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Nearly two years after they were petrified, the three dragon eggs had quietly come back to life.
Daeron took them out one by one.
Black. Yellow. Copper-green.
"This one belongs in my little sister Daenerys's cradle," he said, smiling as he cradled the midnight-black egg that would one day become Drogon.
He had taken her place as the Prince That Was Promised and hatched the first three dragons himself. The least he could do was give her the best egg left and a real childhood to go with it.
"Call it restoring one family tradition," he muttered with a half-grin, then stored all three eggs in his inventory.
Dragon eggs stayed on his person at all times. Until he sat the Iron Throne, not a single one would leave his hands. Even after he was king, he would hand them out slowly, carefully, and in the right order—letting the first wave of riders inspire the next.
---
Night had fallen.
Daeron loaded his two little brothers into the wheelhouse. Ser Jon drove them back to the Red Keep.
Shaena stayed behind.
Once the cottage door closed and they were alone, she stepped close and sniffed him. The clean, sweet scent of her hit him first.
Daeron raised an eyebrow, amused. "What are you smelling for?"
Shaena didn't answer. A flicker of suspicion crossed her clear violet eyes, then smoothed back into her usual calm.
"You're not going back?" he asked.
Shaena frowned. "Can't I stay here?"
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"Then I won't be polite."
He scooped her up, wrapped an arm around her slim waist, and tossed her onto the upgraded double bed with a soft thud.
Shaena bounced once on the mattress. Her blue silk skirt flared like a mermaid's tail, revealing two pale, smooth calves.
"Ouch," she pouted, cheeks puffed.
Daeron grinned. "Won't hurt in a minute."
---
The next morning.
A Lannister carriage rolled through the Dragon Gate and headed for the Red Keep.
Daeron and Shaena had just returned themselves.
"I'm going to fetch that pale gray dragon egg," Shaena said, voice a little husky. She held the banister and limped up the stairs toward her chambers.
Daeron watched her go, the corner of his mouth twitching with a satisfied smile.
The moment they heard war was coming, the two of them had stayed up half the night "researching." Typical Targaryen blood—never could sit still.
"Prince," Varys appeared at his elbow, "Lord Tywin is looking for you."
Daeron frowned. "What about?"
"Seems a Lannister has arrived. Lord Tywin is… displeased."
Varys gave a modest little shrug. "I don't have the details, of course."
Daeron asked where Tywin was and headed for the council hall.
He still found Varys odd. After the Pentos raid, Illyrio was dead and the Blackfyres had lost their biggest backer, yet the Spider acted like nothing had changed.
Are you Blackfyre blood, or just tied to them? Daeron wondered.
The books had been clear: the male line was extinct. Only women remained.
Does a eunuch count as a male heir?
He'd spotted the loophole but decided not to poke it. Varys was playing the loyal servant for now. Better to keep the obvious Blackfyre out in the open than let him lurk in the shadows.
Shame we never found Bronn, he thought. When he burned Illyrio's manse, the fat magister had been alone—no baby in sight. The child had probably been moved ahead of time.
Didn't matter. Without dragons the Blackfyres had lost to the Targaryens again and again. With dragons, they were nothing but roadside trash.
Show your face and you die.
---
In the council hall Daeron found Tywin—and a kid who was… hard to describe.
Tyrion Lannister stood beside his father's leg, head hanging, eyes full of stubborn hurt.
The "Imp" was only ten. Still very much a child in both age and size—short, stubby legs, oversized head, messy golden Lannister hair, and mismatched eyes, one black and one green, always watching everything.
Daeron glanced around. No Jaime or Cersei. "My lord, who is this?"
"If I could have my way, he'd be a beggar in the streets," Tywin said, face like iron, shoving the shame aside.
Tyrion spoke up fast. "My father is Tywin Lannister. I am Tyrion Lannister, his second son."
"Wow," Daeron said, momentarily speechless.
