The sea whispered of secrets that morning, its breath curling against Claw Isle's jagged cliffs like a ghost long exiled. From the solar's high window, Vaelon Celtigar watched gulls circle above the crashing surf, his fingers absently tracing the polished edge of a sea-dragon carving that adorned the sill. The carving, ancient and salt-stained, was said to date from the days when the Celtigars still sailed east to trade with the Free Cities, before dragons had burned Old Valyria into memory and ash.
He had not slept. Dreams had gripped him again — not the fevers of months past, but something more primal. Flames coiled in darkness, wings beat in silence, and the faint pulse of a heart not his own thrummed beneath it all. A dragon's heartbeat. He woke with the name Pyrthax on his tongue, a word that held no meaning to him, and yet one he could not forget.
Bartimos had left for Driftmark two days ago, leaving Vaelon with the running of Claw Isle in his absence. A gesture of trust, perhaps. Or a test.
A knock sounded at the solar door.
"Enter," Vaelon said.
Maester Corwin entered with a furrowed brow, a raven scroll in hand and an armed retainer trailing him—a man cloaked in dark blue, bearing the pin of House Celtigar but unfamiliar to Vaelon.
"My lord," Corwin said, bowing his head slightly. "You have a visitor. A merchant from Lys by the name of Varys Tolarys. He sails under safe banner and claims to bring an item of... unique heritage."
Vaelon's brow arched. "From Lys? What does he want from us?"
"He requested an audience, stating it concerns your family's Valyrian blood."
Vaelon rose slowly, the word 'Valyrian' igniting a slow spark in his chest. "Bring him to the lesser hall. See that the guard remains."
—
The lesser hall was a long, narrow chamber flanked by stone columns shaped like sea serpents. Varys Tolarys stood before the central hearth, warming his hands. He was pale-skinned, with a slight build and well-trimmed beard, clothed in a robe of deep green and silver thread. A satchel of faded leather hung over his shoulder.
Vaelon entered alone, his boots tapping sharply against the flagstones.
"Lord Vaelon," the man said with a courteous bow. "I thank you for your hospitality."
"You claimed to have something of interest," Vaelon said, eyeing him cautiously. "Speak plainly."
The Lysene smiled with a glint of amusement. "Straight to it, I see. Very well. What I bring is a curiosity, to some. A relic. But to those with blood of the old race? A treasure."
From his satchel, he withdrew a bundle wrapped in thick velvet and laid it upon the hearthstone.
Vaelon stepped closer. With deliberate care, the merchant folded the cloth away.
The object within was round, almost like stone. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if trapped within were dying embers. Blackened red with veins of molten gold, it was rough yet somehow whole — ancient, powerful, silent.
Vaelon felt his breath hitch. His heart echoed like a drum.
"Is it what I think it is?" he asked.
"A dragon's egg," said Varys, voice reverent. "From the ashes of Valyria. Recovered from a vault beneath the ruins of Vel'lorak — once seat of House Pyrthax, lost in the Doom."
Vaelon could not look away. "Why bring it to me?"
"Because your house, though faded in royal esteem, is not without legacy. And because you, my lord, have golden eyes — rare among the dragonlords, but not unknown among Pyrthax blood. I believe this egg... is meant for you."
He spoke as though destiny sat before them.
Vaelon's mind raced. Pyrthax — the name from his dream. A coincidence? He didn't believe in coincidence.
"And the price?" he asked warily.
"Five thousand gold dragons. Or a promise — a binding agreement to grant me a permanent trade charter through your isle and protection for my ships under your banners."
Vaelon turned away, heart pounding.
This was madness. Dragon eggs did not hatch. The ones gifted to Rhaenyra and Baela sat cold, dead as stone. But...
His fingers twitched. Deep within him stirred something that felt older than breath, older than the sea that beat the cliffs.
He turned back. "Leave the egg. You will be given quarters under guard. I will discuss your proposal with Lord Bartimos."
Varys bowed again. "Of course, my lord. But take heed — true fire sleeps only so long."
—
That night, Vaelon could not rest.
The egg sat before his hearth now, placed atop a bed of coal. It did not warm, nor shift, nor pulse. Yet it felt alive. As if it watched him, tested him.
He opened the tomes Corwin had once discouraged him from reading. Ancient scrolls on draconic lore, fragments copied from texts smuggled out of the Freehold before its ruin.
Valyrian glyphs danced before his eyes: Zaldrīzes ānogrose — "the dragon remembers."
A phrase echoed through his memory — something he'd read weeks ago in a dusty, half-burned scroll: Only with blood, flame, and binding words may fire wake once more.
He whispered it to himself over and over.
—
Three days passed before Bartimos returned.
The old lord was weary, his beard wind-tossed and eyes bleary from the sea journey. Yet when Vaelon summoned him to the solar and revealed the egg, he stood silent for nearly a full minute.
"You let a Lyseni merchant walk into our keep and offer you this?" he finally said.
"He did not lie, Father. Look at it. I have felt... something. It called to me before I ever saw it."
Bartimos's face was unreadable. "Eggs do not hatch. You know this."
"And yet I dreamt its name before I heard it. And the egg — it knows me."
Bartimos crossed his arms. "You would tie this house to a foreign trader, jeopardize coin and honor, for a dream?"
"Not for a dream," Vaelon said, stepping closer. "For legacy. For the chance to restore our bloodline to what it once was. House Celtigar has the blood of Old Valyria, yet we are mocked behind our backs. They call us petty lords of a crab isle. Let them see fire and wings above these skies, and they will remember our name."
Bartimos stared at him for a long time.
Then, to Vaelon's surprise, the old lord sighed. "If this is the path you choose, you must tread it carefully. You will keep the egg — under guard. You will study the lore. If you still believe, come spring, that this course is worth pursuing... then we shall speak of it again."
Vaelon bowed his head. "Thank you, Father."
As his father left, Vaelon turned back to the hearth. The egg glowed faintly in the firelight, shadows dancing over its scorched shell.
He felt it again — not a heartbeat, but a presence.
The dragon remembers.
And so would the world.