There was a pressure in the air that morning—heavy, humming, like a harp string pulled too tight.
I woke before Daenerys, the soft sound of her breath beside me calm and even. The fire in our chamber had burned low in the night, casting flickers of gold and orange across the stone floor. But even before my eyes found it, I felt it:
Heat. Not from the hearth. From the egg.
Viserion's egg.
It sat nestled in a cradle of obsidian and coal at the far end of the room, encased in a ring of heatstone slabs the Qartheen alchemists had crafted weeks ago. The shell, once cool and pale, now shimmered faintly. Cream and gold light danced under the surface like lightning trapped in marble.
I rose without waking her and crossed to it. My fingers hovered above the shell.
Warm.
Not searing, not molten like Vaedron's had been—but steady. Alive.
Behind me, Daenerys stirred.
"He's waking," she whispered, sitting up.
I didn't ask how she knew. She always knew. The bond between her and the dragons was instinctive, emotional. Mine was calculated, practiced, built on observation and strategy. But this—this was something else. A shared breath.
Rhazal perched on the inner window ledge, grooming his wings with sharp precision. Drakaina slept sprawled across a heatstone floor in the courtyard below, her body now stretching past twenty feet in length, wings curled like folded sails. Vaedron rested atop the western tower, silent and still as the stone he claimed.
We gathered them all.
The courtyard had become our ritual place—the heart of the fortress. Though still unnamed, its presence grew daily. The Dothraki patrolled the outer wall. Qartheen scribes recorded every flick of dragon wing. Masons bent their knees when they passed us now. Fear and reverence were becoming indistinguishable.
We placed the cream egg in a copper basin filled with coals, fresh firewood, and dragonbone fragments. Melyria, the red priestess, watched from the shadows, her face unreadable.
"He dreams in silence," she said. "The third head of the flame."
Daenerys and I stood side by side as the egg began to pulse.
"Is it time?" she asked.
"Not yet," I murmured.
"He's waiting for something."
I spent the afternoon walking the lower tier of the stronghold.
The dragon pens were being reinforced—high blackstone walls, iron-spiked gates, and heat tunnels carved beneath each stall to keep the young ones warm. The pens would not hold them forever, but they needed structure while they learned. I studied the workers, offered correction when needed. One of the younger Essosi masons flinched as I passed, dropping a chisel. I paused long enough to look him in the eye.
"You fear the dragons?" I asked.
He nodded quickly.
"Good," I said. "You should."
In the war chamber, a new map was laid out—drawn in oil on fine goatskin. Westeros in full, from the Wall to the Dornish Marches. I traced my fingers over the southern coast. King's Landing.
Too soon to move. But not too soon to plan.
Illyrio's latest raven spoke of tension. The Usurper's health was waning. The Hand—Stark—was at odds with the Queen. Whispers of bastards. Of rot.
Perfect.
That evening, I joined Melyria again.
She had lit nine braziers in the circle around her altar. Flames danced with strange hues—green, orange, and once, a flicker of blue.
"I saw it again," she said. "A city of towers. Fire beneath stone. Wings in the dark."
"Valyria?"
She nodded. "Not all was lost in the Doom."
I took a long breath.
"How many?"
"I cannot say. They sleep in stone. Coiled around each other. Waiting for a voice that knows them."
"And you think I can wake them?"
She smiled slowly. "No. I know you can."
When I returned to our chamber, Daenerys was alone, sitting by the hearth with the egg in her lap.
"I think he wants you," she said, not looking up.
I crossed the room, knelt in front of her. "He's yours."
"I know. But he wants you there."
The egg pulsed again. A flicker. Then stillness.
We sat in silence for a long time. Her head rested against mine. The fire warmed our skin. The egg between us felt like a shared heartbeat.
He hatched just before midnight.
No roar. No burst.
The shell cracked like soft bark, splitting along the center with delicate grace. A claw emerged, pale and glimmering gold. Then a muzzle, cream-colored, slick with heat and fluid.
He slipped free into Daenerys's arms with a quiet chirp.
Rhazal chirped back from the windowsill. Drakaina raised her head. Vaedron opened one eye.
But they did not move.
This was his moment.
Viserion blinked, slow and deliberate. His eyes were sharp—unsettlingly aware. He looked at Daenerys first, then at me.
Then, astonishingly, he yawned.
We fed him fish soaked in goat's milk. He ate methodically, never overexcited. Every movement was precise. Within the hour, he had dried completely, climbed to Daenerys's shoulder, and fallen asleep wrapped around her neck like a golden scarf.
I reached out, and he opened one eye.
"You're clever," I whispered. "Too clever."
Melyria entered quietly.
"Three heads," she said. "And one more still."
"Valyria," I said.
She nodded. "You must go. Before the fire there forgets what it is."
That night, Daenerys and I lay in our bed, the egg cradle now empty.
"Three dragons," she murmured.
"Four," I corrected.
She smiled. "Yes. Four."
The world would expect three. They would expect prophecy.
They would not expect Vaedron.
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