Chapter 28: The Shepherd's Call, The Dragon's Lament
The reign of Queen Rhaenyra in King's Landing began with a veneer of righteous triumph but quickly curdled into a grim tableau of fear, hunger, and simmering resentment. The Black Queen, ensconced in the Red Keep, surrounded by her council of Velaryons and riverlords, proved to be as imperious and out of touch with the commons as any Targaryen before her. Prince Daemon, her consort, ruled the city with an iron fist, his Stormcrows and City Watch (now purged and restaffed with his own brutal loyalists) dispensing harsh justice that often felt more like repression.
Food, already scarce under Aegon II's brief, chaotic tenure, became a luxury. The Velaryon fleet, while blockading Blackwater Bay against Green reinforcements, also inadvertently strangled the city's legitimate seaborne trade. Taxes were levied with crushing severity to fund the war effort. The smallfolk, who had initially cared little whether a king or a queen sat the Iron Throne, began to starve and despair. And into this fertile ground of misery stepped the Shepherd.
Rico Moretti, his mind a unique repository of this world's present and a chilling foreknowledge of its future, watched the Shepherd's rise with a cold, clinical interest. He remembered the name from his Game of Thrones lore: a one-handed, half-mad prophet whose fiery oratory would ignite the commons into a suicidal frenzy against the dragons, leading to the cataclysm known as the Storming of the Dragonpit. It was an event of horrific carnage, resulting in the deaths of multiple dragons and thousands of citizens, a turning point that would shatter Rhaenyra's hold on the capital and forever scar House Targaryen.
For Rico, it was an opportunity of almost unimaginable scale.
"Alaric," he said one evening in their Valyrian sanctum beneath the warehouse, the ancient scrolls casting long, dancing shadows in the lamplight. "The Shepherd. He preaches near the Cobbler's Square, does he not? Of divine retribution against the 'unnatural beasts' of the Targaryens?"
Alaric, who had been meticulously cataloging the potential magical properties of the various dragon eggs based on Kennard's absorbed lore, looked up, his eyes sharp. "Indeed, Master Razor. A dangerous fanatic, whipping the ignorant masses into a fervor. His words are poison, promising a heaven devoid of dragonfire."
"Poison can be a tool," Rico mused, his mind already racing, connecting the threads of his foreknowledge with the current volatile reality. "The city is a powder keg, Alaric. Hunger, fear, Daemon's brutality… the Shepherd is merely the spark. The Dragonpit will burn."
Alaric grew pale. "The Dragonpit? Master Razor, the dragons within are the very foundation of Targaryen power! To attack them… it is madness! Suicide for any who attempt it!"
"Madness for the mob, yes," Rico conceded. "But for us, Alaric, for us it is… a harvest." He explained, not the source of his foreknowledge – that secret remained locked within him – but the inevitable trajectory he foresaw: a desperate, starving populace, incited to religious fanaticism, turning their rage upon the symbols of their oppression, the dragons themselves. He outlined the dragons likely to perish within the Pit: Tyraxes, young Prince Joffrey's dragon, swift but still small; Morghul, Princess Jaehaera's (Aegon II's daughter) bonded hatchling; Shrykos, Prince Jaehaerys's (the murdered son of Aegon II) dragon; and the mighty Dreamfyre, Queen Helaena's mount, who would undoubtedly fight to the death to protect her lair and the eggs within. Syrax, Rhaenyra's own golden queen, he knew, would meet her end after the initial storming, drawn to the chaos above the city.
"Four, perhaps five, draconic essences available in a single night of chaos," Rico stated, his voice devoid of emotion, yet thrumming with an almost palpable ambition. "And countless eggs, unguarded, amidst the flames and collapsing domes. Kennard's and Maegor's knowledge tells us where the primary incubation vaults are, Alaric. The ones most protected by ancient Valyrian stonework, the ones most likely to survive the initial structural collapse."
Alaric stared at him, aghast. "You… you intend to exploit such a catastrophe? To steal dragon eggs? To be present at the death of dragons to… to absorb their jēdar?" The maester, for all his dabbling in forbidden lore, looked truly horrified.
