Chapter 26: The Dragon's Blood, The Scholar's Gamble
The knowledge absorbed from Maegor the Dragonkeeper was a potent, intoxicating vintage, but it was incomplete. Maegor had been a master of care and empathy, but Kennard, the reclusive old egg-master, held the deeper secrets of Targaryen bloodlines, of the arcane rituals surrounding incubation, of the subtle signs that foretold a dragon's true potential or its inherent flaws. Kennard's essence was the next crucial ingredient in Rico Moretti's terrifying, alchemical transformation.
Prince Aemond's "concern" over the dragons, amplified by Larys Graceford's sycophantic reports of Rico's previous successes, provided the perfect pretext. Rico proposed a thorough "arcane and physical survey" of the Dragonpit's incubation vaults, citing the need to ward against "Black witchcraft" and ensure the continued viability of the precious dragon eggs. He argued that understanding the health of the hatchlings and unhatched eggs was paramount to securing the future of King Aegon's line. Aemond, his single sapphire eye glinting with cold approval for such proactive measures, granted him restricted access, under the escort of his own household guards – men whose loyalty was to Aemond alone. This was both a boon and a leash.
The plan was meticulously crafted by Rico and Maester Alaric. Alaric, his scholarly fervor now tinged with a palpable fear of the forces they were courting, pored over the Valyrian scrolls, cross-referencing them with Maegor's absorbed lore and Kennard's known routines. He identified what he believed to be Valyrian "sealing wards" on the doors to the deepest egg vaults, wards that might react to overt magic or hostile intent.
"You cannot force your way to Kennard's secrets, Master Razor," Alaric warned, his voice a dry whisper. "His knowledge is woven into the very fabric of his being, protected by generations of Keeper tradition. You must… align with it, however briefly. The scrolls speak of jēdārys qēlos – an 'essence echo' or 'spirit resonance.' If you can attune your will, your blood, to the ambient magic of the Dragonpit, to the very lineage of the dragons Kennard serves…"
Rico understood. This wasn't just a kill; it was a delicate, arcane extraction. Lyra the Lyseni prepared a subtle compound, not a poison or a soporific, but a complex aerosol derived from rare Essosi fungi and infused with trace elements Maegor's essence recognized as calming to dragons. It was designed to be spritzed into the air, creating an atmosphere of slight disorientation and heightened sensory perception in humans, while simultaneously soothing any nearby draconic presences, masking their own intrusive energies. Perwyn forged an elaborate (and entirely fictitious) Valyrian diagnostic chart, filled with complex glyphs and astrological conjunctions, which Rico would use as a prop to justify his prolonged presence and close examination of the eggs.
His team was minimal: Shiv, a silent shadow capable of neutralizing Aemond's guards if necessary, and Vorian, disguised as a learned assistant, carrying their tools and Perwyn's chart. Harl, already a familiar, if lowly, presence in the outer Dragonpit, would create a diversion amongst the animal handlers at a pre-arranged signal, drawing away some of the external patrols.
They entered the incubation vaults under the watchful eyes of two of Aemond's fiercest guards, hulking Northmen whose loyalty to the One-Eyed Prince was absolute. The heat was stifling, the air thick with the smell of sulfur, hot stone, and something else – a primal, electric scent that was the very breath of dragon magic. Rows of dragon eggs, ranging in size from a clenched fist to a small boulder, lay nestled in beds of volcanic sand, warmed by geothermal vents that snaked beneath the floor. Some glowed with a faint inner light; others were mottled, their colors shifting like oil on water.
Kennard awaited them, his suspicion a palpable force. He was even older and more wizened than Maegor, his skin like tanned leather, his eyes like embers.
"So, the Regent's 'expert' comes to divine the fate of princes from eggshells," Kennard rasped, his disdain clear.
Rico ignored the jibe. He unrolled Perwyn's elaborate chart, its Valyrian glyphs (meticulously copied by Perwyn from Alaric's texts, though their meaning was largely fabricated for effect) lending an air of profound scholarship.
"The well-being of His Grace's line is paramount, Master Kennard," Rico said, his voice resonating with Maegor's calm authority. "Prince Aemond fears… contamination. Unnatural influences. I am here merely to observe, to record, to ensure the ancient wards hold true."
As he spoke, Lyra's subtle aerosol was discreetly released by Vorian, the scent masked by the heavy, sulfurous air of the vaults. Rico felt his own senses sharpen, the thrumming energy of the eggs, the sleeping power of the dragons in the main vaults above, becoming almost painfully intense. He could feel Maegor's essence stirring within him, a deep resonance with this sacred, dangerous place.
He moved slowly from egg to egg, ostensibly consulting his chart, making notes. He asked Kennard precise, knowledgeable questions about lineage, about quickening times, about the subtle signs of a healthy hatchling – questions drawn directly from Maegor's absorbed expertise, questions that Kennard, despite himself, found himself answering with growing detail, recognizing a depth of understanding he had not expected.
