Chapter 33: The Serpent's Fall and the Dragon's First Roar
The decision, once made in the fire-lit heart of the Aerie Citadel, reverberated through Viserys's entire clandestine empire with the force of an earthquake. Pentos. Illyrio Mopatis. Young Griff. These were not mere targets; they were the first true test of Dragon's Aerie's might, the crucible in which Viserys's ambitions would either be forged into an undeniable reality or shatter into forgotten dust. The time for patient accumulation, for hiding in the shadows of the Summer Sea, was drawing to a close. The War of the Five Kings raged across Westeros, a self-consuming bonfire of Usurper arrogance, and Viserys Targaryen, the true king, would add his own, dragon-fueled conflagration to the inferno, starting with the Serpent of Pentos who dared to play kingmaker with his birthright.
"Operation Serpent's Head," as Viserys codenamed the endeavor, was planned with a level of meticulous, obsessive detail that would have made Alistair Finch, the historian of grand campaigns, nod in grim approval. For weeks, the Nexus buzzed with activity. Viserys, Daenerys, and the full War Council – Valerion Qo, Draq, Kiera Redfin, Ledger, Archivist, Lyra of Lys, Xaro Xhandar, Joss, and Morrec – pored over Kipp's increasingly detailed intelligence reports from Pentos. Kipp himself, a gaunt, shadow-eyed young man now, his loyalty to Viserys bordering on fanaticism after his own near-fatal encounters with Illyrio's agents, had been secretly recalled to Dragon's Aerie to provide firsthand briefings.
The objectives were threefold and brutally simple: neutralize Illyrio Mopatis and dismantle his network; locate and deal decisively with the pretender "Aegon Targaryen" and his guardian, Jon Connington; and seize Illyrio's remaining movable assets – his gold, his ships, his ledgers, his web of spies and informants. This was not merely a raid; it was a targeted decapitation strike, designed to cripple a dangerous rival and send an unmistakable message to the powers of Essos and Westeros.
The forces assembled were formidable. The core of the Phoenix Fleet – the flagship Balerion, captained by Valerion Qo with Viserys and Daenerys aboard, and her sister ships, the Meraxes (commanded by a newly promoted, grimly efficient Tycho Neris, miraculously recovered from his earlier wounds and now fiercely loyal) and the Vhagar (under the command of Draq, who, despite his preference for land warfare, had proven a surprisingly adept naval tactician) – would lead the assault. These Phoenix-class warships, Xaro Xhandar's masterpieces of speed, firepower, and obsidian-laced resilience, were unlike anything currently sailing the Narrow or Summer Seas. Commodore Kiera Redfin's Corsair Wing, some fifteen swift, battle-hardened sloops and captured merchantmen, would provide a screen, sow chaos among Pentoshi shipping, and secure the harbor approaches. For the land assault, Viserys would unleash his trump card: two thousand elite warriors of the Shadow Legion, clad in their dark grey and obsidian armor, armed with razor-sharp obsidian blades and short spears, their discipline absolute, their loyalty to their unseen "Lord of Fire and Shadow" terrifyingly complete. They would be transported in a dozen heavily armed Phoenix Company cogs, refitted by Xaro for rapid amphibious deployment. Shadowfoot and her fifty best Braavosi infiltrators and assassins, along with Nymeria, the mistress of disguise, would spearhead the penetration of Illyrio's manse.
The dragons – now magnificent, terrifying beasts approaching the size of large destriers, their scales gleaming with an inner fire, their roars capable of shaking the very stones of the Aerie Citadel – were the ultimate weapon, their deployment planned with surgical precision. Viserys, his bond with the colossal black Balerion now almost telepathic, would ride him. Daenerys, her connection to the green Rhaegal and the cream-and-gold Viserion equally profound, would command them. The three chthonic Firewyrms – Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian – smaller, more agile, their elemental power uniquely suited for sowing terror and confusion in confined urban environments, would be unleashed under the loose guidance of Morrec, whose stoic presence they seemed to respect. Their first taste of true battle would be the skies over Pentos.