"The Valyrians built their empire on such power, Maester," Rico said, his eyes like chips of obsidian. "They fell because they grew complacent, divided. I will not make the same mistake. This… event… is a tragedy for House Targaryen. For me, it is a crucible. And from it, I intend to forge a new destiny."
The preparations began immediately, conducted in the utmost secrecy, even from most of Rico's own organization. Only his inner circle – Alaric, Jax, Finn, Shiv, Vorian, Harl, Mathis, and Lyra – were made privy to the full, audacious scope of the plan.
* Intelligence and Timing: Finn's network was tasked with monitoring the Shepherd's sermons, the mood of the crowd, the increasingly desperate food situation, and the deployment of Daemon's Gold Cloaks. Rico needed to know the precise moment the spark would ignite the powder keg. He also used the obsidian mirror, pushing its limits, to try and catch glimpses of Rhaenyra's increasingly paranoid councils, her growing alienation from the smallfolk, and Daemon's brutal responses to any dissent.
* Resource Management: Mathis was ordered to discreetly stockpile specific resources: not just food and water (which Rico could later use to control sections of the starving city in the aftermath), but also fire-resistant cloaks and breathing masks (improvised by Lyra using treated leather and specific herbs), tools for breaking through stone and metal, and sturdy, insulated chests for transporting precious, fragile cargo.
* The Harvest Teams: Rico divided his elite.
* Team One (Essence Acquisition): Rico himself, accompanied by Shiv (for silent movement and eliminating any immediate threats) and Vorian (for his combat prowess and cool head under pressure). Their goal: to be as close as legally possible to the dragons identified as likely to perish within the Dragonpit, positioning themselves for essence absorption amidst the chaos. This was the most dangerous assignment.
* Team Two (Egg Extraction): Led by Harl (whose Dragonkeeper knowledge, now augmented by Rico's own insights from Maegor and Kennard, made him invaluable for handling eggs) and protected by Jax and Grok (for brute force to clear debris or deal with rioters). Their target: the primary incubation vaults Kennard's essence had revealed, hopefully shielded from the worst of the initial destruction.
* Team Three (Support & Logistics): Finn would coordinate communications via runners and hidden signals (ravens would be useless in the chaos). Lyra would prepare healing salves for burns and fast-acting stimulants or sedatives as needed. Mathis would manage their escape routes and the secure transport of any… acquisitions.
* The Sanctum: Alaric, with Perwyn's help, began reinforcing a deeper, more hidden section of the warehouse cellar, preparing it as an improvised incubation chamber. Drawing on Kennard's lore and fragments from the Valyrian scrolls, they planned to use geothermal heat (from a nearby hot spring Rico's tunnelers had discovered) and specific mineral-rich sands to create a viable environment for any eggs they might secure.
As the days turned into weeks, King's Landing descended further into misery. Rhaenyra, isolated in the Red Keep, made a series of disastrous political blunders, ordering new taxes, executing suspected Green loyalists on flimsy evidence, and appearing increasingly like a tyrant. Daemon, preoccupied with prosecuting the wider war and dealing with threats from Prince Aemond (who, with Vhagar, was now a terrifying scourge in the Riverlands, having recently burned his way through the Blackwood Vale), left the day-to-day governance of the city to councillors who were either incompetent or corrupt.
The Shepherd's voice grew louder, his congregations swelling from hundreds to thousands. He preached of the dragons as demons, the Targaryens as abominations, their reign a curse upon the land. He spoke of a divine mandate to cleanse the city of their fiery scourge.
Rico, watching all this unfold with his chilling foreknowledge, felt like a god manipulating puppets from the heavens – or perhaps, a devil stoking the fires of hell. He did nothing to stop the Shepherd. In fact, through carefully placed agents, he subtly fanned the flames, spreading rumors of hoarded grain in the Red Keep, of Rhaenyra feasting while the city starved, of Daemon sacrificing children to his Blood Wyrm. These were lies, of course, but in a city consumed by hunger and fear, lies were often more potent than truth.
The breaking point came on a hot, stifling night, when a group of Daemon's Gold Cloaks, attempting to disperse one of the Shepherd's increasingly volatile gatherings, beat an old woman to death. The crowd, already on a knife's edge, exploded.
