CHAPTER 75- Plan

According to Arthur, when the Tragedy at Summerhall occurred in 259 AC, King Aegon V Targaryen had sought to hatch dragons. In his later years, Aegon the Unlikely became obsessed with restoring House Targaryen's lost power through the rebirth of dragons. To that end, he gathered seven dragon eggs—symbols of hope, power, and rebirth—but failed to summon the seven dragons he so desperately desired. Instead, he summoned fire, chaos, and death.

At the border of the Stormlands and Dorne stood Summerhall, a Targaryen summer palace built in the reign of Daeron II. On that fateful night, it was consumed by a mysterious fire. The flames devoured King Aegon V, his heir Prince Duncan the Small, the famed Lord Commander Ser Duncan the Tall—better known as Duncan the Tall—and many of their retainers and courtiers. Only a few survived, among them a baby boy: Prince Rhaegar, born amid smoke and salt in the very ruins of Summerhall.

The fire not only claimed the lives of Targaryen royalty but also accelerated the decline of the dynasty. The family, already thinned by generations of internal strife, now teetered on the edge of extinction.

Arthur, piecing together fragmented knowledge from both his past life and his studies, believed the failure at Summerhall was not merely due to hubris but a lack of sufficient blood magic. Dragon eggs, ancient and dormant, could only be awakened through sacrifice. But not just any sacrifice—only certain lives carried the mystical weight needed.

According to Arthur, "blood magic materials" referred to special individuals—those with magical bloodlines, high fates, or powerful identities: Targaryens, kings, sorcerers, shadowbinders, and others touched by fire and prophecy. In short, individuals of fortune.

Daenerys Targaryen, in the Dothraki Sea, had hatched three dragons using a potent blood magic ritual. She offered three lives to the flames: that of the horse lord Khal Drogo, the Mirri Maz Duur the maegi, and the unborn child Rhaego. Only then were Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion born. But at Summerhall, there were only two proper vessels—King Aegon V and Prince Duncan. Two lives offered for seven dragons? Impossible odds. The attempt was doomed to fail.

But if those same seven dragon eggs came into Arthur's possession, the outcome could be different. He wouldn't repeat Aegon's mistakes. He would apply reason to magic, structure to chaos. The principle of equivalent exchange—one life for one dragon—must be respected. Sacrifice could not be avoided, but it could be calculated.

Arthur theorized that the Targaryens once had a working, stable method of hatching dragon eggs—a secret passed down from Valyria and refined in Dragonstone. But that knowledge, like so many other magical arts, had been slowly suppressed by the maesters of the Citadel. The Archmaesters, especially Marwyn the Mage, hinted at this conspiracy. They believed magic was chaos, and chaos had no place in a world ruled by reason.

And so, with the old rites lost or buried, only crude blood magic remained.

Even so, blood magic materials were not as rare as one might think. In a realm tearing itself apart, blood was abundant. The War of the Five Kings produced no shortage of royalty. Five kings alone—Joffrey, Stannis, Renly, Robb, and Balon—each with blood valuable in its own way. Beyond them, the bloodlines of the Targaryens lived on in secret. King Robert Baratheon, through his grandmother Rhaelle Targaryen, passed on a trace of dragon blood. And Robert's bastards, sired across the Seven Kingdoms, could number in the dozens.

House Luwin—if it existed in Arthur's records—might even carry a double dose of Targaryen blood, one from Robert's line and another from some ancient intermarriage.

And then there were the sorcerers. The Red Priests of R'hllor, like Melisandre, possessed dangerous powers. Warlocks from Qarth, shadowbinders from Asshai, crones from the woods of the North—all practitioners of strange rites. For the right price, some of them could be found, bought, or deceived.

But Arthur, for all his knowledge and ambition, had limits. He was not the kind of man to offer innocent lives for power. He could not justify killing a child or a faithful servant for the sake of a dragon. His moral compass was firm.

No. If he were to use blood magic, it would only be on those whose lives had already forfeit. Traitors. Murderers. Tyrants. Monsters.

Take King Joffrey Baratheon, for example. When Arthur had watched the TV series in his previous life, he had felt genuine regret—not for the king's death, but for the waste. Joffrey had been poisoned at his own wedding—snuffed out too quickly, too cleanly. Yet he was a king. His blood carried the weight of rule. Even if his claim was illegitimate, the realm had accepted him. His blood was potent.

To Arthur, that was a waste. A single drop of royal blood could be worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock. If Joffrey's life had been used in a proper ritual, it could've birthed a dragon. That was its true value.

Thus, Arthur came to a quiet resolution. He would send scouts to search for the dragon eggs first. Only once they were secured would he begin planning the rest. The ritual would not be easy. Nor would it be kind. But power never came without cost.

Whether he succeeded or failed, he would not repeat the blindness of his ancestors. He would prepare first.

"You know Summerhall," Arthur said, turning to Yule. "After we leave the royal woods and head south, I'll travel to the Mander valley to purchase armor and weapons. You—take a few good men and search the ruins of Summerhall. Look for stones shaped like ellipsoids. Burned. Blackened. Eggs."

Yule raised an eyebrow. "Dragon eggs?"

Arthur nodded once. "That's the plan."