Kipp's final intelligence confirmed Illyrio was indeed hosting his lavish, week-long festival. The Magister's manse, a sprawling palace of marble and pleasure gardens overlooking the bay, would be filled with drunken revelers, its guards likely lax. "Young Griff" and Jon Connington, Kipp reported with chilling certainty, were currently residing in a secluded wing of the manse, under Illyrio's "protection," awaiting the final preparations for their voyage to Westeros with the Golden Company (who were, thankfully, still encamped in the Disputed Lands, too far to intervene).
The Phoenix Armada set sail from Dragon's Aerie under a moonless night, its departure masked by a carefully orchestrated series of "routine" trading fleet movements. Onboard the Balerion, Viserys, Daenerys, and their inner circle finalized the intricate. Viserys, clad in practical black leather reinforced with obsidian plates of his own design, felt a strange calm settle over him, the cold, analytical focus of Alistair Finch merging seamlessly with the predatory instincts of the Targaryen dragon. He used his mental "sensing" ability, now honed by years of practice and perhaps amplified by the proximity of his growing dragons, to maintain a constant, subtle awareness of his fleet's cohesion, to scan the horizon for unseen threats, to even project a sense of unwavering resolve into the minds of his key commanders. Daenerys, her eyes reflecting the distant starlight, spent hours on deck, her hands resting on the warm, scaled necks of Rhaegal and Viserion (who were transported in specially constructed, open-topped pens on the Balerion's reinforced main deck, Balerion himself often soaring protectively overhead during daylight hours when they were far from land), her connection to them a silent, powerful current.
As they approached Pentos, Kipp, having returned to the city via a smuggler's route, initiated the final phase of his preparations. His network of Pentoshi informants and disgruntled city functionaries (many suborned with Phoenix Company gold or promises of advancement after Illyrio's fall) began to subtly sabotage key elements of the city's defenses: harbor chains were loosened, watchtower signals jammed, supplies of oil for defensive fires "accidentally" contaminated with water. Small caches of Phoenix Company arms were discreetly distributed to anti-Illyrio factions within the city, ready to add to the chaos when the main assault began.
The attack commenced in the deepest hour of the night, as the festival within Illyrio's manse reached its drunken, debauched peak. Under cover of darkness, Shadowfoot's team, their bodies slicked with dark oil, their obsidian knives gleaming, scaled the outer walls of Illyrio's gardens like wraiths. Nymeria, disguised as a wandering fire-dancer, created a spectacular diversion near the main gates, drawing the attention of the guards while Shadowfoot's primary squad slipped through a servant's entrance, its lock picked by Finn with contemptuous ease. Simultaneously, the Shadow Legion, transported on muffled barges towed by the Night Prowler and other stealth sloops, began their silent landings at pre-designated points along the city's waterfront, their objective to seize control of the harbor master's office, the main granaries, and key intersections leading to Illyrio's manse.
As the first faint streaks of dawn painted the eastern sky, the Phoenix Fleet, its dark sails like the wings of monstrous birds of prey, appeared as if from nowhere at the mouth of Pentos harbor. Kiera Redfin's Corsair Wing, their blood-red pennants now defiantly displayed, surged forward, attacking Illyrio's private fleet of merchantmen and pleasure barges anchored in the outer bay, their obsidian-tipped grappling hooks biting into ornate railings, their battle cries a savage chorus. The larger Phoenix warships, the Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar, moved with disciplined precision to blockade the main harbor entrance, their ballistae already ranging on the surprised and disorganized Pentoshi harbor forts.
Then came the dragons.
