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Tyrion poured himself another goblet of wine with a trembling hand, but this time, skipped the cup entirely and drank straight from the bottle. His eyes flicked to the dark figure beside their table, still, composed, and unblinking. The Shadow Monarch had not vanished. He had been there the entire time, like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.
"Well," Tyrion muttered, licking wine from his lips, "given the... circumstances, I suppose I'm in."
Varys arched a brow but said nothing.
"I mean," Tyrion gestured vaguely at the shadow still coiling near his feet. "I don't see what use you have for me. You're all-powerful, terrifying, and mysteriously fashionable in black, what could a dwarf with a sharp tongue and a love of drink possibly offer you that your legions of shadow demons can't?"
Aeron didn't smile. He didn't blink.
Varys spoke instead, softly. "It's clear, Tyrion. He has all the swords he needs. What he lacks… is counsel."
Tyrion turned to him. "You flatter me."
"I speak only the truth," Varys replied. "Men like him may shake the world, but it is men like us who ensure the world doesn't fall apart once it's been shaken."
Aeron's gaze drifted to the Spider, narrowing with slow, deliberate intent.
"I know you," he said. "Varys. The Whisperer. The Spider. Will someone like you ever serve me loyally? Or will you, like so many others, wait for a moment of weakness, then scheme in the dark?"
Varys's hands were calm, but his eyes tightened.
Aeron stepped closer, shadows following him like loyal hounds.
"If you intend to betray me... if you think I'm just another ambitious ruler you can quietly push off a ledge...don't bother."
His voice dropped, low and menacing.
"Because if that's your plan, you may as well slit your own throat now. It'll save you the pain of what I'll do to you when I find out."
Tyrion, wide-eyed, gave a slow, impressed nod.
"Well," he muttered, "he's not subtle, is he?"
Aeron turned to Tyrion now. "And you... You speak in riddles and drink like it's your last day, but I've seen what you are. I don't need flatterers. I need minds. Do you have one?"
Tyrion raised the bottle in salute. "You wouldn't be the first to question it. But yes. I do. And while I generally try to avoid shadow-wielding tyrants who could squash me like a grape, I must admit…"
He took a long swig, wiped his mouth.
"…You have my attention."
Varys spoke at last, voice even but resolute. "We're not kings. We don't seek thrones. But if your rule brings stability… if it protects the realm from what's coming… then yes, I will serve."
Aeron didn't speak right away.
He only looked at them both, and in that moment, it felt like the entire tavern was holding its breath.
"Good," he finally said. "I don't care for loyalty bought with fear. But I require it. You serve me now… and in return, you will survive the end, there is something coming, could be a big threat, could be nothing, I don't know."
Then Aeron turned slightly just enough to let his shadow stretch long against the wall.
"I have kings to kneel," he said, eyes glowing faintly violet. "And time is not on our side."
Tyrion's eyes were half-lidded in thought. "What threat are you talking about, by the way?" he asked casually, though the weight behind his words lingered in the air.
Aeron opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly
[System Notification]
[An Apostle is nearby.]
His breath hitched.
His glowing violet eyes flicked left, then right, across the firelit tavern. The chatter had died the moment he appeared. Most patrons still hadn't decided if they were merely drunk or cursed by shadow magic. Some sat frozen mid-sip. One man dropped his tankard entirely, too terrified to move.
Aeron's gaze swept the room, slow and sharp as a drawn blade.
He locked eyes with Varys, who merely raised a pale brow.
Then he turned to Tyrion.
Tyrion, still seated, blinked at him. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, voice dry with sudden unease.
Aeron's tone was thoughtful. "No… he's just a dwarf. He can't be the Apostle."
Tyrion huffed. "Charming. And what in the Seven Hells is an Apostle?"
Aeron didn't answer. His stare turned distant.
Without another word, he stood and stepped out into the brisk night air of Braavos. The stars glittered over narrow alleys and the wide bay, the sea singing low in the distance.
And there, on the horizon, the colossal Titan of Braavos loomed like a silent god of war, standing vigil at the mouth of the harbor.
Aeron narrowed his eyes. "This city… home to the Faceless Men."
He muttered aloud, "I've dealt with their blades before. Sent a few back to the darkness when I was headed for Asshai. But an Apostle? None of them were that."
