Chapter 15: A Wyrm's Heart, A Smoking Sea's Call
Two years. Two years since King Baelon I Targaryen had ascended the Iron Throne, his reign a black frost that had settled deep into the bones of Westeros. The initial terror had solidified into a grim, unwavering obedience. The foundations of his Obsidian Citadel, a new, brooding wing of the Red Keep designed with Valyrian principles and arcane geometries, were now being laid by an army of stonemasons who worked with a fearful diligence, their hammers echoing like the heartbeat of the King's unyielding will. From his solar, Baelon could oversee their labor, a testament to his long-term vision, a fortress not just of stone, but of power and secrets. At twenty-two, he was the undisputed master of the Seven Kingdoms, yet his gaze was increasingly fixed on horizons far beyond the shores of this mundane continent.
The quest for immortality, the true legacy of Lord Voldemort, consumed his private hours. The Tear of a Shadow-Cat lay preserved in a magically chilled coffer, its sorrowful essence a potent catalyst for the Valyrian longevity ritual he was piecing together from the glyphs in Umbraxys's sub-dimensional lair. The second ingredient, the heart of a firewyrm, had proven elusive, spoken of only in hushed whispers and fragmented texts.
Then Larys Strong, his invaluable Master of Whisperers, brought news. "Your Grace," the Clubfoot had murmured, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves, "my agents on Dragonstone, those who observe Princess Rhaenyra's… household… report the local fisherfolk speak of increased firewyrm activity in the volcanic vents of the Dragonmont's eastern slopes. Several sheep have been lost, their bones found charred and picked clean. They say the mountain grows restless."
A rare flicker of genuine interest lit Baelon's pale eyes. Dragonstone. The seat of the heir, currently occupied by his half-sister. An opportunity to procure his ingredient and to assess Rhaenyra's growing family and influence.
"Excellent, Lord Larys," Baelon said. "Prepare a royal progress to Dragonstone. For too long I have neglected my sister and my ancestral seat. It is time I paid them a visit. The official reason will be to inspect the island's defenses and offer solace to the fisherfolk troubled by these… pests."
The journey was made on Silverwing, the great silver dragon cutting a majestic swathe through the sky. Umbraxys remained in its obsidian lair, a silent, watchful presence linked to Baelon's mind, its senses a hidden extension of his own. He did not require its physical presence for this task; his own formidable abilities, augmented by the Valyrian energies he now commanded, would suffice.
Dragonstone, when he arrived, was a stark, volcanic fortress, its black towers stark against the grey sea. Rhaenyra received him with all due ceremony, her husband Laenor Velaryon at her side, looking somewhat strained but dutiful. Her sons – Jacaerys, now a strapping lad of nearly ten, Lucerys, a quieter boy of nine, and young Joffrey, a toddler with his mother's silver hair and, suspiciously, Ser Harwin Strong's pugnacious features – were presented. Rhaenyra herself, now a woman in her mid-twenties, possessed a mature beauty and a queenly confidence, though Baelon detected an undercurrent of wariness in her eyes.
"Your Grace," Rhaenyra said, offering a deep curtsy. "Dragonstone is honored by your presence. We had heard tales of your… decisive actions in the Reach. The realm is… quiet under your hand."
"Quiet is conducive to order, sister," Baelon replied, his gaze sweeping over her sons. "And these are fine boys. Strong and healthy. They do House Velaryon credit." The subtle emphasis on 'Strong' was not lost on Rhaenyra, whose cheeks flushed faintly.
The official duties were dispatched with Baelon's usual efficiency. He inspected the garrison, listened to the exaggerated tales of the fisherfolk, and made pronouncements of royal protection. Then, he announced his intention to hunt the firewyrm himself.
"It is a dangerous beast, Your Grace," Laenor cautioned, his concern genuine. "Perhaps the Dragonkeepers…"
"I am a Targaryen, Ser Laenor," Baelon said, a hint of steel in his voice. "And I am King. If my subjects are threatened by such creatures on my own ancestral lands, it is my duty to deal with them. Besides," he added, a thin smile touching his lips, "I find such… vigorous pursuits… invigorating."