"To the Dragonpit!" the Shepherd roared, his one hand brandishing a gnarled staff. "Slay the beasts! Slay the demons! For the Mother's mercy, for the Father's justice, cleanse this city of their shadow!"
Tens of thousands of desperate, starving, hate-filled citizens, armed with butchers' cleavers, smiths' hammers, sharpened staves, and sheer, unadulterated fury, surged towards Rhaenys's Hill.
Rico's teams were already in motion.
Team One – Rico, Shiv, and Vorian – disguised in the tattered rags of the mob, fire-resistant cloaks concealed beneath, moved with the surging crowd, their faces grim, their eyes missing nothing. Rico felt the familiar cold focus descend, his senses heightened, Anādrag a reassuring weight at his back. The combined essences of warriors, spymasters, and now, Dragonkeepers, made him a uniquely terrifying predator amidst this chaotic human sea.
The Dragonpit guards, a mix of Targaryen loyalists and Daemon's Stormcrows, were overwhelmed almost instantly. The massive bronze gates were battered down. The mob poured into the outer courtyards, their roars echoing the terrified screams of the dragons now stirring within the great dome.
Rico knew the sequence of events from his lore. Joffrey Velaryon, Rhaenyra's young son, would try to reach his dragon, Tyraxes, perhaps even attempt to fly him out or to another dragon to aid in the fight, but would fall to his death. Tyraxes, riderless and enraged, would fight, killing hundreds before being overwhelmed. Shrykos and Morghul, the younger dragons, would also be slain in their chains or after breaking free. Dreamfyre, the largest and oldest dragon in the Pit at that moment, would wreak horrific carnage before being brought down by the sheer weight of numbers and the collapsing dome.
He guided his team through the pandemonium, towards the vaults where he knew Tyraxes and the younger dragons were chained. The heat was already intense, the air thick with smoke, ash, and the smell of burning flesh – both human and draconic. The noise was a physical assault – the roar of the mob, the screams of the dying, the earth-shattering shrieks of enraged and terrified dragons.
They saw Tyraxes, a beautiful creature of scaled bronze and gold, break his chains, incinerating dozens of rioters with a torrent of flame before a hail of spears and grappling hooks brought him crashing down, his neck pierced by a lucky throw with a sharpened cart axle.
Rico was there as the life faded from the young dragon's golden eyes. He reached out, his hand brushing against the cooling, blood-slick scales.
The absorption was like being struck by lightning, like swallowing a star. It was not the infusion of human skill or knowledge. It was a torrent of raw, primal power, of elemental fire, of ancient, reptilian instinct. He felt the sky, the wind, the earth, not as a man, but as a DRAGON. He felt the burning joy of flight, the savage fury of the hunt, the deep, possessive love for a rider now lost. His mind reeled, his own human consciousness threatening to be overwhelmed by the sheer, alien immensity of the draconic jēdar. Memories not his own – soaring above Dragonstone, the taste of roasted sheep, the comforting presence of a boy with silver-gold hair – flooded him.
He staggered, Shiv and Vorian instinctively forming a protective cordon around him as the mob surged past, oblivious to the silent, metaphysical theft occurring in their midst. The power settled, a white-hot coal in the core of his being, terrifying, exhilarating, transformative. He was… more. He felt his own senses sharpen to an inhuman degree, his skin prickling with a phantom warmth, his very blood seeming to sing with a fiery energy.
They pressed on, deeper into the inferno. Shrykos and Morghul, small but ferocious, met similar fates, overwhelmed by the sheer, suicidal bravery of the mob. Rico, moving with a speed and purpose that seemed to borderline on prescient, managed to be near both as they fell, absorbing their essences in quick, brutal succession. Each absorption was a fresh wave of draconic instinct, of youthful fury, of the unique sensory world of a dragon, layering upon Tyraxes's more mature jēdar. He now understood the particular fear a chained dragon felt, the desperate urge to break free, the unique scent of human terror.