The Aemond's guards watched, their expressions bored but wary. The true test would be isolating Kennard.
Rico focused on a particularly large, unusually patterned egg – obsidian black with veins of what looked like solidified blood – that lay in a secluded alcove. "This one, Master Kennard," Rico said, his voice hushed. "Its aura is… troubled. The star-signs are ill-aspected. I must conduct a deeper reading, requiring absolute stillness, and certain… Valyrian invocations for clarity." He knew from Maegor's memories that this egg was one of Kennard's particular concerns, one he often tended to in solitude.
Kennard's eyes narrowed, but the combination of Rico's unnerving knowledge, the subtle disorientation from Lyra's aerosol, and perhaps a genuine fear for the egg, made him hesitate. "The invocations… they must not disturb the clutch."
"They are whispers, Master Kennard, not shouts," Rico assured him. He turned to Aemond's guards. "This will require intense concentration. Your presence, while appreciated, might… disrupt the delicate energies. Perhaps you could ensure the outer corridor remains secure?"
The guards, impressed by Rico's authoritative demeanor and bored by the arcane proceedings, grumbled but reluctantly agreed to wait just outside the vault door, their duty to protect the inquisitor technically fulfilled as long as he remained within call. This was the opening Rico needed. Vorian positioned himself near the entrance, a silent sentinel. Shiv melted into the deepest shadows of the vault, a phantom presence.
Now alone with Kennard, Rico approached the "troubled" egg. He began to softly chant in High Valyrian, words Maegor had used to soothe distressed hatchlings, words that resonated with the ancient magic of the place. Kennard watched, his initial hostility slowly giving way to a kind of scholarly fascination, and perhaps, a dawning unease.
Rico wasn't just chanting. He was focusing his will, his "blood sense," on Kennard. He felt the old man's immense knowledge, his deep, almost fanatical devotion to the dragons, his suspicion, his weariness. He also sensed a flicker of… something else. A hidden compartment in Kennard's mind, a secret the old Keeper guarded even from himself.
"The Valyrian scrolls speak of rituals to strengthen the jēdar of an unhatched dragon, Master Kennard," Rico said, his voice a near whisper, his eyes fixed on the old Keeper. "Rituals involving the blood of the Keepers, a lineage tied to the dragons themselves. Do you know of such things?"
Kennard recoiled as if struck. "Blasphemy! Such arts are forbidden! Lost!"
"Are they, Master Kennard?" Rico pressed, stepping closer. "Or merely… forgotten by most?" He saw the flicker of fear, of recognition, in the old man's eyes.
The moment was ripe. Shiv moved with a speed that was less than human, a blur of shadow. Before Kennard could cry out, a pressure point was found, a nerve expertly pinched. The old Dragonkeeper slumped, unconscious but alive, into Rico's waiting arms.
There, in the oppressive heat of the egg vault, surrounded by the sleeping potential of a dozen future dragons, Rico Moretti performed the most dangerous absorption of his new life. He didn't just want Kennard's knowledge; he wanted his connection, his lineage, the very essence of a man whose entire existence had been dedicated to the draconic mysteries.
The influx was staggering, a torrent of ancient lore, of blood memory, of instinct and ritual. He didn't just learn about egg incubation; he felt the stirrings of life within the shells, the subtle shifts in temperature and humidity that signaled health or distress. He understood the intricate genealogies of every Targaryen dragon, their strengths, their weaknesses, their preferred riders. He learned the Valyrian chants not as memorized words, but as resonant frequencies that could soothe or stimulate. He gained Kennard's encyclopedic knowledge of the Dragonpit's hidden passages, its geothermal vents, its forgotten chambers where Valyrian artifacts were rumored to still lie hidden.
And with it came Kennard's profound, almost religious reverence for the dragons, his fierce protectiveness, his deep-seated fear of their misuse. It was a powerful, almost overwhelming wave of alien emotion, far stronger than Maegor's gentle empathy. Rico wrestled with it, his own cold ambition clashing with the ancient, ingrained loyalties of the Dragonkeeper. He compartmentalized, suppressed, but he knew this essence would change him in ways he couldn't yet predict.
Vorian and Shiv helped him carry Kennard's now lifeless body to a secluded, seldom-used geothermal vent shaft Maegor's (and now Kennard's) essence had revealed. The old Keeper's death would be attributed to the noxious fumes, a tragic accident. Rico took Kennard's personal journal – a small, leather-bound book filled with crabbed notes on egg cycles and bloodlines – as further "evidence" for his report to Larys.
They left the vault as Aemond's guards were growing restless. Rico, his face a mask of calm composure despite the raging inferno of new knowledge and emotion within him, reported to them that the "troubled" egg was indeed afflicted by a minor imbalance, but that he had performed a "Valyrian warding ritual" that should stabilize it. He also, with feigned reluctance, reported Master Kennard's "unfortunate collapse" near the vents, a tragedy he had been unable to prevent.
