Kapitel 6: Shifts and Shadows
Nightfall had always been a place of shadows, where secrets lingered in the dark corners of the ancient stone fortress and whispers carried the weight of history. In the days following the departure of the lords of Westeros, those shadows seemed to grow deeper, as if the very walls of Nightfall absorbed the essence of the power plays that had taken place within them. The tourney had been a grand affair, a spectacle of strength and unity, but beneath the surface, the real game had only just begun.
The grand hall, once filled with the boisterous laughter of lords and the clinking of goblets, now stood eerily silent. The heavy wooden doors were closed, the torches lining the walls burned low, and the tapestries depicting the history of House Blackthorne swayed gently in the cool night breeze that slipped through the cracks in the stone. The echoes of the past few days still lingered, but they were fading, replaced by the quiet, patient anticipation of what was to come.
As the moon rose high above the dense flora of the Emerald Isles, casting pale light over the fortress, a figure slipped through the shadows, moving with the kind of silent grace that only years of training could bestow. Clad in black, their features obscured by darkness, the figure moved as though they were part of the darkness itself. Their destination was a place few within the fortress had ever seen, a place known only to those who served the Blackthornes with a loyalty that transcended fear.
The figure's path led them down a series of narrow staircases, each step taking them deeper into the bowels of Nightfall. The air grew colder, the walls closer, and the shadows thicker until finally, they reached a door that was nearly invisible against the stone wall. It was ancient, carved from the wood of trees that no longer existed anywhere but within the Emerald Isles, and it opened with a creak that echoed in the silence.
Beyond the door was a cavern, vast and echoing, illuminated only by the faint, ethereal glow of bioluminescent fungi that clung to the walls. The ceiling arched high above, almost as if the sky was lost in the darkness, and the air was thick with the smell of earth and something older, something more primal. At the center of the cavern stood a tree, the oldest tree in the Isles, its gnarled roots spreading out across the floor like veins, its bark twisted and ancient. The tree seemed to pulse with an energy that was both comforting and unsettling, as though it were alive in a way that defied understanding.
Standing before the towering tree, his back to the entrance, was Alaric Blackthorne, and beside him, a pitch-black panther, only noticeable by its piercing green eyes. Their presence was unmistakable, even in the dim light. Alaric wore a polished black tunic with emerald inlays that caught the faint glow, casting his figure in an eerie green light. His posture was one of quiet strength, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared up at the tree, lost in thought.
The unknown figure approached, their footsteps silent on the stone floor. They stopped a few paces behind Alaric, bowing their heads in deference, waiting for their lord to speak. There was no need for words between them; the figure knew that their presence had been sensed the moment they entered the cavern.
"The lords have left," Alaric said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carried through the cavern with a resonance that seemed to come from the tree itself. "But their eyes remain upon us."
The figure nodded, the panther's gaze briefly flicking to them before returning to the tree. The implications of their lord's words were clear. The tourney had been a success in many ways—strength had been displayed, alliances had been reaffirmed, and House Blackthorne had shown itself to be a power not to be underestimated. But with that power came scrutiny, and Alaric knew that the eyes of the realm were now fixed on him and his family. He could feel their gaze, like the weight of a thousand shadows pressing down on him, each one seeking to uncover the secrets that lay hidden within Nightfall's walls.
"The messages," Alaric continued, his tone even, "ensure they are delivered without delay. We must know what they speak of when they believe no one listens."
The figure bowed lower, acknowledging the command. Their orders were clear, and they would carry them out with the precision and discretion that defined their role. The network that House Blackthorne had cultivated over the centuries was vast, and the Keepers were its foundation. They were the unseen, the unheard, the ones who moved through the shadows of Westeros, gathering information, sowing seeds of doubt, and ensuring that their lord was always a step ahead of his enemies.
As the figure turned to leave, their movements as silent as they had been upon entering, Alaric remained where he was, his gaze still fixed on the ancient tree. The tree was more than just a symbol of House Blackthorne's power; it was a connection to something greater, something that Alaric had only begun to understand. "The Finger, said to be where Thalios himself touched Planetos," Alaric whispered, his words more to himself than to his silent companion. The power radiated from the tree, a constant reminder of the bond that had been forged between the Blackthornes and the divine.
Alaric's thoughts drifted to the future, to the challenges that lay ahead. The tourney had been a display of strength, but it had also been a declaration of intent. The lords of Westeros now knew that House Blackthorne was not content to remain isolated in the Emerald Isles, and that knowledge would make them wary. Alaric needed to be prepared for the consequences of that wariness—consequences that could come in the form of alliances, betrayals, or even outright conflict.
