Chapter 2: The Black Dread's Rebirth (89 AC)
The year 88 AC bled into 89 AC, and with each passing day, Viserys's transformation deepened. The immediate, jarring shock of his transmigration had settled into a cold, hard resolve. The super-soldier serum had refined Marco De Luca's already formidable intellect, turning his strategic brilliance into something akin to prescience. Every memory from his past life, every detail of A Song of Ice and Fire, was now perfectly accessible, cross-referenced, and analyzed with an efficiency that was terrifyingly potent. He was still an eleven-year-old boy in appearance, but beneath the silver hair and violet eyes resided the mind of a seasoned capo, now operating at peak human capacity.
His daily routine in the Red Keep became a meticulously orchestrated dance of information gathering and subtle influence. He continued to cultivate his image as a precocious, unusually insightful prince, a persona that allowed him to ask questions and delve into subjects far beyond the typical interests of a boy his age without drawing undue suspicion. The maesters, initially amused by his relentless curiosity, soon found themselves impressed by his retention and the depth of his inquiries. Viserys devoured scrolls on every subject imaginable: histories of the Andal invasion, the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, treatises on trade routes and economics, and most importantly, anything and everything related to dragons.
He spent countless hours in the library, the musty scent of ancient parchment becoming a familiar comfort. His focus was singular: Balerion the Black Dread. He knew from his past life that the ancient dragon, once the mightiest of all, was fading. Balerion was old, frail, and rarely flew, a shadow of his former glory. But Marco knew something no one else did: Balerion was still alive, and crucially, bondable. He was the last living link to Old Valyria's destructive power, and Viserys intended to claim that power for himself.
His research into dragonlore was exhaustive. He read accounts of dragon riders, the ancient Valyrian texts, even the myths and legends dismissed by most maesters as fanciful tales. He learned about the unique, almost symbiotic bond between a Targaryen and their dragon, a connection that transcended mere ownership. It was a merging of souls, a shared consciousness, a spiritual link forged in fire and blood. He understood the nuances of their behavior, their territoriality, their immense intelligence, and their fierce loyalty once bonded. He learned that dragons, though beasts of fire and scale, were also creatures of immense pride and ancient wisdom. Approaching Balerion would require more than just courage; it would demand respect, understanding, and a certain primal connection that only a Targaryen could offer.
He often engaged the few septons and septas who were familiar with ancient Valyrian customs, asking seemingly innocent questions about prophecies and omens, subtly probing their understanding of the dragons' mystical nature. He learned about the concept of "dragon dreams," the prophetic visions that some Targaryens experienced. While he didn't possess such abilities himself, his hyper-analytical mind began to connect dots, seeing patterns where others saw only superstition. He also paid close attention to the stories of failed bondings, of dragons refusing riders or even turning on them. He wouldn't make those mistakes.
Beyond the Red Keep's walls, Viserys began to subtly influence his physical environment. He convinced his father, Prince Baelon, to invest in better training for the Red Keep's guards, using his enhanced intellect to devise more efficient drill formations and basic tactical maneuvers he'd gleaned from military history books. He presented these ideas as curious experiments, born from his studies of ancient battles. Baelon, ever indulgent of his son's cleverness, humored him, and the guards, though initially bewildered, found themselves becoming sharper, more cohesive units. This was a long-term play, laying the groundwork for the future Royal Army.
One crisp morning in 89 AC, a raven arrived from Dragonstone with news that sent a shiver of anticipation down Viserys's spine. Balerion, after a long period of dormancy, had been sighted flying near the Dragonmont. The maesters on Dragonstone noted it with a mixture of awe and trepidation; the Black Dread was old, his scales dull, his roar a mere echo of its former might. But the fact that he had flown at all was significant. This was his window.
Viserys knew he couldn't simply announce his intention to bond with Balerion. Such a claim, especially from a twelve-year-old, would be met with skepticism, ridicule, and likely, a royal decree forbidding him from endangering himself. Jaehaerys, for all his wisdom, was cautious. And the king had a deep reverence for Balerion, understanding the symbolic importance of the last dragon of Valyria.
He approached his father, Prince Baelon, during a quiet afternoon in the training yard, where Baelon was overseeing a sword practice. "Father," Viserys began, his voice soft but clear, "I've been reading about the Dragonmont on Dragonstone. It's said to be a place of great power, where the very earth breathes fire."
Baelon, wiping sweat from his brow, smiled. "Aye, son. Our ancestral home. And the lair of the Black Dread."
