Chapter 33: The God's Eye Gamble, A Harvest of Titans

Chapter 33: The God's Eye Gamble, A Harvest of Titans

The foreknowledge of the Battle Above the Gods Eye burned in Rico Moretti's mind like a captive star, a beacon of incandescent, suicidal opportunity. Daemon Targaryen versus Aemond One-Eye. Caraxes the Blood Wyrm against Vhagar the Queen of All Dragons. A duel of titans, a clash of demigods, ending, as his Game of Thrones lore whispered with chilling certainty, in their mutual annihilation. Four colossal essences, two of the most potent Targaryen bloodlines and two of the most legendary dragons in existence, all destined to be extinguished in a single, cataclysmic event. The lure was beyond irresistible; it was a divine commandment to his insatiable, power-hungry soul.

To voice such a mad ambition, even to Maester Alaric, was a feat in itself. He framed it not as perfect foreknowledge, but as a powerful, recurring vision from the obsidian mirror, a scryed prophecy of such clarity and horrifying detail that it could not be ignored. He spoke of a looming confrontation near Harrenhal, of two great dragons and their riders locked in a death spiral.

Alaric listened, his face growing ever more spectral in the lamplight of their Valyrian sanctum. "Master Razor," he finally rasped, his voice trembling, "what you describe… it is not merely a battle; it is an apocalypse. To willingly place yourself in the heart of such a conflagration, to seek to… harvest… from such a pyre… it is beyond madness. It is to court oblivion itself. The combined jēdar of such beings, released in the agony of their demise… it could shatter your mind, consume your very soul, even with your… unique constitution."

"And yet, Alaric," Rico countered, his voice a low, mesmerizing thrum, the draconic power within him resonating with the audacity of his plan, "if I survive, if I can contain such power… what then? What limits would remain? The Valyrian scrolls speak of dragonlords who became akin to gods. Perhaps they merely understood the true price of divinity."

Alaric, for all his fear, was a scholar of the forbidden. The sheer, terrifying magnificence of Rico's ambition, the potential for witnessing, even indirectly, the transference of such monumental power, ultimately proved irresistible. He threw himself into the arcane preparations, his terror warring with a manic, scholarly excitement. He researched ancient Valyrian shielding rituals, designed to offer some minimal protection against overwhelming magical backlash. He brewed potent concoctions for Rico – not Lyra's poisons, but elixirs to heighten mental fortitude, to temporarily bolster the soul's resilience against psychic shock. He even, with trembling hands, inscribed temporary warding glyphs onto the inner surfaces of Rico's shadow-steel armor, hoping they might deflect some fraction of the raw chaotic energy.

Rico decided against taking a team. Shiv, Vorian, Jax – they were valuable, loyal tools, but this was a venture into a realm where mortal skill would be meaningless. They would be incinerated, or driven mad, long before he reached his targets. Obsidius, his obsidian hatchling, was growing with astonishing speed in their secret lair, already the size of a large warhorse, his intelligence keen, their telepathic bond a constant, comforting presence in Rico's mind. But he was still too young, too vulnerable for such a cataclysm. No, Rico would go alone, a solitary predator stalking gods.

His equipment was spartan: Anādrag, his Valyrian-Tyroshi sword, now feeling like an extension of his own fiery soul; his articulated shadow-steel armor, still incomplete but offering formidable protection; a satchel with Alaric's elixirs, concentrated rations, a waterskin, and a few of Perwyn's perfectly forged travel passes identifying him as a minor merchant making his way to the Riverlands (a flimsy cover, but better than none). His greatest assets were his own transfigured being: his inhuman strength, speed, and senses; his immunity to fire; his burgeoning mastery over the Valyrian blood magic principles; and the symphony of absorbed souls within him, now harmonized under a dominant, draconic will.

Leaving King's Landing was a risk in itself. Rhaenyra's grip on the city, though increasingly tyrannical and paranoid, was absolute. Daemon's Gold Cloaks were everywhere. But Rico, using the vast network of smuggling tunnels that now honeycombed beneath his warehouse and connected to forgotten sewer lines, slipped out of the city like a phantom, emerging miles beyond its walls under the cover of a moonless night. He left his empire in the capable, if terrified, hands of his inner circle: Jax to maintain order in Flea Bottom with brutal efficiency; Mathis to manage the flow of gold and vital wartime supplies; Finn to keep his ear to the ground and his ravens flying; Lyra to continue her alchemical work and ensure internal loyalty through her… unique methods; and Alaric to continue his research and guard the precious dragon eggs, awaiting their master's return, or news of his demise.

