- Mattias -
The battlefield before Harrenhal had become a slaughterhouse.
What once was open ground now lay buried beneath mangled corpses, broken weapons, and rivers of blood soaking into blackened earth. The stench of iron, smoke, and burnt flesh hung heavy in the fog-choked air.
Arrows jutted from corpses like quills, men and horses alike reduced to unrecognizable heaps of charred meat where the golden beams had struck. Some Lannister soldiers were left half-fused to their melted armor, their mouths frozen open in silent screams. Others crawled feebly, dragging what remained of their limbs through the mud before collapsing into the crimson mire.
The banners of House Lannister — once proud and defiant — now lay tattered, burning, and trampled beneath Noxian boots. Shields and helms floated in puddles of blood, reflecting the overcast sky like a mirror of despair.
A small flock of Swain's ravens picked through the dead, their black feathers glistening with gore as they plucked eyes and flesh from fallen knights.
Nearby, the moans of the dying echoed faintly — a grim chorus beneath the deep rumble of the massive creature resting beyond them.
The great three-headed dragon loomed near the battlefield's edge, its golden body streaked with blood and soot. Each of its heads breathed slowly, exhaling waves of heat and smoke that curled into the gray sky. The ground around it was scorched and warped, littered with armor and weapons sucked into molten glass by its power.
At the center of it all stood Mattias, high upon a makeshift platform of debris and stone. His cloak rippled in the dying wind, his twin Valyrian blades, Voracity and Avarice glistening darkly with blood.
The few surviving Lannister soldiers below looked up at him in a mix of terror and awe, trembling before a man who seemed less conqueror than calamity.
The dragon's middle head lowered near its master, resting against the ground like a worshiper before a god.
The Lannister army in Harrenhal was overwhelmingly crushed by Mattias's unstoppable might. The great dragon lay near its master, who stood tall upon the broken stones, overlooking every surviving enemy.
The knights and sellsword alike simply felt their fate was now in this foreigner's hand. He was like the second coming of Aegon the conqueror.
A foreigner with unusual magic and dragon might was simply a stuff of myths.
However, even though they may deny reality, the outcome speaks for itself.
Their enemies were better equipped than they were realising every single soldier wore Valyrian steel weapons and army.
Every. Single. Soldier!
Valyrian steel is beyond rare and hard to obtain; acquiring one could easily sell for insane money that can give you a life of luxury at how sought after they were.
Even without the dragon, the Lannister knew that fighting this well equipped enemy was impossible.
Mattias turned to Swain, his expression unreadable beneath the faint smoke and crimson-streaked sky.
"How many survived and surrendered?" he asked.
Swain stepped forward, his tone calm yet edged with grim satisfaction.
"Less than a hundred, my lord. Out of several thousand."
Mattias nodded slowly, eyes sweeping across the broken field where the Lannister banners lay trampled in blood and ash. He stepped onto a makeshift platform of charred debris, towering above the kneeling remnants of the enemy.
"I am Mattias Reis," he declared, his voice ringing with command and authority.
"The Man from Nowhere, Emperor of the Noxus Empire."
The surviving knights and sellswords raised their heads, trembling under his gaze. Mattias' words carried an undeniable weight—equal parts menace and allure.
"You have two choices," he continued, his tone dropping into something cold and final.
"Kneel… and live under my banner. Or stand… and die where you are."
His charisma and presence pressed on them like an invisible force, seeping into their hearts. Many hesitated—then one by one, they began to kneel, dropping their swords into the mud.
Mattias gave a satisfied nod.
"Those who kneel will be fed and kept safe. You'll serve in my army, and your families will be spared when I march onward."
A murmur of relief rippled through the defeated soldiers. What they didn't realize was that Mattias' words were more than mercy—they were seeds. Seeds of doubt and temptation that, in time, would make them turn against their former lords.
He turned toward one of the Tully knights standing nearby—a grizzled man with blood splattered across his armor.
"Chain the prisoners," Mattias ordered, his tone sharp but controlled.
"But do not harm them. Do not provoke them either."
The knight bowed his head.
"Aye, my lord. But… these are Lannister men. Some of ours may want vengeance after what they've done."
Mattias' gaze hardened. "Then remind them who our true enemy is. The lions may have roared once, but today they kneel. Mercy is what separates us from beasts."
The knight nodded firmly and moved to relay the order. Soon, the surviving Lannister soldiers were bound in iron chains, their faces weary and hollow. Yet Mattias had given them something none expected. Kindness.
Once the battlefield was cleared, Mattias' troops began occupying Harrenhal. The massive, ruined fortress—its blackened stone towers still bearing the scars of Aegon's dragons—stood like a monument to conquest and tragedy.
The men rested, repairing what they could and tending to their wounded. The prisoners were gathered within one of the lower courtyards, watched by the Tully and Noxian guards.
Mattias stood atop the castle walls, overlooking the lake that glimmered faintly under the crimson sunset. Its vast, mirror-like waters stretched to the horizon—the God's Eye, the largest lake in Westeros.
At its heart lay the Isle of Faces, an island shrouded in ancient mystery where the Children of the Forest were said to have carved the first weirwoods and bound the Pact with the First Men.
He looked to Swain, who stood at his side, already issuing orders to secure supplies and fortify the walls.
