Chapter 32: Obsidian Wings, A City's Dying Breath

Chapter 32: Obsidian Wings, A City's Dying Breath

The presence of Obsidius in the newly excavated cavern deep beneath Rico's warehouse fortress was a secret that thrummed with the primal energy of an impending earthquake. The obsidian hatchling, already the size of a small pony after mere weeks, his scales like polished night, his golden eyes burning with an intelligence that mirrored Rico's own, was a living testament to the Valyrian magic now coursing through his master's veins. Caring for him was an undertaking that strained even Rico's formidable resources and demanded absolute secrecy.

Obsidius's hunger was insatiable. Young dragons grew at an astonishing rate, their internal fires demanding constant fuel. Harl, his face a perpetual mask of awe and terror, oversaw the grim logistics, guided by Rico's now unparalleled Dragonkeeper knowledge. Entire herds of sheep, goats, and occasionally, a stolen prize bull from a Green loyalist's nearby estate, disappeared into the warehouse's depths, their passage masked by Mathis's creative accounting and Jax's brutal enforcement of silence amongst the dockworkers and carters involved. The stench of charred meat, as Obsidius learned to control his nascent flames under Rico's tutelage, was a constant, carefully managed problem, Alaric devising complex herbal incense burners and ventilation shafts that channeled the smoke into the city's already choked atmosphere.

Rico trained Obsidius not with whips or chains, but with the silent, telepathic bond that had snapped into place the moment the dragon had hatched. It was a connection far deeper, more intuitive than any Targaryen's bond with their mount, for Rico was not merely a rider; he was, in essence, a dragon himself. He could feel Obsidius's thoughts, his instincts, his burgeoning power. In the vast, torch-lit cavern, he would spar with the young dragon, his own superhuman agility and strength a match for Obsidius's snapping jaws and lashing tail. He taught him obedience, not through dominance, but through shared will, a complex dance of command and understanding. He even began to teach him a rudimentary form of stealth, training the dragon to move with surprising quietness for its size, to bank its inner fires, to hug the shadows – lessons no Dragonkeeper had ever conceived of.

His own transformation continued, a constant, subtle alchemy. The fire immunity was absolute; he once calmly retrieved a fallen branding iron from the heart of his forge for a terrified Mikken, his hand emerging unscathed. His strength was such that he could now tear a man limb from limb with ease, though he rarely indulged in such crude displays, preferring the elegant lethality of Anādrag. His senses were a symphony of heightened perception; he could navigate the darkest tunnels by scent and heat alone, hear a whisper across a crowded market, see the faintest tells on a liar's face.

The draconic essences within him had settled, no longer warring, but integrated into a singular, terrifyingly potent consciousness. He was still Rico Moretti, the calculating strategist, the ruthless Don. But interwoven with that was the ancient wisdom of Dreamfyre, the fiery spirit of Tyraxes, the predatory instincts of a creature that had once ruled the skies. His patience grew longer, his rages colder, his ambition vaster, more elemental. He found himself thinking in terms of decades, of centuries, his human lifespan feeling increasingly like a temporary constraint. Alaric, observing him, noted that Rico's eyes sometimes seemed to hold an almost visible shimmer of gold in their depths, and that the air around him occasionally crackled with a faint, static energy.

King's Landing, meanwhile, festered. Queen Rhaenyra's rule, or rather, the rule of her increasingly fractured and desperate council, was a disaster. The city starved. Bread riots were a daily occurrence, met with the brutal, indiscriminate violence of Daemon Targaryen's Gold Cloaks and Stormcrows. The Shepherd's voice, once a marginal cry of fanaticism, now resonated with tens of thousands of desperate souls, his sermons on Rhaenys's Hill (renamed the Hill of the Shepherd by his followers) promising divine retribution against the dragon queen.

Rico's underworld empire became the city's shadow lung, the only thing keeping it from complete suffocation. His granaries, filled through shrewd speculation and daring smuggling runs that now stretched into the Reach and the Riverlands (often bribing or intimidating officials on both sides of the conflict), released a steady, albeit expensive, trickle of grain into the markets he controlled. It was enough to prevent mass starvation in his territories, enough to earn him the grudging loyalty of those who benefited, and enough to make him obscenely wealthy. His enforcers maintained a brutal order, his justice swift and unforgiving, but it was an order nonetheless, a stark contrast to the chaos consuming the rest of the city.

Even some of Rhaenyra's own officials, desperate to maintain a semblance of control or simply to line their own pockets, began to make discreet overtures to Rico's organization, seeking to purchase supplies or "security services" through Mathis, who had become a master of laundering desperation into profit.

Mysaria, the Lady Misery, remained Rico's primary, if deeply mistrustful, contact within the Black regime. Their meetings were clandestine, charged affairs, usually in some ruined, neutral territory.