Viserys, astride the colossal black Balerion, his Valyrian steel sword (a gift from Kiera, plundered from a Volantene noble) bare in his hand, was the first to appear over the awakening city. Balerion let out a roar that shattered windows across the waterfront, a sound not heard in Essos for over a century, a sound that struck terror into the hearts of even the most battle-hardened Pentoshi. Daenerys, her silver hair streaming, followed on the green Rhaegal, with Viserion, his cream and gold scales gleaming, soaring beside her. They were not yet the city-destroying behemoths of Aegon's Conquest, but they were magnificent, terrifying, their eyes burning with intelligent malice, their presence an unambiguous declaration of Targaryen resurgence.
Their targets were precise, as per Viserys's orders: Illyrio's main guard barracks, the harbor forts still attempting to offer resistance, and the opulent private dock where his war galleys were moored. Dracarys. The word was a command, a prayer, a release. Streams of molten fire – black and crimson from Balerion, emerald green from Rhaegal, shimmering gold from Viserion – erupted over Pentos, turning stone to slag, wood to ash, defenders to screaming torches. The three chthonic Firewyrms, launched from the decks of the Nyx under Morrec's laconic direction, descended upon the lower city like living thunderstorms, their elemental fury sowing chaos and panic, their strange, grinding roars adding to the terrifying symphony of destruction. They did not burn indiscriminately; their attacks were focused, tactical, designed to break the will to resist, to clear the path for the Shadow Legion.
The psychological impact was devastating. Pentoshi guards threw down their weapons and fled. Sailors leaped from their burning ships into the bay. The city, moments before stirring from its festive slumber, was plunged into a nightmare of fire, shadow, and the primordial terror of dragons.
Within Illyrio's manse, Shadowfoot's team, aided by the pandemonium outside, fought their way towards the Magister's private chambers. They encountered fierce resistance from Illyrio's elite eunuch guard, but the Obsidian Phantoms among them, their movements silent and deadly, their obsidian blades finding every gap in armor, carved a bloody path. Shadowfoot herself, a whirlwind of lethal grace, reached Illyrio's door just as the Magister, a grotesque figure of porcine flesh and terrified disbelief, was attempting to flee via a secret passage.
Viserys, having landed Balerion in the manse's central courtyard amidst a scene of carnage and terrified, prostrating servants, confronted Illyrio in his opulent, now ransacked, throne room. The fat Magister, his silks torn, his face slick with sweat and fear, groveled at Viserys's feet.
"Mercy, Your Grace, mercy!" he wheezed, the title he had once mockingly bestowed upon a powerless exile now a desperate plea.
Viserys looked down at him, his violet eyes as cold and hard as obsidian. "Mercy, Magister?" Alistair Finch's voice, if it still existed, was silent. This was Viserys Targaryen, the Dragon, come for his due. "You, who sold my sister to the Dothraki? You, who plotted to place a puppet on my throne? You, who grew fat on the misery of others? Where was your mercy then?"
He did not kill Illyrio immediately. The Magister, Viserys knew, was a treasure trove of information. For the next hour, with Kipp and Archivist present to record every word, and with the subtle, terrifying pressure of Viserys's mental "sensing" stripping away every layer of deception, Illyrio Mopatis confessed everything: his vast network of spies and informants stretching from the Jade Sea to the Iron Islands, his secret alliances with Dothraki Khals and Westerosi lords, his hidden caches of wealth, his complex dealings with Varys, and the full, convoluted truth behind the "Young Griff" conspiracy. It was, Viserys learned with a grim satisfaction, a Blackfyre plot, as Alistair had long suspected – "Aegon" was no son of Rhaegar, but a descendant of Daemon Blackfyre, meticulously groomed by Varys and Illyrio to be their pliable instrument in the game of thrones.
