Chapter 34: The God Ascendant, A Clutch of Living Fire
The return journey from the desolation of the Gods Eye to the festering heart of King's Landing was a metamorphosis observed by no mortal eye. Rico Moretti, who had walked into that crucible of warring demigods as a uniquely empowered human, now moved through the blighted Riverlands as something… other. The combined essences of Daemon and Aemond Targaryen, and their legendary dragons Caraxes and Vhagar, had not merely been added to his already crowded soul; they had acted as an alchemical accelerant, a dragon's fire that had burned away the last vestiges of his mundane humanity, reforging him into a being of terrifying, primordial power.
His physical form, while still outwardly human, thrummed with an almost visible aura of contained energy. His strength was now truly legendary, capable of shattering stone with a casual blow, his speed a blur that defied the eye. His senses were an overwhelming symphony: he could taste the fear on a traveller's breath half a mile away, hear the frantic heartbeat of a rabbit cowering in its burrow, see the intricate weave of moonlight on a spider's web in pitch darkness. The fire immunity was absolute; he once idly passed his hand through a raging campfire, feeling only a pleasant, familiar warmth, the flames parting around his flesh as if in deference. Alaric would later theorize that his blood, now a potent cocktail of six draconic jēdars and three royal Targaryen lines, ran with the internal fire of a dragon, granting him not just immunity, but a subtle, internal heat that made the chill night air feel like a summer breeze. His lifespan, he instinctively knew, was no longer measured in human decades, but in draconic centuries – a vast, yawning expanse of time that reshaped his perception of ambition and consequence.
The mental landscape within him was a kaleidoscope of titanic consciousnesses. Dreamfyre's ancient wisdom, Vhagar's aeons of memory, Caraxes's battle fury, Tyraxes's youthful fire, Shrykos's primal fear, Morghul's territorial rage – all now swirled with the strategic brilliance of Aemond, the poetic savagery of Daemon, and the bitter pride of Aegon II. Yet, at the center of this storm, Rico's own indomitable will, the core of the ruthless mafia Don from another world, acted as the eye, not suppressing, but integrating, forging these disparate, godlike powers into a singular, cohesive, and utterly terrifying new identity. He was Rico, yes, but he was also the gestalt of kings and monsters, a dragon cloaked in the flesh of a man.
He moved with a predatory grace that was both human and draconic, his heightened senses guiding him, his enhanced strength making short work of any mundane threat. He no longer needed to scrounge or hide like a common fugitive. Bandits and foraging parties melted away before his mere presence, sensing the apex predator in their midst. He arrived at the outskirts of King's Landing not as a weary traveller, but as a returning god, unseen, unheard, yet his very proximity a subtle pressure on the fabric of reality.
His re-entry into his warehouse fortress was a silent cataclysm for his inner circle. Alaric, his face already pale from weeks of anxious waiting and obsessive study, took one look at Rico and nearly fainted, stammering about "æthyric overload" and "draconic transfiguration." Jax, the hardened enforcer, found himself unable to meet his master's gaze, which now seemed to blaze with an inner fire that was not entirely metaphorical. Shiv, the silent assassin, simply knelt, a gesture of profound, instinctual submission. Lyra's usually impassive Valyrian features were tinged with an unreadable emotion – fear, yes, but also a strange, almost reverent curiosity. Mathis trembled and began to make warding signs he'd picked up in some Flea Bottom dive. Only Harl, who had been tending to Obsidius with a devotion bordering on worship, seemed to take Rico's transformation with a degree of awed acceptance, as if he had always known his master was destined for such a state.
And Obsidius… their reunion was a silent explosion of power. The obsidian hatchling, now easily the size of a destrier, his scales like polished volcanic glass, his golden eyes burning with fierce intelligence, sensed Rico's approach long before he entered the vast, hidden cavern that served as his lair. As Rico stepped into the warm, sulfurous air, Obsidius let out a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through the very stone, a sound of profound joy and possessive recognition. He lowered his massive head, nudging Rico with a gentleness that belied his terrifying strength. Their telepathic bond, already strong, now blazed with the full, untamed power of Rico's amplified draconic soul. It was no longer a whisper; it was a symphony of shared thought, instinct, and will. Rico could feel Obsidius's hunger, his growing power, his fierce, unwavering loyalty, as if they were his own. And Obsidius, in turn, seemed to bask in the sheer, overwhelming draconic aura that now radiated from his master.
