Chapter 22: Dragon's Due: Blood, Fire, and an Unconventional Hatching
The chill winds whipping around Dragonstone carried the scent of salt, sulphur, and a pervasive despair that had seeped into the ancient fortress's black stones. Robar Baratheon, aboard the Stormdancer which had slipped through Stannis's now-tightened blockade like a phantom, felt none of it. His focus was singular: the acquisition of assets deemed priceless – Daenerys Targaryen, and the three dragon eggs whispered to be in her mad brother's possession.
Davos Seaworth, his expression grim but resolute, met Robar on a secluded, wave-battered shore at the base of the Dragonmont. "My Lord Protector," Davos greeted him, his voice low. "Viserys is holed up in the Stone Drum, as expected. He grows more paranoid by the hour. He keeps his sister and the… 'pretties,' as he calls the eggs, close. The garrison is thin, mostly old retainers and a few knights whose loyalty is more to the Targaryen name than to him personally. My agents have… encouraged discontent. There's a way in, through the old sea caves that run beneath the kitchens, then up through forgotten servant passages. It will be tight, but less defended than the main gates."
Robar nodded, absorbing the intelligence. "The fewer variables, the better the profit margin on this venture. My Phoenix Team is prepared. Maester Vaellyn," he turned to the pale but determined pyromancer, "you have your… research?"
Vaellyn clutched a satchel of scrolls and strange implements. "As much as can be gleaned from fragmented texts, my lord. Fire and blood. King's blood. The lore is consistent on these points, if vague on specifics. The rest… is dangerous conjecture."
"BCR thrives on leveraging dangerous conjecture into tangible returns, Maester," Robar said, a chilling undertone to his voice. "Lead on, Mr. Seaworth."
The infiltration of Dragonstone was a masterpiece of stealth and brutal efficiency. Robar, at the head of his twenty handpicked Phoenix operatives, moved with an unnatural silence and speed. His Observation Haki painted a vivid picture of the castle's interior, alerting him to patrols, guard positions, and structural weaknesses. Where necessary, localized tremors, so faint as to be mistaken for the island's natural groaning, dislodged loose stones or created minor diversions, drawing guards away from their path.
They reached the approaches to the Stone Drum, the ancient central keep of Dragonstone, with minimal opposition. The few Targaryen loyalists they encountered were dispatched with ruthless, Haki-infused precision before any alarm could be raised. The air grew heavier here, thick with the scent of old magic and new fear.
The doors to Viserys's inner sanctum were barred. Robar didn't bother with subtlety. A single, focused punch, his fist shimmering with the invisible power of the Gura Gura no Mi, shattered the ancient oak and iron as if it were rotted driftwood.
They burst into a large, circular chamber, torches casting flickering, demonic shadows on walls carved with dragons. In the center, cowering behind a makeshift barricade of furniture, was Viserys Targaryen. His silver-gold hair was lank and greasy, his purple eyes wide with terror and impotent rage. Before him, on a bed of faded velvet, lay three magnificent, stone-like eggs – one deep green with bronze flecks, one pale cream streaked with gold, and one black as a starless night, touched with crimson swirls. Beside Viserys, a young girl with silver hair and terrified violet eyes – Daenerys Stormborn – flinched at their violent entry. A handful of ragged, fiercely loyal knights stood before them, swords drawn, their faces grim.
"Traitors! Usurper's dogs!" Viserys shrieked, his voice cracking. "You dare defile the sanctuary of the true King? I am the Dragon! You will all burn for this!"
Robar ignored him, his gaze fixed on the eggs. He felt a strange, faint thrumming sensation as he looked at them, a resonance deep within his own being where Whitebeard's power now resided. It was almost… a call.
"Secure the assets," Robar ordered, his voice flat. "The girl, alive and unharmed. The eggs, with extreme care. Viserys and his… 'Kingsguard'… are also to be taken alive. They have a final service to render to the Targaryen legacy."
The ensuing fight was pathetically brief. Robar's Phoenix Team moved with cold precision. Viserys's loyalists, brave but outmatched, were systematically disarmed and subdued, their Haki-infused blows leaving them stunned or unconscious. Viserys himself, when he tried to snatch one of the eggs and flee, was simply backhanded by Robar with enough force to send him sprawling, dazed and whimpering. Daenerys, trembling, was gently but firmly taken into the custody of one of the female operatives on the team.
As Robar reached for the black dragon egg, a searing heat, almost painful, shot up his arm. It wasn't the egg itself that was hot, but an internal reaction, a surge of immense vital energy from his own core, the legacy of Whitebeard, interacting with something ancient and powerful within the stone. He looked at his hand, then at the egg. An idea, audacious and terrible, began to form.
"Maester Vaellyn," Robar said, his voice tight with a new, focused intensity. "Your research on hatching. You mentioned King's blood. Targaryen blood."
Vaellyn nodded nervously. "Yes, my lord. The texts speak of it. Blood of Old Valyria, preferably royal, and great sacrifice… 'Fire and Blood' are the words of their House, after all."
