as well. The Glaurung may be dead but Valyria still has at least fifty dragons guarding Ny Sar. It's vital to their control of the Rhoyne. If by some miracle we manage to take Ny Sar, we will be down even more men and surrounded and isolated deep in Valyrian territory. We face the same dilemma our armies did in the Second War, only this time with no Rhoynar to die for us.

"No my lord, this expedition was a failure, a costly failure that only served to prove that invading Valyria back serves no use now that we have fulfilled the primary objectives of our war, to kill the last Glaurung and destroy Valyria's ability to threaten East Arnor again. It will serve no purpose at all I fear, to throw away more lives for a city we will have no choice but to surrender in the peace treaty. All of you, have your regiments collect their wounded. Do not leave a single one behind if possible. We are withdrawing," he said with a note of finality.

Mayhaps with enough reinforcements they could take and hold Ny Sar. Mayhaps if they mobilized even more people from the homeland they could even take Volantis. Mayhaps from there they could occupy and garrison the Rhoyne. Maybe with yet another fleet they'd be willing to see burn they could retake Lorath. After that, maybe they could even threaten Qohor and Norvos. From there maybe they could ally the Sarnori and take Essaria. Mayhaps they could do all those things… but Aravorn knew the price could not be paid. Arnor had been bled dry, even more so than the attacker over which they had barely triumphed. There were warhawks that were pushing for yet more war and for vengeance, he knew, but they were fools. Peace was in hand at last, he knew, and he craved it almost as much as he feared it.

His father had made no secret what peace would mean, but even more than the dread he felt at the thought of ruling, he felt dread at the thought of coming back, coming back to a home that no longer felt like home. The stingy dragonhide command tent with its countless maps, and the smell of overworn clothes, army stew and parchment had been home for ten years.

Even the constant threat of death, the rush of battle and the endless monotony between those battles had begun to be familiar to him, maybe even a sick sort of comforting. Meanwhile home had begun to feel alien to him. He had visited Morlond on leave almost a year ago, and it had felt foreign. The capital was being rebuilt, slowly but surely, and the people there were happy again, and seeming so far removed from the war he could not feel at ease with them. And that scared him more than anything. The fact that he had begun to need the war almost as much as he hated it and that now it was coming to an end, and he knew not what he would do.

"Understood, Your Highness!" his subordinates all chorused, breaking him from his thoughts.


It had been a decade of war. The longest war in Arnorian history. A decade of suffering, death, and fire. The death toll was simply catastrophic. Eleven million dead was the estimate, from the belligerents of Arnor, Norda, the Vale, Braavos, and Valyria. The dead came from all walks of life, Arnorian and Valyrian, poor and rich, ruler and ruled, peasant and noble, civilian and soldier, all had been forced to accept the Gift of Men far too early, far too young. Even the high nobility and royalty of Arnor had fallen during the war, his uncle Ciryaher, his twin cousins, Ciryon and Ciryacil, and his friend Cirion's father, Steward Boromir. Their rank and status had not saved them from the fire. They died just the same, as everyone else did.

Eleven million dead, a figure that should have been horrifying and yet he simply felt numb to it by now. How many of them had he seen fall himself? He knew not, he had lost count of the faces of the dead long before the carnage of Morlond.

Ten years since the day the war began and the armistice was signed. The fighting finally stopped along the frontlines as the armistice came into effect in the evening of the 7th of Girthron, 4451. The carnage had at last come to an end, and now months after the armistice agreement, Aravorn and his father had come to Lys to negotiate the treaty that would end the war and finally bring peace.

Peace. What a pretty word, what a pretty lie. When the nightmares kept him from sleeping, when the scars hurt and the ghosts haunted him, when the peace felt so meaningless and hollow, when he felt hollow, what peace could there be for him? Or for any Arnorian who returned home to Arnor when this war was done? The war might end, but there would be no peace for Arnor, not until the memory of the suffering had passed and with their longevity, a curse more than a blessing in these dark days, the memory of the Third War would live long after the war itself had passed. And with the giants so close to extinction by the utter decimation of their people by the war, perhaps the scars would never truly heal.

No matter, Aravorn would see the treaty signed and then return home, to see Nimloth and Arahad again, to see his daughter. It had been ten years in which he hadn't seen them, the long trip to Annuminas being more than he could be allowed in the tolls of war. That was the only peace that would ever be left for Aravorn, son of Aragost. At least he had that, many could not say the same, he knew.

