Chapter 39: The Hunger of a Nascent God, A Feast of Sleeping Titans
Chapter 39: The Hunger of a Nascent God, A Feast of Sleeping Titans
The mantle of godhood settled upon Rico Volcārys not as a gentle coronation, but as a raw, elemental storm. The absorption of the Many-Faced God's Keeper, and through it, a sliver of the divine essence of Death itself, had shattered the last vestiges of his mortal constraints. He was eternal now, his lifespan stretching into an indifferent infinity, his perception of time so vast that the frantic scurrying of human lives seemed like the fleeting dance of dust motes in a sunbeam. His power was a living, breathing entity within him, a confluence of draconic fire, Valyrian blood magic, the deep earth-song of the Children of the Forest, and now, the cold, silent authority of Oblivion.
Yet, even in this state of nascent divinity, a disquietude stirred within him. His new senses, now capable of perceiving the subtle currents of cosmic energy, the faint whispers of distant, ancient powers, brought not peace, but a chilling awareness. He was a new god in an old, crowded cosmos, a bright, tempting flame that might attract the attention of entities far older, far more established, and potentially, infinitely more hostile. To merely exist was not enough; to survive, to thrive as a god, he needed to become an apex predator on a divine scale, and quickly.
"The universe is a tapestry woven with the jēdar of gods, both sleeping and watchful, Alaric," Rico mused, his voice now a resonant chorus of the myriad powerful souls within him. He stood in the Grand Observatory of Volcārys, a vast, obsidian chamber open to the stormy Skagosi sky, its domed ceiling enchanted by Alaric's final, greatest work (completed by Rico's own hand using Valyrian techniques) to show the true, unfiltered dance of the stars, untainted by atmospheric distortion. Though Alaric himself was long dust, his recorded wisdom, his theories on divine essences and cosmic hierarchies, stored within vast crystal data-looms, continued to serve his immortal master.
"Your apotheosis via the Many-Faced God was… an intrusion, My Lord Dragon," Alaric's recorded voice echoed from a crystalline shard, the maester's meticulous tones tinged with an eternity of awe. "You have tasted divinity, but you are yet a hatchling among elder wyrms. To secure your place, to ensure your eternal reign is not cut short by jealous or fearful incumbents, your power must become… unassailable."
Rico's gaze, a fusion of draconic gold, Targaryen violet, CotF earth-green, and the chilling silver of his ice dragon Glacian, turned south, towards the distant, ruined heart of an empire that had once dared to claim godhood for its masters. "The Valyrian Fourteen Flames," he rumbled. "They are but embers now, their worshippers dust, their temples ruins. Yet their divine jēdar, the very essence of their fiery, blood-soaked dominion… it lingers, a feast for a god hungry enough to claim it."
And then, his gaze shifted again, inward, towards the deep, primal magic of Westeros itself. "And the Old Gods of the First Men. The silent, watchful spirits of the weirwoods, the earth-song of the Children. Their power is diffuse, ancient, woven into the very fabric of this continent. To consume that… would be to become the land itself."
Two pantheons. One of fire and sorcery, born of volcanoes and dragon's breath, now sleeping in its own catastrophic ashes. The other of earth and spirit, ancient beyond reckoning, its power slumbering in the roots of mountains and the hearts of sacred groves. To devour both… it was an ambition so colossal, so blasphemous, it would make the gods themselves tremble. It was perfect.
The preparations for these divine hunts spanned centuries. Rico, with his eternal lifespan, possessed a patience that was truly draconic. His five dragons – Obsidius, Viridiax, Nocturne, Nymeria, and Glacian – grew to their full, awe-inspiring majesty, colossal beasts whose wingspans could blanket entire villages, their roars challenges to the very thunder. He trained them not as pets or mounts, but as extensions of his own divine will, their minds linked to his in a silent, unbreakable telepathic symphony. They were his first, most terrifying apostles.
His hidden kingdom on Skagos, Volcārys, became a dark jewel of arcane engineering and absolute power. The Skagosi, generations removed from their savage ancestors, now worshipped him as a living god, their fierce loyalty absolute, their warrior traditions honed into a formidable, disciplined army clad in Rico-forged shadow-steel. The young Children of the Forest he had taken captive centuries ago were now ancient themselves, their initial terror long since transmuted into a complex, fearful reverence. They served as his greenseers, their consciousnesses spread across the weirwood network he had meticulously, unnaturally, expanded across Skagos and even, through transplanted saplings carried by his agents, to a few remote, hidden groves on the northernmost fringes of Westeros. They were his eyes and ears, his whispers in the ancient wood.
