Chapter 17: The Dragon's Shadow and the Obsidian Heart
Lyra's return was a jolt, a spark of unexpected light in the grim calculus of Blood Cove's existence. Her news from the Stonelands – a nascent shrine under threat – was both a problem and, as Alaric instantly perceived, a potent opportunity. While Eamon and the Inner Circle debated the logistics and risks of sending aid so far afield, Alaric was already several moves ahead, his divine consciousness sifting through possibilities, weighing costs and potential returns with the cold precision of a master merchant. A successful intervention would solidify his godhood in a new territory, provide another stream of faith, however small, and serve as yet another brutal lesson to his enemies.
But even as he formulated a strategy for the Stonelands – a swift, surgical strike by a small, elite team, perhaps led by the returned Kael, empowered by a "blessed" Whisper Stone and Alaric's remote guidance – a far grander, more audacious concept began to coalesce in his mind. The constant, escalating threats, the need for a deterrent so profound it would make even the great Lords of Westeros pause, the desire for an instrument of power that transcended mere mortal arms – all these factors converged on a single, almost unthinkable idea, a whisper from his pre-reincarnation knowledge, a forgotten fragment of lore that now blazed with divine relevance.
Dragons.
The word itself was a thunderclap in the echoing chambers of his nascent godhood. Dragons were the ultimate symbols of power, of fire and blood, the instruments that had forged the Targaryen dynasty and held a continent in thrall for centuries. Their skulls lined the throne room in King's Landing, a constant reminder of their might. And their eggs… their eggs were rumored to still exist, scattered, forgotten, dormant. What if, Alaric mused, a god – a new god, untethered by the ancient rules and limitations – could awaken that power?
The thought was intoxicating, a gamble of cosmic proportions, but the potential payoff was unimaginable. With dragons at his command, Blood Cove would cease to be a mere heretical nuisance; it would become an unassailable fortress, a global power. The Sovereign of Scales would possess a deterrent, a weapon, that no other entity in Westeros, mortal or divine, could match.
He did not reveal this breathtaking ambition to Eamon immediately. First, he tested the waters, subtly guiding his High Priest's meditations, planting seeds of thought about "instruments of ultimate rebalancing," about "guardians of fire and shadow" that could protect the faithful against any earthly army. He needed Eamon to believe this was a divine revelation, a sacred charge from the Whisperer.
Then, when Eamon was in a state of heightened spiritual receptivity during a deep communion within the Vault, Alaric unleashed the full force of the vision. He showed Eamon not just dragons, but the locations where their legacy might still linger: the blasted, haunted ruins of Summerhall, site of a great tragedy and a king's fiery death, a place where dragonfire had last been unleashed in a desperate attempt at rebirth. And the Dragonpit in King's Landing, a vast, crumbling edifice where the last Targaryen dragons had withered and died, but whose catacombs might still hold forgotten secrets, perhaps even overlooked eggs.
Eamon emerged from that communion pale, trembling, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, almost mad light. He convened the Inner Circle immediately, his voice hoarse with awe and a profound, bone-deep fear.
"The Sovereign of Scales has shown me… a path to ultimate security!" he declared, his gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. "A means by which the faithful will be shielded from any earthly harm, by which our enemies will tremble and turn to ash! He has revealed the embers of ancient power, lying dormant, waiting for His divine breath to reignite them! We are to seek out the last echoes of the fire wyrms, the sacred eggs of the dragons!"
A stunned silence greeted his proclamation. Dragons were creatures of legend, of songs and terrifying tales. To speak of finding their eggs, let alone hatching them, was madness. Even for the battle-hardened, fanatically devoted members of the Inner Circle, this was a leap into the truly unbelievable.
Borin, the pragmatic Master of Tithes, was the first to voice the obvious. "High Priest… dragon eggs? Such things… if they even still exist… they are beyond price, beyond reach. Summerhall is a ruin, haunted and cursed. The Dragonpit is in the heart of King's Landing, under the very noses of the King and his court!"
"The Whisperer's reach is absolute!" Eamon thundered, his conviction momentarily overriding their shock. "His wisdom guides us! He has shown that remnants of this power lie hidden, forgotten by the world, but not by Him! He demands we retrieve these sacred relics, these 'instruments of ultimate rebalancing.' It will be a perilous undertaking, a test of our utmost faith and cunning. But the reward… the reward will be the unshakeable dominion of the Scales!"
Alaric, observing their reactions, knew he had to provide more than just divine imperative. He subtly reinforced Eamon's words with a palpable wave of cold, focused power that swept through the Vault, causing the torches to flicker wildly and the Symbol of Scales above the altar to glow with an intense, internal luminescence. The message was clear: this was not a suggestion, but a divine command of the highest order.
