Chapter 31: The Dragon's Hoard and the Firewyrm's Awakening
The news from Westeros, carried on the salt-laced winds from Braavos, had ignited a new, ferocious fire in the crucible of Aegis. King Robert Baratheon's death and the subsequent eruption of the War of the Five Kings was the clarion call Viserys had been awaiting, the catastrophic fracturing of Usurper power that would provide the opening for a Targaryen restoration. His three-phase strategy – consolidation of Dragon's Aerie, intelligence and destabilization in Westeros, and eventual intervention – was no longer a long-term ambition; it was an immediate, pressing imperative. But war, especially a war to reclaim a continent, required resources on an unimaginable scale: gold, arms, ships, and above all, game-changing assets. And Kipp, Viserys's ever-resourceful spymaster, had just delivered intelligence that promised all of that and more.
"Magister Illyrio Mopatis," Kipp's heavily coded dispatch from Myr read, its contents painstakingly deciphered by Archivist in the Nexus, "maintains a private, deep-level vault beneath his manse in Pentos. Its location is known only to his most trusted eunuch seneschal, and its rumored contents include not only a significant portion of his vast personal fortune in bullion, gems, and incriminating ledgers, but also… three petrified dragon eggs of ancient Valyrian origin. Artifacts he acquired at immense cost, likely for his own long-term… kingmaking… ambitions."
Dragon eggs. The words resonated in Viserys's mind like a thunderclap, sending a jolt through his serum-enhanced senses. Alistair Finch knew the legend of Daenerys Targaryen hatching three such eggs in Drogo's funeral pyre; Viserys Targaryen saw the path to ultimate power, the re-forging of his House's most potent legacy. Illyrio, the fat Magister who had played host to him and Daenerys in their desperate youth, who had sold Daenerys to the Dothraki, who was even now weaving his own intricate plots for Westeros, possessed the very keys to a new dragon age. The irony was delicious; the opportunity, irresistible. Crippling a powerful, duplicitous rival, securing a war chest beyond measure, and acquiring the ultimate Targaryen weapon – it was a trifecta of strategic brilliance that Viserys could not ignore. He immediately initiated "Operation Dragon's Hoard."
The planning phase was an exercise in meticulous, obsessive detail, consuming weeks of Viserys's focused attention. Alistair Finch's mind dredged up every historical account of legendary heists, every treatise on siegecraft and fortification bypass, every psychological profile of men like Illyrio – arrogant, paranoid, yet often blinded by their own sense of inviolability. Viserys convened his core Braavosi operatives, those most skilled in the arts of shadow and deception, bringing Shadowfoot (Lynx) and her two most trusted lieutenants from the Braavosi Nest to Dragon's Aerie under extreme secrecy for direct briefing. Kipp, too, was recalled from Myr, his firsthand knowledge of Pentos and Illyrio's household indispensable.
The team selected for the infiltration was small, elite, and possessed of a unique synergy of skills. Shadowfoot would lead, her preternatural agility, stealth, and mastery of urban infiltration making her the ideal point woman. Nymeria, the Volantene mistress of disguise who had joined the Phoenix Company, would be her second, capable of melting into any crowd, mimicking any accent. Two of Shadowfoot's most seasoned Braavosi Sparrows, a wiry locksmith named Finn and a silent, deadly knife-fighter called Whisper, would provide specialized support. Xaro Xhandar, though not part of the infiltration team itself, designed a breathtaking array of specialized tools: whisper-quiet drills tipped with obsidian, hydraulic spreaders capable of silently compromising reinforced doors, collapsible grapnels of lightweight alloy, and even a primitive form of periscope for scouting around corners. Lyra of Lys provided potent sleeping draughts for guards, corrosive agents for stubborn locks (to be used only as a last resort), and antidotes for any suspected traps involving poisons or gases. Draq, with a handpicked unit of twenty Obsidian Phantoms, would command the Phoenix Company sloop, the Night Prowler (a vessel Xaro had refitted with muffled oars and a dark, non-reflective hull specifically for clandestine operations), providing silent offshore support and ensuring a swift, secure extraction.