He had always known that the path he walked was a dangerous one. The power of the Isles, the loyalty of the Keepers, and the favor of Thalios were all tools his family had wielded for generations. But to what end?
But Alaric was not afraid. He had been born into the shadows, raised in the halls of Nightfall, and forged in the crucible of the Isles. He understood the game of power, and he knew that for his family to thrive, he had to be willing to risk everything. The tourney had been the first move in a much larger game, one that would span years, if not decades, and Alaric was determined to see House Blackthorne emerge victorious.
As the Keeper disappeared into the darkness, Alaric remained standing before the Finger, his mind already shifting to the next step. The lords of Westeros had left, but their presence still lingered in Nightfall, like a shadow that refused to dissipate. Alaric could feel it, pressing in on him, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before those shadows took shape—before they became something tangible, something that he would have to confront.
But for now, there was only silence. The Finger stood tall and unmoving, its roots digging deep into the earth, its branches reaching up toward the heavens. It had seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of kings, and it would continue to stand long after Alaric and his enemies were gone. In that thought, Alaric found a measure of comfort. The world might change, alliances might shift, but the Isles would endure, as they always had.
And so would House Blackthorne.
The years following the grand tourney at Nightfall were marked by change, both subtle and overt. The Emerald Isles, once viewed as a distant and enigmatic part of the Seven Kingdoms, began to occupy a more prominent place in the minds of the realm's most powerful players. Alaric Blackthorne, ever the strategist, navigated these years with a careful blend of diplomacy, cunning, and the quiet but formidable power that came with ruling a land steeped in both natural and supernatural strength.
276 AC
In the Red Keep, Lucian Blackthorne and Rhaegar Targaryen sparred in the training yard, their small frames moving with a mix of determination and the unrefined energy of youth. Lucian, his dark hair tousled, and his face flushed with exertion, grinned as he dodged a swing from Rhaegar.
"Missed me!" Lucian taunted, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he darted to the side, his wooden sword held at the ready.
Rhaegar, his silver hair gleaming in the afternoon sun, puffed out his cheeks in frustration but quickly regained his focus. "Not for long!" he declared, his voice carrying the confidence of a prince as he lunged forward again.
Their wooden swords clattered together, the boys laughing even as they tried to outmaneuver each other. The playful rivalry between them had always been part of their friendship, a bond formed over shared interests like sword fighting, exploring the Red Keep's hidden corners, and sneaking extra pastries from the kitchens.
As they paused to catch their breath, Rhaegar's expression grew more serious. "Lucian," he began, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. "Do you ever think about… the future?"
Lucian blinked, slightly taken aback by the question. "The future? Like, when we're grown up?"
Rhaegar nodded, his violet eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and something deeper—something that Lucian didn't quite understand. "Yeah… I mean, we're going to be lords one day. You'll rule the Emerald Isles, and I'll… Well, I'll be king."
Lucian tilted his head, considering Rhaegar's words. "I guess I haven't thought about it much. My father says I need to learn about the Isles, but right now, all I want to do is explore and have fun. Being a lord sounds… boring."
Rhaegar chuckled, but there was a hint of unease in his laugh. "I know what you mean. But sometimes, I wonder… What if we have to do things we don't want to do? What if being king means making hard choices?"
Lucian frowned, not liking the direction of the conversation. "Why are you worrying about that now, Rhaegar? We're just kids. We've got plenty of time before we have to deal with that stuff."
Rhaegar hesitated, then shrugged, trying to brush off his concerns. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe I'm just thinking too much."
Lucian grinned, giving Rhaegar a playful nudge with his elbow. "You think too much, Rhaegar. Come on, let's go find Elia. I bet she'll want to hear about how I almost beat you today."
Rhaegar rolled his eyes but smiled, nonetheless. "Almost beat me. I don't think so! But let's go find her anyway."
The two boys ran off together, their earlier conversation forgotten—or at least pushed aside for the moment.
Elia Martell was in the Red Keep's gardens, surrounded by vibrant flowers and the soft hum of bees. She sat on a stone bench, her dark hair neatly braided, her eyes focused on a book she was reading.
"Hey, Elia!" Lucian called out as they approached, skidding to a stop in front of her. "Guess who almost won our sparring match today?"
Elia looked up from her book, her expression amused as she took in the sight of the two boys, both flushed and out of breath. "Let me guess… you, Lucian?"
Lucian puffed out his chest proudly. "Yep! I was this close to beating Rhaegar!" He held his fingers barely an inch apart.