King's Landing, meanwhile, had descended into a fresh hell. The news of Daemon Targaryen's and Prince Aemond's mutual demise at the Gods Eye, following so closely on the assassination of the captive Aegon II, had shattered the remaining semblances of order. Queen Rhaenyra, now deprived of her formidable husband and chief enforcer, her spirit broken by grief and paranoia, clung to power in the Red Keep like a drowning woman clutching at a sinking ship. Her rule became increasingly erratic, her edicts contradictory, her suspicion falling on everyone. The Gold Cloaks, leaderless and demoralized, were little more than uniformed thugs, preying on the very citizens they were supposed to protect.
The Shepherd, his voice now carrying the authority of a divine oracle in the eyes of the starving, terrified populace, openly preached rebellion against the "Dragon Whore" in the Red Keep. Food riots were no longer sporadic; they were a constant, burning inferno of desperation. The city was eating itself alive.
Into this maelstrom, Rico Moretti, the newly ascended shadow-god, began to exert his influence with chilling precision. His underworld empire, already the only true source of order in vast swathes of the city, now tightened its grip. His granaries, managed by a terrified but ruthlessly efficient Mathis, released carefully controlled amounts of grain, not enough to end the famine, but enough to indebt entire districts to his unseen hand, enough to quell the worst of the riots in areas he deemed strategically important. His enforcers, led by Jax and Vorian, became a de facto city watch in these zones, their justice brutal but predictable, a stark contrast to the arbitrary cruelty of Rhaenyra's collapsing regime.
Mysaria, the Lady Misery, now a ghost of her former self, her network shattered, her influence with the grieving Queen all but gone, sought Rico out. She found him not in some ruined sept, but in the surprisingly opulent, heavily guarded upper chambers of his warehouse fortress, a place that now felt more like a king's court than a smuggler's den.
"The city… it dies, Razor," she whispered, her voice hollow. "The Queen… she sees traitors in every shadow. She trusts no one."
Rico looked at her, his golden-flecked eyes holding no pity, only a vast, draconic indifference to her plight. "And what would you have me do, Lady Misery? Play nursemaid to a dying regime?"
"Help her," Mysaria pleaded, a desperation that stripped away her usual cunning. "For Daemon's sake, if not for hers. Help her restore order. You control the streets. You have food. Name your price."
Rico considered. Rhaenyra's regime was doomed; his foreknowledge and his current intelligence confirmed it. Propping it up would be a waste of resources. But a city in complete anarchy was also… inconvenient. He needed a controlled descent, a managed chaos that would allow him to consolidate his own power and prepare for the inevitable Green resurgence or some other faction that might try to fill the vacuum.
"I will maintain… a certain level of stability… in the areas under my influence, Lady Misery," Rico said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate with barely contained power. "For a price, of course. Gold. Resources. And… certain concessions regarding the Dragonpit."
Mysaria's eyes widened. "The Dragonpit? It is a ruin! The remaining dragons… they say Dreamfyre is mad with grief, that Sunfyre is dying…"
"Perhaps," Rico said, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips. "Or perhaps they merely await a… new hand… to guide them. Ensure my agents within the Pit – Vorian and Harl – are given greater autonomy, free from interference by the Queen's new, incompetent appointees. And ensure that any… viable… eggs remaining in the vaults are considered… under my protection."
Mysaria, seeing no other option, reluctantly agreed. She was a drowning woman, and Rico was offering a very sharp, very dangerous rock to cling to.
With this tacit approval, Rico turned his attention to his most precious assets: the four remaining dragon eggs. Obsidius's presence, and Rico's own overwhelmingly draconic aura, had indeed quickened them. They pulsed with a faint inner heat, their shells showing the first, almost invisible stress lines of impending life.
The Valyrian scrolls, illuminated by the combined wisdom of Dreamfyre, Vhagar, Caraxes, and the royal Targaryen essences now thrumming within Rico, offered new, terrifying insights into the Valyrio Mazvēdras. Aegon II's essence had been the key, yes, but it had done more than just unlock the potential to hatch them; it had permanently attuned Rico's own transformed blood to the ancient dragon lineage, making him the catalyst, the living Valyrian font. He no longer needed to absorb another Targaryen for each egg. He was the blood magic.
