Chapter 22: The Dragon's Breath, The Keeper's Secret
The Dragonpit loomed over King's Landing like a colossal, soot-stained crown, a monument to Targaryen power and a constant, brooding reminder of the fiery devastation that now threatened to consume the realm. To be tasked by Larys Graceford – and by extension, by the increasingly desperate Green council under Prince Aemond's chilling protectorate – with ensuring the safety of the dragons housed within its cavernous depths was an assignment that sent a thrill of both profound dread and electrifying opportunity through Rico Moretti. This was not Flea Bottom, nor the Red Keep's shadowed corridors; this was the sanctum of living weapons of mass destruction, creatures of ancient magic whose essences he secretly, terrifyingly, coveted.
His first challenge was access and intelligence. The Dragonpit, especially now with King Aegon II incapacitated and Sunfyre the Golden gravely wounded and reportedly recuperating within its hidden vaults, was guarded with a ferocity that bordered on zealotry. The Dragonkeepers, a secretive and insular order, ancient in their lineage and fiercely loyal to the dragons themselves above any political faction, were the primary obstacle. They were augmented by a heavy contingent of Hightower guardsmen, handpicked by Ser Otto, their loyalty to the Green cause absolute.
Finn's network, adept as it was at navigating the city's underbelly, found the Dragonpit's inner workings almost impenetrable. "They're a closed fist, boss," Finn reported, his usual nervousness amplified. "The Keepers… they don't talk to outsiders. Barely talk to each other, from what my lads can tell. And the Hightower guards… they'd sooner gut you than answer a question."
Rico, however, had other tools. The obsidian mirror, Vējesy Kēlio, became his eye in the sky. From the warded sanctum of his warehouse cellar, he poured his will into the cold glass, focusing on the vast, domed structure. The scrying was more difficult here, the ambient magic of the Dragonpit – a legacy of Valyrian construction and decades of draconic presence – creating distortions, like looking through shimmering heat haze. But glimpses came. He saw the cavernous vaults, vast enough to dwarf cathedrals, where Dreamfyre, Queen Helaena's silver-blue mount, slumbered fitfully, her dreams, some said, occasionally prophetic. He caught fleeting, agonizing images of Sunfyre, his golden scales blackened and blistered, tended by silent Keepers whose faces were grim. He saw the pens where younger, unridden dragons were housed, and the heavily guarded chambers where precious dragon eggs, the future of House Targaryen, were incubated in geothermal heat.
More practically, Ser Jonothor Byrch's absorbed Kingsguard essence provided unexpected insights. Jonothor, in his duties, had occasionally liaised with the Captain of the Dragonpit Guard (a Hightower man) regarding security protocols. This gave Rico a foundational understanding of watch rotations, patrol routes around the Pit's exterior, and the general hierarchy of its mundane security.
Maester Alaric, meanwhile, immersed himself in texts concerning dragonlore, the history of the Dragonkeepers, and any Valyrian fragments that might shed light on influencing or protecting dragons. "The Keepers are more than mere stablehands, Master Razor," Alaric explained, his voice alive with scholarly excitement. "They are said to possess an intuitive understanding of their charges, passed down through generations. Some whisper they use soothing chants, specific herbs, even a form of Valyrian blood-binding, though diluted and debased over time, to manage the beasts. To control the Dragonpit, one must understand, or control, the Dragonkeepers."
Rico's strategy began to form. He couldn't simply install his own men as Dragonkeepers; their insular nature made that impossible. But he could place agents in positions around the Pit, to observe, to listen, to create opportunities.
Larys Graceford, eager to please Prince Aemond with results, unwittingly provided the opening. Rico, feigning concern over the quality of supplies reaching the Dragonpit (a potential avenue for sabotage, he argued), suggested that a trusted associate of his, a man with experience in provisioning and logistics, be appointed to oversee the procurement and delivery of meat and other necessities for the dragons and their keepers. Larys, seeing a way to insert a loyal (he thought) pair of eyes into the Pit's periphery, agreed.
Thus, Vorian, the pragmatic ex-sellsword, found himself in the unlikely role of "Assistant Purveyor of Draconic Sustenance," a title Perwyn had gleefully forged on official-looking Green council parchment. Vorian, with his stoic demeanor and ability to blend in, was perfect for the role. He didn't have direct access to the dragons, but he had legitimate reasons to be at the Dragonpit daily, to interact with the lower-ranking Keepers and guards, to observe the comings and goings.
Harl, too, found a role. His genuine affinity for animals, even monstrous ones, was a rare commodity. Rico, through Larys, arranged for Harl to be "seconded" from a minor noble's stables (a noble now deeply indebted to Rico's financial machinations) to assist with the care of the mundane beasts of burden – the oxen and carts – used to haul supplies to the Pit. It was a lowly position, but it gave Harl access to the outer courtyards and stables, and his quiet, unassuming nature allowed him to overhear conversations and observe routines unnoticed.