The planning for this audacious heist – for it could be nothing less – was conducted in the utmost secrecy, involving only the Inner Circle and a handpicked team of their most skilled and trustworthy operatives. Kael, his experience in infiltration and silent operations unparalleled, was chosen to lead the Summerhall expedition. Vargo, the sellsword captain, with his cynical understanding of urban environments and his network of underworld contacts (however tenuous they might be in King's Landing), was tasked with the even more dangerous mission to the Dragonpit. Asek, the hedge witch, her senses attuned to lingering magical energies, was assigned to Kael's team, her unique skills deemed essential for locating anything as potent as a dragon egg in a ruined, cursed place. Each team was small, no more than five, chosen for their loyalty, resourcefulness, and utter expendability if necessary.
Alaric poured a significant amount of his divine energy into preparing them. He imbued Kael and Vargo with "Whisper Charms" – not stones this time, but small, obsidian arrowheads they were to wear against their skin, designed to act as more direct conduits for his guidance and subtle manipulations over vast distances. He showed them visions of the layouts of Summerhall's ruins and the Dragonpit's presumed understructures, drawn from his own pre-reincarnation knowledge of the lore, filtered through the guise of divine revelation. He emphasized stealth, patience, and the absolute necessity of avoiding any confrontation that could expose their true purpose. This was a mission of acquisition, not annihilation.
The departure of the two teams was a sombre, secret affair, conducted under the cloak of a moonless night. Their success was by no means guaranteed. The risks were astronomical. But Alaric had weighed the scales: the potential gain was worth any price.
Weeks passed in tense anticipation in Blood Cove. Eamon led nightly vigils, the entire cult focusing their collective will on the success and safety of their "Sacred Seekers." Alaric, his own divine senses stretched to their limits as he tried to maintain a faint connection with his distant operatives, felt the strain. He subtly intervened when he could – a sudden, localized fog to help Kael's team bypass a watchtower near Summerhall's perimeter, a wave of inexplicable drowsiness that overcame a pair of Gold Cloaks patrolling near the Dragonpit at a critical moment for Vargo's team. But mostly, he could only watch, wait, and hope his chosen instruments were capable enough.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Kael's team returned. They were gaunt, exhausted, their clothes torn, but their eyes blazed with a mixture of terror and triumph. Asek looked as if she had aged ten years, her usual composure shattered by what she had sensed in the haunted ruins. In carefully padded crates, they carried their unbelievable prize: seven stone eggs, each the size of a child's head, their surfaces a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of deep, earthy colors – crimson veined with gold, obsidian black shot through with emerald, a deep sapphire that seemed to drink the light. They had found them, Kael reported, in a hidden, miraculously intact cellar beneath the burned-out shell of the Targaryen pleasure palace, a place that radiated an almost unbearable sorrow and the faint, lingering scent of ancient fire. Asek confirmed that the eggs, while dormant, still pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, a deeply buried life-force.
The awe within the Inner Circle was profound. To hold a dragon egg, a thing of myth, in their hands… it was a testament to the Whisperer's truly limitless power.
A week later, Vargo's team returned, even more battered and looking like they had crawled through hell itself. King's Landing had been a far more dangerous proposition. They had lost one man, a sellsword who had blundered into a City Watch patrol and had to be silenced permanently to protect the mission. But Vargo, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, presented his own incredible trophies. Five more dragon eggs, these ones found deep within a forgotten, sealed-off section of the Dragonpit's catacombs, a place so lightless and oppressive that even his hardened nerves had been frayed. And something else, something equally astounding: a longsword, its blade of a dark, rippling steel that seemed to drink the light, its pommel a simple, unadorned sphere of what looked like dragonglass. A Valyrian steel blade, taken from a crumbling, long-forgotten vault beneath the Dragonpit, where it had likely lain since the Dance of the Dragons.
Twelve dragon eggs. A Valyrian steel sword. The sheer audacity of their success was breathtaking. Alaric felt a surge of divine energy, not just from the successful completion of the missions, but from the sheer, unadulterated awe and belief radiating from his Inner Circle. These artifacts were more than just potential weapons; they were symbols, potent foci for faith.
The next step was the most critical, the most audacious of all: hatching the eggs. Conventional wisdom held that dragon eggs needed immense heat, dragonfire itself, or perhaps potent blood magic, to awaken. Alaric had none of these in the traditional sense. But he had something else: a rapidly growing reservoir of divine power, drawn from fear, sacrifice, and the unwavering belief of his cult. And he had a theory, a terrifying, exhilarating gamble.
He instructed Eamon to prepare the deepest, most sacred chamber of the Vault – the one now used for Eamon's private communions and the "Final Reckoning" of internal enemies. This chamber was to be sealed off, its entrance guarded by the most loyal of the Obsidian Guard. No one but Eamon was to witness what was about to occur.