His inner circle of human (or once-human) servitors was long gone, their lifespans, even those extended by Lyra's alchemy or Rico's subtle influence, but fleeting sparks against his own eternity. He ruled alone now, his only true confidantes the echoes of Alaric's wisdom in the crystal looms and the silent, unwavering loyalty of his dragons and his CotF seers.
The Valyrian Devouring
After nearly two centuries of meticulous preparation – scrying the ruins of Valyria through the obsidian mirror (a feat that now cost him little effort, his will a match for any lingering curses), studying the Valyrian scrolls for clues to the locations of their most sacred, power-laden nexuses, and forging artifacts of immense arcane power designed to channel and absorb diffuse divine energy – Rico deemed the time ripe for his first divine feast.
He did not go alone. He went with his entire flight of five dragons. Volcārys was left under the silent, vigilant watch of his CotF greenseers and his Skagosi legions.
The journey to the Smoking Sea was a silent, terrible procession. Five colossal dragons, with Rico himself often taking to the skies in a shimmering, draconic form of pure shadow and fire (a shapeshifting ability born from his complete mastery over his own jēdar and the absorbed CotF nature magic), were a sight unseen in the world since the Valyrian Freehold at its zenith. They flew through storms of their own making, their passage cloaked in mists and shadows, avoiding the shipping lanes and settlements of Essos.
Valyria itself was a vision of hell. A shattered peninsula of black, smoking rock, twisted into impossible shapes by the cataclysm of the Doom. The air was thick with ash and sulfur, the sea boiled, and the very land seemed to writhe with tormented, lingering magic. Strange, mutated creatures skittered through the ruins. Whispers of madness and despair clung to the cursed stones.
But Rico, immune to fire, his mind shielded by centuries of iron will and arcane wards, strode through this desolation as if it were his birthright. His dragons, children of Valyria themselves, seemed almost… at home… amidst the lingering fire and shadow, though even their mighty spirits recoiled from the deepest, most corrupted pockets of the Doom's legacy.
Guided by his scrying and the Valyrian scrolls, Rico sought the rumored heart of the Valyrian pantheon's power: the shattered caldera of the Fourteen Flames, the vast chain of volcanoes whose eruption had precipitated the Doom, but whose roots, Alaric had theorized, still pulsed with the fading divine jēdar of the lost gods of fire, blood, and sorcery – Balerion (the god, not the dragon), Meraxes, Syrax (again, the deities), and their kin.
There, amidst a landscape of obsidian cliffs and rivers of molten rock, Rico began his ritual. It was not a prayer or a supplication. It was an act of divine predation. His five dragons formed a protective circle around the caldera, their roars a challenge to the tormented spirits of Valyria. Rico, standing at the very lip of a vast, smoking chasm that plunged into the fiery heart of the earth, raised Anādrag, its blade now a conduit for his immense will.
He spoke the most ancient and forbidden words from the Valyrian scrolls, words of unmaking and remaking, words that resonated with the dying divine energies still trapped within the earth. He drew upon his own internal fire, the combined might of six dragon souls, and the essence of three Targaryen kings, projecting his will downwards, a spiritual grappling hook cast into the abyss.
He felt them: the faint, chaotic, and utterly furious remnants of the Valyrian gods. They were not coherent consciousnesses, but raw, primal forces, fragments of divine power still raging against their oblivion. They resisted, lashing out with waves of phantom fire, with visions of the Doom, with whispers of madness and despair.
But Rico was stronger. He was a new god, hungry, vital, his will forged in the crucible of countless stolen lives. He wrestled with their fading power, his own jēdar a vortex, drawing them in, consuming them. It was an agonizing, exhilarating process, lasting for days that felt like eternities. He felt the raw power of volcanoes, the secrets of bloodforging, the arcane geometries of Valyrian sorcery, the fierce, possessive pride of gods who had once ruled the greatest empire the world had ever known, all flooding into him, merging with his already colossal might.
When it was done, Rico stood taller, his aura blazing with a new, terrifying intensity. The Fourteen Flames seemed to dim, their geothermal fury subtly lessened. He had devoured the lingering heart of a dead pantheon. His mastery over fire and blood magic was now absolute. He could taste the raw power of creation and destruction on his tongue.
The Old Gods' Silence
His return to Skagos was a triumph celebrated only by the silent awe of his dragons and the trembling reverence of his CotF seers. He spent another century consolidating this new, fiery divinity, integrating the chaotic Valyrian essences, his power reaching levels that would have been unimaginable even to the Dragonlords of old. Volcārys became a place of even greater, more terrifying beauty, its obsidian towers seeming to pulse with inner fire, its volcanic heart now beating in time with its master's will.
