Chapter 32: The Unseen Tide and the Dragon's Hunger
Two more years had bled into the relentless, churning currents of Viserys's grand design. On Dragon's Aerie, under the watchful, smoking gaze of Mount Valyria, the settlement of Aegis had transformed from a raw colonial outpost into a formidable, if still largely hidden, fortress-city. Viserys, now a young man of nineteen, his youthful features hardened into the stern, commanding visage of a king accustomed to absolute authority, paced the newly completed ramparts of the Aerie Citadel. His physical presence was imposing – tall, whip-lean, with the deceptive strength of coiled Valyrian steel, his silver-gold hair now worn longer, often tied back in a practical warrior's knot. The serum and the X-gene had sculpted him into a peak human specimen, but it was the ancient soul of Alistair Finch, coupled with the burning ambition of the Last Dragon, that truly animated the formidable weapon he had become.
His most precious, most world-altering secrets resided deep within the island's volcanic heart. The six young dragons, nurtured in the geothermal heat of the Heart-Nest chamber and, more significantly, on a steady, now increased, diet of Viserys's own lifeblood, had grown at a rate that defied all natural law. They were no longer mere hatchlings. Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion, the Valyrian trio, were now the size of small warhorses, their scales gleaming like polished obsidian, emerald, and pearl, their wingspans already broad enough to carry them on short, powerful flights across the lagoon. Their fiery breath, once a mere puff of smoke and spark, could now melt granite and incinerate a small tree in seconds. Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian, the chthonic Firewyrms of Dragon's Aerie, were sleeker, more serpentine, their hides like living volcanic rock, imbued with the raw, elemental power of the island itself. They were incredibly agile, capable of navigating the dense jungle and volcanic crevices with terrifying speed, their cries like the grinding of mountains, their eyes burning with an ancient, predatory intelligence.
The blood-feeding regimen had become a consuming, almost ritualistic, part of Viserys's existence. Each dawn, before the colony stirred, he would descend into the searing heat of the Heart-Nest, accompanied only by Daenerys and a silent, ever-watchful Morrec. There, he would open his veins with the Valyrian steel dagger, offering his preternaturally potent blood to his growing brood. The drain was immense. Even with his Wolverine-like healing factor working constantly, the sheer volume of blood required to fuel the accelerated growth of six rapidly maturing dragons left him in a perpetual state of heightened metabolism, a gnawing, insatiable hunger, and a deep, bone-weary fatigue that he masked with iron willpower. His skin had taken on an almost translucent pallor, his violet eyes burned with a feverish intensity, and Lyra of Lys, who monitored his physiology with increasing alarm, warned him that even his unique constitution had its limits. But Viserys persisted. The dragons were his ultimate weapon, his divine right made flesh, and their power, their loyalty, their very existence, was inextricably bound to his sacrifice. Their scales grew tougher, their fire hotter, their bond with him and Daenerys deepening into an almost telepathic understanding. They were becoming magnificent, terrifying beasts, the living embodiment of his House's resurgence.
Maintaining the secrecy of these six growing demigods was a logistical nightmare. The Heart-Nest, while secure, was becoming too confining for their increasingly frequent and powerful flights. Xaro Xhandar, sworn to absolute secrecy and working with a small, isolated team of his most trusted (and terrified) engineers, had begun to construct a vast, hidden dragonry high on the secluded western slopes of Mount Valyria, accessible only by a series of fortified tunnels, its roof a cleverly camouflaged network of retractable obsidian plates designed to allow the dragons access to the open sky only under cover of darkness or heavy cloud. Only a handful of individuals knew the full truth: Viserys, Daenerys, Morrec, Lyra of Lys, Xaro, and now, by grim necessity, a small, fanatically loyal cadre of Shadow Legionnaires assigned to guard the dragonry's hidden entrances and provide for the dragons' immense dietary needs (which Viserys's blood now supplemented rather than solely provided).
The Shadow Legion itself, the "Unseen Tide" of Viserys's ambition, had swelled dramatically in numbers and capability. The recruitment pipeline, managed by Shadowfoot from Braavos and Kipp from his new, more mobile intelligence hub (now operating primarily from a series of nondescript safe houses in Tyrosh, closer to the Basilisk Isles and Slaver's Bay), had become brutally efficient. Phoenix Company ships, under the guise of legitimate trade or Kiera Redfin's "anti-slaver" patrols (a convenient cover for acquiring "liberated" youths), delivered a steady stream_of teenage slaves and orphans to Dragon's Aerie. They came from the fighting pits of Meereen, the hopeless alleys of Lys, the salt mines of the Rhoyne, the war-torn villages of the Disputed Lands – broken, traumatized, but possessing that spark of resilience, that ember of defiance, that Viserys sought.
Alistair Finch, the historian, watched this process with a profound, if now largely suppressed, sense of moral horror. Viserys Targaryen, the king, saw only the forging of an unparalleled weapon. The training facility in the hidden valley on Aerea's Peak, now known only as the "Obsidian Forge," had expanded into a brutal, self-contained city of martial indoctrination. Draq and Morrec, with the aid of the first "graduates" – young men and women whose pasts had been scoured away, replaced by an unwavering, almost religious devotion to their unseen "Lord of Fire and Shadow" – oversaw a regimen designed to create the perfect soldier: physically peerless, utterly disciplined, skilled in every form of combat (particularly with their signature obsidian weaponry), and bound by an unbreakable, fanatical loyalty.
