Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all rights for characters, plots and settings belong to G.R.R. Martin and FromSoftware. I have no ownership.
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"Is that what he was? Or was he always true to himself, no matter what personality he wore? And there is something that the Council may never understand. That perhaps Revan never fell. The difference between a fall and a sacrifice is sometimes difficult, but I feel that Revan understood that difference, more than anyone knew. The galaxy would have fallen if Revan had not gone to war. Perhaps he became the dark lord out of necessity, to prevent a greater evil."
Kreia
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There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no fear; there is power.
I am the Heart of the Force.
I am the revealing fire of Light.
I am the mystery of Darkness
In balance with Chaos and Harmony,
Immortal in the Force.
Je'daii Order Code
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"Revan could feel the emperor feeding on him, drawing on his power to sate his endless hunger. Though the two were physically separated by a dozen parsecs, there was still an unbreakable mental link, fashioned by the Emperor and sustained by the infernal machines powering the cell.
Yet the Emperor wanted more than to leach off his fallen adversary's power to sustain his own twisted existence. Revan could feel the enemy inside his head. He could sense the unmistakable darkness of the Emperor sifting through his thoughts and memories, seeking, probing, digging for answers.
He wanted information on the Republic and the Jedi. How strong were they? Where were they vulnerable? How much did they know about the Sith and the Emperor himself? He wanted information on Revan. What had happened during his own invasion of the Republic? Why had it failed? How had he freed himself from the Emperor's control?
The answers were all there, but Revan would not surrender them easily. Though he was physically helpless, mentally he was strong enough to wage war against the Emperor, guarding and protecting his secrets for however long it might take.
And Revan knew something the Emperor did not. The connection between them went both ways. There were brief moments—times when the Emperor was intently focused on something else—when he could subvert their relationship by planting seeds in the Emperor's thoughts.
He had to be careful, lest his enemy discover what he was doing. But he was able to push and nudge the Emperor's own thoughts and beliefs, subtly manipulating them in ways that could have profound effects.
Revan played on the Emperor's caution and patience, constantly pushing them to the forefront of his enemy's mind. He augmented his irrational fear of death. At every opportunity he reinforced the idea that invading the Republic was reckless and dangerous.
It was impossible to know what would have happened if Scourge had not betrayed them in the throne room. They might have lost anyway, but they also might have defeated the Emperor, forever freeing the galaxy from the threat of annihilation at the hands of a madman.
There was no way to be sure, and no point in dwelling on the past. Revan was certain of one thing, though: for however many centuries his body survived in stasis, he would fight to stop the Emperor from invading the Republic.
He clung to this certainty; it gave him hope. He knew there was no chance of escape from his prison. He knew it was inevitable that one day the Emperor would win their endless battle of wills.
But if he managed to delay him for fifty years, Bastila might never have to experience the horrors of another galactic war. A hundred and his son could live his whole life in an era of peace, never knowing the fear of facing utter annihilation.
Whenever his thoughts turned to his wife and son, he tried to reach out to them through the Force, offering comfort and strength from the other side of the galaxy. He didn't know if they ever felt him, but he liked to imagine that they did.
Even if they couldn't, just thinking of them gave him strength. Revan was fighting for the future of his wife and child, and it was a fight he did not intend to lose."
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Kings Landing, Red Keep
Year 298 AC
Raevan Targaryen
With a heavy sigh, he rose from the bed, feeling almost nauseous. The memory and aftertaste of that unnatural bond between him and Vitiate was still with him. His head throbbed with pain, as if thousands of larvae were writhing inside.
Honestly, that wasn't even the worst part of these memories, but the thoughts of Bastilla and their son caused him the most pain. His sacrifice might have bought them peace, but it also prevented him from watching his son grow into a man and from living together and growing old with his wife.
Instinctively, he reached for Force, and the jug on the table rose into the air and tilted, filling the cup hovering slightly below. Then the cup itself flew into his outstretched hand, spilling not a drop.
