Servant Ambrosius
patreon
Conqueror's Presence
🕑 Added 2024-08-04 21:31:48 +0000 UTCPJO World
The Winter Realm, The Winter Fort
The scent of burnt flesh permeates the cold night air of The White Forest as the sky is awash in the crimson red of Messmer’s flame. Around him lies naught but ash as the majestic forest that once spanned much of The Winter Court and House Cumhail’s territory has been burned down in Aemon’s battle against the titanic white winged serpent that was once Messmer.
Aemon has not fared well since Messmer’s transformation. Much of his armor has been burned and broken, his clothes under burned and in tatters showcasing his many cuts, burns, and bruises received in combat against this Abyssal Serpent. On his shoulders lies the furs of his once glorious cloak sown for him by Sansa, the only thing remaining of said cloak. And his eyepatch, having long been discarded, now lies within his inventory, allowing him to channel the power he has usurped from Koios. Unfortunately that proved to be more of a hindrance than a boon as Aemon quickly found that channeling the power for such a long time has worn him beyond his expectations.
As Aemon greedily gulps in mouthfuls of air he is forced to consider the possibility that he may lose this battle.
The serpent seems impervious to all forms of damage coming from Longclaw, and while the Epirus Bow has been quite effective against the serpent, Aemon does not think that he possesses the magical reserves nor the stamina to draw the bow more than five times. Contrary to his thoughts, the bow does not work solely off of the spark of divinity imbued with it. Rather it is a mixture of that divinity and the wielder’s spirit that powers the bow.
Spirit, a power that Aemon was not cognisant of until now. Whereas Aemon’s magic is an ability that draws upon the power of his blood and the replenishing in his body, the spirit is the power of his soul. Depending on the world this power can take many forms. In Westeros, for example, the Singers of the Song of the Earth along with the Children of the Forest were said to have been the ones to have broken the arm of Dorne, the landmass connecting Westeros to Essos, and turned them into what is now known as the Stepstones.
Aemon had previously believed them to be naught but myths, for none of the Children that he had ever met showcased such power and nor did the Night’s King, the champion of the Great Other. However, faced with the power of the bow that constantly channels his spirit, Aemon believes that he may have to re-evaluate such thoughts.
“Took you long enough.” says the voice of the Other as he materializes besides Aemon.
“What?” questions Aemon between panting breaths, his eyes never straying from where the Abyssal Serpent had retreated. Were he in a better condition Aemon would have given chase; for the serpent is injured and on its last leg. Unfortunately so is Aemon, and should he be the one to act recklessly he will be the one to perish.
Now is a game of patience, to wait for the other to commit a fatal error that can be capitalized on.
“This way of using magic, by drawing upon the power of your blood, is the mortal way of enacting the greater mysteries. To have continued in such a way despite becoming one of us was a folly that would eventually result in your death.” says the Other.
“And yet you did not deign to tell me this before.” replies Aemon with a glare, his energy being much too spent to sneer at the specter.
“The power of the spirit is not one that can be simply taught like the strokes of a sword. One must be able to be cognizant of and feel their spirit before even thinking of learning how to channel it. And you, unfortunately, were not ready to do so.” says the Other.
Shaking his head, Aemon smothers the rage at the Other which grows within him.
“I do not have time for all the details. Give me the broad strokes of how to make use of it now.” Aemon replies.
“That is not possible, you have merely glimpsed upon that door. No matter how much of a genius you are, you will not be able to make use of it in time to win this battle.” denies the Other.
“Then why mention it at all?!” snarls Aemon, the surrounding area becoming even hotter still as his rage and frustration briefly escapes his control.
“Tell me, what do you remember of our first conversion? What did I claim to be then?” asks the Other, his voice cold and devoid of emotions as usual.
“You claim to be the collective consciousness of my Stark heritage.” replies Aemon through gritted teeth.
“Yes. In short, I am the spirit of thousands upon tens of thousands of years of the knowledge of every being that has had a hand in your Stark lineage, human or otherwise. Think of me as House Stark’s very own Three-eyed Crow, made possible through the saturation of magic that permeates your blood. And like the Three-eyed Crow you are familiar with, I too can be channeled.” explains the Other.
“Channeled.” scoffs Aemon. “You mean to possess me. I know what the Three-eyed Crow did to my brother. It turned him into a shell of himself and wore his skin as if it were a set of plainclothes to be discarded later. ” he says with derision before rejecting the idea outright, “Well forget it, my body is not a puppet for you to commandeer.”
“Ah, Brandon Stark, the Stark with the most potential in your generation and the most tragic.” sighs the Other. “It is a shame truly, for with the proper guidance he could have accomplished naturally what you required a pill and a serum to do.” mock the Other. “Of course at the time the closest he could have to proper guidance was the Three-eyed Crow, but unfortunately for him his empowerment would not benefit the Crow’s interests.” laughs the Other before Aemon forcefully banishes it to the recesses of his mind
With a deep breath Aemon begins to make his way towards the stirring serpent only to stumble to his knees.
“You cannot win this battle as you are.” says the Other as he once more appears before Aemon. “You have drained your body to the point of collapse and should you channel any more magic… Well, you yourself estimate that you can only do so five more times, and I highly doubt that it will be enough to kill the serpent.” it ads.
