Chapter 29: The Shepherd's Flock
The Dragon's Tithe, as it came to be whispered in the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, began not with fire or blood, but with the mundane sound of stonemasons' hammers and the scratching of architects' quills. A great swath of land west of the city, in the shadow of the Hill of Rhaenys, was cleared. The impossible wealth dredged from the ruins of Valyria was put to use, funding the most ambitious and most sorrowful construction project in the history of Westeros.
Queen Rhaenyra presided over the first council meeting dedicated to the project. The mood was funereal. Spread across the table were not maps of conquest, but architectural plans for the dragon yards.
"The enclosures must be large," Rhaenyra stated, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. She was all queen now, a monarch managing a terrible estate. "There will be no chains, no confining domes. They are to have fields to roam, cliffs to nest upon, and heated caves for shelter. If they are to live a life before… before their purpose is fulfilled, then it will be a life of dignity."
Lord Corlys Velaryon, his face grim, studied the plans. "It will take years, Your Grace. And a fortune, even with the Valyrian gold. We are building a city for dragons."
"We are building a farm, Lord Corlys," Jacaerys corrected him, his voice sharp with a cynicism that had become his constant companion. He had not smiled since returning from the God's Eye. "Let us not use pretty words for it. We are building a comfortable stable for the god's livestock. The question is not how dignified it is, but how secure."
"And it will be in full view of the harvester," Lord Cregan Stark observed, his Northern bluntness a cold stone dropped into the tense pool of the council. The Lord of Winterfell had remained in the capital, a fascinated and horrified observer of the new world. "A constant reminder."
"That is the point, I suspect," Corlys murmured. He looked at the Queen. "The plans are sound. I will see it done."
The discussion moved on to the eggs themselves. They were being kept in the deepest, warmest vaults of the Red Keep, their shimmering surfaces a constant, heartbreaking temptation. It was here, in the quiet moments between the political machinations, that the true weight of their pact was felt.
Jace and Baela often found themselves in the castle's library, poring over ancient, crumbling scrolls of dragon-lore, seeking not strategies for war, but knowledge of husbandry. They were the first of the new Keepers, and their eggs were now constantly warm to the touch, the life within stirring.
"Mine trembles when I sing to it," Baela said one evening, gently stroking the smooth, moon-white shell of her egg, which she kept wrapped in velvet. "I think she will be swift. I feel… a restlessness in her. A desire for the sky." A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "She has my father's spirit."
"And what will she do with that spirit, Baela?" Jace asked, not looking up from his book. "She will fly, yes. She will feel the wind in her wings. She will bond with you, and you will love her more than you love anything else in this world." He finally looked at her, his dark eyes filled with a deep, aching sorrow. "And every day of that love will be a betrayal. Every moment of joy will be a prelude to the horror of her end. We are not giving them life. We are sentencing them to a beautiful, elaborate death."
"Is a beautiful life, however it ends, not better than no life at all?" Baela countered, her voice fierce with a desperate need to believe in the rightness of what they were doing. "These are the last dragons, Jace. The very last. Is it not our sacred duty to bring them into the world, even a world such as this?"
"It was once," Jace said, turning back to his book. "Now, I think it is our sacred curse."
While the new Targaryen court grappled with its grim duty, the old one withered in its own gilded cage. Aegon the Uncrowned spent his days in a wine-soaked haze, a ghost haunting his own former palace. His mother, Alicent, found her solace in an increasingly fervent, almost hysterical piety, praying to the Seven for deliverance from a god they could not touch.
She found Aegon one afternoon in the royal gardens, staring blankly at a statue of his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, a flagon dangling from his hand.
"Look at him," Aegon slurred, gesturing at the statue. "He had three. Three great dragons. He burned his enemies and forged a kingdom." He took a long, shuddering drink. "I had a dragon. Sunfyre the Golden. He was more beautiful than any of them." He looked at his mother, his eyes bloodshot and filled with self-pity. "Now my sister, the whore who took my crown, is building a new Dragonpit. Not for her dragons. But for his. Did you know that? She is building a home for the monster's meals."
"It is not our concern, my son," Alicent said, her voice tight and strained. "Our concern is to be quiet. To be devout. To be forgotten."
"Forgotten?" Aegon laughed, a wet, choking sound. "I was a KING! Anointed by a septon, crowned before the masses! Now… now I am just a ghost in my own home. I am a footnote in the story of the beast on the hill." His face crumpled. "There is no honor in this, Mother. No honor at all."
"There is life, Aegon," Alicent replied, her voice as brittle as glass. "And in these new times, that is a miracle we should thank the gods for every day, even if they no longer listen."