Kipp's intelligence was the backbone. His remaining Pentoshi contacts, at immense personal risk, had managed to acquire partial, heavily guarded schematics of Illyrio's sprawling manse, highlighting known guard posts, patrol routes, and the suspected general location of the deep vault – beneath Illyrio's private chambers, accessible only via a series of concealed passages and heavily trapped corridors. They also confirmed Illyrio was planning to host a lavish, week-long festival celebrating some obscure Pentoshi deity, a period when his household security would be stretched thin, his guards likely distracted by wine and revelry, and the city itself a chaotic mask for their movements.
Viserys, though hundreds of leagues away in Aegis, would monitor the operation with every ounce of his being, his developing mental "sensing" ability now his most vital, if still unpredictable, link to his operatives. He established a complex, multi-layered coded communication system using carrier pigeons to relay simple, pre-arranged status updates between the Night Prowler and a Phoenix Company cutter stationed at a midway point, and then onward to Dragon's Aerie. It was a tenuous thread, but it was all he had.
The night of the infiltration, under the chaotic, festive din of Pentos, Shadowfoot's team, disguised as acrobats and musicians supposedly hired for Illyrio's celebrations, slipped into the Magister's sprawling manse. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and cloying perfumes. Nymeria's flawless mimicry of a drunken serving wench gained them access to the servant's passages, while Finn's delicate touch with locks bypassed the initial security checkpoints. Shadowfoot moved like a phantom, her senses, honed by years of survival in Braavos's alleys and now subtly augmented by whatever ambient magical energies permeated Dragon's Aerie (or so Lyra of Lys theorized), guiding them through the labyrinthine corridors.
They encountered guards, of course – Illyrio's notoriously brutal eunuch household guard. Some were silently incapacitated by Whisper's thrown knives or Lyra's potent sleeping darts delivered via blowpipe. Others were lured away by carefully orchestrated diversions. The descent into the sub-levels of the manse was a nerve-wracking gauntlet of pressure plates (deactivated by Shadowfoot's incredible agility), tripwires (snipped by Finn), and even a corridor rumored to be protected by a bound fire-imp (Lyra had provided a satchel of specific herbs whose fumes were said to confuse such lesser demons, which Shadowfoot scattered with a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening).
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached it: a massive, bronze-banded iron door, set deep within the bedrock beneath Illyrio's private sanctum, bearing the Magister's personal sigil – a bloated, jeweled turtle. This was the entrance to the Dragon's Hoard. The lock was a masterpiece of Pentoshi engineering, rumored to have a dozen tumblers and internal counter-mechanisms. Finn, sweat beading on his brow despite the subterranean chill, went to work with Xaro's delicate, obsidian-tipped tools, his touch as sensitive as a lover's. For over an hour, the only sounds were Finn's muttered curses, the faint click of tumblers, and Shadowfoot's almost imperceptible breathing as she scanned for any sign of alarm.
Then, with a soft, satisfying thunk, the final tumbler yielded. The massive door swung inward on silent, well-oiled hinges.
The sight that greeted them stole their breath. The vault was vast, far larger than Kipp's intelligence had suggested. Torches set in wall sconces (likely lit by Illyrio himself on his last visit, a testament to his arrogance) cast a flickering, golden glow over mountains of wealth. Chests overflowed with gold coins from a dozen realms, sacks bulged with silver stags and Pentoshi honors, caskets glittered with rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls of breathtaking size. Alcoves held priceless works of art, ancient Valyrian artifacts, and stacks of ledgers bound in rich leather – Illyrio's secret accounts, detailing his bribes, his extortions, his plots with Dothraki Khals and Westerosi lords. This was the treasure of a king, not a mere Magister.
