Chapter 42: The Black Queen's Rise, The Green King's Claim, and the Shadow's Harvest (Dance of the Dragons: Part 1)
The fragile peace of King Viserys I Targaryen's reign, already strained to breaking point by the bitter factionalism between the greens and the blacks, shattered definitively with the Old King's last, rattling breath in 109 AC. The news, meticulously gathered by Tibbit's agents within the Red Keep – house-elves glamoured as scullions and bedchamber servants, their senses missing nothing – reached Aelyx Velaryon in his Skagosi sanctuary with preternatural speed, days before the official ravens took flight. Viserys was dead. The Dance of the Dragons had begun.
Aelyx received the tidings in the Obsidian Council Chamber of Mount Skatus, surrounded by Lyanna and his eight immortal children. The vast, magically illuminated map of Westeros shimmered before them, King's Landing now a point of angry, festering light.
"The King is dead," Aelyx announced, his voice devoid of emotion, yet resonating with the gravity of the moment. "The Greens will move swiftly. Alicent and Otto Hightower will not hesitate to crown Aegon. Rhaenyra will be caught unawares on Dragonstone. The storm Lyra and Daenys have long foreseen is now upon us."
His daughters, their faces pale but their eyes clear with the visions that had haunted them for years, nodded in unison. "The Green Council convenes in secret even now, Father," Lyra whispered. "They will hide the King's death until Aegon sits the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra's supporters in the capital will be imprisoned or slain."
Daenys added, her voice a breathy echo, "I see black sails unfurling at Dragonstone, a Queen crowned in sorrow and fury. Ravens will fly, demanding allegiance. The realm will bleed."
Aelyx's violet eyes, ancient and calculating, surveyed his powerful offspring. "The Targaryens will now endeavor to destroy themselves and their dragons with a fervor only kinslayers can achieve. It will be a tragedy for Westeros, a brutal spectacle of fire and blood. But for us, for House Volmark, for the eternal future of Skagos, it is also… an opportunity."
A predatory stillness settled over the chamber. His children knew that look. It was the look that had preceded the acquisition of thirty thousand slaves, the conquest of Skagos, the methodical looting of Valyria's ruins.
"The dragons of House Targaryen," Aelyx continued, his voice a low, dangerous purr, "are a legacy squandered, a power about to be catastrophically diminished by their own folly. Many will die in this coming war. Their eggs, the future of their bloodlines, will be neglected, endangered, perhaps even deliberately destroyed in the chaos. This, we cannot permit. Valyrian heritage, the fire of the dragon, is too precious to be extinguished by mortal ambition and shortsighted hatred."
Visenya Volmark, her silver-gold hair crackling with suppressed energy, leaned forward. "You intend to… intervene, Father? To claim these eggs?"
"Not intervene, Visenya," Aelyx corrected, a cold smile touching his lips. "Intervention implies taking a side, revealing our hand. We remain neutral, unseen. But we shall… preserve. We shall rescue these nascent lives from the inferno their own kin are about to unleash. We will bring as many Targaryen dragon eggs as can be safely acquired under the protection of Skagos, to be nurtured within our own hatcheries, to add their potent bloodlines to our own burgeoning draconic legions. Let the Greens and the Blacks decimate each other's adult dragons; we shall safeguard the future of the species, for our future."
It was an audacious plan, fraught with unimaginable risk. To steal dragon eggs from under the noses of two warring Targaryen factions, each possessing formidable dragons and Valyrian suspicions, was to dance on the edge of a volcano. But Aelyx had planned for this contingency for decades.
"Aenar, Rhaenys," Aelyx commanded, turning to his master enchanter son and his illusionist daughter. "You will lead the primary acquisition team. Your targets: Dragonstone first, and then, if a window of extreme opportunity presents itself, the Dragonpit in King's Landing. Dragonstone is Rhaenyra's seat; it will be heavily guarded, but her focus will be on mustering her forces and securing alliances. The Dragonpit is the Greens' lair, far more perilous, but it houses many of their key dragons."
