[112] Blood of the Dragon

Chapter 112: Blood of the Dragon

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The wind whipped through my hair as Viserion soared above the Flat Lands, her golden scales catching the sunlight in dazzling patterns.

Beside us, Drogon's massive black form cut through the sky, his crimson wings extended like blood-soaked banners.

I inhaled the air, savoring the rush of coolness filling my lungs.

This—this was power. This was what it meant to be Targaryen. To ride the winds, to command fire made flesh, to look down upon the world with the eyes of a god.

With my sister flying beside me, that fact was more evident than the first time I flew.

Daenerys rode astride Drogon with some unease since she was still new to the feeling, her silver-gold hair streaming behind her like a banner. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in her posture and the careful way she held herself. Her left arm—the one I'd broken—moved with calculated precision, healed but not forgotten.

She turned, catching me watching her. “....”

Even with eyes shadowed by exhaustion and face hardened by suffering, my sister remained breathtaking. The Meereenese dress she wore accentuated curves that had matured since her marriage to Drogo, her body no longer that of the frightened girl I'd sold to a warlord.

If we got down to the specifics, that was the original Viserys—the one who hadn’t awakened the true memories. But that didn’t help the anger that I felt toward the imbeciles who’d arranged that entire situation..

Drogon banked closer to Viserion, close enough that I could hear Daenerys's voice carrying over the rush of wind.

"Are you certain about Rhaegal’s location?" she called, her voice tinged with worry and hope in equal measure. "Your information—can we really trust it?"

I gave her my most confident smile. "My sweet sister, when have I ever led you astray?" At her raised eyebrow, I laughed. "Fine, don't answer that. But yes, I'm certain. The pretender has been hiding in Pentos all this time, gathering strength."

"With Illyrio…?" she said, her tone flat.

"With our dear friend Illyrio, yes," I confirmed, enjoying the flash of betrayal in her eyes. "The man who housed us, fed us, clothed us—all while plotting to place a false dragon on the throne. The man who suggested the Dothraki marriage idea to us."

Daenerys's gaze drifted to the endless blue expanse below us. "I should have seen it. He was too generous, too concerned with our welfare."

"Don't blame yourself," I said, surprising myself with the genuine tone. "You were a child. You were my responsibility, but I let my greed for the throne cloud my visions. I… we were pawns to them all—Illyrio, Varys, even Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. All moving pieces on a board, thinking they controlled the game."

She looked at me curiously but didn’t say anything.

I guided Viserion closer to Drogon, our dragons flying nearly wing to wing. "We’ve had our differences lately, sister. But," I gestured to the dragons beneath us, "we are the blood of Old Valyria reborn. The last Targaryens. Whatever stands between us and what is ours must burn. Let’s show our false nephew just that."

Her violet eyes—so like mine—studied me with a wariness that had only partially faded since our reconciliation. "Is that why we're flying to Pentos? To burn it?"

"I’m not sure," I assured her with a casual wave. "Strategically speaking, we need to eliminate Aegon before he can join forces with Dorne. My little niece Arianne is currently enjoying my hospitality in King's Landing, which has Doran Martell quite upset. For everyone’s sake, I want to be done with Aegon fast. However… that might create a Dance."

She was silent for a long moment, the only sound the rhythmic beating of dragon wings and the wind rushing past us.

"Do you ever think about what Father would make of us now?" she asked suddenly, her voice softer. "His son and daughter, returned with dragons?"

The question caught me off guard.

Aerys Targaryen—the Mad King—wasn't someone I'd given much thought to beyond strategic considerations. Till death, he'd been a cautionary tale, a madman Daenerys had tried desperately not to emulate in the original timeline. But failed, in the end.

"He would be proud," I said finally. "And likely as mad as ever. Perhaps it's better he didn't live to see this day. Three dragons and two riders might have pushed him further into paranoia. You wouldn’t know, but father was incredibly cautious of brother Rhaegar… he thought Rhaegar wanted to kill him for the throne."

A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I never believed the rumors about father before, but Ser Barristan shed some light on those stories. They’re not false… I was quite bothered when he told me the truth…” She added a moment later, “By the way, I feel the need to clear this given your tone about three dragons and two riders… Rhaegal is still mine, captive or not."

The possessiveness in her voice amused me. "Of course, dear sister. Our dragons. Our birthright. Our conquest."

She arched an eyebrow. "That is not what I just said."