"I've often wondered," Viserys continued, feigning a childlike curiosity, "what it must be like to truly feel that power. To stand on the very ground our ancestors walked, where the first dragons of our house nested." He paused, then looked up at his father with earnest, pleading eyes. "Could we not visit, Father? Just for a few days? I wish to see it before… before it's too late." The unspoken implication of Balerion's impending death hung in the air.
Baelon, a proud Targaryen himself, was easily swayed by the appeal to heritage and the underlying, poignant acknowledgment of Balerion's age. He also held a deep affection for his unusually thoughtful son. "Hmm, a pilgrimage to our ancestral home? It's not a bad notion, Viserys. A good opportunity to inspect the garrison there as well. I'll speak with your grandfather."
A few days later, Jaehaerys, though initially hesitant due to the dangers of Dragonstone and the lingering presence of Balerion, eventually granted permission. Viserys, along with Baelon and a small retinue of guards and household staff, embarked on a galley for Dragonstone. The journey across Blackwater Bay was calm, but Viserys's mind churned with a storm of anticipation and cold calculation. He had the serum, the knowledge, and now, the opportunity.
Upon arriving at Dragonstone, the ancient castle, forged from black stone, loomed ominously against the dramatic backdrop of the Dragonmont, its peak shrouded in mist. The air itself felt different here, crackling with an unseen energy, a primal current that resonated with Viserys's Targaryen blood.
He spent the first few days exploring the castle and its surroundings, always accompanied, but always seeking opportunities for solitude. He made a point of visiting the common areas, engaging the castle's staff and smallfolk, asking about the local legends of the Dragonmont, and most importantly, about Balerion. He learned the dragon's routines – or lack thereof. Balerion mostly slept in the deepest cavern of the Dragonmont, stirring only rarely. He was said to be sluggish, his once-terrifying roars now mere rumblings. This was precisely what Marco wanted. A weakened, elderly dragon would be less resistant to a sudden surge of power.
One evening, after dinner, Viserys feigned illness, complaining of a headache and weariness. Baelon, ever attentive, urged him to rest. This was his chance. Once the castle had settled into its nighttime rhythm, Viserys slipped out of his bed. He dressed quickly in simple, dark clothes, the second vial of super-soldier serum tucked securely into a hidden pocket. He moved through the silent corridors like a shadow, his steps light, his senses heightened by the serum.
He knew the general location of Balerion's lair from his research, described in ancient texts as the deepest, hottest heart of the Dragonmont. The entrance was a vast, gaping maw in the side of the mountain, often veiled by steam and sulfuric fumes. Reaching it required navigating treacherous paths, riddled with loose scree and sudden drops. But Marco's enhanced physical prowess and his years of navigating dangerous cityscapes made the journey less perilous than it would have been for a normal twelve-year-old.
The air grew progressively warmer, thick with the scent of sulfur and something else – something primal and ancient. The ground vibrated faintly beneath his feet, a low, rhythmic thrum that resonated deep in his bones. He could feel the dragon's presence, a vast, powerful, yet slumbering energy.
He reached the cavern entrance, a gaping maw of black stone that seemed to swallow the dim moonlight. A wave of heat washed over him, almost suffocating in its intensity. He could hear a low, rumbling sound from within, like distant thunder – Balerion's breathing.
His heart hammered against his ribs, not from fear, but from a potent mix of anticipation and adrenaline. He was about to face a living legend, a creature of myth, the last surviving being from the Doom of Valyria. This was it. The culmination of his gamble.
He stepped into the cavern, the darkness absolute save for a faint, phosphorescent glow from mineral deposits on the walls. The air was thick and heavy, tasting of ash and ancient power. The rumbling intensified, growing into a deep, resonant growl.
Then, he saw him.
Balerion.
The Black Dread lay coiled in the vast chamber, a mountain of obsidian scales, his sheer size breathtaking even in its stillness. He was immense, easily capable of swallowing an elephant whole. His scales, once a gleaming black, were dulled with age, scoured by centuries of fire and flight. One of his eyes, an ancient, molten gold, cracked open, focusing slowly on the small, silver-haired figure standing before him.
A deep, rattling sigh escaped the dragon's massive maw, stirring the air, carrying the scent of smoke and old blood. Viserys felt the pressure of Balerion's ancient gaze, a weight that could crush mountains. This was not a beast; this was an entity, a living force of nature.
Viserys took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. He had faced down men who would kill him without a second thought, men whose eyes held no mercy. This was different. This was pure power, untamed and majestic. He needed to show Balerion respect, not fear.
He walked forward, slowly, deliberately, towards the immense head, keeping his movements calm and non-threatening. He could feel the heat radiating from the dragon's body, a warmth that seemed to seep into his very bones.