In Arthur's chambers, behind the closed oak door, he spoke in a hushed voice to his uncle Jules. The adjacent rooms were occupied by Arthur's own attendants, sworn men from the Red Mill, and the walls were thick enough to keep stray whispers in check. In any case, he was only a minor lord from the Riverlands. Which of the power players in King's Landing would waste time and coin spying on a small lord with no known alliances or wealth?

"What kind of stone?" Jules' weathered face wrinkled further with suspicion.

What strange whim had possessed his nephew now? Stones?

"It's ellipsoidal," Arthur said, eyes glinting with purpose. "Usually a single solid color—black, green, gold. Its surface is patterned with precise, regular scales, like a snake's skin turned to stone. Pearlescent shine. Looks valuable—like treasure. You'll know it when you see it."

Arthur leaned closer, voice low and firm.

"This matter is crucial. It concerns the future of our house. If we're to rise, truly rise, we must find one. Go to the ruins of Summerhall and search—months, even a year if needed. But do not return without it. At least one."

In truth, one dragon egg would make little difference if all seven were kept together, as he suspected they might be. Still, this was the first step.

Jules squinted for a long moment before speaking cautiously:

"You mean to say… you're talking about dragon eggs, aren't you?"

Arthur gave him a quick nod. "If that's what you think it is, so be it. Just find it. I'll send Pyp to go with you."

Among the four Arthur had brought from the Red Mill to King's Landing, only Jules and Pyp—called soldier Piper by the smallfolk—had true fighting ability. Medan was a steward and couldn't hold a sword straight, and the stable boy was even less useful in dangerous lands. Sending more men would draw attention. A smaller team could move discreetly.

Pyp was a loyal man, raised on Arthur's land, a veteran of local skirmishes. In a previous life, Arthur might have called him a household retainer—a trusted son of a servant family. His loyalty was unwavering.

Jules nodded slowly, then frowned. "And you're sure there's a dragon egg there? How do you know such a thing?"

Arthur leaned back with a smirk. "That's not your concern. Just find it. If you do, when I wear a crown, I'll raise you up—Marquis, Duke, even a Prince. Choose any castle in my domain." He shrugged. "I've got nothing now, so I may as well promise anything."

He couldn't offer Jules coin—he didn't have that much gold anyway. But a promise of power? That cost him nothing.

"And this must remain secret," Arthur added, raising a finger. "If even a whisper leaks… I'll introduce you to my warhammer."

Jules looked somewhere between amused and horrified, nodding quickly.

He had been a rogue in Heirford, used to dice games and taverns, not legends of dragons and fire. This—this was something else.

What did a dragon egg mean to a man like him? Everything and nothing.

After going over the travel details and giving Jules coin for expenses, Arthur sent his uncle out into the night with Pyp following shortly after. He didn't explain anything to Pyp. There was no need. He simply told him, "Keep an eye on my uncle. Protect him. And don't ask questions."

Pyp nodded and left. He had never been beyond the Red Fork, but he obeyed without hesitation. Loyalty bred in the soil of the Red Mill was unshakable.

And so, the night passed.

By morning, Jules and Arthur were already meeting with bands of free swords in the taverns and stables beyond Flea Bottom. Arthur selected the best of them—those with discipline, scars, and solid reputations—and accepted them on the spot. Others, not perfect but passable, were hired as well.

By noon, Arthur had added ninety-seven men to his growing force. Then, as the sun began its descent, the Blood Troupe arrived outside the city walls. Clad in mismatched armor and carrying axes, swords, and halberds, they were a rough sight—mercenaries from Qohor, Tyrosh, and beyond. One hundred thirteen of them stood before Arthur. According to their gruff captain Wag Huot, more were coming on horseback.

Arthur didn't believe it. Westeros had been relatively peaceful for months—few wars meant few contracts. Most of the group likely disbanded or wandered off. Without ravens or messengers, how could mercenaries scattered across the continent regroup so quickly?

Still, a hundred swords were enough.

With the Blood Troupe, the ninety-seven free mercenaries, Anguy the archer, and the thirteen Dornish spearmen he had hired earlier, Arthur's forces were nearing full strength. His recruitment efforts in King's Landing had reached their goal.

[The Blood Troupe and ninety-seven free mercenaries have joined your company]

Just before dusk, a convoy from Steel Street arrived at the gates with wagons covered in canvas. Beneath it: two hundred full sets of lamellar armor, forged by the smaller smiths Arthur had commissioned weeks ago. Despite earlier delays, the order had been fulfilled.

The wagons were hitched and ready, and a separate company had already been hired to escort the gear back to Arthur's lands at the Red Mill. Desmond, Patrick, the newly recruited ninety-seven, and several more trusted men would travel with them. Once back, they would begin arming the peasant soldiers who had been training under Arthur's banner.

The Blood Troupe would stay with Arthur and march south.

He didn't trust them enough to leave them behind. These weren't green peasants—they were killers. Best to keep them where he could see them.

The twin brothers from House Redwyne would also accompany him. Their presence would serve another purpose: evidence that the armor he'd purchased had been made with Reach gold and skill, not stolen or faked. The Redwynes were minor nobility, but their name carried weight in the Reach.

Soon, the wagons would roll. The soldiers would march. And Arthur Bracken's private war would begin.

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