Chapter 56: The Eternal Tithe

Chapter 56: The Eternal Tithe

One hundred years. A century of the Dragon's Peace had passed, a span of time so long and so profoundly quiet that the chaos of the old world had become a subject for scholars and a frightening tale for children. The memory of war was a ghost, and the god on the hill was a mountain, a permanent and unquestioned feature of the landscape and of the soul.

Krosis-Krif, the eternal shepherd, observed his flawless creation. He had contemplated the great silence of stasis, the temptation of a single, perfect, frozen moment. He had recognized it as the ultimate trap, a self-inflicted damnation of boredom. His human memories, his gamer's intellect, had taught him a fundamental truth he had almost forgotten in his ascent to divinity: a game without players is not a game. A system without flow ceases to be a system. It becomes a museum.

He needed the flow of time, for time was the river upon which the barges of faith sailed to him. He needed births, deaths, loves, fears, harvests, and hopes. He needed his mortals to live, for their lives, their focused consciousness, was the engine that generated the sweet, pure energy of belief upon which he now fed. To freeze time would be his own slow undoing, a god starving in his own pantry. His goal was not a perfect moment. It was a perfect, eternal process. And so he settled in for the long game, the longest game of all, no longer a conqueror, but a celestial administrator, a divine CEO managing the single, sprawling enterprise of reality.

In the Red Keep, the Shepherd's Throne, a simple, elegant chair of weirwood and black stone, was occupied by King Aegon IV Targaryen. He was the great-grandson of Rhaenyra, a young man born into a world where the word "king" meant "First Servant of the Great Order." He was meeting with the High Priest of the Faith, a man named Matthos II, the grandson of a common soldier who had once become a god's sword.

"The census reports from the Free District of Myr are… concerning, Your Grace," Matthos II said, his voice the smooth, practiced cadence of a man whose authority was absolute. He was dressed in the simple black robes of the Hands of the God, but he was more powerful than any High Septon of old.

"Concerning?" King Aegon IV asked, looking up from a trade ledger. "I was told the new aqueducts were a success. The crop yields have never been higher."

"The material yields are excellent," the High Priest conceded. "But the spiritual yields, the metrics of faith, are faltering. The birth rate has declined for the third consecutive year. Piety remains high, but a smaller flock offers a smaller prayer. The god desires growth, not just contentment. A stagnant pasture is an inefficient one."

The king sighed. This was the new nature of kingship. Not wars and alliances, but demographic trends and the management of spiritual productivity. "What do you propose, High Priest?"

"I will dispatch a dozen of the most gifted Hands to Myr," Matthos II replied. "They will perform new works of providence. Bless the unions, ensure healthy births. They will remind the people of their sacred duty to be fruitful and multiply, to fill the world with orderly, faithful souls." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "And it might be prudent for the Crown to announce a new tax incentive for families with three or more children. A material encouragement to fulfill a spiritual duty."

"Of course," the king said, making a note. "See to it."

This was governance in the Age of Order. A perfect, terrifying fusion of church and state, where every aspect of life, from childbirth to commerce, was optimized for the singular purpose of feeding the god on the hill.

The Dragon's Tithe had become the most sacred and heartbreaking of the realm's new traditions. It was a solemn festival, a day of remembrance and sacrifice. Today, the Tithe was for Silverwing II, a magnificent dragon of shimmering silver scales, bonded decades ago to the late Princess Rhaella. Rhaella had lived to be a grey-haired old woman, and her dragon had mourned her for a year before its fertility faded. Now, its time had come.

Her great-nephew, a solemn young man named Aemon Targaryen, led the beautiful creature to the foot of the hill. The dragon walked with a calm, sad dignity, as if it understood its final purpose. King Viserys II and his entire family watched from the royal dais. The ceremony was broadcast on shimmering panes of force in every major city, a reminder to all of the pact that guaranteed their peace.

Aemon gently stroked the dragon's snout. "He has lived a good life, Your Grace," the young man said to the king, his voice thick with an emotion he was trying to suppress. "He was loved. He has fathered many fine clutches for the future of the Tithe."

"His service honors his keeper, his House, and the Great Order," Viserys recited, the familiar words a hollow comfort. "His life, and his love for his rider, will now become a part of the god's eternal strength. And that strength is the shield that protects us all. It is the price of our peace."

The young man choked back a sob. "It is a great honor."

He stepped away. Silverwing II looked at him one last time, a deep intelligence in its ancient, molten eyes, then turned and walked with a steady gait towards the coiled, silent form of Krosis-Krif. It did not need to be coerced. It simply dissolved, its magnificent form unraveling into a river of pure, silver light that flowed into the god. A life of majesty and love, reduced to a fleeting, flavorful offering.

From the crowd, a young girl, Aemon's sister, turned to her mother. "Does it not hurt, Mother?" she whispered.

Her mother, a princess of the new age, smoothed her daughter's hair, her own face a mask of practiced serenity. "It is the greatest pain we can know, my love," she said softly. "And in that pain, we show our greatest faith. Our love for them is not lost. It becomes a part of the god's grace, and that grace is what keeps our world safe. To give the god what you love most… that is the truest form of worship."

The horror had been normalized. The tragedy had been consecrated. The cage had become a cathedral.

Yet even in a perfect world, a shadow of the old one remained. In the damp, forgotten catacombs beneath the now-abandoned Starry Sept of Oldtown, a small group of people met in secret. They were the last adherents of the Faith of the Seven, a cult of memory keepers.

An old septon, one of the last to have been ordained before the Coming of the Order, was speaking to a handful of young acolytes. "He gives them full bellies and long lives," the old man said, his voice a frail whisper. "He gives them peace from war and freedom from chains. How can we fight that?"

