Chapter 28: The Convocation of the Scale and the Valyrian Testament
The very stones of Blood Cove seemed to hum with an unnatural energy in the weeks following Alaric's secret Valyrian pilgrimage. Though the full extent of his apocalyptic power grab remained a secret known only to him, and perhaps dimly, terrifyingly intuited by the increasingly spectral Eamon, the sheer overflow of divine power had tangible effects. The colossal dragons in their Obsidian Eyrie grew even more restless, their subterranean movements causing faint tremors that the cultists attributed to the Whisperer "stirring in His deep dominion." The air within the Vault of Whispers was permanently colder, charged with a static that made hair stand on end, and the Symbol of Scales above the focal stone now seemed to possess a depthless, internal luminescence, its balance point a vortex of shadow.
Alaric, his divine consciousness now a vast, multi-layered entity infused with the essences of dead gods and the arcane knowledge of a fallen empire, decreed, through Eamon, a "Great Convocation of the Scale." This was to be no mere Day of Accounting. It was a summons to all who had sworn the Blood Oath, from the original, traumatized survivors of Blood Cove to the newest, most brutal recruits of Vargo's Reaving Fleet, from the inhabitants of their coastal "protectorates" to chosen representatives from Lyra's distant Stonelands flock and Kael's wolfswood zealots. For weeks, they converged – a strange, motley, and increasingly formidable army of the faithful.
The gathering was held not within the confines of the Vault, which could no longer contain such numbers, but in a vast, newly consecrated amphitheater Alaric had guided the cultists to carve into the cliff face overlooking the turbulent sea. It was a monumental feat of engineering, accomplished with terrifying speed by a populace driven by fanatical devotion and subtly augmented by Alaric's own transmutative will acting upon the rock itself. Tiered stone benches rose towards the clifftop, all focused on a massive, rough-hewn obsidian dais where Eamon would stand, with the Symbol of Scales, now rendered in gleaming, captured Valyrian steel (a piece Alaric had "allowed" to be "discovered" by Borin in a "divinely revealed" cache), dominating the space behind him. The very air crackled with anticipation, fear, and a heady, almost hysterical sense of impending revelation. Tens of thousands of souls, a grim tapestry of devotion and desperation, gathered under a sky that Alaric had subtly manipulated into a bruised, stormy twilight, even though it was midday.
As the last of the distant delegations arrived, the sheer scale of Alaric's burgeoning "empire" became apparent. There were the grim-faced, obsidian-clad warriors of the core Blood Cove Obsidian Guard, their eyes holding the haunted light of those who had witnessed true divine terror. There were Vargo's reavers, their faces scarred and predatory, their loyalty bought with plunder and victory. There were contingents from the subjugated coastal towns, their expressions a mixture of fear and a dawning, desperate hope for continued protection. There were Lyra's Stonelanders, their faith quiet but intensely fervent, their eyes shining with the conviction of those who had seen a different kind of divine intervention. Kael's woodsmen, gaunt and wolfish, stood apart, their devotion as wild and untamed as the forests they hailed from. And among them all, the Vault Mothers moved, guiding the ever-growing number of children, the "Scale-Sworn" generation, for whom this terrifying spectacle was simply the truth of their world.
When Eamon finally emerged, walking slowly towards the obsidian dais, a hush fell over the vast assembly. He was a terrifying figure, his flesh almost translucent, his eyes burning with an unnatural, silver light that seemed to reflect the Valyrian steel symbol behind him. Scalebane was strapped to his back, its dark pommel visible above his shoulder, and he carried a new staff, also apparently "discovered" – a twisted length of what looked like dragonbone, topped with a massive, uncut black diamond that pulsed with a faint, internal rhythm. He was Alaric's avatar, his conduit, and the sheer, raw power that radiated from him silenced even the most hardened sellsword.
"Chosen of the Scale!" Eamon's voice, no longer humanly hoarse but a resonant, amplified boom that Alaric projected through him, rolled across the amphitheater, each word seeming to vibrate in the listeners' chests. "You have been summoned! You have been tested! You have bled for the true balance, and your devotion has been weighed in the Grand Ledger!"
