Chapter 29: The Dragon Within, The Blood Price of Kings
The absorption of four draconic essences was not a mere acquisition of skill or knowledge; it was a cataclysmic reforging of Rico Moretti's very being. The initial moments after the Storming of the Dragonpit, as Shiv and Vorian dragged his reeling form through the collapsing inferno, were a blur of roaring fire, splintering stone, and a symphony of alien consciousnesses tearing through his human mind. He was Tyraxes, young and furious, his phantom wings beating against the confines of his ribs. He was Shrykos, small and terrified, snapping at unseen tormentors. He was Morghul, a nascent inferno of instinct and territorial rage. And overwhelmingly, he was Dreamfyre, ancient and wise, her sorrow for lost Helaena a vast, echoing chasm in his soul, her memories a library of Valyrian lore and draconic eons.
Back in the warded depths of his warehouse sanctum, the transformation truly began to take hold. The first, most startling change was physical. His already enhanced strength surged to monstrous levels; he could bend iron bars with his bare hands, lift weights that would crush Jax. His reflexes became preternatural, his movements a blur, able to pluck Shiv's thrown knives from the air as if they were lazy flies. His senses exploded: his eyesight sharpened to pierce the deepest shadows, colors appearing preternaturally vivid; his hearing could pick out a rat's heartbeat through stone walls; his sense of smell became a complex tapestry of scents, each carrying a wealth of information. He even developed a subtle thermal sense, able to feel the heat signatures of living beings nearby.
One evening, while inspecting the damage to a section of the warehouse from a stray firebomb during the riots that now plagued the city, a burning timber collapsed, showering him with embers and licking flames. His men cried out, expecting him to be horribly burned. Rico simply stood amidst the fire, feeling only a pleasant warmth, like a cat basking in a sunbeam. He looked at his hands, untouched by the blaze. Immunity to fire. A dragon's birthright, now his. The men stared, their fear of him deepening into a kind of primal awe.
Beneath his skin, he felt a subtle, constant heat, his blood seeming to run hotter, thicker. Alaric, his face a mixture of terror and rabid scholarly excitement, took a small sample of Rico's blood under the pretext of checking for poisons after the Dragonpit ordeal. The maester later reported, his voice trembling, that Rico's blood was… different. It possessed a vitality, a resilience, a faint golden sheen when held to the light, that was unlike anything he had ever seen. "It is as if… as if the pure blood of Old Valyria itself, the very fire of the dragonlords, now flows in your veins, Master Razor," Alaric had whispered. "You are… no longer entirely human."
Indeed, Rico felt it. The human shell remained, but within, something ancient, powerful, and terrifyingly alien was awakening. He was stronger, faster, more aware, his mind a repository of human cunning and draconic instinct. He could feel the raw magic, the jēdar he had absorbed, coalescing within him, a vast, untamed ocean of power he was only just beginning to comprehend. It resonated with the Valyrian scrolls, passages that had once been obscure now flaring with intuitive meaning.
The psychological toll was immense. For days, he wrestled with the warring consciousnesses within him, Dreamfyre's ancient wisdom battling Tyraxes's youthful rage, Shrykos's fear clashing with Morghul's aggression. He saw the world through a fractured, multifaceted lens – the pragmatic survivor, the ruthless Don, the cunning spymaster, the patient craftsman, the sorrowful Dragonkeeper, and now, the very soul of a dragon. Sleep was a torment of fiery dreams and phantom wings. But Rico's will, forged in the crucible of two brutal lives, was a diamond core. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to assert dominance, not by suppressing the essences, but by integrating them, weaving them into the terrifying, unique tapestry of his new self. He was becoming a gestalt, a creature of terrifying synthesis.
It was during one of these intense periods of integration, while meditating upon the Valyrian scrolls with Alaric, that the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. A passage, previously obscure, now blazed with understanding, illuminated by Dreamfyre's ancient jēdar and Kennard's absorbed lore of dragon bloodlines. It spoke of the Valyrio Mazvēdras – the "Dragon Binding" or "Blood Union" – a ritual that required not just an egg and the will of a binder, but a catalyst: the fresh, potent jēdar of one who carried the true Dragon's Blood, a Targaryen.