He continued, his voice crisp with orders. "You will take a handpicked team: twenty of our most skilled Shadow Guard" – the elite, magically adept descendants who formed the sanctuary's secret police and special operations forces – "and fifty of Tibbit's most accomplished house-elves, those masters of infiltration, apparition, and silent neutralization. Your transport will be a single, heavily enchanted Skagosi stealth-carrack, the Nightwing, capable of silent running and illusionary cloaking. It will remain hidden in the coves of the Narrow Sea, while house-elf apparition teams make the final incursions."
"The risks, Father…" Torrhen Volmark (Aelyx's son, now an ancient immortal himself, having long ago faked his public death as the second Lord Volmark) began, his brow furrowed.
"Are calculated, and outweighed by the potential gain," Aelyx interrupted smoothly. "The chaos of the Dance will be our shield. Both factions will be too consumed with each other to notice subtle losses, if the operation is executed with flawless precision. Lyra and Daenys will provide constant greensight support, warning of patrols, of unforeseen dangers. Your mother and I will monitor your progress, ready to lend our own power to shield your retreat if disaster strikes. But there will be no disaster. You will succeed."
While Aenar and Rhaenys began their meticulous preparations, selecting their team, reviewing ancient maps of Dragonstone's volcanic caves and the rumored layout of the Dragonpit's hatcheries, events in the south unfolded with the grim inevitability Aelyx had foreseen.
Queen Alicent Hightower and her Green Council, led by her father Ser Otto, concealed King Viserys's death for seven days. In that time, they secured the treasury, arrested Rhaenyra's loyalists at court, and prepared for the coronation of Alicent's eldest son, Aegon. Prince Aegon Targaryen, a pleasure-loving youth with little appetite for rule, was reluctantly crowned King Aegon II in the Dragonpit before a carefully assembled crowd, Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a staunch Green supporter, placing the Conqueror's Valyrian steel circlet upon his head.
When news of her father's death and her half-brother's usurpation finally reached Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, her grief turned to cold fury. She suffered a stillbirth, her rage and sorrow fueling her determination. On Dragonstone, surrounded by her own supporters – her husband Prince Daemon, Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys, and her own sons – Rhaenyra was crowned Queen with her father's crown (brought to her by a defecting Kingsguard knight). Her Black Council was formed, and ravens flew across Westeros, demanding the lords honor their oaths and declare for their rightful Queen.
The realm began to cleave. Houses declared for Green or Black, some driven by loyalty, some by ambition, some by fear. The first blood of the Dance was soon to be spilled.
It was into this maelstrom of rising chaos that Aelyx's egg acquisition team departed Skagos. The Nightwing, under a cloak of illusionary mist woven by Rhaenys, slipped silently into the turbulent waters of the Narrow Sea, its destination the smoking volcano of Dragonstone.
Dragonstone, the ancient Targaryen stronghold, was a hive of activity. Rhaenyra was mustering her forces, her dragons – Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys, and the young dragons of her sons – a constant, awe-inspiring presence in the skies above the island. Security was tight, but Aelyx's team had advantages. They possessed detailed, magically acquired schematics of the Dragonmont's caves and the known nesting sites, some dating back to Old Valyria, preserved in Aelyx's archives. And they had house-elves.
Under the cover of stormy nights, small teams of house-elves, led by Tibbit himself (appearing as a wizened shadow), apparated silently into the deeper, less guarded sections of the Dragonmont. They moved like ghosts, bypassing wards with their innate magic, their senses keenly attuned to the presence of dragon eggs. They targeted the nests of riderless dragons, or those whose riders were currently occupied with Rhaenyra's war councils. Aenar, from a magically shielded temporary hideout on a nearby islet, used his enchanting skills to remotely disable minor alarm glyphs, while Rhaenys wove subtle illusions to misdirect any stray patrols.
It was perilous work. The heat from the volcanic vents was intense. Mother dragons were fiercely protective. On one occasion, a house-elf team narrowly avoided incineration when the wild dragon Sheepstealer, whose lair they had inadvertently approached, unleashed a torrent of flame. Another team encountered the Cannibal, the most feared of Dragonstone's wild dragons, and only escaped by instantly apparating away, leaving behind their carefully prepared stasis containers.
