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SLW Chapter 36 : Stormlands Under New Banner
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 21:05:36 +0000 UTCThe great keep of Storm’s End loomed over the cliffs, its walls thick and defiant, a fortress meant to withstand war and siege for years. Within, the golden lions of House Lannister shared the halls with the black stags of House Baratheon, their banners hanging high.
They thought the castle’s might would keep them safe.
They thought no force could break these walls.
And in the distance, a lone rider approached.
Aeron Grim.
He sat atop his shadow horse, cloaked in black, his violet eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood. His approach was slow, deliberate, his presence an eerie contrast to the chaos he was about to unleash.
The guards atop the battlements squinted, whispering amongst themselves.
“Who the fuck is that?” one muttered, gripping his bow.
“Some lone traveler? Maybe a messenger?” another guessed.
“A damn fool to ride up alone if not.”
The guard who spoke first hesitated, then called down, “State your business!”
Aeron did not answer.
He simply watched.
The silence dragged on.
A bead of sweat rolled down the captain’s neck. Something felt wrong.
“Loose an arrow,” he ordered.
The tension thickened like a storm cloud.
The guards shifted, nervous now. The man above cursed under his breath, pulling back his bowstring.
Thwip!
The arrow flew straight for Aeron’s chest.
And snapped into splinters the moment it touched him.
The guards froze in stunned silence.
“What the fuck?” one of them whispered, his face paling.
Aeron did not stop.
Beneath him, his shadow stirred, shifting unnaturally. It spread like a creeping infection, dark tendrils stretching across the ground, pulsing as if alive. The black mass at his feet grew larger and larger, expanding outward like an ocean of pure darkness.
A giant rose from the darkness.
A hulking behemoth of pure shadow.
Its eyes burned violet, its fists clenched into boulders. It stood twice the height of any man, bigger than any warhorse.
The soldiers on the wall froze.
One dropped his bow.
"What in the name of the Seven is that?!"
"Hold the gates!" the captain barked. "HOLD THE GATES!"
But the giant was already moving.
BOOM.
Its fist slammed into the wooden gate.
The entire castle shook.
BOOM.
Wood splintered.
Men scrambled back as the ancient wood groaned under the impact.
And then, the true horror came.
Shadow beasts.
They poured forth from Aeron’s feet, from the abyss itself.
Shadowcats and wolves, massive and swift. Their eyes glowed like cold stars.
And they started climbed the walls.
Fast.
Too fast.
"THEY’RE COMING UP! KILL THEM!"
Archers loosed a volley of arrows.
The beasts moved like wraiths, slipping through the barrage, clawing up the walls with terrifying speed.
A guard barely had time to scream before a shadowcat pounced, its claws sinking into his throat.
Another ringing the alarm bell a wolf tackled him, its fangs snapping bone.
The battlements became a slaughter.
The gate was next.
BOOM.
Splintered wood and iron flew in every direction, crushing those unlucky enough to be standing near. The entryway lay wide open, and the darkness poured in.
Inside the keep, panic reigned.
And from the abyss under Aeron’s feet An army emerged.
The soldiers inside saw them coming.
And they broke.
The Dothraki riders stormed through the shattered gate, their arakhs gleaming in the moonlight.
Knights, adorned in dark armor, their swords raised in unholy allegiance.
Beasts, shadow wolves, shadowcats, monstrosities of pure nightmares.
The guards staggered backward, some screaming in panic, others frozen in absolute terror.
A knight rushed forward to meet them.
A shadow horse crashed into him, its form warping like smoke, passing through his sword
Then the Dothraki rider split his skull open.
More men tried to hold the line.
The giant waded into them.
One swing, five men crushed.
A captain screamed, rallying his soldiers.
"HOLD YOUR GROUND! STAND AND FIGHT!"
Then, he saw them.
The risen dead, or rather their shadows.
Lannister soldiers.
Baratheon knights.
The men they had fought only minutes ago, now their shadows stood again.
Their eyes glowing.
Their armor dripped with shadow.
They marched forward.
And they butchered their former comrades.
“Gods save us…” the soldiers defending their keep muttered.
Aeron raised his sword.
And pointed forward.
The horde charged.
The Dothraki riders were first, their black steeds galloping like demons, their arakhs slicing through the lines of defenders before they even had time to scream.
Arrows rained from the battlements, but they passed through the shadows as if they weren’t even there.
The giant bellowed, a sound so deep it vibrated through the bones of those who heard it.
BOOM!
The impact shook the entire keep.