They were taught that their old lives were meaningless, that they had been saved from a cruel and unjust world to become part of something greater, a new dawn brought by a benevolent, all-powerful leader who would one day reshape the world. Their training was a relentless cycle of pain, endurance, and psychological conditioning. They learned to kill without hesitation, to obey without question, to endure any hardship without complaint. They fought each other, they fought the island's savage wildlife, they drilled endlessly in formations and tactics drawn from Alistair's encyclopedic knowledge of history's most effective fighting forces – the Spartan agoge, the Roman legions, the Ottoman Janissaries, the Unsullied of Astapor (though Viserys's Legionnaires, unlike the Unsullied, were not castrated, their ferocity and loyalty forged through different, arguably even darker, means). The weak perished or were "reassigned" to permanent labor in Xaro's mines. The survivors emerged as something new, something terrifying: the Shadow Legion, thousands strong now, an army of ghosts clad in dark grey and obsidian, their eyes burning with a zealot's light, their only purpose to serve the will of Viserys Targaryen.
The existence of the Shadow Legion, like that of the dragons, was a secret kept from the vast majority of Aegis's inhabitants. The Phoenix Company Guard, under Valerion Qo's command, still formed the settlement's primary, visible defense force. The Phoenix Company's mercantile operations, managed by Ledger, continued to provide the legitimate economic engine for Dragon's Aerie, its ships trading obsidian carvings, rare herbs, and Xaro Xhandar's innovative ship components throughout the Summer Sea and the southern Free Cities. Kiera Redfin's Corsair Wing, now a highly disciplined and feared privateer force, continued its "strategic acquisitions," its plundered wealth flowing into Viserys's war chest, its actions carefully attributed to the general lawlessness of the Basilisk Isles or the feuds between pirate lords. Aegis, to any casual observer (like the increasingly frequent Summer Islander trading missions, or even a wary Pentoshi merchant ship given safe passage after Illyrio's earlier probe), appeared as a well-defended, unusually prosperous independent port, ruled by a reclusive but powerful "Lord Benefactor" through his capable governor. The true, terrifying extent of Viserys's military power remained hidden, coiled like a serpent beneath the island's volcanic skin.
Viserys himself rarely appeared publicly before the general populace of Aegis, preferring to rule through his Council and maintain an aura of mystery and remote authority. His days were consumed by a relentless schedule of strategic planning, intelligence analysis, overseeing the development of his dragons and his Shadow Legion, and managing the complex web of his overt and covert enterprises. The physical toll of the blood-feeding, combined with the immense mental strain of his responsibilities, was significant. There were days when even his enhanced healing struggled to keep pace, when a bone-deep weariness settled upon him, when Alistair Finch's seventy-odd years felt like a crushing weight upon his nineteen-year-old frame. But his will was indomitable, his focus absolute. He drove himself with the same ruthless intensity he demanded of his followers. Lyra of Lys, her alchemical skills now highly advanced, developed potent restorative draughts and nutrient-rich infusions that helped him maintain his strength, though she frequently warned him of the long-term consequences of pushing his unique physiology to such extremes.
His mental "sensing" ability had become an invaluable tool of command. He could now, with practice, extend his awareness to "touch" the minds of his key operatives across vast distances, not to read their thoughts (that still eluded him), but to gauge their emotional state, their loyalty, the veracity of their reports, with unnerving accuracy. He could sense impending danger to his assets, project waves of focused resolve to bolster wavering subordinates, and even, on rare occasions, subtly influence the decisions of weaker-willed individuals during critical negotiations or interrogations. It was a power he wielded with extreme caution, its full potential and its ultimate cost still unknown to him.
Daenerys, now a young woman of seventeen, was Viserys's most trusted confidante, his only true peer in this strange, isolated world they had built. Her bond with the six dragons was absolute; she was their mother, their sister, their queen. She had learned to communicate with them on a level that transcended words, a meld of empathy, shared instinct, and her own burgeoning "dragon sight." She oversaw their care in the hidden dragonry, trained them in basic commands (with Morrec's stoic assistance), and often flew with them (or rather, was carried by the larger Valyrian trio, Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion, who were now strong enough for short, exhilarating flights within the confines of Dragon's Aerie's hidden valleys) during the pre-dawn hours, experiencing a freedom and a power that resonated with the deepest parts of her Targaryen soul. Her dreams continued to guide her, offering cryptic warnings about potential threats to Aegis, insights into the precursor ruins (she was now convinced the ancient inhabitants had also been dragonlords, and had met a catastrophic end through their own hubris or a betrayal involving "shadow magic"), and even, sometimes, fleeting, disturbing glimpses of the war raging in Westeros.