Rhaegar crossed his arms, shaking his head. "That's not true, Elia. I won, fair and square."
Elia giggled, closing her book and setting it aside. "You two are always competing, aren't you? But you're both so young—there's no need to worry about winning and losing all the time."
Lucian and Rhaegar exchanged glances, each trying to hide the fact that, for them, winning did matter—even if they didn't fully understand why.
"I just want to be the best," Lucian admitted, his tone a mix of sincerity and boyish bravado. "One day, I'm going to be just as strong as my father."
Rhaegar nodded in agreement, though his thoughts seemed to wander elsewhere. "Yeah… but I also want to be wise. Like the heroes in the old stories."
Elia smiled at their earnestness, but she couldn't help teasing them a little. "Well, you've both got a lot of growing up to do before you become heroes. But don't worry—I'm sure you'll get there."
Lucian grinned, his competitive spirit already rekindled. "Just wait, Elia! You'll see. One day, I'll be the best lord in all of Westeros!"
"And I'll be the best king," Rhaegar added, though his voice lacked the same certainty it usually held.
Elia shook her head, still smiling. "You boys and your big dreams. Come on, let's go see if we can find something sweet to eat in the kitchens. You've earned it after all that sparring."
With that, the three of them headed off together, their laughter echoing through the garden. For now, the concerns of the future could wait. They were still children, and the world of politics, prophecy, and power was a distant reality—one that would come for them all too soon.
Somewhere else in a sunlit chamber also within the Red Keep, Alaric Blackthorne sat across from Princess Marcella Martell, the matriarch of House Martell. The room was filled with the scent of freshly cut herbs, an attempt to battle the putrid stench of the city that wafted through the open windows.
"During our stays in King's Landing, Lucian and Elia have formed quite a bond, it seems," Marcella spoke, her voice carrying the warmth of a mother who took pride in her children's relationships. She sipped her wine delicately, her keen eyes watching Alaric over the rim of her glass.
"They have," Alaric agreed, his tone measured. "They spend a great deal of time together, and I see in Lucian a genuine affection for Elia. He speaks of her often, with admiration."
Marcella smiled gently. "Elia is fond of him as well, though she sees him more as a little brother. He's still young, but there's potential there."
Alaric inclined his head in acknowledgment. "He may be young, but like you said, he has potential. Potential that will only be fully realized with the right partner by his side. Elia could be that partner, yet she seems timid, something unfitting of a Blackthorne."
Marcella paused for a moment, her gaze drifting to the flowers that lined the garden path. "You speak highly of your son, Lord Blackthorne. But we must not forget that he is still a child. Do you truly believe he will be ready?"
Alaric allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "I have no doubt, Princess. Lucian is being groomed for leadership, and by the time he reaches sixteen, he will have the strength and wisdom necessary to fulfill his duties—both as a lord and as a husband. Can you say the same?"
Marcella turned to face him fully, her expression serious. "You must understand, Lord Blackthorne, that my family also has high expectations. Elia is more than just a girl of Dorne; she is a symbol of our house's pride and resilience. She is not weak, and she will be no wife to a man of weakness." She glared.
"There is no such thing as weakness in my house," Alaric replied, his tone firm. "But I must ask for patience. The marriage will be delayed until he comes of age, not just to ensure his readiness, but also to allow us to observe the changing tides of the realm. The political landscape is ever-shifting, and I want to ensure that when the time comes, we are making the best possible decision for both our houses."
Marcella considered his words carefully. "You are a cautious man, Lord Blackthorne. I respect that. And I agree that waiting until Lucian is sixteen is wise. But I hope you understand that this delay must not be seen as hesitation or feebleness."
"Of course," Alaric replied smoothly. "This is not hesitation, but prudence. The years between now and the marriage will be used to solidify our positions and ensure that when Lucian and Elia are wed, it will be an alliance that strengthens both of our houses in the long term."
Marcella nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. "Very well, Lord Blackthorne. We have an agreement, then. Lucian and Elia will be betrothed."
Alaric inclined his head again, a gesture of respect and agreement. "The future awaits."
With that understanding, their conversation shifted to lighter topics, both knowing that they had laid the groundwork for a future alliance that could reshape the political landscape of Westeros.
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Thank you for reading! As a new writer, I'm eager to improve and grow, so any constructive criticism is more than welcome. If you notice any mistakes or have suggestions on how to enhance the story, please let me know in the comments. Your feedback is greatly appreciated!
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
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Rangliste 
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Stein