For a moment, Cayman stood frozen, his hand on the door. Then, disbelief turned to a surge of wild, triumphant emotion. He turned back, his gaze sweeping past the mountainous piles of gold coins to the brazier at the very rear of the treasury.
He rushed to the fire pit, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. There, plain as day, was a crack in the ancient, fossilized shell of the dragon egg. Another sharp crack resounded, and a small, obsidian head, crowned with juvenile but promising horns, pushed its way through. With a piercing screech that held the echo of forgotten ages, the hatchling swiftly freed itself from its stony prison. Unable to withstand the scorching coals, it flapped its wet, membranous wings—tinged a deep, bloody crimson—and soared unsteadily into Cayman's waiting embrace.
The creature's scalding scales seared a large, blackened patch on his expensive embroidered tunic. Yet, he felt no anger, only a joy so profound it threatened to overwhelm him. The young dragon was adorned with scales of deepest black, its back fin and wings a stark, dramatic red. It was beautiful and fearsome all at once.
Hungry!
The thought, clear and sharp and not his own, filled his mind. A grin, wide and unrestrained, spread across Cayman's face. He was not just a dragon rider; he was a dragon rider, bonded to this creature on a level deeper than mere training.
"Hungry? Haha, just wait. This estate is never short of meat," he murmured to the squirming bundle in his arms.
He gazed at the hatchling, his mismatched eyes alight with triumph. "From now on, you shall be called Igalas. Deathwing Igalas."
His laughter, rich and full of newfound power, echoed throughout the vaulted treasury. A decade of patience, of pouring his very vitality into a stone, had finally borne fruit. He finally felt empowered to confront the world and the dragons that ruled it. Plans reshuffled in his mind. Once Igalas matured a little, he could return to Westeros not as a supplicant, but as a force to be reckoned with. He could claim the Targaryen name and demand dragon eggs for Grace and Diana as their birthright. But first, he needed a base of power. He had to take control of Lys.
Hi, hiss! Igalas squirmed anxiously against his chest, the mental impression of hunger growing more urgent.
Cradling the dragon, Cayman quickened his pace, striding out of the treasury and into the manor hall. He located his stalwart captain, Cain, who was standing guard.
"Summon the Storm Brigade," Cayman commanded, his voice cutting through the quiet of the hall. "Effective immediately, the manor is under total lockdown."
"Understood. I shall—" Cain's words faltered mid-sentence, his eyes widening in sheer astonishment as they fixed on the small, black creature perched on Cayman's shoulder. "Is that… a dragon?"
Igalas poked his head forward, fixing the captain with a golden-eyed stare. Hssss! he issued a sharp warning, displeased by the intense, unwavering gaze.
Observing the exchange, Cayman chuckled, a sound of dark satisfaction. "Indeed, it is a dragon. Go now, Cain. Before Igalas grows, we must ensure his safety. The Storm Brigade is to refrain from all external missions for the next two years. Our only task is to protect this manor."
"Understood," Cain replied, snapping a crisp salute before turning to carry out his orders, the image of the black dragon seared into his mind.
Cayman squinted, thinking of the two thousand men, five hundred warhorses, and three armored elephants that now formed a protective fortress around his home. The gathering of such force would not go unnoticed. A dragon could not be concealed for long. Since it could not be hidden, it was better to control the narrative. He would announce Igalas's existence on his own terms, but only when he was ready.
Across the city, in the opulent Palace of Lys, the other Governors were already squabbling, oblivious to the seismic shift that had just occurred.
"Benick, what scheme does your illegitimate child intend to concoct now?" Anders questioned sharply, his tone dripping with contempt for the declining governor.
Benick's face flushed a deep crimson. "How should I know?" he retorted, too humiliated to confess the extent of his recent confrontation.
"You, this illegitimate child, are nothing but a constant source of trouble!" Anders roared, his spittle landing on Benick's lips. "Why didn't you simply seize the beauty soap technology from the start? This is all your fault!"
Benick, indignant, tried to salvage a shred of paternal dignity. "I only wish to protect him! Cayman is my son!"
"Nonsense! You merely sought to monopolize the soap. What pretense are you putting on?"
"Enough!" The voice of Ivika Grims, the eldest governor, cracked like a whip, slamming his hand on the table to halt their petty quarrel. At nearly seventy, he remained a robust and intimidating figure. "Both of you, be silent. The most pressing matter is the plea for aid from Tyrosh."
He produced a letter and tossed it onto the table. "The missive reveals that Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon are preparing to invade the Stepstone Islands. You all know how ferocious that 'Bloodworm' is. The Velaryon fleet is no less formidable. We are up against a dragon, while you squabble over power and influence."
Anders, feeling disgruntled, contemplated a retort but ultimately chose silence. The game had just become infinitely more dangerous, and they were all still playing for coppers while Cayman, in his fortified manor, now held a king-making piece. A dragon.