The news of Kennard's death, so soon after Maegor's, sent a fresh wave of unease through the Dragonpit and the Green council. Larys Graceford was terrified that Aemond would blame him, or Rico. But Rico, drawing on his newly acquired understanding of Dragonkeeper politics and Kennard's own notes, skillfully manipulated the situation. He suggested to Larys that Kennard, despondent over the "cursed" egg and perhaps dabbling in forbidden rituals himself, had accidentally succumbed to noxious fumes. He even produced a "translation" (expertly forged by Perwyn based on Alaric's Valyrian knowledge) of a fictitious passage from Kennard's journal hinting at such reckless experimentation.
Prince Aemond, while undoubtedly suspicious, was also pragmatic. With two senior Dragonkeepers dead, the remaining ones were terrified and disorganized. Rico, with his "proven" ability to handle draconic crises and his (now vastly enhanced) understanding of their needs, became, by default, the Greens' foremost, if unofficial, authority on dragon matters within the Pit. He subtly began to influence the selection of Kennard's successor, ensuring it was a man more pliable, more open to his "suggestions."
His primary focus, however, turned to the recovering Sunfyre the Golden, King Aegon's magnificent but grievously wounded mount. The dragon was kept in a deep, isolated vault, his burns tended by a handful of the most skilled (and now deeply fearful) remaining Keepers. Sunfyre's bond with Aegon was profound, but with the King incapacitated, the dragon was said to be wild with pain and grief, lashing out at any who approached.
Rico, armed with Maegor's empathy and Kennard's deep lore, began to visit Sunfyre's vault, always under the guise of an official inspection, always accompanied by nervous Hightower guards. He didn't try to get close to the immense, suffering beast at first. He simply stood in the shadows, observing, feeling the dragon's agony, its rage, its confusion. He would softly chant the Valyrian lullabies, not as a performance, but as a genuine attempt to soothe, to connect.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Sunfyre's thrashing seemed to lessen when Rico was present. The dragon's one good eye, a molten gold inferno, would sometimes fix on him, not with aggression, but with a flicker of something akin to… recognition? Or was it just the desperate hope of a creature in immense pain, sensing a presence that did not reek of fear or incompetence?
Rico knew he was playing with literal fire. One wrong move, one misread signal, and Sunfyre could incinerate him. But the potential reward – to establish a connection, however tenuous, with the King's own dragon, to understand its jēdar while it was vulnerable – was a gamble he was willing to take.
While these dangerous games unfolded in the Dragonpit, the war beyond the city walls took another dark turn. News arrived, carried by panicked raven and fleeing messenger, of Daemon Targaryen's daring capture of King's Landing itself. The Rogue Prince, in a lightning campaign, had outmaneuvered the Green forces, his own dragon Caraxes leading the assault, while the Velaryon fleet blockaded Blackwater Bay. Otto Hightower had been captured and executed. Queen Alicent, King Aegon II (still largely incapacitated), Queen Helaena, and their remaining children were now prisoners in the Red Keep. Prince Aemond and Vhagar, who had been campaigning in the Riverlands, were cut off, his whereabouts unknown.
King's Landing had fallen to the Blacks.
The city erupted into chaos. Green banners were torn down, replaced by Rhaenyra's red and black. Black loyalists emerged from the shadows, seeking vengeance. Flea Bottom, Rico's domain, became a battleground as factions loyal to both sides clashed.
Rico, caught in the heart of this maelstrom, felt a moment of profound, exhilarating clarity. His carefully laid plans, his patient accumulation of power, had all led to this. The Greens were overthrown, their power broken. His "loyalty" to them was now a dangerous liability. But he was not their creature. He was his own.
He had the Valyrian scrolls. He had the obsidian mirror. He had his secret forge and the knowledge of Tyroshi steel. He had an army of loyal men, an unmatched intelligence network, and a vast, illicit treasury. And now, he possessed the soul of not one, but two, master Dragonkeepers, his mind a repository of ancient dragonlore.
As Rhaenyra's forces, led by the grim knights of the Queensguard and Daemon's fierce stormcrows, began to secure the city, Rico Moretti retreated to his warehouse fortress. He sent out his ravens, not with messages of fealty to the new Queen, but with coded instructions to his agents, to his Essosi contacts, to his guild pawns.
The Dance of the Dragons had entered a new, bloodier chapter. And Rico, the Razor, the Spider, the Forgemaster, the Dragon Whisperer, was perfectly positioned in the eye of the storm, his new sword, Anādrag, gleaming in the firelight, ready to carve his own path through the wreckage of a dying dynasty. The fall of King's Landing was not an end for him, but a bloody, glorious beginning.