Chapter 23: The Keeper's Echo, A Small Mercy's Shadow
The soul of Maegor the Dragonkeeper settled into Rico Moretti not like the crashing wave of a warrior's fury or the insidious seep of a spymaster's cunning, but like the ancient, patient wisdom of the stones of the Dragonpit itself. It was a quiet power, a profound, almost melancholic understanding that resonated with the deep, thrumming heartbeats of the magnificent beasts Maegor had served his entire life. Rico, a man whose existence had been defined by human conflict and the cold calculus of power, now found himself privy to the silent language of dragons – their joys, their rages, their ancient sorrows, the fierce, possessive love for their riders, and their equally potent capacity for devastation.
He felt the phantom weight of calloused hands, a lifetime spent soothing scaled hides and tending to terrible wounds. He understood the subtle shift in a dragon's eye that signaled fear or aggression, the low rumble in its chest that spoke of contentment or pain. He knew the Valyrian lullabies Maegor had chanted, the specific herbs that eased a dragon's digestion or calmed its fiery temper. It was an essence unlike any other, less about overt power and more about a deep, instinctual connection to a force of nature.
Maester Alaric, when Rico described the sensations, the flood of empathic knowledge, was both awestruck and deeply unsettled. "This is… extraordinary, Master Razor," he breathed, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. "The Dragonkeepers of old were said to be distant kin to the Targaryens, possessing a diluted Valyrian heritage that allowed them this… communion. Maegor must have been one of the last true lines. You have not just absorbed a man's skill; you have touched the very fringe of the dragon-bond itself."
The most immediate, and most uncomfortably human, aspect of Maegor's essence was the crushing grief for his granddaughter, Lyra, the child dying of fever in a Flea Bottom tenement. It was a raw, persistent ache in Rico's consciousness, a stark contrast to his own ingrained detachment. He, who had orchestrated deaths without a flicker of remorse, now felt the phantom sorrow of a loving grandfather.
He rationalized his decision as pragmatism. A loose end. A potential source of rumor if the girl died and her mother, in her grief, spoke too freely of the old Dragonkeeper's desperate visits. So, he summoned Lyra the Lyseni.
"There is a child, Lyra, granddaughter of the recently deceased Maegor," Rico said, his voice devoid of the emotion that churned within him. "She suffers from the weeping fever. You will prepare your finest remedies. You will go to her, discreetly. You will see to her recovery. If she lives, her mother will be… grateful… and silent. If she dies… ensure her passing is peaceful, and the mother… similarly consoled into silence."
Lyra, her pale Valyrian eyes betraying no surprise at this unusual display of… something… from her ruthless master, merely inclined her head. "As you command, Master Razor. The fever is aggressive, but Lyseni arts are potent."
She succeeded. Days later, Finn reported that the child, Lyra, was recovering, her mother praising the anonymous intervention of a "healing angel." Rico felt the echo of Maegor's grief within him lessen, replaced by a faint, alien warmth. He dismissed it as a successful operation, nothing more. Yet, the shadow of that small mercy lingered, a subtle shift in the hard calculus of his soul.
His attention returned to the Dragonpit. Maegor's essence was a key, unlocking a new level of understanding and potential influence. He now guided Vorian and Harl with an uncanny prescience.
"Vorian," he'd instruct via a coded raven message, "the grain shipment for Dreamfyre today – ensure it is sifted for ergot. Her digestion has been… delicate… since the last storm. Maegor always took precautions."
To Harl, tasked with the younger, unridden dragons: "The bronze hatchling, Vermax's get, he will refuse food today. He senses the unrest in the city. Maegor would soothe him with a low Valyrian chant and a specific type of smoked fish. Procure it. The chant… I will teach you the cadence."
His agents, initially bewildered by the specificity and accuracy of his instructions, soon came to accept that The Razor possessed an almost supernatural insight into the creatures. Their own positions within the Dragonpit's periphery solidified as they appeared more knowledgeable, more effective. They became conduits for Rico's will, subtly influencing the care and observation of the dragons, all while gathering intelligence on the other Keepers.
Maegor's essence painted a vivid picture of the remaining senior Dragonkeepers: old Garth, stubborn and traditional, deeply suspicious of the Greens; Cley, younger, more ambitious, perhaps swayed by Hightower gold; and the twins, Arryk and Erryk Cargyll, formidable warriors whose loyalties, Maegor had sensed, were being pulled in dangerously opposite directions by the escalating conflict. Arryk, more stoic, seemed inclined towards Aegon and the established order. Erryk, more thoughtful, was rumored to be increasingly troubled by the Greens' actions. They were pivotal figures, potential kingmakers or kingbreakers within the Dragonpit itself.