Truth was, he had never been a big Tyrion fan—in the books or on the show. Born a Lannister and later the man who helped ruin Daenerys? Too many stains.
"Prince, I'm your biggest fan," Tyrion blurted, practically vibrating. "My brother Jaime writes about you all the time. I came all the way from Casterly Rock just to meet you."
The boy was more excited than Jaime had been the first time he met the Blackfish, Barristan, and Arthur Dayne combined. He was practically tripping over his own words.
Daeron hesitated, then stepped outside and came back with a jar of gold-star milk. "Milk's good for you. Hope it helps you grow a bit."
He tried not to judge. He'd be civil.
"Thank you, Prince!" Tyrion looked ready to jump for joy, completely unbothered by the height comment.
Daeron sat down and looked at Tywin. "My lord, you wanted to see me?"
This couldn't be good.
Tywin's face was thunderous, knuckles white on the chair arm. "Prince, you said we're moving on Tarth. House Lannister should help."
Daeron's gaze flicked to Tyrion. "Who?"
Tywin nodded. "Exactly. My second son, Tyrion Lannister. He will accompany you to Tarth."
Daeron's own face darkened. "My lord, that joke isn't funny."
"Lannisters do not joke."
Tywin pointed at his worthless son with open disgust. "Take him. Let him see a real battlefield. Let him learn how cruel the world is."
He clearly meant every word.
Daeron shook his head. "No. He's too young—height and age both."
He was going to war, not babysitting.
"You take him and I'll send real help," Tywin said stubbornly. "Tyrion's only talent is his brain. Make him your cupbearer. Or if he's too ugly, a servant boy. I don't care."
Daeron had never seen Tywin like this—rational politician completely gone, ready to burn everything to get his way.
"Prince, please take me," Tyrion stepped forward, then stopped a respectful distance away, afraid his looks might offend. His eyes were pleading.
He was far too mature for ten. The worn, adult face made him look like a young man who had already been kicked around by life.
And he seemed weirdly star-struck by Daeron.
Daeron didn't answer Tyrion directly. He turned back to Tywin. "My lord, what exactly do you want out of sending him to war?"
It wasn't even a proper death sentence. Word would spread and every noble in the Seven Kingdoms would laugh at House Lannister.
Tywin's jaw tightened. "The little bastard ran away from Casterly Rock begging to see you. I'm simply granting his wish."
Tyrion's head drooped. "I haven't seen my big brother or my uncles in so long…"
Daeron pieced it together.
Tyrion had snuck to King's Landing hoping to reunite with Jaime, Tygett, and the rest of the family. Probably wanted to see the dragons too.
Tywin—eight out of ten—wanted the boy dead.
Even tigers don't eat their own cubs, so you send him to another tiger?
Daeron had read the books. Tywin hated Tyrion but couldn't kill him himself because of kinslaying and the memory of Joanna. So he kept pushing the boy into dangerous missions, hoping for an "accident."
Tyrion had survived every time.
Daeron sighed. "My lord, are you certain?"
"Completely."
Tywin's heart was stone, but he still tried to save face. "I'll send Tygett with troops. You don't have to watch over Tyrion. Just focus on destroying the Tyroshi pirates."
At that point there was nothing left to argue.
Daeron looked at Tyrion and said coldly, "I don't have time to babysit you, but I'll give you a simple job. Think you can handle it?"
Ten wasn't that young. He could work logistics—zero risk.
He wasn't about to let Tyrion die. Keeping the boy alive to annoy Tywin was too delicious. Plus, Tyrion was probably the last sane Lannister left.
"Prince, I swear I won't slow you down!" Tyrion was practically bouncing, words tumbling out.
Going to war with the Dragon Prince felt like a dream.
Daeron stepped outside and ran straight into a furious Cersei.
"Prince, have you seen a dwarf?"
Cersei had dropped every trace of her gentle-lady act. She looked like a lioness ready to claw someone's eyes out.
