Chapter 30: The Broken King, The Blood Anointed
The air in Maegor's Holdfast was thick with the ghosts of tormented kings and forgotten secrets, a palpable miasma of despair that clung to the ancient, sweat-slick stones. It was here, in the most secure and dreaded dungeon of the Red Keep, that King Aegon II Targaryen, Second of His Name, languished – a broken monarch, his body a ruin of burns and shattered bones, his spirit a flickering ember of bitter resentment. And it was here that Rico Moretti, the Razor of Flea Bottom, now a creature teetering on the precipice of godhood, came to claim a king's soul.
The final preparations had been meticulous, bordering on obsessive. Alaric, his face a deathly pallor but his eyes burning with a scholar's unholy light, had provided Rico with detailed schematics of Maegor's Holdfast, drawn from Ser Tommen Lannister's absorbed knowledge and cross-referenced with ancient architectural scrolls. He'd also outlined the subtle magical wards that protected the deepest cells, wards designed more to contain than to repel, but which might react unpredictably to Rico's burgeoning draconic aura.
"Your own fire immunity should protect you from the simpler heat wards, Master Razor," Alaric had cautioned, his voice a dry rasp. "But be wary of those that prey on the mind, that evoke terror or despair. Targaryen dungeons are… inventive. And the essence of a king, even a broken one, is a potent, volatile thing. Its absorption may… unbalance the symphony of souls already within you."
Rico had merely nodded. Unbalance was a familiar companion. He was a creature of carefully managed chaos, both within and without.
His elite team was briefed in the deepest sanctum of the warehouse, the Valyrian scrolls casting long, eerie shadows on their grim faces.
Shiv, a silent wraith, would be their point man, neutralizing sentries, disarming traps. His new Tyroshi throwing knives, forged by Rico's own hand, hummed with a faint, almost imperceptible heat.
Vorian, the pragmatic ex-sellsword, his loyalty absolute since Qarth, would be their tactical coordinator, his mind sharp, his Myrish short sword ready.
Jax and Grok, the terrifying twin pillars of brute force, were armed with Rico-forged warhammers whose steel heads could shatter stone and bone with equal ease. Their role was simple: if stealth failed, they were the ensuing storm.
Lyra the Lyseni had provided a range of her alchemical marvels: a fast-acting nerve gas delivered in fragile glass orbs for incapacitating groups of guards in confined spaces; a potent acid for stubborn locks or bars; and, for Rico himself, a vial of 'Dragon's Blood Balm,' a concoction of her own devising mixed with a drop of Rico's fiery blood, designed to heighten his senses and physical prowess to their absolute peak for a short duration, though its use carried significant risk of backlash.
Rico himself carried Anādrag, his Valyrian-Tyroshi bastard sword. The dark blade felt alive in his grip, thrumming with a power that resonated with the draconic fire in his veins. He wore his new suit of articulated shadow-steel, its overlapping plates offering unparalleled protection without sacrificing silence or agility. He was a figure of terrifying, almost inhuman grace and menace.
Their infiltration began under the cover of a moonless, storm-wracked night, the wind howling like banshees around the Red Keep's towers, the rain lashing down in blinding sheets – a perfect cloak for their dark purpose. They used a forgotten servant's passage that Kennard's essence had revealed, a narrow, winding tunnel that led from the bowels of the Dragonpit's lower structures (now largely abandoned and less guarded since the Storming) directly into the foundations of Maegor's Holdfast. The stench of mildew, ancient fear, and something else – the faint, metallic tang of old blood – filled the air.
Rico led the way, his draconic senses piercing the oppressive darkness. He could smell the stale sweat of the guards ahead, hear the frantic thumping of their hearts, see the faint heat signatures they left on the cold stone. His immunity to fire made the flickering torchlight irrelevant to his vision.
The first line of Black loyalist guards, huddled in a damp checkpoint, never knew what hit them. Lyra's glass orb shattered silently, releasing its soporific payload. The guards slumped over, their snores quickly turning into deep, unnatural slumber. Shiv moved among them like a phantom, ensuring none would awaken prematurely.
They pressed deeper, into the heart of the Holdfast. The ancient wards Alaric had warned of were palpable now, a psychic pressure that sought to claw at the mind, to induce despair. Rico felt the human essences within him recoil, but the four dragon souls roared in defiance, their primal fire burning away the shadows. He walked through the wards as if they were cobwebs, his own burgeoning magical aura, now tinged with the raw power of the jēdar, acting as a counter-force.