He paused, his burning gaze sweeping across the thousands of upturned faces. "The Sovereign of Scales has observed your faith, your sacrifices, your unwavering will in the face of a corrupt and dying world! He has seen the injustices you have endured, the lies you have been fed by false gods and broken lords! And He… is pleased!"
A collective sigh, a gasp of relief and exultant fear, rippled through the crowd.
"The enemies of balance gather like carrion crows!" Eamon continued, his voice rising to a prophetic roar. "The Warden of Winterfell marches, his banners stained with hypocrisy! The priests of the Seven spew their venom, their comfortable world crumbling before the dawning truth! The Red Woman in the Stones weaves her fiery deceptions! They seek to extinguish the light of the Whisperer, to restore the old, broken scales! But they do not know… they cannot comprehend… the power that now resides with His chosen!"
Alaric allowed a wave of his divine presence to wash over the assembly – not an overt manifestation, but an almost suffocating pressure, a chilling certainty of immense, unseen power. The wind howled, the unnatural twilight deepened, and the Valyrian steel Symbol of Scales behind Eamon blazed with a cold, white light that cast stark, dancing shadows across the terrified, ecstatic faces.
"The Sovereign has delved into the deepest vaults of forgotten time!" Eamon proclaimed, his voice now imbued with an ancient, terrible wisdom. "He has reclaimed the lost treasures of empires that dared to dance with fire and shadow! He has feasted upon the very echoes of dead gods! And from His now boundless treasury, from His unassailable armory, He bestows upon you, His faithful, His instruments, the tools of ultimate rebalancing!"
What followed was a ceremony of bestowal unlike anything Westeros had seen since the prime of Old Valyria. It was not an act of generosity, but a strategic reinvestment by Alaric, designed to transform his cult from a merely formidable regional power into an unstoppable force.
First came the "Blessings of the Ascendant Scale." Eamon, guided by Alaric, called forth the leaders of the various factions. To Jax and Kael, the Bloodsworn Commanders of the now vastly expanded Obsidian Guard, he bestowed a heightened resilience, a chilling aura of command that Alaric directly infused into their beings. Their wounds from the crusade seemed to knit with unnatural speed, their eyes taking on a faint, predatory glow. To Vargo, the sellsword admiral, Alaric granted an uncanny knack for navigating treacherous waters and a preternatural sense for enemy ambushes, a "Whisperer's foresight" that would make his Reaving Fleet even more deadly. To Thom, the Inquisitor, Alaric enhanced his ability to perceive deceit, his gaze now feeling like a physical weight upon those he scrutinized. To Lyra and Asek, his most successful distant envoys, he granted a greater ability to channel his will, to inspire unwavering devotion in their converts, and to subtly manipulate the "threads of chance" in their respective territories. These were not just words; the recipients felt a tangible shift within them, a cold, empowering energy settling into their bones.
Then came the gifts from the "Whisperer's Reclaimed Hoard." Borin, the Master of Tithes, his face a mask of stunned disbelief, oversaw a procession of heavily guarded acolytes who brought forth chest after chest, not of mere iron or plundered trinkets, but of treasures beyond imagining.
Valyrian steel. Not just one or two blades, but dozens. Longswords, their dark, rippling patterns seeming to drink the stormy light, were bestowed upon the most proven champions of the Obsidian Guard, upon Vargo's ship captains, upon Kael's most trusted woodsmen. Daggers of the same peerless metal were given to Thom's Inquisitors and Asek's Shadow Pilgrims. Spearheads of Valyrian steel were distributed amongst the elite shock troops. The sheer, breathtaking audacity of arming so many with the rarest, most coveted metal in the world left the assembly speechless, then erupted into a deafening roar of ecstatic devotion. With such weapons, they were not just heretics; they were demigods of war.
But Alaric's bounty did not end there. From the depths of his Valyrian plunder, he "allowed" Eamon to present other, even more arcane artifacts. Amulets of carved dragonglass, imbued by Alaric with a fraction of the protective sorceries he had absorbed, were given to the Vault Mothers to shield the children. Scrolls, their parchment brittle with age but their Valyrian glyphs still radiating a faint power, were entrusted to Eamon and a select few of his most intelligent acolytes, with Alaric subtly guiding their future "interpretations" to reveal lost knowledge of forging, of fortification, of herb-lore that would further strengthen Blood Cove. There were even rumors, whispered amongst the Inner Circle, that Eamon had been shown how to craft lenses of polished obsidian that could, under certain conditions, allow glimpses into distant lands – a gift of divine scrying.