"To hatch them, Master Razor," Alaric breathed, his finger tracing the Valyrian glyphs, his face illuminated by the dawning horror and ambition in Rico's eyes, "to truly bind them to your will, to make them yours in a way no mere Dragonkeeper ever could… the scrolls are clear. You need to consume the essence of a Targaryen. Their blood, their magic, is the key that unlocks the egg's potential and forges the unbreakable bond."
Kill a Targaryen. Absorb their essence. Only then could he hatch the five precious dragon eggs Harl's team had heroically salvaged from the burning Dragonpit, now nestled in the secret, geothermally heated incubation chamber Alaric and Perwyn had meticulously constructed deep beneath the warehouse. The thought was both monstrous and electrifying.
His mind raced. Which Targaryen?
The captive Greens in the Red Keep were the most accessible. King Aegon II, broken and burned, his essence likely tainted by pain and milk of the poppy, but royal nonetheless. Queen Helaena, lost in her grief and prophecies, Dreamfyre's rider; her essence might offer a deeper connection to the dragon whose jēdar already resided within him. Or their children, young Jaehaera, or Prince Maelor (if he was still in the city and hadn't been smuggled away – his Game of Thrones lore on Maelor's fate was hazy for this exact period). The thought of harming a child, even for such a prize, gave him a moment's pause, a flicker of some deeply buried human sentiment, which he ruthlessly crushed. Sentiment was a luxury. Power was necessity.
Then there were the ruling Blacks. Queen Rhaenyra herself, on Dragonstone, was currently out of reach. Her remaining sons, Aegon the Younger and Viserys, were also likely on Dragonstone or secured elsewhere. But Prince Daemon Targaryen… He was here, in King's Landing, the iron fist of the Black Queen. Daemon's essence – the Blood Wyrm's rider, a renowned warrior, a cunning prince steeped in Valyrian heritage – would be a crown jewel, a transformative acquisition beyond even the dragons themselves. But Daemon was lethally dangerous, surrounded by his Stormcrows, always vigilant. Attacking him would be suicidal. For now.
A strategic chill settled over Rico. He needed a Targaryen whose death would serve multiple purposes: provide the crucial essence, destabilize his enemies, and perhaps even ingratiate him further with whichever faction seemed most likely to prevail, or whichever was most useful to him at that moment. The captive Greens were vulnerable, their deaths perhaps even welcomed by some of the more radical Blacks.
King's Landing, in the aftermath of the Storming of the Dragonpit, was a city teetering on the brink of utter collapse. Rhaenyra's authority, already tenuous, had shattered. The smallfolk, having tasted blood and seen the vulnerability of dragons, were terrified but also emboldened. Riots over food were daily occurrences. Daemon's Stormcrows patrolled the streets, their brutality only fanning the flames of resentment. The Black Queen herself, it was whispered, had descended into paranoia and despair, ordering arrests and executions on the flimsiest of suspicions. Her reign of terror was beginning.
Rico's underworld empire, paradoxically, thrived in this chaos. He was the only source of order in vast swathes of the city. His granaries, carefully stockpiled, now sold grain at prices that were exorbitant but still lower than the famine-level rates elsewhere, earning him both immense profits and a grudging dependence from the starving populace. His enforcers maintained a brutal peace in his territories, protecting his businesses and those who paid for his protection. He was becoming a shadow government, his decrees carrying more weight in the gutters than any royal edict from the Red Keep.
He continued to "serve" the Black regime, via Mysaria. He provided intelligence on Green remnants, on the mood of the smallfolk (information he carefully curated to his own advantage), and on the movements of Prince Aemond, whose whereabouts remained a terrifying mystery to the Blacks. His scrying with the obsidian mirror, now amplified by his draconic senses, gave him fleeting, horrifying glimpses of Aemond and Vhagar cutting a swathe of destruction through the Riverlands, a one-man, one-dragon apocalypse. He sold this intelligence dearly, demanding gold, resources, and, most importantly, continued autonomy.