The negotiations proceeded over the course of two weeks and when the treaty was finally finalized and signed, Aravorn went to his quarters and started throwing around things in rage. It was the first feeling he had truly felt in years that wasn't longing, sadness or gloom.

The treaty was for all intents and purposes, a status quo antebellum. No territory changed hands save for the exception of Braavos losing Lorath and its hinterlands to Valyria. Oh, Valyria agreed to pay some minor reparations for their unprovoked invasion but it meant little and less when held against the Arnorian war casualties. Eight million Arnorians had died, and all their sacrifice had bought was a status quo? Nothing. They had achieved nothing at all. They'd fought an enemy wishing to exterminate them and fought them to a standstill, but that enemy was still alive and well. Allowed to continue to exist after the evil they had done.

Aravorn wanted to scream and rage more but the rational part of him urged him to calm down. It was done and over. Millions more would have had to die to force more concessions out of Valyria, he knew. The part of him that still believed in humanity just wished that things were fair, that Valyria got its just desserts for its crimes and atrocities. A fair and just world would have ensured that, but they did not live in a fair and just world. Ten years of hell had taught him that all too well.

He heard a knock on the door and looked up. "Who is it?" he called out.

"It is I. May I come in?" his father said.

Aravorn opened the door to let his father in, not caring that he'd see the scattered objects that he had thrown around in rage earlier.

He raised his eyebrow, "You should have a servant clear up the mess later."

"It doesn't matter. I'll do it," Aravorn replied nonchalantly.

"You're angry."

"I'm furious, but I've already accepted that it is necessary. You always did what was necessary."

His father smiled but it did not reach his eyes. "The Arnorian people are fickle. Had I continued the war in order to press for more concessions, they would have accused me of sending more sons and daughters of Arnor to die for no reason. As it is with the treaty, they will blame me for giving Valyria an 'easy' peace."

"You did what had to be done, you can't be blamed for that," he said in protest, his rage cooling ever so slightly.

"But I am, as I should be. Necessary or not, the things I did to win this war were too cruel, too ruthless. I am a king for war, not for peace. The Arnorian people have held their tongue until now, but with the treaty signed, all their grievances against me will come out. For the sake of stability, for the legitimacy and rule of our house, I must step down. It will be you Aravorn, who will lead our people into peace," he said, the words coming as no surprise, yet hurting nonetheless.

"I Father? Surely I am not ready yet?" Aravorn asked, aghast. If only he could have a year more, or ten, though he didn't know if the pain of war would go away in a lifetime. How could he lead Arnor into peace when he hadn't even found it himself?

"Everyone says that. Take it from me my son, no amount of preparation or training will ever prepare you for the weight of the Crown on your head and the Sceptre in your hand. You at least will have my advice and aid should you wish it, but you must be the one to rule, and you cannot be seen as my puppet or my abdication will be for naught," he said.

"I… I understand Father."

"Good. If you are willing to hear my counsel, there are some things that I advise should be done."

"Name them," he said in an instant. He didn't care who would be seen as the power on the Throne in that moment, or any such other useless things. In that moment he felt lost and adrift, like a piece of driftwood tossed around on the sea. The war had been 'won', but it was a victory that tasted like the ash of Morlond, and in its wake he had no idea what he could possibly do.

"Your brother Celeb has served admirably over the war. With your uncle's line extinct, Pentos is in need of a new Prince, and who other than your brother? Braavos as well needs a new ruler."

"Braavos Father? Celeb having Pentos I can understand but Braavos is independent of us entirely."

"Braavos is in ruins. We effectively rule them now, and they have already proven how useless they are as an ally. It is better for us, or one of us at least to rule Braavos should we find it too weak to resist Valyria. In such an event, who should rule it, you think?"

Only one man came to Aravorn's mind, "Uncle Túrin."

"Indeed, your uncle could have had any prize in the First War had he wished it. My own father was of half a mind to grant him Myr as he had granted Ciryaher Pentos. He turned it down at the time, but he has developed quite the attachment to Braavos over the course of the war. If you offer it to him, I do not think he will refuse it this time," his father said, a ghostly hint of a sad half smile on his lips. His father had not smiled since the war had started, but now, with the pain of the Drowning ebbing away he had seen moments such as these, when happiness came to the surface and threatened to break the shroud of grimness that cloaked him.