And then, the gold and gems. Not for personal adornment, Eamon declared, but for the "Strengthening of the Sovereign's Domain." Chests of Valyrian gold coins, ancient and heavy, and bags of uncut gemstones were presented to Borin, with instructions to use this unimaginable wealth to fund the expansion of their fleet, the fortification of their annexed territories, the purchase of vital resources from any still willing (or terrified enough) to trade, and to create a "War Chest of the Scale" that would ensure their god's army never went unfunded. The sheer, tangible reality of this wealth, after lifetimes of grinding poverty, was a powerful intoxicant, proof that their god not only delivered justice but also unimaginable prosperity – for those who served Him faithfully.
Finally, as the convocation reached its fever pitch, Eamon made the most terrifying and awe-inspiring pronouncement of all. He spoke of the Obsidian Eyrie, of the "First Twelve Guardians" who now dwarfed castles, their fiery breath a promise of annihilation for any foe. And then, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, electrifying whisper that nevertheless carried to every corner of the amphitheater, he spoke of the Whisperer's ultimate blessing, a testament to His now truly boundless power.
"Our Sovereign, in His infinite wisdom, has delved into the very heart of the Dragon's cradle!" Eamon cried, his form seeming to swell with borrowed divinity. "And He has returned not just with the treasures of a fallen empire, but with its future! Within the deepest, most sacred sanctum of the Eyrie, new life stirs! Clutches of new eggs, offerings from the ashes of Old Valyria, now await the Whisperer's breath to awaken a new generation of Guardians! Enough to darken the skies! Enough to burn continents! Enough to ensure that the dominion of the Scales will be absolute and eternal!"
He did not show them the eggs. The risk was too great. But the promise, delivered with such terrifying conviction, backed by the undeniable reality of the Valyrian steel now gleaming in hundreds of hands, was enough. The cult erupted. It was no longer just cheering; it was a primal, almost bestial roar of collective ecstasy, a wave of raw, unadulterated faith so potent that Alaric felt his divine form solidify further, his connection to this world, to these souls, becoming an unbreakable, terrifying bond. He had given them power, weapons, wealth, and the promise of an unstoppable, fiery future. In return, they gave him everything: their lives, their wills, their very souls.
The Great Convocation of the Scale concluded with a final, bloodcurdling charge from Eamon, his voice now Alaric's own, cold, clear, and utterly without mercy. "You are armed with the steel of forgotten gods! You are blessed with the foresight of the Sovereign! You are shielded by a power that makes kings tremble! Go forth! Expand the territories of Balance! Collect the outstanding debts of this corrupt world! Let the fear of the Whisperer be your vanguard, and the shadow of His dragons your rearguard! Lord Stark marches? Let him come! The Faith screams for a crusade? Let them break themselves upon the iron will of our devotion! For we are the Chosen of the Scale! We are the Harbingers of the True Rebalancing! And our time… our time is NOW!"
As the vast assembly dispersed, their minds reeling, their hands clutching new, deadly weapons, their hearts ablaze with a fanatical, almost suicidal purpose, Alaric observed them from his divine vantage. His strategic investment had been immense, the treasures of Valyria a significant expenditure. But the return – this army of god-touched zealots, armed with the deadliest weapons in the world, utterly devoted to his will, and backed by a growing legion of colossal, fire-breathing dragons – was beyond price.
He had purified the souls of his enemies to fuel the growth of his ultimate weapons. He had plundered the cradle of dragon power to arm his followers and enrich his domain. He had transformed a ragged band of desperate cultists into the potential nucleus of a terrifying new empire. The game had changed utterly. Lord Stark, the Faith, Melisandre, even the cunning Roose Bolton – they were all still formidable threats. But they were now facing a power unlike any seen in Westeros for centuries.
The Valyrian Testament had been delivered. The next chapter would be written in the fire of his dragons and the blood of any who dared stand against the terrifying, ascendant might of The Sovereign of Scales. The world was holding its breath, whether it knew it yet or not.