Looking at the serpent that stirs before him, the ruined Winter Fort, and Percy who fights Vortigern within its rubble, Aemon cannot help but acquiesce that the Other’s words do make sense. To continue upon this path only leads to death and defeat..
“Very well.” says Aemon with a sigh. “Come, let us get this over with.” he adds as the Other disappears from his sight.
“Prepare yourself, for the weight of thousands upon tens of thousands of years of knowledge is not one bore easily.” says the Other as his spectral form overlaps with Aemon’s and the merger takes place.
…
…
…
Tens upon tens of thousands of years of knowledge is not something that can be easily conceptualized. Even for beings as long lived as the fey it is a quantity and quality of knowledge that only the likes of Queen Mab, Queen Titania, and King Oberon have come close to amassing; yet even they fall short of how much Aemon is currently channeling.
“Foul serpent, thy dareth to gaze upon this monarch defiantly!?” questions Aemon, his eyes glowing an icy blue, and his voice cracking like ice and ringing with the sound of clashing steel and bronze. “Bow thy head.” commands Aemon as the cacophony of every Stark before him, man or Other, speaks through him.
From his body erupts a pressure the likes that have never felt before forces the Abyssal Serpent’s head to the ground. Such is the power of Aemon’s Conqueror’s Haki that Vortigern, not even the target of the attack, is also forced to the ground.
“Conqueror’s Haki is it?” asks Aemon, seemingly speaking to himself. “A somewhat fitting name, however thy method of using it is crude, descendant of ours. Thy possesses a halberd, why constrain it to the mere use of a staff?” says Aemon as he raises his hands, the action carrying the serpent into the air also, and as if attempting to tighten rope of some kind pulls his hands back.
Meanwhile, the serpent which has found itself in the air somehow is torn apart in accordance with Aemon’s movements, its guts and blood spilling all over the ash covered ground where The White Forest once stood.
“Remember this, Conqueror’s Haki, no, Conqueror’s Presence, is the act of exerting one’s will upon the world, then why constrain thyself to a mere mummer’s farce?” asks Aemon before his eyes return to normal and he falls unconscious.
…
…
…
Percy Jackson never thought that he’d be here, fighting a dragon. Two summers ago he was just a regular, troubled ADHD and Dyslexic kid. Now he’s fighting a dragon from Arthurian Legend, yes he knows what that is, in a world that he doesn’t even think the gods know exist much less the location.
Heck, he wasn’t even supposed to be here. He was supposed to be down under in the dragon cave with everybody else protecting Aemon’s dragon while it goes through some test. Of course things can't be that simple when he’s involved and this stupid black dragon had to attack the castle. At first it looked like Aemon was going to take care of it but then that big white knight had to attack Aemon, forcing him away from the dragon. Percy, being the big mouthed idiot that he is, had to open his big mouth to volunteer steering the dragon away from the castle to stop it from destroying it and disturbing Aemon’s dragon.
Of course looking around him at the ruins of the once enchanting castle proves that he didn’t exactly do a good job. Then again he can’t exactly be blamed considering the fact that whenever he pushed the damn dragon away from the castle it would always ignore him to fly back to it no matter how much he injured it. At least his main objective looks to be successful and Caraxes wasn’t interrupted by Vortigern. Too bad he doesn’t have a big or powerful enough attack to completely finish it off.
“Hey Vomit Dragon!” calls out Percy in between panting breaths as he prepares for his most reckless move yet. What was it Aemon told him that one time? “Your father is known as the Stormbringer for a reason.”
Well time to find out if he can live up to that name.
Pulling on that feeling in his gut, Percy calls out to the water in the air. Annabeth did say that the atmosphere is filled with water molecules, time to find out if the same is true for The Winter Realm.
He feels the tugging in his gut, larger and harder than ever before as the pressure in the air drastically falls, a light breeze blows through, and white cirrus clouds form overhead.
“Hahaha, wise girl I could kiss you.” laughs Percy as a deluge falls over the castle, and as the water drenches himself he feels a power never felt before fills his being.
With his body acting as the eye of the storm, Percy throws himself at Vortigern, attacking the dragon with Riptide and the storm. Quickly Vortigern realizes that to ignore Percy is to allow himself to be killed. As such he turns his attention to Percy.
Unfortunately for the dragon however his flames are snuffed out by the storm and his physical attacks are easily dodged by Percy. To Percy his attacks may as well have been in slow motion for he finds himself in a state where his mind has never been clearer and his skills have never been sharper.
Such is his focus on the battle that he does not even realize that he has condensed the storm tightly around him with the rain being compressed so tightly that they cut through Vortigern’s scales, the winds so fast and rough that they prevent the dragon from taking flight.
Eventually Vortigern’s two front limbs are completely severed, allowing Percy to jump towards his head. As he jumps however the rain condenses into a sharp blade over Riptide, allowing Percy to decapitate the dragon in a single stroke, ending the battle.
As the battle comes to a close, the high of it and the adrenaline leaves his body Percy is barely able to produce a chuckle at his victory before he too falls unconscious unaware of his impressive feat.
Author's Note: Here's the latest chapter. As usual, tell me what you guys think.