He drank it all in practically in one gulp, then stepped out onto the balcony and gazed at the city below, alive even though it was late at night. While the wealthier districts were illuminated, almost all of Flea Bottom was shrouded in darkness.
This was mainly due to the availability and price of oils, both plant and animal, to power the lamps. The same was true for wax. However, if his plans came to fruition, things would change in the coming years.
Development took time, and many of the things he wanted to implement would take decades, perhaps centuries more. Development required knowledge and discoveries, but above all, people had to be ready for it. Otherwise, it would only lead to disaster.
King's Landing was bursting at the seams, but over the past few years, it had undergone numerous minor changes and renovations, as well as one massive investment that cost them over 2.5 million gold dragons and lasted two years.
A highly advanced sewer and canal system. Thousands of workers labored on it day in and day out, and over a quarter of the city's most outdated buildings were destroyed and rebuilt.
He himself only supervised the construction, leaving the more detailed management to Aemon, Marwyn, and Willas. He modeled it after the Alderaan sewers, though of course, due to technological limitations, he had to simplify it.
His gaze fell on the mansions, illuminated despite the darkness, located near Visenya Hill, belonging to the wealthiest lords of Westeros. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Arryns, and several others. The Martells and Starks didn't have their own, but it was planned that they would be hosted at the Red Keep anyway.
Doran wasn't able to come, but Princess Arianne, her brothers, Oberyn, and his children were. They had been guests at the keep for several days. His maternal family, however, was expecting it today, if the weather cooperated and the winds were favorable.
Raevan didn't have much experience with the Starks, having seen each other perhaps three or four times when they came to King's Landing, but they had a good relationship. Moreover, he and his mother were planning a visit next year.
He wanted to see the lands of his ancestors, especially since he had heard stories from his mother and Uncle Benjen. That is, if nothing happened to affect his plans.
He opened himself to the Force, and his expression darkened. He sensed some threat, but it was hidden behind a mist. Someone, or something, was intervening, though he didn't sense the hand of the Jedi or the Sith.
Either this was the work of someone like the witches of Dathomir, or worse, he was dealing with something far more ancient and dangerous. This planet seemed like a hole in the galaxy's fabric, hidden beneath the turmoil of the Force.
Who knows what ancient beings might be hiding here? Humans played their own games, and the "gods" played theirs.
It all boiled down to the fact that he had to be vigilant. The next few days would be crucial, and many of his plans would hinge on how everything unfolded.
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Kings Landing, Lannister Mansion
Tywin Lannister
He stared at the chalice in his hand with an intensity that should have melted him, the watered-down wine still untouched. Fifteen years. Nearly 15 years of stagnation for his House, while the Dragons rebuilt their strength and grew to a power they hadn't wielded since the civil war between the Black and Green.
During the Baratheon Betrayal, as the rebellion became known, Tywin was almost certain of defeat for the Targaryens, divided and with the tactical genius of Mance Tyrell, and he marched his forces to King's Landing, determined to enter either as conqueror or savior once news of the outcome of the battle in the Riverlands reached him.
However, he had no right to predict what would happen. How on earth could he have expected the North to turn against its allies? The answer was simple and equally infuriating. He couldn't.
Ned Stark, upon learning not only that his sister was alive, married to Rhaegar, and carrying his child, sided with the Last Dragon. Of course, it later turned out that the agreement between them was even more tenuous. Rhaegar declared that he would judge his father and hand him over to the North, along with the Gift, which lay fallow in the hands of the Night's Watch. The North also received reduced taxes for 10 years and 100,000 gold dragons in compensation.
Yet even that wasn't the worst of it. Tywin's gaze fell on his younger son, the dwarf sitting before him, a stain on his pride and the reason for the death of his beloved Joanna. The sight of Tyrion's disproportionate face pained him all the more because his firstborn son, his pride, had been lost to him, choosing the role of servant of the Dragons rather than heir to the Westerlands and their riches.