The hunt took him high into the smoking caldera of the Dragonmont, a landscape of twisted lava flows and sulfurous vents. Silverwing, surprisingly at ease in the geothermal heat, proved a nimble mount. He tracked the firewyrm to its lair, a deep fissure glowing with an infernal red light. The creature was larger than expected, a serpentine beast of living flame and obsidian scales, its eyes burning with malevolent intelligence.
It lunged from the fissure with a roar that echoed off the volcanic peaks, spewing a torrent of molten rock and superheated gas. Silverwing, under Baelon's precise mental command, dodged with contemptuous ease. This was not a battle of brute force, but of will and superior magic. Voldemort, drawing upon the Valyrian energies that now saturated his being, met the firewyrm's elemental fury with his own.
He spoke a single word, a Valyrian incantation of binding and quenching, his voice resonating with an unnatural power that made the very air shimmer. A wave of icy shadow, drawn from the deepest well of his will and tinged with Umbraxys's distant power, washed over the firewyrm. The creature shrieked, its flames dimming, its movements becoming sluggish as the unnatural cold sapped its strength. It was a technique he had been perfecting, a fusion of his old Dark Arts and the elemental control of Valyrian sorcery.
Before the stunned eyes of the few retainers he had allowed to accompany him (kept at a safe distance), King Baelon dismounted Silverwing, strode towards the weakened, hissing firewyrm, and with another whispered Valyrian command, plunged a specially prepared, enchanted blade of dragonglass into its heart. The beast convulsed, its inner fire extinguishing with a final, sorrowful hiss, leaving behind only a smoking, scaled carcass.
He personally carved out the heart, a pulsating organ still radiating immense heat, its core a fist-sized gem of solidified magma. The onlookers, including a visibly shaken Ser Harwin Strong who had insisted on accompanying Rhaenyra's royal brother, watched in horrified awe. This was not merely a king; this was a sorcerer, a dragon-lord of terrifying power.
His return to the castle of Dragonstone with the firewyrm's heart was met with a mixture of fear and adulation. Rhaenyra looked at him with a new, profound unease. She had always known he was different, cold, unnervingly intelligent. But this display of raw, almost supernatural power was something else entirely.
Back in King's Landing, the firewyrm's heart joined the Tear of the Shadow-Cat in Baelon's secure vault. Two ingredients down. Only the volcanic crystals from the heart of Valyria itself remained – the most dangerous, the most crucial.
While Baelon was on Dragonstone, the simmering pot of Aemond Targaryen's rage had boiled over in Maegor's Holdfast. Confined for nearly a year, separated from Vhagar, his days filled with tedious lessons and the burning humiliation of his punishment, Aemond had reached his breaking point. He had brutally assaulted two of his guards, nearly killing one, in a desperate, failed attempt to reach the Dragonpit. He had been subdued only after a fierce struggle, his one eye blazing with a mad fury.
Queen Dowager Alicent, frantic, had thrown herself at Lord Lyonel Strong's feet, begging for mercy for her son, pleading that his spirit was being broken. When Baelon returned, the Hand presented the matter with grave concern.
King Baelon listened impassively. He then summoned Aemond. The prince was brought in chains, his face bruised, his clothes torn, but his one eye still radiating an untamed defiance.
"You continue to disappoint me, Aemond," Baelon said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Rage is a tool for the weak, a luxury for fools. You possess Vhagar, the greatest dragon in the world, yet you behave like a common kennel cur, snapping at any hand that approaches."
"You keep me chained like a cur!" Aemond spat. "You keep Vhagar from me! What am I, if not a dragonrider?"