The fate of "Young Griff" and Jon Connington was swift and brutal. Alerted by Kipp's agents to their presence in a fortified wing of the manse, Draq and a company of Shadow Legionnaires stormed their refuge. Connington, ever the loyal griffin, fought fiercely to protect his young charge, but he was no match for the disciplined, fanatical assault of the obsidian-armed warriors. He fell, riddled with wounds. "Young Griff," the boy who would be king, was dragged before Viserys, terrified but still attempting a semblance of royal dignity. Viserys looked at him, at the dark hair (dyed, Illyrio had confessed), the violet eyes (achieved through Lysene eye-dyes), the carefully coached mannerisms. He saw not a kinsman, not even a worthy rival, but a fraud, a dangerous illusion that threatened to complicate his own righteous claim. There was no trial. Morrec's obsidian blade ended the Blackfyre dream with a single, silent stroke.
With Illyrio and his pretender dealt with, the Phoenix Company systematically looted Pentos. Ledger and his teams, guided by Illyrio's coerced confessions and captured ledgers, emptied the Magister's vaults, his warehouses, his hidden strongrooms across the city. The sheer scale of the wealth was staggering, far exceeding even what they had taken from his main vault previously. Gold, gems, priceless artifacts, deeds to properties across Essos, ledgers detailing debts owed to Illyrio by half the merchant princes of the Free Cities – it was a king's ransom, a war chest that would fund Viserys's Westerosi campaign for years to come. Kipp's agents, meanwhile, worked tirelessly to identify and either neutralize or "turn" Illyrio's key informants and operatives within Pentos, dismantling his vast intelligence network from the inside out.
Viserys had no intention of occupying Pentos permanently. It was too large, too volatile, too far from his primary base. His goal was to decapitate Illyrio's power, seize his assets, and deliver an unforgettable message. Before departing, he convened the remaining, terrified Pentoshi Magisters. He did not demand their fealty. He simply informed them that the "reign of Illyrio Mopatis" was over, that a "new power had arisen in the South," and that any future Pentoshi interference with Phoenix Company interests or any support for rival claimants to the Iron Throne would be met with… "a response of considerably greater magnitude." He then installed a relatively pliable, minor Magister, one who had secretly provided Kipp with information against Illyrio, as the new "Prince of Pentos," a figurehead whose strings Viserys could now pull from afar.
The departure of the Phoenix Armada from Pentos, laden with plunder and leaving behind a city stunned into terrified submission, was as swift and silent as its arrival. The news of the assault, however, and the unbelievable reappearance of dragons over a major Essosi city, spread like wildfire. Disbelief warred with terror. Varys, in King's Landing, would undoubtedly receive word with chilling clarity. The other Free Cities, particularly Volantis and Tyrosh, would look south with new apprehension. The Iron Bank of Braavos, Viserys knew, would be recalculating all its Essosi investments.
Aboard the Balerion, sailing back towards Dragon's Aerie, Viserys stood on the quarterdeck, Daenerys by his side, their six young dragons (now sated from their first taste of true, fiery dominance) soaring in powerful circles overhead. He had done it. He had struck down a major rival, secured immense wealth, eliminated a pretender, and announced the return of dragons to the world in the most dramatic fashion imaginable. The Serpent of Pentos had fallen, and the Dragon's first true roar had shaken the foundations of Essos.
The price, of course, had been steep. Pentoshi lives had been lost, though Viserys had focused his dragons' fire on military targets and Illyrio's infrastructure, minimizing civilian casualties where strategically possible. Some of his own Phoenix Guard and Shadow Legionnaires had fallen. But Alistair Finch's voice was now a barely audible whisper against the triumphant roar of Viserys Targaryen, Dragonlord, Conqueror. He had stepped fully out of the shadows, no longer just a hidden hand, but a declared power, a force that could no longer be ignored. The Game of Thrones had been irrevocably altered. The path to Westeros was now clearer, but also illuminated by the terrifying, undeniable light of dragonfire, drawing the eyes, and the enmity, of the entire world. He felt the weight of this new reality, the immense burden of the power he now wielded, but his resolve was absolute. The forging of his kingdom, and the reclamation of his birthright, had just entered its most dangerous, and most exhilarating, phase.