Tywin felt as if a curse had descended upon their family. Like his father, his own children were a disappointment. When he needed a strong heir like himself, he was punished by the gods with an arrogant coward, a dwarf with an aberrant sense of humor, and a bitter alcoholic.
"Penny for your thoughts, Father." Tyrion's voice, slowly sipping his wine, tore him from his thoughts. Undiluted. Tywin's gaze fell on his son, then on Kevan, sitting beside him. "I think," he said through his teeth, forcing himself not to offend the dwarf, as his silver tongue might prove necessary, "that if we do not seize the opportunity, our House will face a slow decline."
"Hmgh," his brother cleared his throat, drawing his attention. His usually stony face was etched with worry. "Are you sure about all this, Tywin? You're playing a dangerous game... a game that could end in our doom. Rhaegar is not his father; he's cunning and knows how to play the game... and he surrounds himself with equally brilliant people."
Tywin wouldn't admit it, but he agreed with his words. Rhaegar was every bit better and more dangerous than his father. But Tywin had no choice... He had been left with no choice when his House was sidelined in internal politics. Was it punishment or fear of him? It didn't matter.
"Rhaegar is cunning, but so are we. The same goes for our allies," he assured firmly, though inside he felt much less confident, especially in the last few days since they had arrived in King's Landing. He felt that strange feeling of constant danger at the back of his mind.
"Rhaegar is one thing, but he's probably not the biggest potential problem," his thrice-cursed son interjected, bringing up the topic of someone he tried not to even think about.
Tywin had been playing the Game for decades, but for the first time he had to admit that someone genuinely frightened him, disturbed him. The Second Prince, Raevan.
A brilliant mind, a great inventor, who not only was the reason for the royal family's extraordinary wealth but also made the Targaryens genuinely popular among the smallfolk for the first time since, perhaps, the time of Jaehaerys I and his several decades of peace and prosperity for the land.
The young Targaryen possessed a dangerous presence, but not the impression conveyed by Sword of the Morning or Bold, but something more primal. Like a fire or a storm at sea. Worse still, he had everything it took to become not only great but the greatest ruler Westeros had seen since the Dawn Age.
His only consolation was that he was second in line to the throne, but that was practically no obstacle. Aegon Unlikely was who? Fifth? Sixth in line to the throne?
"Smallfolk love him because it makes their lives easier, lords because it enriches them," Tyrion said, filling his cup for the third time. "If we add to that his brilliant mind and the truth of the rumour that he bested Ser Arthur Dayne in combat, he becomes someone about whom songs and legends are made, even the best ones."
Tywin glared at his son, though he secretly agreed. It must have been ironic that the dwarf had inherited his insightful mind.
"It matters not," he replied, his gaze fixed on the small scrap of parchment before him. "Raevan Targaryen will die before songs can be written about him, and his memory will be erased."
"You have extraordinary faith in these allies of yours, Father," Tyrion said lightly with his irritating smirk.
"And that they won't betray us," Kevan added gloomily, and before Tywin could respond, there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," he ordered, and the door opened, revealing Spider with a fake smile plastered on his face.
"My lords, I hope I didn't interrupt your family gathering." The eunuch's light and slightly ironic tone immediately irritated him, and he would have gladly beheaded him. For the Spider always had his own plans within plans. Unfortunately, it seemed they were currently on the same side. Varys, however, was a liability that would sooner or later have to be disposed of.
"Lord Varys, to what do we owe this visit?" Tyrion was the first to greet the Spider, but of course in his own style. "Wine? Out of courtesy, I won't offer women," the dwarf added, glancing pointedly at the man's crotch.
The spider didn't look offended; in fact, he looked genuinely amused. "I appreciate it, but I'd have to decline both."
Then the eunuch's gaze fell on him. "Unfortunately, I don't have much time, but I have volunteered to deliver to you, Lord Tywin, an invitation to the royal box during the tournament."