Daeron pressed his lips together and shook his head silently.
Let Teacher Tywin deal with that headache.
"Prince, I'll find you later," Cersei said, realizing she'd slipped. She gathered her skirts and hurried off.
Daeron chuckled.
Lannisters really were something. No one did self-sabotage better.
He turned and saw Shaena cradling the pale gray dragon egg, head tilted, eyes sharp with curiosity.
"Was Cersei angry?"
Daeron nodded. "A little demon showed up. She's a bit rattled."
"A little demon?"
"Yeah."
Everything was ready. A royal fleet sailed out of Blackwater Bay into the Narrow Sea.
Ten days later.
Tarth.
Lord Selwyn Tarth's face was grim. He had doubled the patrols and moved every civilian near Evenfall Hall so the pirates couldn't slaughter them in their villages.
Ten days earlier a Tyroshi crew had hit two settlements, killed a patrol, and dragged off a dozen girls and boys. Everyone knew the Triarchy sold captives as slaves—most likely to the Lysene pillow houses.
"Damn pirates! Come fight like men!" Lord Selwyn might look refined, but he had a temper.
A scout came running. "My lord! Lord Estermont of Greenstone sent word—another pirate fleet is heading straight for Tarth!"
Speak of the devils.
Selwyn's face went white. "Call every able-bodied man. Arm them. We're not giving those bastards anything for free."
Pirates never raided once. They came back again and again until the island was bled dry. With Tarth's location they might even try to turn it into a base.
Noon.
The sky was bright blue, the sun blazing.
A massive pirate fleet—nearly fifty ships—sailed into the sapphire waters around Tarth. Oars churned as they closed on the island.
Most were galleys, but there were longships and cogs too.
"Get ready! We smash Evenfall Hall, kill that soft Selwyn Tarth, and take every coin on this rock!" the Tyroshi admiral roared from the prow. His hair was dyed in bright streaks, his robe a riot of colors, but he was huge, long-limbed like an ape.
"Gold! Grain! Women!" his pirates bellowed, waving cutlasses, faces twisted with greedy bloodlust.
This wasn't some ragtag crew. This was the official Tyroshi navy—half merchants, half bandits. Their admiral was just the biggest pirate of them all.
"Land!" the admiral shouted, eyes wild. He didn't give a damn about his archon's orders. He wanted loot.
The fleet picked up speed. Pirates lit fire arrows and sent them arcing toward the docks, setting wharves and fishing boats ablaze.
Tarth had never had much defense, especially at sea.
"Hm? Where is everyone?" The admiral's instincts prickled. Even a weak garrison should have shown some sign of life.
"Charge!"
The longships were already beaching themselves, men leaping into the surf like professionals.
The admiral frowned. "Something's wrong. Selwyn Tarth isn't a coward—"
A blazing red streak suddenly cut across the sky, blotting out the sun and casting a long shadow over the water.
The shadow belonged to a dragon with wings the size of ship sails.
The Tyroshi admiral's head snapped up. Every alarm in his body screamed.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes shattered the clouds, serpentine body twisting as he dove straight at the fleet.
Daeron's eyes locked on the lead warship.
"Dracarys, Caraxes!"
A roaring column of crimson flame slammed down.
The admiral's eyes bulged. He didn't even have time to scream—he just jumped.
The flagship's bow exploded. Fire swallowed the deck. Pirates who couldn't react fast enough were roasted alive.
"AAAAHHH!"
"It burns—IT BURNS!"
More than a dozen men screamed as dragonfire ate them. Some were blown apart on the spot, bodies scattered in burning chunks.
At the same moment, on the far side of Tarth, a dozen royal warships slid out of hiding, bronze rams gleaming as they charged.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes wheeled overhead, spraying jet after jet of flame, setting sails and masts ablaze.
In seconds the pirate fleet became a floating inferno.