The Lannister soldiers scrambled, shouting orders, trying to form ranks, but the shadows were already inside, it was too late.
Aeron watched from afar.
His army tore through the defenses like they were paper.
A knight tried to stand his ground, sword raised in defiance, only to be impaled by a shadow spear.
Another man turned to run, but a shadowcat leaped onto him, tearing his throat out in one fluid motion.
Some Lannister men threw down their weapons and begged for mercy only to be cut down where they stood.
Others fought desperately, but the shadow knights were relentless, unkillable.
The Shadow Dothraki surged inside, they butchered everything in sight.
A knight, his golden lion sigil stained with blood, collapsed to his knees.
He had seen war.
He had seen sieges, death, horror.
But this...
This was not war.
This was something else.
The men he had sworn to fight beside were rising as shadows.
They did not breathe.
They did not bleed.
They only killed.
He dropped his sword and tried to run, but soon enough a spear made of the abyss itself impaled him.
The courtyard was filled with screams.
And Aeron Grim watched it all.
The battle did not last long.
Storm’s End,so proud, so strong...fell within the hour.
The dead littered the courtyards, their blood soaking into the cold stone.
Aeron walked forward. He strode through the shattered gates, his boots crunching over the corpses of the fallen. His cloak billowed behind him, untouched by the blood that pooled at his feet.
A knight lay on the stone, his golden armor cracked, his sword lost.
His hands shook as he tried to crawl away.
Aeron walked toward him.
Slow and Measured.
The knight looked up, terror in his eyes.
“Mercy,” he whispered.
Aeron tilted his head.
He did not speak.
The knight held up his hands.
“Please...mercy...”
Aeron kept walking.
And then...the knight’s screams cut off.
The only thing left was silence.
Aeron stepped over the corpse, his violet eyes fixed on the keep ahead.
His army kneeled.
Aeron exhaled, taking in the scene before him.
Storm’s End was his.
****
The keep was eerily silent now, save for the distant crackling of flames and the occasional whimper from the shadows.
He found them deeper inside the castle, the survivors.
Women, children, and the elderly huddled together in the great hall, their faces pale with terror. Servants clung to one another, their hands covering their mouths as if even the sound of breathing would summon death upon them. A few men, guards who had thrown down their weapons, stood stiffly against the walls, awaiting whatever fate this dark conqueror had in store.
Aeron paid them no mind.
His violet eyes swept past them, not in cruelty, but indifference. They were not his concern. He had no interest in slaughtering the defenseless. His war was with the swords that had been drawn against him, not the trembling innocents who cowered in their wake.
Then, he spotted the Maester.
An old man clad in gray robes stood near the center of the hall, his chain glinting in the dim torchlight. Despite the fear evident in his aged features, he did not run. He did not cower. He stood his ground, his hands gripping the folds of his robe tightly, as though bracing himself for death.
Aeron approached, his footsteps slow, deliberate. The room was so quiet that even the faint rustle of his cloak seemed deafening.
The Maester did not speak.
So Aeron did.
“Do not fear,” he said, his voice calm, steady, yet carrying an undeniable weight. “I am no monster.”
The Maester swallowed hard, his lips parting as if to argue. But he said nothing.
Aeron tilted his head slightly. "Considering the state of Westeros, I might be one of the kindest conquerors you'll ever encounter. I do not harm the innocent. I do not burn villages. I do not take pleasure in cruelty. I only kill soldiers." His eyes locked onto the old man’s. "And only those foolish enough to raise their blades against me."
The Maester remained silent, though his fingers twitched slightly. Perhaps he wished to speak, to challenge, to demand answers. But he was wise enough to know when silence was the safest choice.
Aeron took another step forward, his gaze sweeping over the gathered survivors. “Storm’s End,” he said, his voice carrying through the hall, “is under new management.”
A murmur spread through the crowd, confusion, fear, disbelief. Some flinched as if the very words carried power beyond comprehension. Others clutched their children closer, whispering prayers to gods that would not answer.
“You,” Aeron continued, eyes once more on the Maester. “You will call the lords of the Stormlands here. Every last one of them. Especially those loyal to the crown.” He let the words sink in before he added, “They will lay their swords here. And they will withdraw from King’s Landing.”
The Maester’s jaw tightened, his weathered hands balling into fists beneath his robes. He hesitated, just for a moment, before murmuring, “And… if they... refuse?”
Aeron smiled.
Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Simply… knowingly.
“Then my legion will pay them a visit," he said. "Just like House Buckler of Bronzegate.”