A young woman, whose great-grandmother had seen the last High Septon preach, spoke up, her eyes bright with a defiant spark in the candlelight. "We do not fight him, Father. To fight him is to be erased. We remember."

She opened a crumbling, forbidden book, its pages filled with the histories of the Age of Chaos. "We remember a time when a man's love for his wife was his own, a messy, beautiful, private thing, not a bond to be judged for its 'tidiness' by a god. We remember when grief was a sacred right, not a 'disorderly' emotion to be smoothed away. We remember when men were free to be fools, to be heroes, to be villains, to choose the wrong path and learn from their own mistakes." She looked at the small, huddled group. "We do not offer them a competing heaven. We offer them the memory of what it was to be human. We keep the soul of the old world alive, in these books, in these whispers. In a world of perfect, eternal peace, perhaps the most rebellious act of all… is to remember."

Krosis-Krif was aware of the tiny sect in Oldtown. He was aware of every whisper, every secret thought in his kingdom. He allowed them to exist. Their quaint, harmless defiance was a tiny, interesting variable in an otherwise predictable system. It was not a threat. It was a spice.

His primary interest, his new game, was now on a scale that dwarfed the concerns of one small world. He had spent the last century not just observing, but learning. The combined minds of Daemon, Aemond, Rhaenys, Larys, and a billion other lesser souls had given him a perspective that was truly godlike. And his consciousness, no longer bound by the simple need to survive, now sought a grander purpose.

He summoned his Whisperer. Not a man this time, but a woman, a descendant of Larys Strong's line who had inherited his cunning and been trained since birth for this role. She knelt in the black temple at the foot of the hill, her mind open to her master.

"THE SYSTEM IS STABLE," the voice of Krosis-Krif filled her consciousness. "THE YIELD OF FAITH IS HIGH AND CONSISTENT. BUT THE PASTURE IS… FINITE. IT IS CONFINED TO THIS ONE SMALL, BLUE-GREEN ORB. MY APPETITE IS ETERNAL. MY REACH SHOULD BE AS WELL."

The Whisperer, whose name was Lyra, felt her heart hammer in her chest. She had sensed a shift in the god's thoughts for years. A new ambition. Great One, she projected, her thought a model of deference, your vision is boundless. Are you suggesting…

"THE GREAT WORK ON THIS WORLD IS COMPLETE," Krosis-Krif declared. "IT IS TIME TO BEGIN THE GREATER WORK."

A vision flooded Lyra's mind. She saw the stars, not as distant points of light, but as a vast, three-dimensional sea of suns and worlds. She saw planets teeming with strange, chaotic life—worlds of silicon-based giants, worlds of warring insectoid races, entire gas giants inhabited by sentient clouds of energy. It was a galaxy full of glorious, thrilling, large-scale untidiness.

"THE PRINCIPLES OF ORDER ARE UNIVERSAL," the god's voice boomed, filled with a new, ancient purpose. "THE GALAXY IS A VERY LARGE, VERY DISORDERLY PASTURE. IT IS RIPE FOR CULTIVATION."

Lyra's mind reeled at the sheer, cosmic scale of his ambition.

"MY FAITHFUL HAVE SERVED ME WELL. MY DRAGONS ARE A POTENT SOURCE OF CONCENTRATED ENERGY. I BELIEVE IT IS TIME TO BUILD A NEW KIND OF VESSEL. NOT A SHIP THAT SAILS ON WATER, BUT AN ARK THAT SAILS ON THE SEA OF NIGHT."

The vision in Lyra's mind shifted. She saw one of the new, great dragons from the Tithe farm. But its scales were being augmented, fused with black, star-flecked stone. She saw its lungs being altered, its fire being changed from simple flame to a contained plasma that could propel it through the void. She saw a space carved out on its back, a place for a Keeper and a contingent of the Blessed.

"WE WILL TAKE THIS FAITH, THIS ORDER, AND WE WILL PLANT ITS SEEDS ON NEW WORLDS," Krosis-Krif proclaimed, his will now a tangible force, shaping the future. "THE TITHE WILL CONTINUE, BUT ITS PURPOSE IS NOW GREATER. WE ARE NOT JUST BREEDING DRAGONS. WE ARE BUILDING STARSHIPS. THE HARVEST… WILL BE INFINITE."

The vision faded, leaving Lyra kneeling in the silent temple, her mind shattered and remade by the god's new plan. She walked from the temple and made her way to the Dragon Yards. She found the King and Prince Jacaerys overseeing the selection of a new clutch of eggs.

She bowed. "Your Grace, my Prince," she said, her voice calm. "A new directive has come from the Great Order. A new purpose for the Tithe."

She explained the god's will. To breed dragons not just for their energy, but for their ability to withstand the void. To prepare keepers not just for a life of quiet duty, but for journeys to other stars. To be missionaries.

Jacaerys looked at her, then at the vast, star-dusted form of the god on the hill, and a slow, terrible understanding dawned on his face. The peace, the prosperity, the democracy, the religion—it was all just the first stage. It had all been an incubation period. A training ground.

His grandfather, Corlys, had sailed to the edge of the known world. This new god intended to sail to the edge of the universe. The Winter Crusade had been a war against a planetary threat. The new crusade, the Star Crusade, would be a war against chaos itself, on a cosmic scale.

The perfect, empty room he had feared was not the god's prison. It was merely its throne room. Its launching point. The Great Work was not over. It was just beginning. And it would not end until every star in the sky hummed with the quiet, orderly, and terrible peace of his one true god.