They encountered more guards, elite knights sworn to Rhaenyra, their vigilance sharpened by the recent fall of the city and the ongoing war. Here, stealth gave way to brutal, silent efficiency. Anādrag tasted first blood, Rico's movements a blur of lethal precision, his strength superhuman. Shiv's knives found throats and hearts with unerring accuracy. Vorian coordinated their attacks, ensuring no alarm was raised. Jax and Grok, when called upon, were instruments of swift, overwhelming destruction, their hammers crushing helms and breastplates with sickening ease. Each fallen guard's essence was a fleeting whisper in Rico's mind, adding to his tapestry of martial knowledge, their fear a bitter aftertaste.
Finally, guided by Ser Tommen Lannister's absorbed memory of this dreaded place (he had once, as a young Gold Cloak, escorted a prisoner here), they reached the deepest level, the royal cells. A single, heavy iron door, barred with three massive locks, stood between them and their quarry. Two heavily armored knights, bearing the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, stood vigil, their faces grim and weary.
These were no ordinary guards. They were seasoned veterans, chosen for their loyalty and skill. Lyra's gas would be too slow, too obvious here.
"Vorian, Jax, Grok," Rico commanded, his voice a low growl that was more dragon than man. "Create a diversion. Loud. Draw them away. Shiv, with me. We go for the locks."
Jax, with a savage grin, hefted his warhammer and brought it crashing down on a nearby stone buttress, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the dungeons. Grok joined in, their roars of feigned rage and the clang of their weapons against stone creating a convincing illusion of a major breach or a desperate escape attempt further down the corridor. The two Targaryen knights, startled, exchanged a look, then, as protocol dictated, moved to investigate the louder, more immediate threat, their swords drawn.
As they disappeared around a bend, Rico and Shiv were at the door. Lyra's acid, carefully applied by Shiv's steady hand, began to eat at the ancient iron of the locks. Rico, impatient, focused his will, drawing upon the immense physical strength now at his command. He gripped the remaining bars, his muscles bulging, the shadow-steel of his armor groaning in protest. With a roar that was pure, elemental fury, he tore the bars from their moorings, the ancient stone screaming in protest.
The door creaked open.
King Aegon II Targaryen lay on a pallet of straw in the center of the small, dank cell. A single, sputtering torch cast flickering, grotesque shadows on his ruined form. His once golden hair was lank and greasy, his face a deathly pallor beneath the puckered, discolored burn scars. His limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, his breathing shallow, labored. A Septa, her face pale with fear, huddled in a corner, clutching a prayer book.
Yet, as Rico stepped into the cell, Aegon's eyes, sunken but still fiercely blue, snapped open. They fixed on Rico, and in their depths, Rico saw not just pain and despair, but a spark of unyielding Targaryen pride, a flicker of the dragon's fire that even his broken body could not extinguish.
"So," Aegon rasped, his voice a dry, cracking whisper, "Rhaenyra sends her… dog… to finish the job. Afraid to do it herself, is she, the whore?"
Rico ignored the Septa, who had begun to pray frantically. He approached the pallet, Anādrag held loosely at his side. The sword seemed to hum in his grip, resonating with the Targaryen blood in the room.
"I am no one's dog, Your Grace," Rico said, his voice surprisingly gentle, an echo of Maegor perhaps, or simply the calm before the kill. "I am merely… an agent of change."
Aegon coughed, a wracking, painful sound. A bitter smile touched his lips. "Change… Yes… My father… he wanted change… He named her… And look where it has brought us all… Ashes… and blood…" His gaze drifted to Rico's sword. "A fine blade. Valyrian, is it? Or one of those Tyroshi imitations?"
"It is… unique," Rico replied. He felt no need for cruelty, no desire to prolong this. The man before him was already a ghost. He needed the essence, the key.
"Kill me then, shadow-spawn," Aegon whispered, a strange peace settling over his ravaged features. "End this… farce. Let Sunfyre… let him be free of my… my weakness…" His eyes closed briefly, then opened again, focusing on Rico with a sudden, startling intensity. "But know this… whoever you serve… Rhaenyra will burn for what she has done. The dragons… they will dance on her grave… as they will on mine…"
Rico raised Anādrag. The dark blade seemed to absorb the torchlight. He thought of the Valyrian scrolls, of blood calling to blood. This was the culmination, the price.
The Septa screamed.