And there, at the very heart of the vault, on a raised, velvet-lined dais, protected by a nearly invisible lacework of shimmering magical wards, lay their true prize: three magnificent dragon eggs. One was as black as a starless night, its surface shot through with veins of deepest crimson, like molten rock cooling. Another was a deep, forest green, with burnished bronze flecks that seemed to shift and shimmer in the torchlight. The third was a pale, creamy white, swirled with delicate traceries of gold that glowed with a faint, internal luminescence. They were larger than any bird's egg, heavy, ancient, and pulsed with a faint, dormant power that even Shadowfoot, not usually sensitive to such things, could feel prickling her skin.
Lyra of Lys had provided Shadowfoot with a specially prepared satchel of powdered iron and salt, which, when sprinkled correctly, was said to temporarily disrupt minor magical wards. With painstaking care, Shadowfoot neutralized the shimmering barrier. The eggs were cold to the touch, like polished stone, yet beneath that coldness, a deeper, almost imperceptible warmth seemed to throb.
The exfiltration of the Hoard was a logistical nightmare, but one Viserys and his team had planned for. They focused on the most portable wealth: the gems, the highest-value coinage, the most incriminating ledgers, and, above all, the three dragon eggs, which Shadowfoot herself wrapped in layers of padded silk and carried in a specially constructed, reinforced satchel. They couldn't take everything – the sheer volume of gold bullion was too immense. But they took enough to cripple Illyrio financially for years, and to fund Viserys's war machine beyond his wildest dreams. Using a series of pre-planned relay points within the manse's disused servant tunnels and a collapsible winch system designed by Xaro, they managed to transport their precious cargo to a hidden cistern that emptied into a minor canal, where Draq's Night Prowler waited, its muffled oars barely disturbing the festive city's oily waters.
They were clear of Pentos just as the first, frantic alarms began to ring from Illyrio's manse. The Magister, discovering the impossible breach, the violation of his most secret sanctum, the theft of his life's ambition, reportedly flew into a rage so terrifying that even his most hardened eunuch guards quailed. Pentos was locked down, its harbor sealed, every departing ship searched. But the Night Prowler, under Draq's cool command and aided by a sudden, unnatural fog that seemed to roll in from the sea (a phenomenon Viserys, monitoring from afar, attributed either to Lyra's more esoteric preparations or a desperate, focused exertion of his own will), slipped through the closing net and vanished into the vastness of the Narrow Sea.
The triumphant return of the Night Prowler to Dragon's Aerie, laden with Illyrio's treasure and the three Valyrian dragon eggs, was met with stunned, joyous disbelief by Viserys's inner circle. The sheer audacity of the heist, its flawless execution against such a powerful adversary, cemented Viserys's status among them as a leader of almost supernatural cunning and capability.
Daenerys's reaction to the Valyrian eggs was profound. The moment she saw them, her violet eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. She reached out, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns on their stony surfaces, a look of ecstatic recognition dawning on her face. "They are alive," she whispered, her voice filled with awe. "They are singing the same song as the stones from Wyvern's Roost." When Illyrio's eggs were brought near the three most promising "stone eggs" from the precursor ruins – which Daenerys had insisted be kept warm and safe in the Citadel's geothermal chamber – a palpable energy seemed to fill the room. The six eggs, three Valyrian and three of unknown, ancient origin, pulsed with a faint, synchronized luminescence, their surfaces growing noticeably warmer to the touch. The air thrummed with a silent, expectant power.
Viserys, witnessing this, knew the time was now. The War of the Five Kings raged in Westeros. His own power base in Dragon's Aerie was secure. He possessed not only the wealth to fund an army, but now, potentially, the ultimate weapon to reclaim his throne. Guided by Daenerys's increasingly powerful visions, the fragmented lore deciphered by Archivist from the Wyvern's Roost glyphs (which hinted at ancient hatching rituals involving volcanic fire and blood magic), and Lyra of Lys's alchemical knowledge, he prepared for the Firewyrm's Awakening.