In the hidden hatchery, now expanded and reinforced, its geothermal vents carefully regulated by Alaric (who was rapidly becoming the world's foremost, if most terrified, expert on applied Valyrian dragon husbandry), Rico prepared for the next birth. He chose the green-and-bronze egg, the one that Kennard's lore had suggested came from a particularly fierce and territorial line.
The ritual was simpler this time, yet more profound. He didn't need complex incantations. He placed his hands on the egg, his will a focused inferno, his draconic blood singing to the life within. He felt the nascent jēdar of the unhatched dragon respond, a surge of fiery, aggressive energy. He nurtured it, guided it, bound it to himself with the sheer, overwhelming force of his transfigured soul.
The green-and-bronze egg cracked, and from it emerged a dragoness, her scales the color of verdigris on ancient bronze, her eyes like chips of jade. She was smaller than Obsidius had been at hatching, but her spirit was a raging inferno. She snapped at Harl, who tried to offer her charred meat, her tiny roar a promise of future devastation. But when Rico approached, she grew still, her jade eyes fixing on him with a fierce, possessive intelligence. He felt her spirit meld with his, another thread in the growing tapestry of his draconic power. He named her Viridiax, for her color and her venomous spirit.
Over the next few weeks, as King's Landing tore itself apart in riots and purges, Rico, in the secret heart of his fortress, brought forth two more dragons. From one of the obsidian eggs, a sleek, shadow-black male, smaller and swifter than Obsidius, with eyes like burning coals – he named him Nocturne. And from the last obsidian egg, another female, midnight black with startling sapphire eyes that mirrored Aemond's own, her temperament one of cold, calculating predatory grace – he named her Nymeria, a subtle, ironic nod to the warrior queen from his old world's fables, a name that resonated with her fierce independence.
Four dragons now resided in his hidden lair, their growth accelerated by the potent magic that surrounded them, their loyalty to Rico absolute, forged in blood and will. Only the pale white egg remained, strangely cold, its inner life a faint, almost imperceptible whisper. Alaric theorized it might be an albino, or perhaps something rarer, something connected to the ice dragon legends of the far north. Rico decided to let it sleep, for now. Four young dragons were already a monumental secret to keep, a colossal drain on his resources.
He began to train them as a flight, his telepathic commands reaching all four simultaneously. Obsidius, as the firstborn and largest, was the natural alpha, but all deferred to Rico as their undisputed master, their god. He taught them to hunt in concert (using vast quantities of livestock herded into a remote, heavily guarded section of his smuggling tunnels that simulated a dark canyon), to respond to his silent will, to bank their fires, to move with a semblance of stealth. He was forging not just dragons, but a weapon, a personal apocalypse held in reserve.
The news from the wider war was grim and chaotic. With Daemon and Aemond both gone, the strategic landscape had fractured. Rhaenyra still held King's Landing, but her grip was failing. The Greens, though deprived of their king and their greatest warrior, were rallying in the Reach and the Westerlands under new commanders. The Triarchy, seeing an opportunity, renewed their attacks in the Gullet. The realm bled from a thousand cuts.
Rico, watching from his shadowy throne in King's Landing, his power growing daily, his draconic senses perceiving the world with a clarity that was almost divine, saw not just chaos, but a vacuum. A vacuum he was uniquely positioned to fill. He had the wealth, the army, the intelligence network, the arcane knowledge, and now, the dragons – the ultimate currency of power in this world.
His human ambitions – to be a kingpin, a manipulator, even a king – felt small now, almost quaint. The dragon within him, the synthesis of six mighty jēdars and three royal bloodlines, yearned for something more. It yearned to soar, to conquer, to burn away the old world and forge a new one in its own fiery image.
He stood on the highest balcony of his warehouse fortress, Anādrag at his hip, the cool night air doing little to soothe the fire in his blood. Below him, King's Landing smoldered, a dying city ripe for the taking. Far beneath, in their hidden lairs, his four young dragons stirred, their dreams likely filled with fire and flight, their thoughts a constant, reassuring presence in his mind.
The Valyrian scrolls spoke of the Dragonlords of old, of their might, their glory, their eventual doom. Rico Moretti, the creature that was no longer human, intended to surpass them all. He would not be a mere king. He would be an Emperor, a God of a new, draconic age. The Dance of the Targaryens was just a prelude. His own, far more terrible, and far more magnificent, reign was about to begin.