The journey through the war-torn Riverlands was a grim pilgrimage. The land was a patchwork of burned villages, fallow fields, and roads haunted by desperate refugees and ruthless foraging parties from both Green and Black factions. Rico moved mostly at night, his draconic senses guiding him through the darkness, his speed and stamina allowing him to cover vast distances. He avoided contact where possible, a silent shadow flitting through a landscape of despair. When confrontation was unavoidable, it was swift, brutal, and final, Anādrag tasting the blood of outlaws and deserters alike, their meager essences adding little to his already vast reservoir, but serving as grim practice.

He gathered intelligence as he went, his keen hearing picking up snippets of conversation in terrified taverns, his enhanced sight spotting distant banners and troop movements. He learned that Daemon Targaryen, on Caraxes, had indeed made Harrenhal his lair, a brooding, cursed fortress from which he launched raids against Green loyalists. Prince Aemond, aboard the colossal Vhagar, was a terror in the skies, a one-man army leaving a trail of fire and devastation in his wake, relentlessly hunting his uncle. The two dragons, the two Targaryens, were on a collision course, their hatred a palpable force that seemed to poison the very air of the Riverlands.

Rico's draconic senses, now incredibly attuned, began to pick up something else as he drew closer to the Great Lake: a faint, distant thrumming in the earth, a subtle disturbance in the magical currents of the world. It was the presence of Vhagar, her immense age and power warping reality around her. And then, another, sharper, more volatile signature: Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, his fury a searing beacon. They were close.

He reached the shores of the Gods Eye, a vast, dark, mist-shrouded lake, its waters unnervingly still, the ancient, haunted Isle of Faces a brooding silhouette in its center. Harrenhal, a monstrous, fire-blackened ruin, loomed on the northern shore. The atmosphere was thick with an almost unbearable tension, the air crackling with unseen energies.

He found a secluded, overgrown cove, cloaked by ancient weirwoods whose carved faces seemed to weep tears of red sap, their presence adding to the eerie, primal power of the place. Here, he waited, meditating, focusing his will, preparing his soul for the cataclysm he knew was coming. He consumed Alaric's elixirs, feeling their strange energies course through him, heightening his already superhuman senses, fortifying his mind against the psychic onslaught he anticipated.

Days passed in a state of heightened, predatory awareness. Then, one blustery afternoon, under a sky the color of bruised plums, he felt it: a sudden, violent shift in the æthyric currents, a converging of the two immense draconic signatures. He heard their roars, distant at first, then rapidly drawing closer, a symphony of primal rage that shook the very hills.

He climbed to a high, rocky outcrop overlooking the vast expanse of the Gods Eye, concealing himself amidst a tangle of ancient, gnarled roots. And then he saw them.

Vhagar, a mountain of green-bronze scales, her wingspan blotting out the sky, her roar a physical blow that resonated in his bones. And Caraxes, smaller, leaner, blood-red and serpentine, his neck impossibly long, his shriek a needle of pure fury. Prince Aemond, a tiny figure in black armor, sat astride Vhagar's massive neck, his single sapphire eye blazing. Prince Daemon, clad in Targaryen black and red, urged Caraxes onward, Dark Sister gleaming in his hand.

The Battle Above the Gods Eye began.

It was a spectacle of terrible, breathtaking beauty, a dance of gods and monsters. Vhagar, ancient and powerful, was a flying fortress, her flames vast enough to consume entire villages. Caraxes, swifter, more agile, was a blur of crimson fury, darting in and out of Vhagar's fiery reach, his own flames searing and precise. The air cracked with thunderous roars, with the shriek of tearing scales, with the incandescent blasts of dragonfire that turned the grey waters of the Gods Eye into hissing steam.

Rico watched, his human mind struggling to comprehend the sheer scale of the conflict, his draconic senses drinking it all in – the scent of burned flesh and molten stone, the taste of ozone and blood, the raw, untamed magic that poured from the dueling behemoths. He felt a terrifying kinship with them, a longing to join their fiery ballet, a hunger for the power they wielded so effortlessly.

The battle raged for what seemed an eternity. Both dragons were wounded, their roars now tinged with pain, their movements growing more desperate. Aemond, fighting with cold, calculated fury, urged Vhagar to greater efforts. Daemon, a wild, ecstatic grin plastered on his face, seemed to revel in the carnage, his Valyrian blood singing with the ancient battle-lust of his ancestors.

Then came the moment Rico knew from his foreknowledge, the moment that would seal their fates. Caraxes, grievously wounded but still fighting with insane ferocity, lunged, sinking his teeth deep into Vhagar's throat. Vhagar, roaring in agony, locked her own massive jaws onto Caraxes's wing, tearing it from his body. And in that instant, Prince Daemon Targaryen, with a final, triumphant cry, leaped from Caraxes's back, Dark Sister held high, and plunged the Valyrian steel blade through Aemond's one good eye, deep into his brain.