"You are a prince of the blood, and currently, a prisoner whose life is forfeit at my whim," Baelon replied icily. "Your actions have consequences." He paused, a thoughtful, almost cruel expression on his face. "However, perhaps your… spirit… requires a different outlet. A more… focused one." He looked at Aemond, a new, chilling idea forming in his mind. "I am contemplating a perilous journey, Aemond. One that requires courage, a powerful dragon, and a certain… disregard for one's own safety. Qualities you seem to possess in abundance, if misdirected."
Aemond's eye narrowed. "What journey?"
"That is for me to know. But if you were to swear an unbreakable oath of fealty to me, not just as your King, but as your absolute master, if you were to bind Vhagar's will to mine through yours… perhaps your chains could be loosened. Perhaps Vhagar could fly again. Under my command." He was offering Aemond a sliver of what he craved, but at the price of his complete subjugation. It was a dangerous gamble, but Aemond, he sensed, was a creature who would thrive on danger, even if it meant serving the man he hated.
Aemond stared at him, the conflict raging in his single eye. Freedom, Vhagar… versus utter submission.
Before Aemond could answer, news arrived from the Stepstones that demanded the King's immediate attention. Daemon, it seemed, had not only fortified the islands and terrorized the Triarchy into submission, but had also begun styling himself 'King of the Narrow Sea' once more, albeit this time as a 'Viceroy' of King Baelon. He had established a lavish, brutal court on Bloodstone, his gold cloaks acting as his personal army, and was now reportedly negotiating independent treaties with Braavos and Lorath, effectively bypassing the Iron Throne. His 'tributes' to the Crown had dwindled to a trickle.
"Your Grace," Lord Lyonel said gravely, "Prince Daemon's actions are a direct challenge to your authority. He carves out his own kingdom."
Voldemort listened, a slow, cold anger building within him. Daemon's arrogance was predictable, but this level of defiance, after his explicit warnings, was intolerable. The Rogue Prince needed to be brought to heel, permanently. But a direct military confrontation in the Stepstones would be costly and divert resources from Baelon's more important pursuits.
He looked at Aemond, still standing in chains before him, the unspoken offer hanging in the air. An idea, audacious and terrible, began to form. Two birds, one Valyrian stone.
"Aemond," King Baelon said, his voice like silk draped over steel. "Your uncle Daemon has grown… ambitious. He forgets to whom he swore fealty. Perhaps a demonstration of Targaryen family unity is required. A reminder, delivered personally, of the consequences of broken oaths." He smiled, a predator's grin. "How would you like to deliver that message, Prince Aemond? You, on Vhagar, as my emissary, my right hand of justice… against your uncle Daemon and Caraxes?"
Aemond's one eye widened, a flicker of disbelief, then a dawning, savage understanding. To be unleashed, to ride Vhagar into battle, even against his own infamous uncle… it was a temptation too potent to resist. The hatred for Daemon, who had always overshadowed him, who possessed the charisma and freedom Aemond craved, was almost as strong as his hatred for Baelon. To prove himself against such a legendary warrior…
"What are your terms, Your Grace?" Aemond asked, his voice hoarse.
"Unconditional fealty. An unbreakable vow, sealed in blood and magic. Vhagar's leash will be held by me, through you. And you will carry out my will, without question, without hesitation, against any foe I name. Even Daemon. Especially Daemon."
The decision to finally confront Daemon directly, and the potential use of Aemond as his unwilling, hate-fueled weapon, overshadowed even the quest for the Valyrian crystals. But as Baelon contemplated the treacherous waters of the Smoking Sea, he knew that journey was inevitable. The heart of the firewyrm pulsed in its coffer, a warm counterpoint to the icy Tear of the Shadow-Cat. The call of Valyria, the promise of its ultimate secrets, was a siren song he could not ignore for long.
His reign was entering a new phase. The initial consolidation was complete. Now came the expansion of his power, the elimination of lingering threats, and the relentless pursuit of his own dark apotheosis. The Obsidian Citadel was rising, a monument to his will. The world was slowly bending. And soon, he would embark on the most perilous quest of all, to the haunted heart of the fallen empire, to claim the final ingredient that would unlock eternity.