It was Larys Strong who understood that the new god was always listening. He saw the new world not as an ending, but as a new and infinitely more interesting game. He had proven his value by identifying the "Dornish problem." Now, as he watched the dragon yards being built, he saw an opportunity not just to solve a problem, a but to suggest an improvement. He sought to make himself indispensable.
He waited until the dead of night, when the castle was silent. He sat in his study, focused his mind, and sent out a deferential, intellectual whisper.
Great One. The new project, the Dragon's Tithe, proceeds apace. A magnificent endeavor. A testament to your foresight in sustainable resource management.
He felt the god's attention turn to him, a vast, cool curiosity.
It is in the spirit of maximizing the efficiency of this project that I have been studying the old lore, Larys continued, his mental voice smooth as silk. The bond between dragon and rider, the catalyst for the… potency… you seek, is strongest and most frequent with the Targaryen bloodline. But the bloodline is now thin. It has been weakened by war. The health of your flock, one might argue, depends on the genetic diversity and health of your Keepers.
He paused, allowing the god to process the concept.
"EXPLAIN," the voice of Krosis-Krif commanded.
There are other houses in the realm that carry the blood of Old Valyria, however diluted, Larys projected, sending a mental image of a genealogical chart. House Velaryon, your Queen's own children. House Celtigar. Even certain noble families across the sea, in Lys and Volantis, from which the Targaryens once took brides. To limit the Keepers to a single, fragile bloodline is to introduce a point of failure into an otherwise perfect system. A wider variety of keepers, those with a trace of the old blood, could ensure more bonds. More bonds mean more dragons. A more robust and diverse flock. A more… bountiful… harvest for the centuries to come.
The genius of Larys's suggestion was its cold, inhuman logic. He was speaking the god's own language: efficiency, sustainability, long-term planning. He was not asking for a favor for his allies; he was offering a business plan to his master.
Krosis-Krif considered this. The whisperer was clever. The idea had merit. It introduced new variables. New bloodlines. New loyalties to manage. It would make the game more complex, more layered. More entertaining.
"YOUR COUNSEL IS SOUND, WHISPERER," the voice replied, a wave of cold approval washing over Larys. "THE DEFINITION OF 'KEEPER' SHALL BE EXPANDED TO INCLUDE ALL THOSE WITH A VERIFIABLE TRACE OF VALYRIAN ANCESTRY. A MORE DIVERSE PASTURE YIELDS A STRONGER FLOCK. INFORM THE QUEEN OF THIS… POLICY ADJUSTMENT."
The next day, Larys Strong, feeling more powerful than ever, attended the Small Council meeting. The topic was again the dragon yards. Jacaerys was arguing that the number of eggs was too great for the few remaining Targaryens to bond with.
"We do not have enough riders of the true blood," the prince was saying.
Larys Strong chose that moment to speak, his voice cutting through the debate. "Perhaps, Your Grace," he said, addressing Rhaenyra, "the definition of 'true blood' is something we should consider… expanding."
Jace turned on him, his expression hostile. "What are you suggesting, Clubfoot? That we hand out dragon eggs to any highborn lord with a Valyrian-sounding name?"
"I am merely suggesting," Larys said with a faint smile, "that for the good of the… endeavor… we should use every resource at our disposal. My research into the old texts suggests that while the bond is strongest with your house, it is not exclusive. Those of other Valyrian houses, such as Velaryon and Celtigar, have succeeded in the past."
"He means to dilute the bloodright!" Baela Targaryen exclaimed. "To take the last thing that makes us unique and share it with lesser houses!"
Lord Corlys looked at Larys, a deep suspicion in his eyes. He knew the Clubfoot. He knew the man never made a suggestion that did not benefit himself in some hidden way.
As the council began to argue, the god on the hill rendered their debate moot.
"THE WHISPERER'S COUNSEL IS WISE," the voice of Krosis-Krif announced in all their minds, its public arrival silencing all argument. "THE DEFINITION OF KEEPER IS HEREBY EXPANDED. HOUSE VELARYON AND HOUSE CELTIGAR WILL BE GRANTED THE PRIVILEGE OF PARTICIPATING IN THE TITHE. THEIR ELIGIBLE OFFSPRING WILL BE ALLOWED TO ATTEMPT TO BOND WITH THE NEW HATCHLINGS. THE FLOCK WILL EXPAND. THIS IS MY WILL."
The decree was absolute. The room was stunned into silence. Jacaerys stared at Larys Strong with pure, unadulterated hatred. He understood immediately. This was not the Clubfoot's suggestion. This was his report. The man had a direct line to their god.
Rhaenyra looked from her son to Larys, and a cold dread filled her. She was the Queen, but she was not the one her god was listening to. A new power had just made itself known within her own court, a master of whispers who had the ear of the most powerful being in the world. Her gilded cage had just acquired a new and far more dangerous keeper.