"What is yours is mine, sister.” I shrugged, “You're my blood, and you belong to me. And let’s not fight over this, Drogon will get confused. The dragons have always been strongest together. And they can choose their own riders."

For once, Dany laughed. She giggled as she looked ahead, and only a moment later did she catch herself. Surprise crossed over her expression, and she frowned to herself.

I smiled but didn’t say anything. For all my planning, manipulations, and advancements through the System's rewards, there was something gratifying about family interactions.

Daenerys's expression softened a moment later. "I… used to dream of flying, you know. Even before the dragons hatched. Dreams of soaring above the clouds, free of fear, free of chains."

"And now we fly together," I said, giving her a small smile. "As we were always meant to."

She didn't reply.

"I promise you, Dany," I said, using the nickname deliberately, watching how it made her eyes soften further. "I'll get our Rhaegal back. Then we’ll take over the world, maybe?"

Even as I spoke, I noticed the doubt lingering in her eyes.

The caution of a woman who had learned the hard way that promises were as fragile as chicken eggs, and far more easily broken.

I didn't blame her for her wariness. The old Viserys had been cruel, selfish, and weak. I was building something different, something stronger.

Whether she accepted that or not was her choice, but I would prove it through action, not words.

"We're nearly there," I called, pointing ahead to where the coastline of Pentos had appeared on the horizon, the jewel of Pentos glittering in the distance.

"Hold tight on top of Dragon,” I added. “It's time to remind the world what happens to those who steal from a Targaryen."

****

The guards of the Golden Company stood atop the eastern wall of Illyrio Mopatis's sprawling estate, their gold-painted armor gleaming dully in the fading light. Most were relaxed, their postures betraying the tedium of their duty.

After all, who would dare attack the estate of Pentos's wealthiest magister?

"Another night of nothing," yawned one, leaning against a merlon. "I tell you, this babysitting duty is worse than actual combat."

The guards didn't understand why their commanders had left them here to guard Illyrio. Who'd want him dead so much that he'd need the Golden Company's protection?

His companion chuckled, taking a swig from a wineskin. "Better pay, though. And better food than we ever got campaigning in the Disputed Lands."

“Yeah,” he replied. “That makes–”

His words were interrupted and their casual conversation died as a sudden roar split the evening air, deep and primal. It was a sound none of them had heard before, yet instinctively recognized as danger.

"What in seven hells—"

The guard's words caught in his throat as the sky above Pentos brightened with golden and crimson reflections.

Every man on the wall stood frozen, faces upturned in shock and dawning horror as two massive shapes circled overhead, their massive wings blotting out the stars.

"Dragons," whispered one, his wineskin slipping from nerveless fingers to spill across the stones. "Two fucking dragons."

The creatures roared again in unison, the sound resonating through bone and sinew, awakening a primal fear none of them had known existed within them.

No amount of gold could compensate for this.

****

I guided Daenerys through the shadowed halls of Illyrio's mansion, our footsteps silent on the rich Myrish carpets.

We'd landed our dragons far from the estate, commanding them to circle the city and create as much chaos as possible with their presence alone.

The distraction was working beautifully. Most of the guards had abandoned their posts, rushing toward the walls to gawk at the first dragons seen in Pentos in centuries.

The few who remained were easily avoided, thanks to my enhanced senses and intimate knowledge of the mansion's layout.

"This way," I whispered, pulling Daenerys close as we flattened ourselves against a wall, allowing a pair of hurried servants to rush past without seeing us.

Her body pressed against mine, warm and soft despite the lean muscle beneath.

The scent of her—a mixture of dragon smoke, wind, and something uniquely Daenerys—filled my senses, stirring memories of our childhood times back in King's Landing. Her breasts rose and fell with each quick breath, her lips parted slightly as she waited for my signal to move.

"I remember this place differently," she murmured, her eyes scanning the opulent corridor with its gilded sconces and priceless tapestries. "It seemed so much larger when we were children."

"We were smaller then," I replied. "In every way imaginable."

We moved through the mansion like wraiths, our knowledge of its layout helpful from the years we'd spent as Illyrio's "honored guests"—actually his prisoners, though we hadn't realized it at the time.

I led us through a servants' passage, emerging into the central wing where Illyrio kept his private chambers. The Magister had always valued his comforts above all else, and his bedroom reflected that excess.

His bedroom was a space large enough to house three separate featherbeds, walls covered in erotic frescoes from the Summer Isles, and furnishings made from the rarest woods in the world.