News from that distant, bleeding continent continued to arrive via Kipp's and Shadowfoot's networks. The War of the Five Kings had devolved into a brutal, grinding stalemate. Robb Stark, despite his battlefield victories, was bogged down in the Riverlands, his alliance with the Freys and Boltons showing signs of strain. Stannis Baratheon, after his disastrous defeat at the Blackwater (news of which Viserys received with cold, analytical satisfaction, noting Tyrion Lannister's unexpected tactical brilliance), was licking his wounds on Dragonstone (the original), his cause seemingly lost. Renly was dead, his vast army fractured. Joffrey still sat the Iron Throne, but Tywin Lannister was the true power in King's Landing, his rule harsh but efficient. The Ironborn, under Balon Greyjoy, had reaved along the northern coasts but achieved no lasting strategic gains. The Seven Kingdoms were exhausted, divided, ripe for a new, decisive intervention.
Viserys knew the time was drawing closer. His dragons were rapidly approaching a size where they could be considered true weapons of war. His Shadow Legion, now numbering over five thousand elite, fanatically loyal warriors, was a force capable of overwhelming any conventional Essosi army of comparable size, and their obsidian weapons would be a terrifying novelty in Westeros. His war chest was overflowing. His Phoenix Fleet, spearheaded by the Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar, and augmented by Kiera Redfin's formidable Corsair Wing, was arguably the most powerful independent naval force in the Summer Sea.
The final catalyst came not from Westeros, but from Pentos. Kipp, his network having finally penetrated the deepest layers of Illyrio's household, sent an explosive piece of intelligence: Illyrio Mopatis, frustrated by the chaos in Westeros and perhaps sensing a rival in the mysterious "Lord of the Aerie" (whose true identity he still did not know, but whose growing power in the south was becoming undeniable), was actively preparing to unleash his own Targaryen claimant upon the world – a young man, supposedly Aegon Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar, miraculously saved from the Sack of King's Landing and secretly raised by Jon Connington. This "Young Griff," Kipp reported, was currently in the Disputed Lands with the Golden Company, preparing for an imminent invasion of Westeros.
Viserys received this news with a blaze of cold fury in his violet eyes. Another Targaryen? A pretender, a puppet for Illyrio and Varys's schemes? Or, more disturbingly, a genuine claimant who could fatally divide any remaining Targaryen loyalties in Westeros and challenge his own carefully laid plans? Alistair Finch's historical knowledge provided no easy answers about this "Aegon," whose appearance in the original book timeline was controversial and ambiguous. But Viserys Targaryen, the true Last Dragon, would not tolerate another player in his game, especially one controlled by his enemies.
He convened his full War Council in the Great Hall of the Aerie Citadel. This time, the atmosphere was not one of preparation, but of imminent, decisive action. He revealed the existence of "Young Griff" and Illyrio's plot.
"Magister Illyrio seeks to play his own game of thrones," Viserys declared, his voice like a drawn Valyrian steel blade. "He would foist a puppet upon Westeros, a pretender to steal our birthright. This we will not allow. The time for hiding in shadows, for patient preparation, is over. The dragons are nearing their full strength. The Shadow Legion is ready. The Phoenix Fleet commands these seas."
He then made a decision that sent a thrill of terror and exultation through his assembled commanders. He would not wait for "Young Griff" to land in Westeros. He would not allow Illyrio to dictate the timing or the terms of the Targaryen restoration. He would strike first, not at Westeros directly, but at the source of this new threat – at Illyrio Mopatis himself, and at his puppet "king."
"Our first campaign," Viserys announced, his eyes burning with a terrifying fire, "will not be for King's Landing, but for Pentos. We will excise Illyrio's cancer before it can spread. We will seize his remaining wealth, dismantle his network, and deal with this… 'Aegon Targaryen'… permanently. The world believes the dragons are dead, that House Targaryen is a spent force. It is time to remind them," a slow, predatory smile touched his lips, "that fire and blood are eternal."
He then unveiled, for the first time to his full Council, the true extent of his hidden power. He led them deep into Mount Valyria, to the secret dragonry where the six young dragons, now magnificent, terrifying beasts with wingspans of thirty feet or more, greeted Daenerys with joyous roars and Viserys with a primal, respectful acknowledgement of his blood-bond. He then summoned a full cohort of the Shadow Legion, their obsidian weapons gleaming in the torchlight, their disciplined silence and fanatical devotion a chilling testament to his forging hand.
The Council – Valerion Qo, Draq, Kiera Redfin, Ledger, Archivist, Lyra of Lys, Xaro Xhandar – stared in stunned, awestruck silence. They had known their Lord Benefactor was powerful, resourceful, ruthless. They had not comprehended this. Dragons. An army of shadow warriors. This was not just a bid for power; this was the dawn of a new apocalypse, a force that could rewrite the map of the world. Their allegiance, already strong, now solidified into something akin to religious fervor.
Viserys looked at their faces, saw the fear, the awe, the dawning understanding. The Unseen Tide was about to become a tsunami. The Dragon's Hunger, for vengeance, for restoration, for the Iron Throne, was about to be unleashed. The game had indeed changed, and its first, bloody moves were about to be made, not in the fields of Westeros, but in the opulent heart of Pentos, against the Serpent himself.