He spoke, his voice surprisingly clear and firm in the echoing cavern, the ancient words of Valyria flowing from his tongue with a natural ease that surprised even him, a language he'd only read in scrolls. "Kepa… Zaldrīzes. Daoruni jorrāeliar. Kesīr iksan. Iksan Viserys. Iksan hen Targārien." (Father… Dragon. You are not alone. I am here. I am Viserys. I am of Targaryen.)
Balerion's massive head lifted slightly, his golden eye widening, studying him with an ancient, knowing intelligence. The dragon let out a low rumble, a sound that resonated deep in Viserys's chest. It wasn't a growl of aggression, but something akin to a question, or perhaps, a deep, weary acknowledgment.
Viserys felt a strange connection, a pull towards the creature, a resonance of their shared blood. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the second vial, the glowing blue liquid shimmering in the dim light. He stepped closer, now standing directly beside Balerion's massive head, the sheer scale of the beast overwhelming. He could feel the rough texture of the ancient scales beneath his fingertips, the faint, slow pulse of life beneath them.
"You are mine now, old friend," Viserys whispered, his voice imbued with a quiet authority that belied his age, a promise of renewed glory and shared power. He pressed the vial against one of Balerion's dull scales, near the base of his neck, where the skin was softer. With a decisive movement, he injected the serum.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a tremor, starting from where the needle had pierced, rippled through Balerion's colossal body. The ground shook. The cavern rumbled. A low, guttural sound, unlike any Viserys had heard before, tore from the dragon's throat. It was a sound of awakening, of pain, and then, of raw, untamed power.
Balerion's golden eye flared, molten and bright. His dull scales, which had appeared almost matte with age, began to shimmer, a deep, lustrous black rising to the surface, reflecting the faint light in the cavern. A visible wave of energy seemed to surge through him. His immense wings, folded tightly against his sides, began to unfurl, stretching with a newfound vigor, creating a powerful draft that whipped Viserys's silver hair around his face. Dust and loose stones rained down from the cavern ceiling.
The roar that followed was unlike anything Westeros had heard in centuries. It was not the weak rumbling of an old dragon, but a primordial shriek, a thunderous declaration that ripped through the very fabric of the mountain, shaking Dragonstone to its foundations. It was the roar of a revived god, a sound that spoke of fire and blood and ancient power. The sheer force of it knocked Viserys to his knees, but he didn't feel fear. He felt exhilaration.
Balerion, now a revitalized titan, pushed himself fully upright, his colossal form filling the cavern, his black scales gleaming as if freshly forged in the deepest fires of the earth. His eyes, now burning with an intense, reawakened intelligence, fixed on Viserys.
And then, the connection solidified. Viserys felt a sudden, profound rush of raw power, a surge of heat and fire and ancient memories flooding his mind. It was Balerion's life force, his immense power, his long years of existence, now intrinsically linked to his own. He could feel the dragon's thoughts, a deep, resonant hum of ancient wisdom and renewed purpose. He was no longer just Viserys, Prince of Westeros. He was Viserys, rider of the revitalized Balerion the Black Dread.
He stood, meeting the dragon's intense gaze. Balerion lowered his massive head, nudging Viserys gently with his snout, a gesture of acceptance, of recognition, of shared destiny. The dragon then let out another roar, less furious, more triumphant, a sound that promised destruction to their enemies and unwavering loyalty to his new rider.
Word of the prince who tamed the Black Dread would spread like wildfire across Westeros. It would enhance his prestige beyond measure, striking fear into the hearts of those who might oppose him, and offering hope to those who sought the glory of House Targaryen.
But for Viserys, it was more than prestige. It was power. Absolute, undeniable power. He had secured his greatest weapon. The first, and most crucial, gambit had paid off. The game had truly begun. He would use this power, and the knowledge of his past life, to forge a dynasty unlike any seen before, a golden age of dragons and Targaryen supremacy. The Dance of the Dragons would never come to pass. Not under his watch.
He climbed onto Balerion's enormous back, his small hand gripping one of the newly gleaming scales. He whispered a command in High Valyrian, a word for 'fly'. With a powerful beat of his enormous, revitalized wings, Balerion launched himself upwards, tearing through the roof of the cavern and soaring into the pre-dawn sky, a silhouette of black fire against the emerging light.
Below, the guards of Dragonstone castle stirred, awoken by the thunderous roar and the sight of the legendary beast taking to the air. Whispers of awe and fear rippled through the fortress. The prince, the boy, had done the impossible.
Viserys, soaring above the clouds, felt an exhilaration he hadn't known in either of his lives. The world spread out beneath him, a tapestry of possibilities. He was Marco De Luca, the calculating boss, and Viserys Targaryen, the dragon prince. And together, they would burn the world to forge their empire.