The next day.
Daeron rose at dawn, gathered his men, and headed straight for Dragonmount.
'Your Grace, won't you reconsider?'
Barristan, ever at his side, could not help but speak up.
Dragonmount was unlike any other place.
The depths burned so hot that only those of Targaryen blood—or Dragon seeds with strong draconic heritage—could endure it.
If the prince went in alone and came to harm, the king would have his head.
He might even blame Crown Prince Rhaegar.
'Ser, I brought you to keep the rest of the island in line, not to lecture me.'
Daeron stopped and said plainly, 'I already have two dragon eggs.'
'By my reckoning, Dragonmount holds more—perhaps even treasures that will help them hatch.'
'All I need from you is support.'
Barristan stood stunned, wondering if his ears had failed him.
Two dragon eggs? Help them hatch?
Had the prince come to Dragonmount to hunt the rumored wild dragon, or not?
Ser Jon and Davos stayed calm.
They had long known the prince's mind; having failed to dissuade him, they would not stand in his way.
Both prided themselves on knowing Daeron well and were aware he kept secrets.
'Since none of you object, we ride!'
Daeron's gaze swept across them.
No one opposed him; the march was swift.
Deep within Dragonmount.
Through a natural cavern mouth the interior glowed red, as if lit by molten rock.
Daeron drew a deep breath and plunged inside.
'Your Grace…'
Barristan reached out, then let his hand fall.
In the sweltering heat he could only wait and pray… 'Stone, stone, and more stone.'
The underground cavern opened wider than Daeron had imagined.
Yet apart from rocks, nothing moved.
Well—almost nothing.
Cracks in the parched floor revealed streaks of blackened, glowing magma.
'No wonder the mines and lava cells are death traps,' he muttered.
Even Daeron clenched his teeth against the burning air.
Sweat evaporated the instant it touched his skin.
But heaven rewards the determined.
At last he spotted something amid the rubble.
He hurried over.
A dried, dragon-dung-like cocoon lay wedged in a corner, its stone shell cracked—not by tools, but from within.
'Something broke out naturally.'
He knelt, brushed away shards, and the brittle casing crumbled, revealing untouched treasure.
A whole clutch of dragon eggs!
Five dusty eggs of varied hues, huddled in the dried remains of their nest.
'I knew it—dragon eggs!'
He felt as if in a dream.
No time for celebration; he checked each egg.
'One, two, three… five, six…'
He frowned.
Six hollows showed in the gray ash, but only five eggs remained—one was missing.
'How?'
The more he examined, the deeper his frown.
Only a single jade-green egg still pulsed faintly with life.
One egg was crushed; three others were stone-dead, their shells petrified.
Fossils now.
Every egg counted.
He stowed the living green egg in his inventory and packed the rest into his satchel.
He puzzled over the missing egg and the crushed one.
'Could one have hatched naturally and trampled another on its way out?'
He doubted it.
The Red Comet had come early, the tide of sorcery rising, yet even his two eggs needed special aid to hatch.
How could a stray egg crack first?
He searched further.
'A few violet-red crystals…'
'A gnawed mushroom root…'
He recognized the cavern's bounty: volcanic crystal stone and lava fungi, both rich in Life Force.
'Something ate the lava mushroom…'
He recalled the wild-dragon rumors.
Then, in a corner, he found an oval shard.
He picked it up: a blackened, stinking eggshell fragment.
He froze, thinking of a particular creature.
Scritch-scritch.
Behind him, a drab 'rock' stirred, shaking off dust to reveal iron-gray hide and crimson eyes.
'Hm?'
Daeron's instincts screamed.
Yet he stared not behind but at a cracked lava bed where a pair of savage amber eyes blinked open, fixed on his satchel.
'The prince has been gone too long—should we go down?'
Barristan fretted.
Ser Jon, equally worried, swallowed. 'We wait…'
Boom!
A jet of flame roared from below.
'Damn!'
Barristan charged inside without hesitation.
Barristan the Bold had earned his name.
Ser Jon, white-faced, raced after him.
Heat or no heat, they could wait no longer.
'Filthy worm!'
Daeron rolled aside, crashing into stone as a blast of fire seared the spot he'd stood.
A fire-wyrm!
Six metres long, thick as a barrel, crimson and blazing.
It had lain hidden in the dried mud, and when Daeron took the eggs it spewed liquid flame.
'Screeee!'
The creature's roar was a shrill hiss.
It writhed out of the mud, crushing stone beneath its bulk.
A grotesque way to move.
Daeron meant to flee, yet the sight held him.
Wait—this was no fire-wyrm.
Fire-wyrms, called 'dragon-maggots,' lived beneath the Fourteen Flames of old Valyria.
None had ever been reported on Dragonstone.
He backed away, studying the crawling horror, and realization dawned.
It was not a worm but a deformed dragon.
The chronicles told of such: when Lady Laena Velaryon, daughter of Baela Targaryen and Alyn Velaryon, was born, a dragon egg in her cradle hatched.
Out slithered a blind, wingless, savage thing.
It bit off the infant's arm; Alyn Velaryan slew it in fury.
'Are you another of those twisted wyrms?'
Daeron wondered.
The beast before him matched the tale: dragon head and body, but no wings or legs, eyes and fangs set in charred, scaleless flesh.
It lived—in agony.