"Apart from the matter of titles, much else has to be done. Of greatest importance is the rebuilding of Morlond and the Rammas Rómen. The former has already been rebuilt somewhat, though it is no fit capital for Arnor as of now. The royal seat shall remain in Elendil's City a little while longer I think, and of course, you shall be crowned there as tradition dictates. I couldn't have a proper coronation ceremony due to the war, I think it would do Arnor good to see you crowned in Annúminas.

With Morlond partially restored, your highest priority right now should be to see that the Rammas Rómen is rebuilt, properly this time. Damn the expense, line the whole bloody wall in black stone, even if it bankrupts us. It's a matter of national security that the Rammas be restored.

You must turn your attention to other tasks as well, the resumption of trade is vital to ensure wealth pours into our empty coffers again. Rómennor, Siriand, Nammatil, and Morfalas all need rebuilding and redevelopment. The army can transition into a labor force to provide work for the soldiers in the peace…."

And on and on his father went. It was all so much. Aravorn hadn't really realized just how much work being a king entailed till now. How had his grandfather and father done it seemingly so easily?

"Yet before all of this, there is one task that must come first for you. It comes before all the others, even the high priorities of rebuilding the Rammas and Morlond."

That piqued Aravorn's curiosity. What could possibly be more important than that?

"Go back to Annúminas, and see your wife and children, Aravorn," his father said.

"There are still things that have to be done here…" he said, as the fear he felt about going home bubbled to the surface. Would he still know them? Would they still know him? Had they grown too far apart in the ten years they had been separated? The fear was crippling.

"I am still King am I not? I can handle them. Stop stalling Aravorn and go see them. Don't make me make it an order."

"I… I understand Father."

"Good. You leave on the morrow. Pack your things."


It would probably be the last order his father would ever have the authority to give him, but Aravorn couldn't think about that much as the ship sailed into the harbor of Annúminas and he saw his wife and children in person for the first time in almost ten years. He couldn't think at all really.

His emotions seemingly trying to make up for being absent these past years, Aravorn couldn't help but run from his ship onto the pier the moment the sailors moored the ship and ran into Nimloth's embrace. It still felt like home, radiating all the love he didn't realize just how truly he had missed these past years. Quickly, they fell into a kiss, bordering on the indecent, but after so many years, he couldn't even begin thinking about caring.

When they finally broke their kiss, breathless, Nimloth spoke.

"You came back," she said, with tears in her eyes but a smile on her lips. He knew his eyes and lips were the same.

"I did. I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."

His son Arahad stood at a respectful distance but at his urging he came forward for him to embrace him firmly before he stepped back to take a good look at his son.

Arahad had not changed that much physically. What little remained of his lanky teenage adolescence had disappeared, replaced by firm strong muscles and a slight increase in height. A fine warrior's build. But what stood out the most to Aravorn was the way his son now carried himself, the confidence that oozed out of his being and the wisdom in his eyes. It seemed that ruling Annuminas as its Regent these past nine years had matured his son well.

"Father, it's… it's good to see you," he said a little stiffly. Eru, even his voice sounds different, he thought.

"It's good to be back, Son. So good to be back, you have no idea how much I missed you," he said, pulling his son in another hug. This time he felt his son relax and hug him back.

Aravorn's attention was drawn then to his daughter, so different from the little girl he had watched sail away from Osgiliath. She was tall, with an adolescent lankiness. Her eyes were grey and her hair was a dark brown streaked with silver. Yet it was her face that had changed the most, becoming more defined and firm, shedding all the baby fat of childhood for an aristocratic, elegant tilt, befitting the princess it belonged to.

Yet this princess was standing nervously, a look of fear and uncertainty. Eru help him, did he even know her at this point? She'd grown up so much, and all without him. What is she like, what are her passions? He wondered but realized he didn't know, the realization making tears fall from his eyes.

"Ancalimë, it's me. It's your father. I kept my promise," Aravorn said pleadingly, more tears falling from his eyes, seeing the unease on her face.

At that, Ancalimë broke down into tears and ran into his arms and Aravorn embraced her lovingly as Nimloth and Arahad joined as well. In the warm embrace of his family, Aravorn finally felt at home and thought to himself that maybe he could still find peace.