To satisfy his Green patrons, Rico needed to "uncover" a plot. He decided to manufacture one, a carefully constructed piece of theatre that would demonstrate his value without unduly risking his own operations or revealing his true capabilities. He chose his target carefully: a minor Flea Bottom apothecary known to have supplied herbs to some of Rhaenyra's less discreet sympathizers before Aegon's coronation. With Lyra's help, a potent but non-lethal irritant, derived from fire-nettles and designed to cause agitation and distress in animals, was prepared.
Shiv, moving with his customary silence, planted a small quantity of this irritant near the feed stores for Dreamfyre's oxen (not Dreamfyre herself; Rico wasn't insane enough to risk harming a dragon directly, yet). He also left a crudely scrawled note, penned by Perwyn in imitation of a half-literate Black loyalist, hinting at a desire to "unsettle the usurper's beasts."
Vorian then "discovered" the agitated oxen and the note, immediately reporting it to the Captain of the Dragonpit Guard and, through Larys, to Prince Aemond's council. The Greens, already on edge, reacted with predictable alarm. Rico, presenting himself as the astute inquisitor, quickly "traced" the source of the irritant back to the unfortunate Flea Bottom apothecary, who, after a brief and terrifying visit from Jax's men (who also planted more "incriminating" evidence), confessed to being part of a wider Black conspiracy to destabilize the Green dragons.
The apothecary was dragged before Otto Hightower and publicly executed as a traitor. Rico received accolades from Larys for his swift action and keen eye. Prince Aemond, it was rumored, was impressed by the ruthlessness, if not the subtlety, of the outcome. Rico had delivered his pound of flesh, and his agents, Vorian and Harl, were now seen as diligent and loyal servants who had helped avert a (fabricated) disaster. Their access and ability to observe within the Dragonpit's periphery subtly increased.
While these public machinations unfolded, Rico pursued his private agenda. He continued his forging in the secret cellar, the Tyroshi techniques becoming second nature. He crafted a new set of throwing knives for Shiv, each one a perfectly balanced sliver of dark, patterned steel, their edges capable of splitting a hair. For Jax and Grok, he forged axe heads of superior strength and sharpness. For Vorian, a new short sword that felt alive in his hand. He even began work on his own suit of armor – not the gleaming plate of a tourney knight, but something more akin to the articulated protection he'd seen on Essosi sellswords in Malatesta's memories, crafted from thin, overlapping plates of his own unique Tyroshi-Valyrian steel, designed for silence, speed, and resilience. It was a labor of immense skill and patience.
The war beyond King's Landing continued its bloody course. News arrived of the Battle of the Gullet, a massive, brutal naval engagement where the Velaryon fleet, fighting for Rhaenyra, clashed with the Triarchy, who had allied themselves with the Greens. Both sides suffered horrific losses. Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra's eldest son and heir, was killed, his dragon Vermax lost in the waves. The Greens lost two of King Aegon's younger brothers, Jaehaerys (the one murdered by Blood and Cheese) being avenged by the death of another of Rhaenyra's sons. The sheer scale of the slaughter, the loss of princes and dragons, sent a fresh wave of dread through the capital.
Rico, analyzing the reports with Alaric, saw patterns, opportunities. The Triarchy's involvement meant Essos was now a direct player in the war. His own burgeoning Essosi contacts, a legacy of Malatesta and The Scales, became even more valuable. He used his raven network to send discreet inquiries to Pentos, Myr, and Tyrosh, seeking to purchase more arms, to hire sellsword intelligence operatives, even to acquire rare alchemical ingredients Lyra and Alaric now requested for their increasingly esoteric work.
His greatest challenge, and his greatest fascination, remained the dragons. Through Vorian's and Harl's careful observations, and his own risky scrying sessions with the obsidian mirror, he began to build a detailed understanding of the Dragonpit's inner life. He learned the names and temperaments of the key Dragonkeepers, ancient men with names like Arryk, Erryk (twins whose loyalties were said to be dangerously divided), Cley, and Garth. He learned of the specific herbs and soothing balms they used, the Valyrian lullabies they chanted to calm their immense charges.
One Dragonkeeper in particular, an old, stooped man named Maegor (no relation to the Cruel King, Alaric assured him, though the name itself seemed to carry a weight of ancient power), was said to possess the deepest connection to the beasts, especially to the recovering Sunfyre. Maegor rarely left the Dragonpit, sleeping in a small cell near the golden dragon's vault, his devotion absolute.
Maegor became Rico's target. Not for assassination, not yet. But for his essence. If Alaric was right, if the Dragonkeepers possessed a diluted form of Valyrian blood-binding or an intuitive understanding of dragon magic, Maegor's jēdar would be a priceless acquisition, a stepping stone towards Rico's ultimate, terrifying ambition.