"Swain," Mattias said, tightening his gauntlet.
"You'll handle things here. Keep the men in line and make sure those prisoners remember their new place."
Swain gave a curt nod, his one good eye gleaming.
"Of course, your grace. I'll see that order is kept and that our presence here is remembered."
Mattias smirked faintly before turning to his great dragon resting beyond the walls. Kaiser Ghidorah's golden scales reflected the fading light, his wings twitching impatiently.
"I won't be gone long," Mattias said as he approached the beast and mounted his dragon. The earth trembled as Kaiser Ghidorah spread his wings, the wind whipping through the ruins of Harrenhal.
Then, with a thunderous roar that echoed across the lake, the golden dragon took flight soaring toward the mysterious waters of the God's Eye.
[ You have tasted your first victory in war. ]
[ You have received "Grandmaster leadership" ]
[ Grandmaster Leadership ]
[ Description: Your skill in leadership and ruling is at the peak of what a person could achieve. You could manage a kingdom and an army in your sleep, for you the act is as easy as playing a game simulating it. People under your rule and command are naturally more loyal and obedient to your rule, the chance of people rebelling against you is null unless you are just that bad. ]
Mattias blinked once and dismissed the notification without a second thought. Titles and rewards could wait—his mind was already fixed on something far greater.
Kaiser Ghidorah descended toward the shoreline of the God's Eye, talons sinking into the damp earth as the massive beast landed.
Fog rolled across the lake, swirling around the dragon's golden limbs. The air felt heavy—older than anything Mattias had felt in this world so far.
"Good," he muttered, sliding off Ghidorah's back.
"This place… it feels right."
The lake stretched endlessly before him, its waters dark and still. The Isle of Faces sat hidden behind sheets of mist, a place that seems to contain the oldest magic in Westeros. But Mattias wasn't here for the island—not yet.
He stepped toward the water's edge, boots sinking slightly into the mud.
"Vhagar… Ceraxes…" he whispered, eyes narrowing.
Both dragons had died centuries ago during the Dance of the Dragons. Vhagar had fallen at the God's Eye, her colossal corpse sinking beneath these very waters. Ceraxes had died not far to the east, his body lost near the same great lake.
Mattias clenched his fists, the air humming with the presence of his Kingdom Soul ability.
"If there are remnants of your souls still here," he said quietly.
"I will find them… and return you to the living."
Ghidorah growled behind him, all three heads watching intently. The dragon felt the shift in the air too—the strange pressure, the ancient energy, the silent echoes of giants long dead.
Mattias closed his eyes.
And he reached.
Deep into the earth.
Deep into the water.
Deep into the lingering soul-resonance of creatures so mighty their deaths had shaped history itself.
To pull them back
.
To resurrect legends.
To rebuild an unstoppable draconic legion under his command.
A faint ripple disturbed the surface of the lake—just enough to show that something had heard him.
Mattias smirked.
"It begins.".
In the next moment, the waters of the God's Eye bulged upward—as if something enormous beneath was forcing the lake to break.
A shadow rose beneath the surface.
Then another.
Then the lake erupted.
Two colossal forms burst free from the depths, water cascading from their scales as they spread their wings wide, shaking the sky with a deafening, primal roar that made even Kaiser Ghidorah recoil slightly.
Vhagar rose first—reborn.
Her body was immense, her wings broad enough to blot out the fog-filtered sun. Unlike the ancient, exhausted creature she had been at her death, this Vhagar's form was restored to power:
Bronze and green scales gleamed wetly across her massive frame.
Her scars were gone, replaced with thick, armored plates curved like overlapping shields.
Her head was large and angular, with heavy, ridged horns sweeping backward like a crowned titan.
Her eyes burned a molten gold, young again… but infinitely wrathful.
She beat her wings once—the shockwave rippled the lake all the way to the Isle of Faces.
Then came Caraxes.
The Blood Wyrm slithered from the lake like a serpent returning to land, his body impossibly long and lean—almost too thin for his size. But his muscles coiled beneath stretched crimson scales like steel cables under tension.
House of the Dragon's Caraxes was unmistakable:
A long, sinewy neck moved like a predatory serpent.
Crimson-red scales glimmered like fresh-spilled blood.
His wings were ragged in shape but powerful, stretched taut like banners of war.
His head was warped and dragon-cruel, with jagged horn ridges and a snarling, elongated maw that could split open unnervingly wide.
Caraxes screeched—a horrible, broken-metal howl that echoed across the lake and then harmonized with Vhagar's booming roar.
Mattias staggered.
The resurrection had drained him nearly dry. He felt his energy collapse—
—and instantly replenished it by absorbing every soul nearby, from fish beneath the lake to insects in the grass. Tiny spirits rushed into him like streams of cold air, refilling him piece by piece.
He exhaled sharply, strength returning.
Vhagar landed heavily, shaking the ground.
Caraxes slithered forward, wings half-spread, steaming water dripping from his fangs.
Neither moved to attack.
Both bowed their heads acknowledging Mattias as their reborn master.
Their deaths had washed away age, damage, and decay.
These were not dying beasts from a doomed war.
They were restored legends and reborn at their physical prime.
Mattias smirked.
"Welcome back," he said quietly. "We have work to do."