The twelve eggs were brought in, arranged in a circle around the central focal stone. The Valyrian steel sword was laid upon the stone itself, its dark metal seeming to absorb the already dim light of the chamber. Eamon, stripped to the waist, his body painted with complex sigils of the Scale in a mixture of blood and ash, began a deep, resonant chant, words of power that Alaric fed directly into his mind, words that had no earthly origin.
Alaric then focused his entire divine will, every iota of power he had accumulated, on the circle of stone eggs. He drew upon the fear still lingering from Heddle's defeat, the devotion of the nightly vigils, the sacrificial energies of every life offered up on his bloody altars. He poured this concentrated divine essence into the eggs, not as heat, but as a raw, animating force, a spark of his own nascent godhood. He envisioned the dormant life within stirring, the ancient magic rekindling, not through fire, but through the irresistible pressure of a god's will.
The strain was immense. Alaric felt his divine core stretch to its breaking point. The chamber grew preternaturally cold, then fluctuated with waves of intense, unnatural heat. The air crackled with unseen energies. Eamon, caught in the vortex of this divine effort, collapsed, his body convulsing, yet his chant never faltered, driven now by Alaric's direct possession.
Hours passed, or perhaps moments; time seemed to lose its meaning in the supercharged atmosphere of the Vault. Then, a sound. A faint crack.
One of the crimson eggs shivered. A hairline fracture appeared on its surface. Then another, on an obsidian egg. Soon, all twelve eggs were trembling, cracking, the faint, almost imperceptible warmth Asek had sensed now intensifying, becoming a palpable heat.
Alaric poured more power, drawing on the terrified awe of the guards outside, on the ambient belief of the entire village, even on the distant, faint prayers of Kael's and Lyra's fledgling congregations, pulling every thread of faith towards this single, monumental effort.
With a series of sharp cracks, the eggs began to hatch. Not into fire-breathing monstrosities, not yet. But into small, scaly creatures, no larger than cats, their wings damp and crumpled, their eyes like molten gold or polished jet. They were weak, uncoordinated, but undeniably alive. Twelve infant dragons, their colors mirroring their eggs, stumbled forth, their tiny, needle-sharp claws clicking on the stone floor.
A wave of triumphant, almost agonizing exultation washed through Alaric. He had done it. He had defied the laws of nature, the limitations of magic, and brought dragons back into the world through sheer divine will.
But his task was not yet complete. These were hatchlings, vulnerable, needing years, decades, to reach their full potential. He did not have decades. He needed them now, or as close to now as possible.
Drawing on the last reserves of his power, and on a new, deeper understanding of biological processes that seemed to come with his heightened divinity, Alaric focused on the hatchlings. He didn't just try to make them grow; he sought to accelerate their natural development, to supercharge their metabolism, to infuse their very tissues with his divine energy, forcing a rapid maturation. It was an even more delicate and dangerous process than hatching them.
The small dragons began to writhe, their bodies visibly, unnaturally, growing. Scales hardened, muscles thickened, wings expanded with an audible stretching of membrane. Their initial, bewildered peeps turned into hisses and small, sharp roars that echoed strangely in the confined space. It was a grotesque, miraculous, terrifying spectacle.
When Alaric finally released his hold, utterly drained but fiercely triumphant, the twelve dragons were no longer hatchlings. They were now roughly the size of large hounds, their bodies sleek and powerful, their eyes burning with a nascent, predatory intelligence. They were still young, far from their full adult size, but they were already formidable, their claws sharp, their jaws filled with needle teeth, and from their snouts, small, tentative puffs of superheated air, not yet true fire, but a clear promise of it.
Eamon, recovering consciousness, stared at the young dragons with an expression of pure, unadulterated terror and religious ecstasy. "The Sovereign… has delivered!" he gasped, prostrating himself before the focal stone, now surrounded by these impossible creatures. "The Guardians of the Scale are born!"
Alaric, his divine voice a faint whisper in Eamon's mind, gave his final instructions for this stage. "They must be kept secret. Fed. Their loyalty bound to the Whisperer, and to you, His Voice. They will hunt the deep sea, Eamon, where prying eyes cannot follow. The ocean will be their larder, their training ground. Their existence is our ultimate deterrent, our most profound secret. For now."
He knew that even this accelerated growth was just the beginning. They would need more, much more, to become the weapons he envisioned. But they were alive. They were his. And as the twelve young dragons, their initial confusion giving way to a primal hunger, began to snap and hiss at each other, Alaric, The Sovereign of Scales, allowed himself a moment of cold, dark, reptilian satisfaction. The game had just changed, irrevocably. The shadow of his dragons would soon fall across Westeros, and the world would learn to tremble anew.