Chapter 28: The Sustainable Cruelty
The Targaryen family, a fractured dynasty of Blacks and Greens, stood united for the first time in a generation, bonded by a shared, silent horror. Before them lay the wealth of a dead empire and the future of their own—a clutch of shimmering, impossible dragon eggs. They were the spoils of a war they had not won, and the down payment for a service they had not yet agreed to perform. The air was thick with the scent of ozone from the dimensional rift and the stench of their own powerlessness.
Aegon the Uncrowned whimpered, shielding his eyes from the glare of the gems as if their beauty were a physical assault. Alicent clutched her seven-pointed star, her lips moving in a frantic, silent prayer to gods who had long since abandoned this corner of the world. It was Rhaenyra who finally broke the silence, her voice a ragged whisper directed at the silent god on the hill.
"You would have us… raise them for you? Like… like livestock?"
The telepathic response came not just to her, but to all of them, a calm, corrective wave of thought. There was a sense of something new in the mental voice, something akin to a master craftsman clarifying a complex instruction to a slow-witted apprentice.
"THERE APPEARS TO BE A MISUNDERSTANDING," the voice of Krosis-Krif bloomed in their minds. "YOUR ANALOGY IS CRUDE. THIS IS NOT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE. THAT IS INEFFICIENT AND WASTEFUL. THIS IS A CONSERVATION PROGRAM. A SUSTAINABLE ECOSYSTEM. MY NEEDS ARE LONG-TERM, AND MY METHODS ARE REFINED."
A collective, confused silence was the only response. The creature, it seemed, was offended by the accusation of poor planning.
"I WILL CLARIFY THE TERMS OF YOUR NEW… SACRED DUTY," Krosis-Krif continued, and the horror of his plan began to unfold in all its intricate, psychological cruelty.
"TERM THE FIRST: THE BONDED," the voice declared. "When a dragon hatches and forms a bond with one of your bloodline—a true, deep bond of the kind you value so highly—its life is to be considered sacrosanct. It will live with you. It will be your companion, your friend. You will fly the skies together. Its life energy, while bonded to a mortal, is… unripe. It is not yet ready for harvest."
Jacaerys and Baela exchanged a look of stunned disbelief. Hope, a feeling they thought had been extinguished forever, sparked faintly in their chests.
"ONLY WHEN THE RIDER PERISHES," the voice continued, extinguishing that spark with a chilling finality, "be it from old age, sickness, or accident—the natural, untidy course of mortal existence—will the dragon's ultimate purpose be fulfilled. Upon your death, your grieving companion will be brought to this hill. Its life energy, enriched and matured by the decades of loyalty and love you shared, will be a fitting final tribute. A memorial to your bond."
The truth of it slammed into them. It was not a reprieve. It was a life sentence where the execution date was unknown, and the one to be executed was the creature they would love most in the world. Rhaenyra felt a wave of nausea. She thought of Syrax, of their life together, and imagined it ending with her beloved dragon being served up as a memorial dinner.
"TERM THE SECOND: THE UNBONDED AND THE BARREN," Krosis-Krif went on, his tone that of a patient gardener explaining his methods. "Dragons that remain unbonded, or those bonded dragons whose riders have passed, are to be considered breeding stock. Their purpose is to produce the next generation, to ensure the continuation of the species. They are the heart of this sustainable farm. Only when a dragon is no longer capable of laying viable eggs, when its fertility has faded, is it to be considered… retired. Then, and only then, it too will serve its final purpose and be reabsorbed."
The elegant, horrifying logic of it was complete. He had created a perfect, closed loop of sustainable energy for himself. He would not just feed; he would husband his food source. He had turned their legacy, their very identity, into a self-perpetuating farm.
Jacaerys, his face pale, finally found his voice. "So we can… fly again?" he asked, the question a mixture of hope and self-loathing. "We can have dragons, live our whole lives with them?"
"OF COURSE," Krosis-Krif replied, the mental equivalent of a benevolent smile. "LIVE. LOVE. FLY. PROSPER. FILL YOUR DAYS WITH WHATEVER PETTY DRAMAS AMUSE YOU. YOUR HAPPINESS, YOUR PASSION, YOUR LOVE FOR YOUR MOUNTS—IT ALL ADDS A CERTAIN… FLAVOR… TO THE FINAL PRODUCT. I AM A GOURMET, NOT A GLUTTON. I ENCOURAGE A RICH AND FULFILLING LIFE FOR MY… CROP."