Mysaria, her own network strained by the city's chaos and Daemon's increasing unpredictability, grew more reliant on him, though her suspicion never wavered. "You are a useful creature, Razor," she'd hissed during one of their clandestine meetings. "But even useful creatures can be replaced if they grow too bold, or too… independent." Rico had merely smiled, his eyes reflecting a power she couldn't begin to comprehend.
His five dragon eggs were his most precious secret, his ultimate ambition. In the hidden hatchery, Alaric, Harl (whose Dragonkeeper knowledge was now augmented by Rico's own direct infusions of lore from Maegor and Kennard), and Perwyn (who meticulously recorded every detail of temperature, humidity, and egg behavior) tended to them with religious devotion. Rico would visit them daily, his new draconic senses allowing him to feel the faint, quickening life within each shell. The obsidian eggs felt ancient, their power dormant but immense. The green-and-bronze one pulsed with a restless energy. The pale white egg was strangely cold, yet hummed with a unique, almost ethereal resonance.
He knew he couldn't wait indefinitely. The eggs needed the catalyst. His own power, vast as it was, felt incomplete, tethered. The Valyrian scrolls, Dreamfyre's ancient wisdom, Kennard's lore – they all screamed the same truth: Blood calls to blood. Only a Dragonlord can truly command a dragon. He needed to become one, in essence if not in name.
His choice of target finally crystallized. Not Daemon, too dangerous. Not Rhaenyra, too distant. Not the royal children, too… complicated, for now. King Aegon II, broken, burned, and imprisoned in the Red Keep, was the perfect choice. His death would be a devastating blow to any remaining Green hopes, an act that would surely please the increasingly tyrannical Rhaenyra. His essence, though perhaps diminished by his injuries, was still that of a crowned Targaryen King, a dragonrider. And his capture, or his corpse, would be a powerful bargaining chip.
The plan was audacious, bordering on insane. Aegon II was kept under heavy guard in the depths of Maegor's Holdfast, Rhaenyra's most secure prison. Reaching him, killing him, and escaping with his essence – and perhaps his body as a trophy for the Blacks – would be the most dangerous operation Rico had ever undertaken.
He began his preparations. He would need his most elite team: Shiv, Vorian, Jax, Grok. Lyra would prepare specialized compounds – soporifics for guards, stimulants for his team, perhaps even a fast-acting corrosive for locks or bars. Alaric would study the layout of Maegor's Holdfast (knowledge gleaned from Ser Tommen Lannister's essence and supplemented by Red Keep informants), identifying vulnerabilities, planning routes. Perwyn would forge any necessary documents or insignias to aid their infiltration.
And Rico himself… he would unleash the dragon within. His new sword, Anādrag, felt like a part of him, humming with a faint, inner fire. His body was a vessel of unimaginable power, his senses tuned to a level beyond human comprehension. He could smell the fear of the guards from a hundred paces, see in absolute darkness, move with the speed and silence of a striking viper. His immunity to fire would be a potent weapon in the torch-lit confines of the ancient fortress.
He stood before the obsidian mirror one last time before committing to the plan, focusing his will on Maegor's Holdfast, on the imprisoned King. The mirror swirled, then cleared, showing him a brief, harrowing image: Aegon II, pale and emaciated, his limbs twisted, his face a mask of pain and bitter resentment, tended by a Septa and guarded by grim-faced knights bearing Rhaenyra's sigil. The King was alive, but barely. His essence, though, his Targaryen blood, his dragonlord heritage – that still burned within him, however faintly. It was enough.
"The King is weak, but his blood still calls to the fire," Rico murmured to Alaric, who watched him with a mixture of awe and dread. "It is time to complete the puzzle, Maester. It is time for The Razor to claim a king's soul, and then, to awaken his dragons."
The city outside starved and bled, oblivious to the monstrous ambition taking shape in its depths. Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Black Queen, tightened her grip on a crumbling throne, unaware that a power far greater, and far more terrifying, than any human monarch was about to make its move. The Dance of the Dragons was about to gain a new, truly draconic player. And the blood price of kings would be paid in full.