The opportunity came unexpectedly. A fever swept through the lower ranks of the Dragonpit staff – a common affliction in the crowded, unsanitary conditions of wartime King's Landing. Several assistant keepers fell ill. Harl, who had made himself indispensable through his quiet diligence and genuine skill with animals, was temporarily assigned to assist Maegor with the care of some of the younger, unridden dragons.
It was a minor elevation, but it gave Harl closer access, and through Harl, Rico saw his chance. He couldn't simply have Maegor killed within the Dragonpit; the outcry would be too great, the investigation too intense, even for him to control. He needed Maegor outside, vulnerable.
Alaric, drawing on his knowledge of ancient Valyrian rituals from the scrolls, proposed a daring, almost insane plan. "The scrolls speak of vējesy mázīlar – 'spirit lures' or 'essence calls' – Master Razor. Incantations, sympathetic bindings, designed to draw a specific individual, or their attention, towards a prepared location. It is… exceptionally dangerous and unpredictable with a being as… attuned… as a lifelong Dragonkeeper. But if Maegor has a weakness, a desire, a fear outside the Pit…"
Finn's informants, after much digging, found that weakness. Maegor had a granddaughter, his only living relative, a young girl named Lyra (a common enough name, but the coincidence with Rico's poisoner was noted) who lived in a poor tenement near the Street of Seeds and was gravely ill with the same fever that plagued the Dragonpit. Maegor, despite his reclusive nature, was known to occasionally slip out of the Dragonpit at night, heavily cloaked, to visit her, bringing what little coin or comfort he could.
The plan was set. Lyra the Lyseni, using her alchemical skills, prepared a potent but seemingly natural herbal remedy that would, when administered to the girl, create the appearance of a miraculous, rapid recovery – for a short time. Perwyn forged a desperate letter from the girl's worried mother (a neighbor, in reality, coerced into cooperation) begging Maegor to come at once, claiming the girl was near death but that a traveling healer had offered a new, hopeful treatment.
The letter, delivered by one of Finn's most trusted urchins, reached Maegor. That night, as a storm brewed over King's Landing, mirroring the turmoil in Rico's own soul, the old Dragonkeeper, his heart heavy with fear for his granddaughter, slipped out of the Dragonpit, a cloaked and hooded figure hurrying through the rain-lashed streets.
Rico, Shiv, and Vorian were waiting in a derelict, abandoned sept near the Street of Seeds, a place chosen for its isolation and its grim, foreboding atmosphere. The "blood scent" Rico had focused on Maegor, amplified by his intense desire for the Dragonkeeper's essence and perhaps even by Alaric's distant, whispered vējesy mázīlar from the warehouse sanctum, seemed to draw the old man towards them like an invisible thread.
When Maegor entered the ruined sept, seeking shelter from the storm and looking for the "traveling healer," he found not succor, but the cold, waiting presence of The Razor.
The confrontation was brief. Maegor, though old, possessed a wiry strength and a fierce, desperate courage. He fought, not with weapons, but with the fury of a cornered animal protecting its young. But he was no match for Rico's lethal skill and Shiv's silent, deadly intervention.
As the old Dragonkeeper's life ebbed away on the cold, damp stones of the desecrated sept, Rico placed his hand upon the man's chest. The essence that flowed into him was… extraordinary. It was not the martial prowess of knights or the cunning of spymasters. It was a deep, ancient, almost primal understanding of dragons. He felt their fiery hearts, their reptilian thoughts, their ancient griefs and rages. He understood their language of hisses and roars, the subtle shifts in their scaled hides, the scent of their breath. He knew the soothing chants, the specific herbs, the precise touch that could calm a nervous hatchling or ease the pain of a wounded behemoth. And woven through it all was a profound, almost spiritual connection, a sense of kinship with these magnificent, terrifying creatures. It was the diluted echo of Valyrian blood magic, passed down through generations of Keepers, now blazing within him.
He also gained Maegor's deep sorrow for his dying granddaughter, a pang of pure, unadulterated grief that was so alien, so human, that it momentarily staggered him. He ruthlessly compartmentalized it. Sentiment was a poison he could not afford.
They left Maegor's body in the sept, making it look like a robbery. Rico, his mind reeling with the influx of this strange, powerful new essence, returned to his warehouse, the storm outside a pale reflection of the tempest within him.
He now possessed a Dragonkeeper's soul. The Valyrian scrolls, the obsidian mirror, his own innate power – they were all coalescing, pointing him towards a destiny he was only just beginning to comprehend. He was no longer just a player in the Dance of the Dragons. He was becoming something else entirely, something this world had not seen since the fall of Old Valyria.
Prince Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed, Protector of the Realm, might think he controlled the dragons of King's Landing. He was about to learn that a new, unseen hand was reaching for their leashes, a hand guided by the whispers of ancient blood and the insatiable hunger of The Razor. The game had just found a new, terrifying dimension.