That was the final, most terrible twist. Their lives were now merely seasoning for his meal.
The Targaryens, Blacks and Greens alike, retreated to the Red Keep, leaving the impossible treasure and the clutch of doomed eggs glittering at the foot of the hill. They gathered in the Small Council chamber, the silence heavy with the weight of their new reality.
"He is the devil," Alicent whispered, her face bloodless. "This is a perversion beyond anything the Stranger could devise. To make love the precursor to damnation…"
"It is brilliant," Larys Strong murmured, almost to himself, earning a hateful glare from Alicent.
"It is a choice between a proud death and a gilded slavery," Jacaerys said, pacing the room like a caged wolf. "And I do not know which is worse."
"A proud death is easy, boy," Lord Corlys said, his voice a weary rasp. "It is a single moment of defiance. Living is harder. Living with this knowledge, waking up every day and choosing to endure for the sake of your people, for the sake of your family… that requires a strength that pride alone cannot supply." He looked at Rhaenyra. "The god has offered us terms. There is no counteroffer to be made. The only question is whether we accept the cage or choose the void."
Rhaenyra looked at the faces around her. At her son, burning with a righteous fire she knew would only get him killed. At Baela, who looked as though she was being offered a chance to have her father back, only to have to kill him herself. At Alicent, her old rival, now just another broken piece in this horrific new game. At her younger son, Joffrey, and the thought of Aegon and Viserys, who would grow up in this world, for whom this would be normal.
Her decision, when she voiced it, was heavy with the sorrow of a queen who had to sacrifice her own soul for the lives of her subjects.
"We accept the terms," she said, her voice quiet but absolute. "We will be his Keepers. We will endure. We will live." She stood, the undisputed Queen of a realm that was now a farm. "Lord Corlys, you will oversee the construction of new dragon yards in the fields west of the city. Use the wealth it has given us. Let them be comfortable. Let them be… worthy of the sacrifice they will one day make."
She then turned her gaze to the younger generation, to the ones who would bear the true burden of this pact. "Princess Baela. Prince Jacaerys. You are the future of our house. You will be the first of the new Keepers. Go now. Choose an egg. Let this new, terrible age begin."
Jace looked as if he wanted to refuse, to scream, to fight. But he saw the resolve in his mother's eyes, the finality of her command. He saw the cold logic of Corlys's words. A defiant death was an ending. A subjugated life was… a chance. A slim, horrifying chance, but a chance nonetheless.
He and Baela walked from the Red Keep, side-by-side, their enmity forgotten, united by their shared, monstrous fate. They walked back to the hill, to the pile of shimmering eggs that lay like jewels in the shadow of their god. The treasure of Valyria lay untouched nearby; no one dared approach it.
They stood before the eggs, the future of their House, the future meals of their king.
"It feels like a betrayal," Baela whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
"It is," Jace replied, his voice flat. "But what choice do we have? To let our bloodline end? To let it all be for nothing?" He knelt, his hand hovering over the eggs. They pulsed with a faint, internal warmth. Despite everything, his blood sang in their presence. The ancient bond between his family and these creatures was a call too strong to ignore.
He found himself drawn to a large egg of deep, midnight blue, swirled with veins of silver that seemed to move like constellations. When he touched it, a profound warmth shot up his arm, a feeling of recognition, of coming home. He felt a faint, nascent consciousness within, a dream of sky and freedom. A tear tracked a path through the grime on his cheek.
"This one," he said softly.
Baela, her own eyes wet, found a smaller egg of pale, moon-like white. She picked it up, cradling it in her arms as if it were the most precious, most heartbreaking thing in the world. For a moment, they were just two Targaryens, finding their soulmates, fulfilling their destiny. The hope was so pure, so potent, that it almost eclipsed the horror.
Almost.
As they stood, clutching their chosen eggs, the first hatchlings of the new age, Krosis-Krif watched them from his throne. The sight of his new livestock being chosen by his new farmers was deeply, profoundly satisfying. The long, quiet had been broken. The new game had begun. And the beauty of it, he mused, was that his subjects would nurture his crop with all the love and care in the world, fattening them on a lifetime of devotion. It would make the harvest, when it came, taste all the sweeter.