Meanwhile, Team Two – Harl, Jax, and Grok – guided by Kennard's absorbed knowledge of the Dragonpit's secret ways and a desperate courage born of loyalty (and immense payment promised by Mathis), had reached the primary incubation vaults. The main dome above was groaning, showering them with hot ash and debris. The roar of Dreamfyre, fighting for her life in the central arena, was a continuous, earth-shaking thunder.
"The obsidian eggs first!" Harl yelled over the din, his face streaked with soot and sweat, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and Maegor's ingrained reverence. "Kennard said they were the oldest, the most potent!" He pointed towards a heavily warded, stone-lined chamber, its door miraculously still intact.
Jax and Grok, using heavy iron bars they'd brought, smashed through the ancient lock. Inside, nestled on beds of volcanic sand, were nearly a dozen dragon eggs, ranging from the deep black of obsidian to swirls of gold and bronze, and even a few of pale, ghostly white. They were warm to the touch, thrumming with a faint, inner life. Working with frantic speed, they began to carefully load the eggs into the insulated chests Mathis had provided.
Back in the main arena, Dreamfyre was making her last stand. The massive silver-blue she-dragon, maddened by pain and the deaths of the younger dragons, had broken free from her vault and was a whirlwind of fire and fury, her screams tearing the smoke-filled air. But the mob was relentless, thousands of them, climbing over the bodies of their own dead, armed with spears, axes, nets, and the sheer, unthinking ferocity of a hive mind. They swarmed her, a tide of human ants overwhelming a wounded lioness.
Rico watched, his heart hammering, his newly acquired draconic senses experiencing Dreamfyre's agony, her rage, her despair, as if it were his own. He saw the moment her great heart began to fail, the moment the light began to fade from her sky-blue eyes. He pushed through the frenzied mob, Shiv and Vorian carving a path with brutal efficiency, until he was close enough, his hand outstretched, as the last, shuddering sigh escaped Dreamfyre's massive lungs and the ancient dome of the Dragonpit began to groan, to crack, to collapse inwards in a cataclysm of fire, stone, and ash.
Dreamfyre's essence was a cataclysm in itself. It was the wisdom of ages, the memory of a hundred Targaryen riders, the deep, resonant magic of a dragon queen who had dreamed prophetic dreams. It was vast, ancient, and overwhelmingly powerful, far exceeding the younger dragons. Rico felt his mind expand to encompass it, his own human perspective stretched to the breaking point. He saw visions of Old Valyria, of the Doom, of the first Targaryens arriving in Westeros. He felt Dreamfyre's sorrow for Queen Helaena, her lost children, her broken mind.
The world dissolved into fire and roaring darkness.
When Rico regained consciousness, it was to a hellscape. The Dragonpit was a smoldering ruin, its mighty dome a jagged, broken maw open to the blood-red sky. The screams had mostly faded, replaced by the moans of the dying and the crackle of flames. Shiv and Vorian were dragging him away from a pile of falling masonry, their faces blackened, their eyes wide with shock.
"Boss! We have to go! The whole place is coming down!" Vorian yelled.
Rico, his body aching, his mind a maelstrom of human and draconic consciousness, nodded. He felt… changed. Transformed. The raw power thrumming through him was terrifying, exhilarating. He was more than human now. Far more.
They rendezvoused with Harl, Jax, and Grok near a pre-arranged escape tunnel – one of Kennard's secret passages that led out onto the city slopes. Harl's team had succeeded. They had five dragon eggs, carefully packed, miraculously intact. Three were obsidian black, one a deep, forest green with bronze swirls, and one a pale, almost translucent white.
As they retreated into the depths of Rico's warehouse fortress, leaving behind a devastated Dragonpit and a city reeling in shock, Rico knew this was a turning point not just for the Dance of the Dragons, but for him. Rhaenyra's hold on King's Landing was shattered. The Greens, though their King was captive, would be emboldened. The war would enter a new, even more savage phase.
And Rico Moretti, now possessing the essences of four dragons and a clutch of their precious eggs, held a power that could tip the scales in any direction he chose. He was no longer a pawn, nor even a player. He was becoming the game itself. The ashes of the Dragonpit were the crucible from which a new, terrifying power was about to be born.