Tywin didn't show it, but he was surprised. Did Rhaegar suspect something, or did he simply decide it was time to reach out to them? "Well, Lord Varys, thank the king and assure me I'll accept the invitation."
The smile on Varys's face deepened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "But this is not an invitation from the king, my lord... but from Prince Raevan."
Silence fell in the chamber, broken only by the cries of the dwarf choking on his wine. Tywin himself grew gloomy. The young prince was the last person he wanted to interact with.
Varys, however, leisurely walked over to his desk and placed a small piece of paper on it, saying, "From our friends. Consider the previous one obsolete."
Eunuch bowed slightly. "My lords," he said and started to leave, but stopped at the door and, turning his head slightly, added as he left, "And I would advise you to be careful what you say. Even in your residence... My Little Birds are not the only ones listening for news."
Tywin stared at the closed door behind the eunuch for a moment longer, then his gaze fell on the two notes lying on the desk in front of him. He knew the contents of one by heart, and now he reached for the other.
It contained only two sentences. He read them once, then twice, frowning thoughtfully, feeling that everything had only become more complicated, but at the same time, many things made sense.
"So, Father? What does it say?" the dwarf asked, his mismatched eyes sparkling with curiosity. His brother was clearly interested too.
Tywin handed the scrap of paper to Kevan, who, after reading it, passed it to Tyrion.
"What do mercenaries have to do with all this?" his brother asked, but before Tywin could answer, the dwarf beat him to it, handing back the message.
"It's not about mercenaries, Uncle, but about who they serve."
Tywin nodded, seeing the realization in his brother's eyes. His gaze then fell on the message in his hand and stayed there.
Beneath the Gold, the Bitter Steel. We Bear the Sword.
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Kings Landing
Eddard 'Ned' Stark
Leaning on the railing, he gazed out over the city he had last visited almost six years ago, when they had come to celebrate the birth of his sister's youngest children, Daeron and Visenya.
In their letters, both Lyanna and Benjen described the changes taking place in the capital and the kingdom, and he witnessed a significant portion of them in the North, where his nephew's inventions inevitably found their way. For example, glass for their new and more efficient glass gardens, now called Raevan's gardens.
The same applied to new farming techniques, metal mining, and various new tools that made life easier in every aspect. Raevan gave all of this to the North free of charge, making him arguably the only Targaryen beloved by its inhabitants.
The North was harsh, but also fair, and the same was true of the people who lived there. Aye, they could butt heads over all sorts of trivial matters, but when you showed them kindness, they returned the favor tenfold, especially when their children didn't have to go to bed hungry.
Where did Raevan get so many ideas that even the entire Citadel couldn't match? He didn't know, though Lyanna called him a second Bran the Builder. Many, however, called it a blessing from the gods. The Seven or the Old Gods, depending on who you asked.
"Father, it's bigger than I imagined. How can so many people live in one place?" he heard his firstborn's voice from behind him, and a moment later Robb stopped beside him, gazing in awe at the city and Red Keep towering above it.
Though smaller than Winterfell, the keep was much more compact, rising hundreds of feet above the sea, and the city itself was gigantic. Robb, who had never seen a city larger than White Harbor, might have been overwhelmed by the sight.
"It's not easy. Apparently, it's much better now anyway. It used to stink terribly, but your cousin built very advanced sewage systems, supposedly even better than those the Valyrians had," he admitted, glancing at his son, who nodded slightly.
"As long as the wind blows from the sea, we can't verify that, can we? But it looks like we'll be arriving soon," Robb said, nodding toward the bow of the ship, which was beginning to turn toward the main dock.
"Go inform your mother and siblings that we're here," he said to his son, who nodded and headed for the cabins. Meanwhile, he was once again plagued by doubts about breaking the old tradition that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but he had no one to leave behind.
Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Bran were to remain in King's Landing for a year, then return to the North when his sister and nephew visited Winterfell. Rickon was too young, and Catelyn would never forgive him if he left her alone with the child.
So he left the affairs of the North in the capable hands of Wyman, who, with the help of Luwin and Ser Roderik, would manage his affairs in peace during his absence.
Soon his entire family had gathered on deck, and Jory was at the bow, taking their guard into position. As they approached the dock, his gaze fell on the welcoming party waiting a few dozen feet from their docking point.
Among the nearly three dozen guards in black and red, two figures in distinctive white armor and a smaller figure he would recognize anywhere immediately caught his eye.
He stepped ashore first and calmly walked toward his sister, though he was eager to see her again, and so was Benjen.
When he was a few feet away, Lyanna, without a second thought, threw herself into his arms, hugging him tighter than her size would have seemed possible.
"Lya. "Good to see you," he said, then, holding her at arm's length and examining her closely, added, "You look radiant."
"Ned. You have no idea how I've missed you, all of you. Benjen too," she replied, tears evident in her eyes.
He felt a pang in his heart. He missed them too, and they were thousands of miles apart. His gaze fell on the white-armored and cloaked figure of his brother, who approached next and embraced him as well.
"Ned. You look more and more like your father every year," his brother greeted him, and he smiled in return.
"And your father wouldn't recognize you. Brandon would probably laugh at you in that armor... Ser," he replied, bringing a small smile to Benjen's lips.
"Aye. I'm sure of it."
Ned glanced at the rest of the reception party and the distinctive figure of Ser Arthur Dayne, who stood a little back. "Ser Arthur. It's good to see you again," he said to the knight.
"You too, Ice Stark," the man replied with a nod. "To the Sword of the Morning!" came the adoring cry of his younger son from behind him. Turning, he saw Bran clearly, his eyes brightening at the sight of the famed Kingsguard.
Arya, meanwhile, was gazing with a twinkle in his eyes at his adored aunt, who had never left their side since they were last here. Sansa, on the other hand, seemed unable to decide which delighted her more. Her eyes darted from the knight to Lyanna and back again.
Ned shook his head with a slight sigh, and Catelyn joined him, holding Rickon in her arms. "This is our youngest, Rickon."
Lyanna approached his wife. "Catelyn, you look like you haven't had a single child, not five."
His wife smiled faintly and bowed politely, "Thank you, my queen."
"No, Queen. Call me by my name; we are family after all," Lyanna retorted, and he was sure his wife was inwardly delighted with these words.
Lyanna and Benjen then began to greet his children, but Ser Arthur cleared his throat. "My Queen, I think we should not delay and postpone these greetings until we reach the keep. There are too many strangers in the city at the moment."
Ned followed the knight's gaze to the gathering crowd a little further on and to the scattered groups of people on the docks themselves. He did indeed see many newcomers from Essos. A great many.
Ned nodded. "Ser Arthur is right, Lya. Let's go inside."
While three dozen royal guardsmen, combined with forty of his own, made a considerable force, and he could see another good two hundred gold cloaks deployed by the docks, they were too vulnerable if an attack came.
He scanned the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, but with relief, he saw only more members of the city guard in their distinctive cloaks.
"Let's go then," Lyanna agreed, hearing the urgency in their voices.
"We're going back to the Keep!" Ser Arthur shouted, and as if on cue, the guards turned and, surrounding them, began marching in order. His men followed.
Ned had to admit they were well-trained, and their armor and weapons were impressive. As he understood from Lyanna and Benjen's letters, the Dragon Guard had been created entirely by his nephew. Their weapons, armor, tactics, and training came from him.
Recruited from bastards, third and later sons of lesser families, and even from the common folk. They were said to number a thousand men at the time and were the beginning of the Targaryens' private army.
He had to admit that Raevan was ambitious. Like his children, he couldn't wait to see his nephew again. They had much to discuss.