Larys Graceford, meanwhile, was immensely pleased by the "resolution" of Maegor's unfortunate demise. "A tragedy, of course, Razor," he'd said, with his usual insincerity, "but his replacement must be a man of… unwavering loyalty… to King Aegon and Prince Aemond. Your insights into the… well-being… of the dragons have been noted at the highest levels. Prince Aemond himself has expressed… satisfaction… that a vigilant eye is being kept."
Rico knew this was a double-edged sword. Aemond's "satisfaction" could quickly turn into suspicion if anything went wrong. He used his newfound Dragonkeeper knowledge to feed Larys carefully curated reports – observations on dragon temperament, suggestions for improving security (which often subtly benefited his own agents' access), and warnings of "potential Black sympathizers" amongst the lower ranks of the Keepers, men whose removal would conveniently place more neutral or controllable individuals in their posts.
He even dared a more direct, though still heavily disguised, foray into the Dragonpit's less guarded sections. Donning the roughspun clothes of a laborer, his features obscured by a hood and grime (a look he was grimly familiar with from his first days in this world), he accompanied Harl on a supply run into one of the outer courtyards. The air thrummed with the heat and the immense, sleeping power of the dragons within the main dome. He felt their presence, a vast, collective consciousness, like distant, slumbering volcanoes. Maegor's essence resonated, a mixture of awe, respect, and familial affection for the beasts. For a moment, Rico felt an echo of it himself, a dizzying sense of belonging that was profoundly unsettling.
He saw Dreamfyre being led by Garth and Cley from one vault to another, a shimmering silver-blue river of scales and muscle, her intelligent eyes taking in everything. The sheer size and power of her, even in her relative docility, was breathtaking. He understood then, with a clarity that transcended intellect, why the Targaryens had ruled for a century. These were not mere beasts; they were living embodiments of Valyrian magic, a power that could unmake the world.
His arcane studies with Alaric took on a new urgency. The Valyrian scrolls, when viewed through the lens of Maegor's absorbed Keeper-lore, revealed deeper meanings. Passages that had seemed obscure now hinted at practical techniques for influencing draconic temperament, for understanding their dream-states, even for subtly guiding their actions through shared will and blood-sympathy.
"The bond is everything, Master Razor," Alaric explained, his own excitement barely contained as he cross-referenced a passage with a rare fragment of text purportedly from a Valyrian dragon-tamer. "The scrolls suggest that if a dragon's bond with its rider is weakened, or if the rider is… absent… a sufficiently strong will, attuned to the dragon's jēdar through blood or shared experience, might… imprint upon it."
The implications were staggering. Sunfyre the Golden, King Aegon's mount, was gravely wounded, his rider incapacitated. Vhagar, though fiercely bonded to Aemond, was ancient, her previous riders long dead. Dreamfyre, Helaena's mount, was said to be gentle, but her rider was increasingly lost in her own world of prophecy and grief. And then there were the unridden dragons, the hatchlings…
Rico began to focus his secret forging efforts with a new purpose. He was not just crafting superior weapons and armor for his men or himself. He began to experiment with Horonno's Tyroshi techniques and Alaric's alchemical suggestions to create items that might resonate with Valyrian lore – small, intricately carved tokens of dragonbone (sourced discreetly by Vorian from charnel pits outside the Dragonpit where old bones were sometimes discarded), inlaid with obsidian and infused with minute quantities of his own blood during the forging process. He didn't know if they would work, if they could truly be imbued with any property that might influence a dragon, but the scrolls, and the thrumming power within him, urged him to try.
The war raged on beyond the city walls. News came of the "Sowing of the Seeds" on Dragonstone – Rhaenyra and Daemon, desperate for more dragonriders, were offering lands, titles, and riches to any man, highborn or low, who could claim one of the riderless dragons on their island. Several new riders, the "dragonseeds," had emerged, bolstering the Black Queen's forces, though their loyalty and control over their new mounts were questionable. This news sent fresh waves of paranoia through the Green council. If baseborn men could claim dragons on Dragonstone, what of the dragons in King's Landing?
Prince Aemond, now the undisputed military commander of the Green forces with Aegon still recovering, grew ever more ruthless, ever more reliant on Vhagar's terrifying power. He demanded absolute loyalty, his one sapphire eye seeming to pierce through any deception. Rico knew that operating under Aemond's gaze was like dancing on a dragon's snout.
