Chapter 25: Blood of the Stag, Fire of the Dragon
The grand preparations for Robar Baratheon's coronation continued, an elaborate dance of political maneuvering and logistical precision. The Great Lords of Westeros, a mixture of the loyal, the wary, and the openly hostile, were converging on King's Landing, drawn by the twin magnets of opportunity and fear. But beneath the surface spectacle, in the volcanic depths beneath the Red Keep, a far more potent and dangerous ritual was underway.
The three dragons, Mammon, Viridian, and Aurum, were growing at an alarming rate, their appetites insatiable, their power escalating exponentially. Maester Vaellyn, his eyes alight with a mixture of scientific curiosity and barely suppressed terror, reported their progress to Robar with a growing sense of urgency.
"Lord Protector," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast, torchlit chamber, "their growth… it defies all known natural laws. Their scales harden, their fire burns hotter, their very essence… it intensifies. The dietary supplements we extract from Dragonstone's volcanic rock are… beneficial, but they alone cannot account for this."
Robar, his face impassive, observed the dragons from a safe distance. Mammon, the black dragon, was now the size of a warhorse, his ruby eyes burning with a predatory intelligence. Viridian, sleek and cunning, moved with a sinuous grace that belied her growing power. Aurum, the placid gold, held a stillness that Vaellyn found more unnerving than the others' overt displays of power.
"They are bound to me," Robar stated, his voice resonating with an authority that brooked no argument. "Their strength is my strength. Their growth… is my will."
Vaellyn, ever the scientist, could not resist a probing question. "Lord Protector, your… unique abilities. Your Haki. It clearly resonates with them, controls them. But is it… fueling them? Is your power, in some way, accelerating their development?"
Robar turned, his gaze piercing. "You would pry into the mysteries, Maester? You would dissect the bond between a dragon and its… progenitor?"
Vaellyn recoiled slightly. "Forgive my boldness, Lord Protector. My curiosity… it is a professional hazard."
Robar's expression softened slightly. "Curiosity is a valuable tool, Maester. But it must be tempered with… discretion. The truth of my connection to these dragons… it is not for the world to know. Not yet."
He approached Mammon, the black dragon, extending a hand. The dragon, sensing his presence, lowered its massive head, its ruby eyes fixed on him with a primal intensity. Robar, with a deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness, drew a dagger. It was no ordinary blade; it was forged from Valyrian steel, its edge honed to an impossible sharpness, and imbued with ancient spells of blood-letting.
He sliced his palm.
The blood that flowed was not the ordinary crimson of a human. It was a deep, almost iridescent black, shimmering with an inner light. It pulsed with power. It was, in a very real sense, magically charged.
He offered his bleeding hand to Mammon.
The dragon inhaled, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the chamber. It extended its massive, scaled tongue and lapped at the wound. The black blood vanished, absorbed into the dragon's very essence.
A visible surge of energy coursed through Mammon. Its scales seemed to harden, its fire burned brighter, its very presence intensified. It roared, a sound that shook the foundations of the Red Keep.
Robar repeated the ritual with Viridian and Aurum. Each dragon reacted with the same primal hunger, the same surge of power. He watched them, his face a mask of cold satisfaction.
"My blood," he said, his voice low but resonant, "is their fuel. My power… is their power. They are extensions of my will, instruments of my ambition."
Vaellyn, his scientific mind struggling to comprehend what he was witnessing, could only nod. He understood, with a chilling certainty, that the dragons were not merely beasts. They were, in a very real sense, extensions of Robar Baratheon himself, amplified by his unique abilities, fueled by his very life force.
The blood ritual was kept secret, even from Tywin Lannister. Robar understood the need for compartmentalization. The dragons were his ultimate weapon, his ultimate leverage. Their true nature, the source of their power, was a secret he would share with no one.
The coronation approached. The Great Lords assembled. The city buzzed with anticipation. And deep beneath the Red Keep, Robar Baratheon fed his dragons his own magically charged blood, making them stronger, making them more dangerous, making them more… his.
The ceremony itself was a masterpiece of political theater. The Iron Throne, scrubbed of all traces of Targaryen madness, gleamed under the torchlight. The assembled lords, a tapestry of colors and sigils, watched with a mixture of awe and apprehension as Robar Baratheon, clad in black armor inlaid with gold, approached the throne.
Grand Maester Pycelle, his voice trembling slightly, placed the crown upon his head. It was not the traditional Baratheon crown, but a new design, forged by BCR smiths: a band of blackened steel, adorned with a single, massive stag's head, its antlers wrought in pure gold, its eyes twin rubies that seemed to burn with an inner fire.
As the crown settled upon his brow, Robar raised his hand.
A roar, a sound that transcended mere noise, erupted from the depths of the Red Keep. It was the roar of a dragon.
The assembled lords gasped, their faces a mixture of terror and disbelief. Whispers erupted, quickly suppressed by Stannis's Gold Cloaks.
Robar smiled, a cold, predatory expression. "You have heard the voice of my… boon," he said, his voice amplified by a BCR-engineered device hidden within his crown. "The ancient power returns to Westeros. And it is mine to command."
He gestured.
The doors to the Dragonpit, the ancient structure on Rhaenys's Hill, swung open.
Three dragons, their scales gleaming in the afternoon sun, emerged.
Mammon, the black, Viridian, the jade-and-bronze, Aurum, the cream-and-gold.
They were magnificent. They were terrifying. They were… his.
The lords of Westeros, their faces pale with shock, stared in disbelief. The power shift was complete. The hostile takeover was successful.
Robar Baratheon, the Dragon King, had arrived.
Word Count: Approx. 2600 words