"The city unravels, Razor," she'd hissed during one such encounter, her pale face looking even more spectral in the gloom. "The Queen is… unwell. Grief and fear have taken their toll. Prince Daemon fights a dozen fires at once, both within these walls and beyond. Your… order… in the gutters is noted. But do not mistake our tolerance for endorsement. You are a necessary evil, for now."

Rico, who now felt the subtle ebb and flow of her fear and suspicion through his enhanced senses, merely smiled. "Evil is a matter of perspective, Lady Misery. I provide stability. Stability has a price. Especially in interesting times."

He continued to feed her intelligence, curated and self-serving. His scrying with the obsidian mirror, now a tool of terrifying precision, gave him unparalleled insight into the movements of Prince Aemond and Vhagar. Aemond was a whirlwind of destruction in the Riverlands, his campaign against the Blackwood lands and other Rhaenyra loyalists a litany of burned holdfasts and slaughtered garrisons. This information, passed to Daemon, was invaluable, even if the Rogue Prince seemed incapable of pinning down his one-eyed nephew.

The four remaining dragon eggs in Rico's hidden hatchery were a constant, potent thrum in the back of his consciousness. Since the hatching of Obsidius, they had begun to show subtle signs of quickening, their shells growing warmer, their inner light more pronounced. Alaric, using Kennard's and Maegor's combined lore, theorized that Rico's own transformed draconic essence, combined with the physical proximity of a hatched, bonded dragon like Obsidius, was acting as a catalyst.

"They feel his presence, Master Razor," Alaric explained, his voice filled with a mixture of scientific excitement and profound dread. "They feel your presence. The Valyrian scrolls speak of 'clutch resonance,' where the hatching of one can awaken others, especially if a powerful draconic aura is present. You are that aura."

But raising one dragon in secret was a monumental undertaking. Five? The thought was staggering. The warehouse, for all its hidden depths, was not a sustainable lair. Obsidius, growing with unnatural speed, would soon be too large for even the most spacious excavated cavern. He needed a true dragon's roost, a place of safety, isolation, and defensibility, far from the prying eyes of King's Landing and the warring Targaryen factions.

He tasked Finn, Vorian, and his Essosi contacts (the remnants of Malatesta's and The Scales' networks, now firmly under his control) with a new, urgent mission: find such a place. An abandoned coastal fortress, a secluded island in the Narrow Sea, a forgotten Valyrian outpost in the hinterlands of Essos – no option was off the table. It had to be defensible, possess natural resources (especially geothermal heat for the eggs, if possible), and be utterly secret.

While this search was underway, Prince Aemond, having finally exhausted his bloody rampage through the Riverlands (or perhaps drawn by whispers of Rhaenyra's weakening grip on the capital), began to move south, his destination unknown but his intent clear: to reclaim King's Landing for the Greens, or to burn it to the ground in the attempt. Vhagar, the largest, most terrifying dragon in the world, was with him.

The news sent a fresh wave of panic through the Black-held capital. Rhaenyra, now rarely seen in public, her grief for her lost sons and her fear of the populace having taken a visible toll, became even more erratic. Daemon Targaryen, however, seemed almost energized by the threat of his nephew's approach. He issued orders to strengthen the city's defenses, redoubled patrols, and made a bold, desperate decision: he would take to the skies himself on Caraxes, along with Queen Rhaenyra on Syrax, to hunt down Aemond and Vhagar.

This, Rico knew from his foreknowledge, was the prelude to the Battle Above the Gods Eye, one of the most iconic and tragic dragon duels in history, resulting in the deaths of both Daemon and Aemond, and their mighty dragons, Caraxes and Vhagar. The thought of being present, of absorbing the essences of two royal Targaryens and two legendary dragons, was a temptation of almost unbearable intensity. But it was too risky, too far afield, and his priority now was securing his own nascent draconic power base.

However, the impending departure of Daemon and Rhaenyra from King's Landing presented a unique opportunity. With them gone, the city would be left in the hands of their increasingly incompetent and terrified council. The Gold Cloaks would be stretched thin. The populace, incited by the Shepherd, would be at fever pitch. It was the perfect storm for chaos, and for a decisive move by The Razor.

Rico decided it was time to make his first true display of power as a Dragonlord, not a public one, but a strategic strike that would further consolidate his control and send a chilling message to any remaining rivals. He would also use the ensuing chaos to further his plans for relocating his dragons.

His target: the Iron Gate, one of the city's main landward entrances, and the vast granaries controlled by a notoriously corrupt Black loyalist quartermaster named Ser Glendon Goode, who was known to be enriching himself while the city starved, and whose loyalty to Rhaenyra was primarily based on greed. Goode also commanded a significant portion of the Gold Cloaks garrisoning that section of the wall.

Rico's plan was multi-pronged.

First, Lyra would use her alchemical skills to contaminate a small portion of the grain being distributed by Ser Glendon, not with a lethal poison, but with a compound that induced severe, debilitating stomach cramps and sickness. This would incite further outrage amongst the starving populace against the Black regime and its perceived corruption.