A faint shuffle of feet.
Aeron turned.
An old man stood at the alley's edge, hunched, wrapped in rags, skin the color of wet parchment. His voice came rasping and low, like dead leaves.
"Valar Morghulis."
Aeron paused.
His own voice dropped in tone, solemn and cold. "Valar Dohaerys."
The old man nodded, shuffling past him.
Then, he paused. His back still turned.
"Aeron Grim… A man of Shadows."
Aeron's spine stiffened. His fingers curled as shadows began to stir faintly around his boots.
He turned slowly. "It's you… isn't it? You are 'no one'"
The old man smiled without turning. Then his form shimmered, melted, shifted, the rags fell away like mist.
Before Aeron now stood a young man, no older than twenty, with jet-black hair, a smooth face, and a calm, knowing smile. His eyes were a disquieting void, empty, but watching.
"Indeed," the young man said softly.
"A man is… No One."
The night wind carried the words between them, heavy with ancient weight.
Aeron's jaw clenched as a thousand shadow strands coiled faintly beneath his feet.
He smiled, dark and intrigued.
"Then you are not here for a simple Greeting."
The alley behind the Braavosi tavern was quiet now, save for the sound of lapping waves and the soft rustle of wind. Aeron stood still, Silverfangs in hand, his violet eyes cutting through the dark like twin beacons. Shadows coiled at his boots like obedient beasts.
A voice came now.
Soft. Calm. Deceptively gentle.
"A man has no choice but to do as his god wishes."
Aeron didn't turn, not yet. He smirked instead, his tone dry and edged with dark amusement.
"And your god seeks my death?"
There was a pause. Then, from a shadow near the wall, No One stepped forward. His face was youthful now, almost beautiful, yet cold as winter's breath. He moved graceful and precise, as if every step were ordained by something far older than steel.
"A man would like to prevent bloodshed," the Faceless Assassin said, voice smooth.
"But it is the will of the Many-Faced God that you be stopped. You tilt the balance. You cast a shadow too wide."
Aeron turned, finally facing him. His eyes burned like the heart of a dying star.
"So I cast a long shadow, and now your god is afraid of the dark?"
The faceless man didn't respond, only blinked. Emotionless. Unmoved.
"Let me guess," Aeron continued, taking a step forward, his voice hardening.
"No words will change the course. No plea will halt your hand. The decision was made in some cold hall, beneath statues of death, and now you've come to collect."
"A man obeys his god," came the reply, colder this time.
"A man serves the balance."
Aeron's eyes narrowed. His grip on his blades tightened.
"Then I suppose there's no point in talking, is there?"
No One tilted his head, just slightly. It was the closest thing he showed to regret.
"No. There is not."
A breath passed between them, like the stillness before a storm.
But the quiet didn't last long.
Aeron's Silverfangs in his hands, each blade humming with dark energy shadows dancing and coiling like living tendrils along the razor-sharp edges.
Aeron's voice was low, amused, and edged with arrogance.
"Do you really think you have a chance against me?"
But the figure before him, No One, didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
He simply vanished.
Like smoke in the wind.
Like a whisper swallowed by silence.
Gone.
Aeron tilted his head slightly, his grin widening.
"Stealth?"
He turned slowly, shadows twisting at his feet, ever restless, eager.
"You lot keep impressing me with these little tricks," he said aloud, more amused than alarmed. "Powers like this? Would make any man a king in this world."
His eyes narrowed, glowing a violent violet, unnatural and piercing. "The gods must really be afraid of me if they're giving out gifts like these just to keep up."
A soft footfall behind him.
Too late.
Aeron turned in an instant, his reflexes sharpened and his body honed like a blade forged in war.
He spun, grabbed the face of the reappeared assassin with one hand
And with a snarl, he slammed him into the cobblestone, the alley echoing with a thunderous CRACK as stone shattered beneath the force.
Dust flew.
The assassin, now fully visible and stunned, gasped for breath as Aeron leaned in, violet eyes glowing like twin stars of doom, his voice ice-cold.
"I'll answer for you."
He pressed harder, shadows creeping up the young man's limbs like chains.
"You don't have a chance…"
He leaned closer, voice like prophecy.
"…and you can't kill me."
/-\
If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC
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