The ritual was to take place in the "Heart-Nest," the vast obsidian amphitheater deep within Mount Valyria. The six eggs – Illyrio's black, green, and cream, and the three largest, most vibrant stone eggs from Wyvern's Roost, which now glowed with an internal fire of their own, one a deep, earthy brown veined with gold, another a mottled grey like a storm cloud, the third a fiery orange like cooling lava – were carefully transported to the chamber and placed upon the great, throne-like rock formations at its center, directly above the pit that pulsed with geothermal heat.
Only Viserys, Daenerys, Lyra of Lys, and Morrec (as their silent, ultimate guardian) were present. The air in the Heart-Nest was thick with sulfurous steam and an almost unbearable, dry heat. Daenerys, dressed in a simple white gown, seemed to be in a trance-like state, her eyes luminous, her voice chanting ancient Valyrian phrases that resonated with the very stones of the chamber, words of power and fire that she had never consciously learned. Lyra of Lys had prepared a series of braziers filled with unique island herbs and volcanic salts, their smoke coiling towards the eggs, creating an acrid, intoxicating atmosphere.
Viserys knew, from the fragmented lore and Daenerys's visions, that a catalyst was needed, a sacrifice of potent life force, of "king's blood" as the old tales whispered. He looked at his sister, her face illuminated by the eerie glow from the eggs and the fissures in the rock, her being seemingly consumed by the ancient ritual. He would not ask it of her. He, the King, would provide. Unsheathing the Valyrian steel dagger, its dark metal seeming to drink the strange light, he made a deep incision across his palm. His blood, unnaturally rich and vital due to the serum, welled forth, dark and steaming in the superheated air. His healing factor was already working to close the wound, but he focused his will, forcing it to remain open, letting his lifeblood drip onto the obsidian floor before the eggs.
As his blood touched the stone, a tremor ran through the chamber. Mount Valyria let out a deep, guttural groan. The geothermal heat intensified to an almost unbearable degree. Daenerys cried out, not in pain, but in a strange, ecstatic agony, her hands outstretched towards the eggs. The six eggs began to crack, hairline fractures spreading across their surfaces, an intense, fiery light emanating from within.
Then, with a sound like shattering stone and tearing silk, they hatched.
From Illyrio's black egg emerged a dragon of midnight scales, its eyes like molten gold, its cry a terrifying screech of newborn fury. From the green egg, a bronze-winged beast with emerald eyes. From the cream and gold egg, a magnificent creature of ivory scales and golden horns, its roar echoing the thunder of the volcano. These were true Valyrian dragons, majestic and terrible.
And from the three stone eggs of Wyvern's Roost, something else emerged. Not classic dragons, but leaner, more serpentine creatures, their scales like hardened lava – one a deep, obsidian black with veins of fiery orange, another a mottled storm-grey that seemed to crackle with static electricity, the third a shimmering, earthy brown whose hide was as tough as granite. They were smaller than the Valyrian hatchlings, fiercer, more primal, their cries like the grinding of tectonic plates, their eyes burning with an ancient, chthonic intelligence. Firewyrms, Viserys thought, or Earth-Drakes, creatures born of the island's deepest, most elemental power.
Six young dragons, three Valyrian, three of an older, wilder strain, now stood unsteadily amidst the shattered remnants of their shells, their jewel-like eyes fixing first on Daenerys, who sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face, her arms outstretched, then on Viserys, whose blood still stained the obsidian floor. A profound, instinctual bond was forged in that moment, a connection of blood, magic, and shared destiny that transcended words.
Viserys looked at the six hatchlings, at his sister, her face illuminated by the unholy light of their new, terrible power, and a smile of cold, savage triumph stretched his lips. The Dragon's Hoard had been secured. The Firewyrms had awakened. The game for the Iron Throne had not just been rejoined; its rules had been irrevocably, terrifyingly, rewritten. House Targaryen had dragons once more, and the world would burn.