Rico's strike was swift, merciful, a clean thrust to the heart. King Aegon II Targaryen, Second of His Name, shuddered once, a soft sigh escaping his lips, and then was still.
The essence that flooded Rico was unlike any human soul he had taken before. It was a maelstrom of royal arrogance, bitter regret, agonizing pain, and the incandescent, possessive love of a dragonrider for his mount, Sunfyre the Golden. He felt Aegon's memories: the coronation, the adulation of the crowd, the thrill of soaring on dragonback, the horror of Rook's Rest, the searing agony of dragonfire, the crushing despair of captivity. He gained Aegon's intimate knowledge of Targaryen lineage, of the Red Keep's deepest secrets, of the complex web of loyalties and betrayals that defined his house.
And then, the most potent element: the pure, unadulterated Drāedī Vējes – the Dragon's Blood, the very essence of a Targaryen King. It surged through Rico like liquid fire, supercharging his own already draconic blood, igniting the dormant dragon jēdar within him. He felt an incredible, exhilarating expansion of his magical potential, a profound, almost telepathic connection to the very idea of Dragon. The Valyrian scrolls' deepest secrets seemed to unlock themselves in his mind. The key had turned.
He staggered back, his mind reeling, his body thrumming with this new, terrifying power. The four dragon essences within him roared in recognition, in communion, with this royal Targaryen soul. He was complete. He was… more.
Vorian and Shiv appeared at the cell door, their faces grim. "Jax and Grok are holding the corridor, boss, but the alarm is spreading. We need to move. Now."
Rico nodded, his eyes blazing with an inner fire that was no longer entirely his own. He looked at Aegon's lifeless body. "The Queen will want proof. And the body itself… is a message."
They worked quickly. Aegon's body, surprisingly light in its broken state, was wrapped in a dark cloak. They took his signet ring, a few other personal effects. The terrified Septa was left unharmed, a witness to the "unknown assassins" who had slain her king.
Their escape was a brutal, running battle through the depths of Maegor's Holdfast. The alarm was general now, Gold Cloaks and household knights swarming the corridors. But Rico's team, led by their transfigured master, was an unstoppable force. Rico moved like a demigod of war, Anādrag a blur of dark light, his new strength and speed terrifying, his fire immunity allowing him to stride through flaming barricades guards desperately erected. Jax and Grok were battering rams, clearing paths. Shiv and Vorian were lethal shadows, protecting their flanks.
They fought their way back to the hidden passage, leaving a trail of dead and wounded Black loyalists in their wake. The storm outside still raged, washing away their tracks as they melted back into the city's underbelly.
Back in the warehouse sanctum, as dawn cast its grey, reluctant light over a city still reeling from the news that would soon break – the death of the captive King Aegon II – Rico Moretti went directly to his hidden hatchery. Alaric was there, his face pale with anticipation. Harl watched from a corner, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and reverence.
The five dragon eggs lay nestled in their beds of volcanic sand, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Rico, his veins still singing with Aegon's royal fire, approached the largest of the obsidian eggs, the one that Kennard's essence had told him was the oldest, the most potent.
He knelt. He remembered the Valyrian scrolls, the rituals of Valyrio Mazvēdras. He reached out, placing his hand upon the cool, smooth surface of the egg. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, his blood, his combined human, draconic, and now, Targaryen essence, upon the dormant life within.
He spoke the ancient Valyrian words of binding, words that Dreamfyre's soul whispered to him, words that resonated with the very fabric of magic. He poured his power, his jēdar, into the egg.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Doubt, a rare visitor, flickered at the edge of Rico's mind.
Then, a faint tremor.
The obsidian egg shuddered beneath his hand. A tiny crack appeared on its surface, then another, spider-webbing across the shell. A faint, inner light began to glow from within, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The cracking intensified. A sharp, piercing cry, unlike any earthly sound, echoed through the chamber.
With a final, convulsive shudder, the top of the egg shattered.
And from within, unfurling damp, obsidian-black wings, emerged a creature of myth and legend, its eyes like molten gold, fixed an Rico with an intelligence that was both ancient and utterly new.
A dragon. His dragon.
It let out another piercing cry, a cry not of fear, but of recognition, of bonding.
Rico Moretti, the boy from another world, the mafia boss, the Razor of Flea Bottom, the King of King's Landing's underworld, the absorber of souls, now stood on the threshold of a new, terrifying, and glorious destiny. He was no longer just a player in the Dance of the Dragons.
He was a Dragonlord.
And the world would burn.