Then, his gaze turned to the Old Gods of the First Men. This was a different challenge. The Old Gods were not localized, not defeated. They were diffuse, ancient, woven into the very fabric of Westeros, their power residing in every weirwood tree, every rustling leaf, every silent stone. To "devour" them was to attempt to consume the spiritual essence of an entire continent.
His CotF seers were his key. Over decades, he used their greenseeing abilities, amplified and directed by his own divine will, to map the intricate weirwood net that spanned Westeros, to identify its oldest, most powerful heart trees, its deepest spiritual nexuses. He learned that the true heart of the Old Gods' power was not a single location, but the collective consciousness of the weirwood web itself, a vast, silent, and incredibly ancient intelligence.
His chosen point of assault was the Isle of Faces in the Gods Eye, a place he had visited in his mortal life, a place where the concentration of ancient weirwoods and raw nature magic was stronger than anywhere else south of the Wall.
This time, Glacian, his ice dragon, was his chosen steed. Fire and ice, Valyria and the First Men – he would unite them all within himself. He traveled to the Isle not as a conqueror with an army, but as a solitary god seeking to consume another.
The Green Men, the ancient, enigmatic guardians of the Isle, sensed his approach. They emerged from the weirwood groves, their forms gnarled and moss-covered, their eyes holding the wisdom of millennia, their presence a silent, powerful rebuke. They were few, perhaps the last of their kind, protectors of the Old Gods' most sacred place.
The confrontation was one of raw, elemental magic. The Green Men wielded the power of the earth itself, calling forth animated trees, stone guardians, illusions woven from mist and shadow. But Rico, now a god of fire, death, and ancient Valyrian sorcery, his will absolute, his draconic power a raging inferno, was their superior. Glacian's frost breath shattered their stone guardians, Rico's own elemental fire consumed their living barricades, his obsidian daggers, now conduits for his death-aspected power, unraveled their illusions.
He did not seek to kill the Green Men, not directly. He sought the heart of their power. He found it at the center of the Isle, a colossal weirwood, its carved face weeping crimson tears, its roots delving into the very core of the world, the central node of the entire weirwood net.
There, Rico began his final, most audacious ritual. He did not use fire or overt destruction. Instead, he drew upon the deep nature magic he had absorbed from the Children of the Forest, upon his ability to warg and to see through the weirwood net, but he twisted it, subverted it. He projected his immense, divine consciousness into the great weirwood, not to commune, but to consume.
He felt the collective soul of the Old Gods, a vast, silent, and ancient presence, the accumulated wisdom of the earth, the memories of every creature that had ever lived and died beneath the weirwoods. It was a power fundamentally different from the fiery ambition of Valyria or the cold finality of the Many-Faced God. It was the power of endurance, of growth, of an eternity measured in the slow turning of seasons.
He drew it into himself, a slow, inexorable absorption, like a black hole consuming a galaxy. The great weirwood on the Isle of Faces shuddered, its leaves turning black and brittle, its crimson tears drying to dust. Across Westeros, other heart trees trembled, their faces seeming to weep. The Green Men fell to their knees, their life force fading as their connection to their gods was severed.
When it was done, the Isle of Faces was… silent. The ancient magic had not been destroyed, but transferred. It now resided within Rico Volcārys. He possessed the boundless wisdom of the weirwood net, the ability to see through any tree, to hear any whisper on the wind, to feel the pulse of the earth itself. His greenseeing was now omnipresent, his warging abilities limitless. He was not just a god of nature; he was Nature's god.
He returned to Skagos, to Volcārys, a being of truly unimaginable power. He was the God of Fire and Blood, of Death and Oblivion, of Earth and Spirit. He was a pantheon of one. His five dragons were but extensions of his will, his Skagosi kingdom a mere speck in the vastness of his cosmic awareness.
He sat upon his obsidian throne in the heart of his volcanic mountain, his eyes holding the light of dying stars and newborn galaxies. The world, with its petty wars and fleeting empires, was a plaything. His initial consolidation of power was complete. He was, without question, one of the most powerful gods on the planet, if not the most powerful.
His gaze, which could now pierce the veil of reality itself, turned outwards, towards the silent, wheeling cosmos. His ambition, once focused on a single world, now stretched towards an eternity of multiverses. The game of gods had a new, terrifying player. And Rico Volcārys, the boy from Earth, the Don, the Dragonlord, the God-King, had only just begun to truly understand the meaning of power.