We paused at a corner, hearing voices ahead.  “No… no…”

Peering around, I saw Illyrio himself standing on his private balcony.

His massive, fat body was wrapped in a silk dressing gown that strained against the rolls of his body. He was staring skyward, his expression a mixture of fear and calculation as the dragons' roars echoed across the city.

"Seven fucking hells," he was muttering, his chins quivering with agitation. "This complicates everything. How did they find—" He broke off, turning to bark orders at a servant. "Find Captain Strickland immediately! Tell him to secure the package and prepare for immediate departure!"

I placed a finger to my lips, signaling Daenerys to remain silent as we slipped into the room. The servant rushed out, never noticing our entrance.

Illyrio remained on the balcony, his back to us, still cursing under his breath.

We moved behind him.

"Good evening, Magister," I called pleasantly, enjoying how he froze at the sound of my voice. "I hope we aren't interrupting anything important."

Illyrio turned slowly, his face paling beneath his yellow beard as he took in the sight of us standing in his bedchamber.

His eyes darted between us, finally settling on Daenerys.

"My dear princess," he said, his voice strained as he attempted a bow that his girth made nearly impossible. "What an unexpected pleasure. And King Viserys as well. To what do I owe this honor?"

I strode forward, letting my fingers trail across a table laden with exotic fruits and wines. "Come now, Illyrio. Let's not play games. We both know why we're here."

"I'm afraid I don't—"

"Aegon," Daenerys interrupted, her voice cold as northern steel. "The boy you claim is my brother's son. Where is he?"

Illyrio's face underwent a fascinating transformation, fear and calculation warring beneath the surface before settling into an expression of wounded innocence.

"Your brother's son is alive?! Princess, I assure you, I have no knowledge of any—"

I closed the distance between us in two swift strides, my hand shooting out to grasp his fleshy throat.

His eyes bulged as I lifted him slightly, his toes barely scraping the marble floor.

“You're wasting our time. I'm not a patient man these days, Illyrio," I said, smiling widely as I tightened my grip. "And I find that honesty saves everyone so much time and suffering. Where is the pretender?"

"I don't—" he choked, his face reddening.

"Viserys," Daenerys said sharply. "We need information. He can't provide it if he's dead."

I ignored her, keeping my eyes locked on Illyrio's. "Last chance, old ‘friend’. Where is Aegon? Where is the stolen dragon?"

His hands clawed ineffectually at my wrist, his strength nothing compared to my System-enhanced body.

Despite his huge size advantage, I held him as easily as a child might hold a doll.

"Never," he wheezed, something like defiance flashing in his eyes. "You'll never... find him."

I could see in that moment—something in his eyes, a father's desperate protection. I'd suspected it for a while from the show, but this confirmed it.

It wasn't just political scheming; this was personal for Illyrio. The kind of personal that only comes from blood.

"A shame," I sighed, before twisting sharply.

The crack echoed through the chamber as Illyrio's neck snapped, his body going limp in my grasp. I let him drop to the floor, a massive heap of flesh now devoid of life.

"Brother!" Daenerys gasped, her eyes wide with shock. "Why did you do that? We needed to question him further!"

I turned to her, brushing imaginary dust from my hands. "A good father would never sell his son out," I said calmly, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. "Yes, sister. I believe our fat friend here was actually ‘Aegon's’ father. A Blackfyre plot wrapped in a Targaryen disguise."

"But— no, how can you be sure?" she asked, looking down at Illyrio's corpse with newfound comprehension.

"I’m the King, of course I have my ways," I replied vaguely. "Besides, interrogation would have been pointless. I already know where he is."

"What?" Her confusion was evident. "How?"

In answer, I slowly walked to the balcony, pointing to the distant sky where a small silhouette was visible, flying away from the city in the opposite direction from where our dragons circled.

"There."

I'd heard the sound of wings flapping with my enhanced ears.

Daenerys rushed to my side, her body pressing against me as she followed my gesture.

Her breath caught as she recognized the shape—a dragon, smaller than either Drogon or Viserion, but unmistakable with its green scales barely visible in the moonlight.

"R-Rhaegal," she whispered, her voice breaking on the name.

"Yes," I confirmed, watching the distant figure grow smaller as it fled. "And with him, the pretender who wants my throne."

A dragon neither of us controlled, ridden by a man claiming to be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

I could feel Daenerys trembling beside me, her eyes never leaving the retreating form of her stolen child.

But he wouldn't be retreating for long as I took off to the air with Daenerys in my arms.

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