But their successes outweighed their failures. One by one, precious dragon eggs – some obsidian black, some emerald green with bronze swirls, some pale cream striated with gold, some even a startling sapphire blue from a clutch laid by a younger, riderless she-dragon – were carefully collected, placed in magically cushioned and temperature-controlled stasis boxes, and apparated back to the Nightwing. Aelyx, monitoring through a scrying pool in Mount Skatus, felt a grim satisfaction with each successful acquisition. These were not mere eggs; they were the future, genetic treasures being rescued from a dynasty determined to immolate itself.
While the egg heist on Dragonstone continued in deepest secrecy, the first tragic act of the Dance of the Dragons played out publicly, further deepening the schism and providing Aelyx's team with more cover. Both Aegon II and Rhaenyra sent their sons as envoys to Storm's End to secure the allegiance of Lord Borros Baratheon. Rhaenyra's younger son, Prince Lucerys Velaryon, arrived on his small dragon Arrax, only to find his uncle, Prince Aemond Targaryen, Alicent's son, already there with the colossal, ancient Vhagar. Lord Borros, a gruff, unlettered man, demanded to know which of Aegon's daughters Lucerys would marry, a proposal the young prince could not accept. Aemond, his single eye blazing with hatred for the boy who had taken his own years before, taunted Lucerys. Despite Lord Borros's attempts to prevent bloodshed under his roof, Aemond, mounted on Vhagar, pursued young Lucerys and Arrax into a raging storm above Shipbreaker Bay. The outcome was inevitable. Neither boy nor dragon survived the encounter with the battle-hardened Aemond and the ancient she-dragon.
The news of Lucerys's death, the murder of an envoy, kinslaying, plunged Rhaenyra into a black abyss of grief and rage. Any hope of a peaceful resolution to the succession was extinguished. Blood had been spilled. Now, only war could answer. The Dance of the Dragons had truly begun in earnest.
The chaos and outrage following Lucerys's death provided further distraction for Aelyx's team. As Dragonstone seethed with preparations for vengeance, Tibbit's house-elves made their final, most daring incursions, securing a total of twelve prime Targaryen dragon eggs from various nests within the Dragonmont. Aenar deemed it too risky to attempt an infiltration of the Dragonpit in King's Landing at this stage; the Green capital was on high alert, its defenses formidable. Twelve eggs, Aelyx concurred from Skagos, was a significant enough prize, a treasure trove of new Valyrian bloodlines.
The Nightwing, its precious, secret cargo secured in magically shielded holds, slipped away from the Dragonstone archipelago as silently as it had arrived, Rhaenys's illusions rendering it a mere smudge of mist on the turbulent sea. Its journey back to Skagos was swift and uneventful, Lyra's greensight guiding it through safe passages, Aelyx's power a distant, protective cloak.
When Aenar and Rhaenys finally presented the twelve glowing, pulsating dragon eggs to Aelyx in the deepest, warmest hatchery of Mount Skatus, the Shadow King allowed himself a rare, genuine smile of triumph. These eggs represented more than just new dragons for his legions; they were symbols of his dynasty's enduring purpose – to preserve, to protect, and ultimately, to surpass the fleeting glories of lesser Valyrian lines.
"Well done, my children," Aelyx said, his voice resonating with satisfaction. "You have plucked these embers from a dying fire. Here, on Skagos, they will hatch into a new, stronger flame, one that will burn for eternity, shielded from the self-destructive storms of the outside world."
The twelve Targaryen eggs were placed in specially prepared incubation chambers, surrounded by warming enchantments and the ambient magic of the phoenixes. Their genetic legacy would soon be woven into the ever-expanding tapestry of the Skagosi dragon bloodlines.
As the first battles of the Dance of the Dragons began to rage in the Riverlands and the Crownlands, as dragons clashed in the skies above Rook's Rest and the Gullet, Aelyx Velaryon watched from his impregnable Northern sanctuary. He had played his opening move in this new, terrible game, not as a participant, but as a silent, opportunistic harvester. While the Targaryen dragons tore each other apart, their numbers dwindling with each fiery confrontation, his own hidden legion grew, nurtured by ancient magic and an immortal, unwavering will. The Dance was a tragedy for House Targaryen, but for the eternal dynasty of Skagos, it was merely a passing storm, from which they would emerge stronger, their secrets intact, their future more secure than ever. The shadow's harvest had been bountiful.