"My own lineage," Robar mused, his mind racing, connecting disparate pieces of information – his Baratheon ancestry, with its rumored Targaryen bastard connection through Orys, the lore of Devil Fruits and Lineage Factors from his old world's fictions, the sheer, overwhelming life force that now coursed through him thanks to Whitebeard's power. "The first Baratheon was half-brother to Aegon the Conqueror. There is Targaryen blood in my veins. Distant, yes. But perhaps… re-energized. Potentiated." He looked at his hand again, the one that had touched the egg. He could almost feel his blood singing, a vibrant, powerful current. "The merging of this new power, this immense vital energy, with my existing bloodline… it may have activated dormant traits, amplified them."
He looked at the terrified Viserys, then at the other captured Targaryen loyalists. "And you spoke of sacrifice, Maester. Of fire and blood." A chillingly pragmatic solution presented itself. Viserys claimed to be the 'last dragon,' the rightful King. His blood, and that of his most fervent followers, would be the ultimate offering. And Robar's own, now supercharged Valyrian-descended blood, would be the catalyst.
"Prepare a pyre," Robar commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "In the heart of the Stone Drum. A large one. We will conduct an… unconventional incubation. Tonight."
The scene that followed was one of stark, ritualistic horror, orchestrated with Robar's signature cold efficiency. In the vast, echoing central chamber of the Stone Drum, beneath the leering stone dragons carved into the walls, a massive pyre of driftwood, old timbers, and even some of Dragonstone's ancient, sulfurous rocks was constructed. The three dragon eggs were placed carefully at its heart, nestled in a bed of sand Maester Vaellyn had insisted upon.
Viserys Targaryen and his dozen remaining followers, bound and gagged, were dragged before the pyre. Their eyes were wide with an understanding of their terrible fate. Daenerys was kept away, confined to a secure chamber under guard; Robar needed her alive and relatively sane for now. Her terror was a secondary concern to the acquisition of these prime assets.
As the pyre was lit, casting flickering, hellish shadows, Robar stepped forward. He drew a Valyrian steel dagger – acquired from a vanquished loyalist, its value noted in BCR's asset ledger. Without hesitation, he sliced open his palm, letting his own blood, dark and strangely vibrant, drip onto each of the stone eggs. He felt that strange resonance again, stronger now, a thrum of ancient power awakening. He channeled his Haki, his immense life force, pouring it into the eggs through his will, visualizing not just heat, but life.
"The blood of the dragon," he intoned, his voice echoing in the vast chamber, more for his own focus than for any audience. "And the fire of sacrifice."
At his signal, his Phoenix operatives, their faces grim, began the ritual killings. One by one, Viserys's followers were dispatched, their throats cut, their blood spilling onto the pyre, feeding the flames, the ancient stones of Dragonstone seeming to drink it in. Viserys himself was saved for last. As the flames roared higher, consuming the sacrifices, Viserys, shrieking through his gag, was thrust onto the pyre. His "King's blood," as Robar had calculated, would be the final, potent offering. His screams were brief as the inferno consumed him.
The heat became unbearable, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh and something else… an ancient, primal energy. Robar stood before the pyre, impassive, his Haki-reinforced body resisting the worst of the heat, his gaze fixed on the eggs. Maester Vaellyn and the Phoenix Team watched from a safer distance, their faces illuminated by the terrible light, a mixture of awe and horror in their eyes.
Then, it began. A cracking sound, sharp and distinct above the roar of the flames.
The black egg shivered, cracks spreading like dark lightning across its surface. A crimson glow emanated from within.
Then the green egg, then the cream-and-gold. All three began to fracture, to pulse with an inner light.
Robar stepped closer, his own blood still dripping from his hand, his will focused entirely on the miracle – or the strategic asset actualization – unfolding before him.
With a final, explosive crack, the black egg shattered. A sleek, obsidian-scaled head, reptilian and beautiful, emerged, its eyes like molten rubies. It blinked, then fixed its gaze on Robar, a faint hiss escaping its throat.
Moments later, the green dragon, with scales like jade and bronze, and the cream-gold dragon, its scales like pearls and desert sands, also broke free.
Three hatchling dragons, small but perfectly formed, their wings still damp, stood amidst the embers of the pyre, their eyes, intelligent and ancient, all fixed upon the towering figure of Robar Baratheon. They did not look towards the area where Daenerys had been, nor did they seem to search for any other. His blood, his Haki, his overwhelming presence at their birth, had forged an immediate, primal bond.
Robar felt a sensation he had not experienced in either of his lives: not triumph, not joy, but a profound, cold sense of completion. The ultimate assets had been acquired.
He extended his bloodied hand slowly towards the black dragon. It tilted its head, then, with a surprising delicacy, nuzzled his fingers, its scales surprisingly warm. The other two dragons, after a moment, followed suit.
"Maester Vaellyn," Robar said, his voice calm, though a new, terrifying ambition now burned in his eyes. "Begin Phase Two of Project Incubate. We have a new product line to develop. And a world to sell it to."
He looked at the three hatchling dragons, the firelight glinting in their reptilian eyes, reflecting his own predatory gleam. Westeros Inc. had just received a massive infusion of fiery capital. And its CEO was already planning the next global expansion.
Word Count: Approx. 3100 words