His opportunity to further solidify his position, and perhaps to take a more direct step towards his draconic ambitions, came during a crisis within the Dragonpit itself. One of the younger, unridden dragons – a swift, ill-tempered bronze named Tessarion, who had yet to accept a rider – fell violently ill. The remaining Dragonkeepers were baffled, their traditional remedies ineffective. The dragon thrashed in its vault, its roars echoing through the Pit, its fiery breath scorching the stone. Fear spread that it might break free, or that its illness might spread to the other dragons.
Larys Graceford, his face a mask of panic, summoned Rico. "Prince Aemond is… displeased, Razor. He holds the Dragonkeepers responsible. He speaks of… replacing them all. With soldiers. He demands you find the cause. Sabotage? Poison? Or is it some Black witchcraft?"
Rico, guided by Maegor's absorbed knowledge and his own burgeoning "dragon sense," suspected it was neither. He had felt the young bronze's distress even from his warehouse sanctum, a discordant, painful note in the symphony of draconic energies he was beginning to perceive.
He requested permission to examine Tessarion himself, under the guise of his "inquisitorial" duties, accompanied by Vorian (as his "assistant knowledgeable in animal husbandry," a role Harl had briefed him on) and, crucially, under the watchful eyes of several of Aemond's personal guard.
Entering Tessarion's vault was like stepping into a furnace. The heat was stifling, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and sick dragon. The young bronze was thrashing, its beautiful scales dull, its breath coming in ragged, fiery gasps. The attending Dragonkeepers looked on helplessly, their faces etched with fear and despair.
Rico approached cautiously, not with the arrogance of a master, but with the quiet, respectful empathy he had absorbed from Maegor. He didn't try to touch the dragon. He simply stood, his senses open, feeling its pain, its fear, its confusion. Maegor's essence whispered to him: The water… the cisterns… something is amiss… a metallic tang…
"The water source for this vault," Rico said, his voice calm but authoritative, addressing the senior Dragonkeeper present, old Garth. "Has it been checked recently?"
Garth, surprised by the question, shook his head. "The cisterns are deep, fed by springs beneath the Hill of Rhaenys. They have always been pure."
"Check them now," Rico ordered. "Specifically, the one that feeds this vault. Look for any unusual sediment, any foreign taste or smell."
Reluctantly, Garth dispatched a younger Keeper. While they waited, Rico continued to observe Tessarion, his mind racing. Maegor's knowledge suggested a metallic poisoning, perhaps from corroded pipes or a naturally occurring mineral leached into the water. It was not sabotage, but a slow, insidious affliction.
The young Keeper returned, his face pale, carrying a bucket of water from the suspect cistern. It had a faint, unnatural sheen, and a barely perceptible metallic odor that only Rico, with his enhanced senses and Maegor's attunement, could truly discern.
"There is your culprit," Rico announced. "The water is tainted. The dragon must be moved to a vault with a clean source immediately. And its system flushed with purified water and specific soothing herbs." He named the herbs Maegor would have used, herbs Lyra could procure or compound.
His confident diagnosis, delivered with an authority that brooked no argument, impressed the Hightower guards and even old Garth. Under Rico's surprisingly knowledgeable direction (channeled directly from Maegor), the difficult and dangerous task of moving the ailing Tessarion to a new vault was accomplished. Lyra's prescribed herbal infusions were administered.
Within days, Tessarion began to recover. The young bronze's fire returned, its scales regained their luster. Prince Aemond, when informed of The Razor's "astute discovery" and "decisive intervention" (as Larys eagerly reported it), was said to have given a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval. Rico had not only averted a disaster but had proven himself capable of understanding and managing dragon-related crises.
His influence within the Dragonpit, though still indirect, had grown immeasurably. The Dragonkeepers, witnessing his uncanny understanding of Tessarion's ailment, began to regard him with a mixture of fear and grudging respect. Some even began to discreetly seek his counsel on minor matters concerning their charges.
Rico knew he was playing an incredibly dangerous game. He was walking a tightrope between the paranoid Green regime, the ancient secrets of the Dragonkeepers, and his own terrifying, burgeoning power. But with each success, with each new piece of absorbed knowledge, his ambition grew. He was no longer just observing the dragons from afar. He was in their lair, breathing their fiery air, his fingers brushing against the leashes of power that could reshape the world.
The echoes of Maegor the Dragonkeeper were strong within him. But they were now mingling with the whispers of Valyrian kings, the cunning of arch-spymasters, and the insatiable hunger of a predator who had tasted the blood of gods in his dreams and now yearned for the real thing. The Dragon's Call was becoming the Razor's Ascent. And the shadow he cast was growing long enough to touch the Iron Throne itself.