The two princes, locked in their death embrace, and their two mighty dragons, still biting and clawing at each other, plummeted from the sky, a single, colossal meteor of fire, blood, and screaming metal, crashing into the dark waters of the Gods Eye with a sound that deafened the world.

A vast plume of steam and debris erupted from the lake. The waves churned, then slowly, ominously, began to still. Silence descended, a silence more profound, more terrifying, than the preceding cacophony.

Rico didn't hesitate. This was his moment. He scrambled down from his outcrop, his heart hammering, his every sense screaming. He plunged into the cold, murky waters of the Gods Eye, swimming with superhuman speed towards the epicenter of the crash. The water was hot, thick with blood and oils from the dying dragons, the stench of burned flesh overwhelming.

He found them amidst a tangle of shattered weirwood branches and floating debris, half-submerged in the shallows near the Isle of Faces. Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons, was a colossal, broken mountain, her great green-bronze hide torn and smoking, her immense head lolling, her lifeblood staining the water crimson. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, was a mangled ruin of red scales and shattered bone, still entangled with his ancient foe. And amidst the wreckage, still locked together, were the bodies of Daemon and Aemond Targaryen.

Rico approached Vhagar first, her sheer size, even in death, awe-inspiring. He placed his hand upon her cooling, scaled flank.

The absorption was beyond anything he had ever experienced, beyond anything he could have imagined. It was not a flood; it was a nova. Centuries of draconic existence, the wisdom of ages, the memories of a dozen Targaryen riders, the raw, elemental power of a creature that had darkened the skies of Valyria itself before the Doom. He felt her ancient grief for riders long dead, her fierce loyalty, her primal rage, her connection to the very bedrock of the world. His mind fractured, reformed, expanded to encompass this colossal, ancient consciousness. He felt his bones creak, his muscles burn, as his physical form struggled to contain this impossible influx of power.

Then, Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm's essence was a searing inferno of battle-fury, of serpentine cunning, of unwavering devotion to Daemon. It was wilder, more volatile than Vhagar's ancient majesty, but no less potent. Rico felt Caraxes's speed, his agility, his relentless aggression, adding a new, terrifying dimension to his already formidable draconic arsenal.

And then, the Targaryens.

He reached Aemond first, pulling Dark Sister (which was still embedded in his skull) free from the prince's corpse with a grunt of effort – a trophy, and a weapon of immense power. Aemond's essence was a storm of cold fury, of bitter resentment, of indomitable will, and the fierce, possessive bond with Vhagar. He gained Aemond's strategic brilliance, his martial prowess, his chilling understanding of fear as a weapon.

Finally, Daemon. The Rogue Prince. His essence was a whirlwind of contradictions: a brilliant commander, a ruthless killer, a poet, a lover, a kingmaker, a king-consort. It was steeped in Valyrian lore, in dragon dreams, in the fierce, untamed spirit of the Blood Wyrm. He absorbed Daemon's unparalleled skill with Dark Sister, his mastery of warfare, his charismatic charm, his profound understanding of Targaryen politics, and his deep, complex love for Rhaenyra, for his family, for his heritage.

Four monumental essences, two of the greatest dragons to ever live, two of the most formidable Targaryens of their age, all consumed, all integrated into the being that was Rico Moretti.

He lay in the blood-soaked shallows of the Gods Eye, gasping, his body convulsing, fire and ice warring within him. He was no longer human, not even a dragon in human flesh. He was… something else. A crucible of gods and monsters, a nexus of unimaginable power.

His physical form itself seemed to shimmer, to subtly shift. His eyes now blazed with an inner fire that was a fusion of Vhagar's ancient gold and Caraxes's blood-red fury. His skin felt tougher than dragonhide, his muscles thrummed with the combined strength of titans. The very air around him crackled with raw, untamed magic. He could feel the ancient power of the Isle of Faces, the magic of the weirwoods, resonating with him, acknowledging him as a primal force.

He rose, Anādrag in one hand, Dark Sister in the other. He was Rico Moretti, yes, but he was also Vhagar, Caraxes, Aemond, Daemon, Dreamfyre, Tyraxes, Shrykos, Morghul, and a hundred other lesser souls, all forged into a single, terrifying will.

He looked out over the desolate, steaming waters of the Gods Eye. The Dance of the Dragons had just lost two of its most devastating players. But a new one, far more terrible, far more powerful, had just been born.

His dragon eggs awaited him in King's Landing. His hatchling, Obsidius, would feel his return, his transformation. Rhaenyra Targaryen still sat on her crumbling throne, unaware that the man who had served her Green rivals, the man who had offered her his discreet services, was now a power that could shatter her world.

The gamble at the Gods Eye had been won. The harvest had been reaped.

Rico Moretti, the Last Dragonlord, smiled, a terrible, beautiful smile that promised fire and blood on a scale this world had never seen. His own dance was about to begin.