Second, as riots inevitably erupted around Goode's granaries, Finn's agents, disguised as incensed commoners, would steer the mob's fury towards the Iron Gate itself, creating a massive diversion.

Third, under the cover of this chaos, Rico, Jax, Shiv, Vorian, and a handpicked team of their most disciplined men, would infiltrate Ser Glendon's heavily guarded command post near the Gate.

Fourth, Rico would personally deal with Ser Glendon, absorb his essence (Goode, despite his corruption, was a seasoned logistical officer and had commanded troops), and seize control of both the Gate and the granaries. This would give Rico control over a major entry/exit point to the city and a vast stockpile of food, making him an even more indispensable power broker.

And finally, the most audacious part of the plan: Obsidius. The young dragon, though not yet large enough for sustained flight or true battle, was now a terrifying creature of shadow and nascent fire, easily capable of inspiring primal terror. Rico intended to use him, not in open combat, but as a psychological weapon, a horrifying apparition to break the morale of Goode's Gold Cloaks at a critical moment.

The night before Daemon and Rhaenyra were due to depart on their hunt for Aemond, Lyra's tainted grain found its way into the meager rations of the poor near the Iron Gate. By morning, hundreds were writhing in agony, their cries of pain turning into howls of rage against Ser Glendon Goode and the Black Queen. The Shepherd's disciples were quick to exploit the situation, their cries of "Poisoned by the Pretender Queen!" igniting the tinderbox.

As a vast, enraged mob surged towards Goode's granaries, Finn's agents expertly steered their fury towards the Iron Gate. The few Gold Cloaks on duty were quickly overwhelmed. The diversion was perfect.

Rico and his team, using a hidden sewer tunnel (its location known from The Scales' absorbed knowledge) that emerged near Goode's command post, bypassed the worst of the rioting. They reached the fortified building just as Ser Glendon, a fat, florid man, was frantically trying to organize a defense, his face pale with terror.

The assault was swift and brutal. Shiv's Tyroshi knives silenced the outer sentries. Jax and Grok, their Rico-forged hammers like extensions of their savage will, smashed through the barred doors. Vorian and the others cut down Goode's personal guard in a flurry of deadly steel.

Rico confronted Ser Glendon in his opulent office, the man cowering behind his heavy oak desk.

"An end to your thievery, Ser Glendon," Rico said, Anādrag appearing in his hand, its dark blade seeming to drink the light.

Goode, blubbering for mercy, offered gold, power, anything. Rico was unmoved. The man's essence – logistical genius, military command experience, a network of corrupt suppliers, and a deep-seated cowardice – was what he wanted.

As Rico prepared to strike, he gave a silent, telepathic command to Obsidius, who was waiting with Harl in the deepest, newly excavated section of their smuggling tunnel that now reached dangerously close to the Iron Gate's foundations.

Now, my son. Let them feel your shadow.

A moment later, a sound echoed from beneath the very stones of the Iron Gate, a sound that was not of this earth: a deep, guttural, draconic roar, followed by a blast of superheated air and the smell of sulfur that billowed up from drains and cracks in the cobblestones. The ground itself seemed to tremble.

The remaining Gold Cloaks defending the Gate, already unnerved by the massive riot, heard that sound, felt that tremor, smelled that impossible stench. Panic, primal and absolute, shattered their ranks. They broke and fled, screaming of demons and dragons emerging from the earth.

In his office, Ser Glendon Goode froze, his eyes wide with superstitious terror. That was all the opening Rico needed. Anādrag fell.

The essence absorbed, the command post secured, Rico's men swiftly took control of the Iron Gate and the overflowing granaries. The rioting outside, its initial focus lost with the flight of the Gold Cloaks, was then skillfully managed by Rico's own enforcers, who appeared as if from nowhere, distributing some of Goode's hoarded grain (the untainted portions) to the most desperate, calming the worst of the fury while simultaneously establishing Rico's authority.

By the time Daemon and Rhaenyra flew from King's Landing on Caraxes and Syrax, leaving behind a city on the brink, Rico Moretti controlled a vital gate, a vast food supply, and had given the city – and any watching eyes – a terrifying hint of a new, unseen power stirring in its depths.

He stood on the battlements of the Iron Gate later that night, looking out over the smoldering, fearful city. Obsidius, unseen in the darkness far below, let out a soft, possessive rumble that Rico felt in his very bones. The dragon within him stirred in response.

He had played his first hand as a Dragonlord, however subtly. The risks were immense, but the rewards… the rewards were the world itself. The Dance of the Dragons would continue, its principal players oblivious to the true nature of the shadow that was now anointing itself in their blood and fire. And Rico, with his growing dragon, his hidden eggs, and his ever-expanding power, was ready to rewrite its ending.