Aegon collected his thoughts, wrapped the heavy, eerie dragon horn in strips of cloth torn from a corpse, stuffed it into a leather satchel, and slung it across his back.
He cast one last glance at this hall of ruins, baptized time and again in blood and fire, then turned and walked out.
The outside air hit him—reeking of smoke and the briny stench of the sea.
The sky was far brighter than the depths below, yet still shrouded in perpetual dust, a hazy yellow twilight.
His violet eyes swept the edge of the rubble and quickly found Xiao Laki near the dried-up Blood Lake—now only a glassy, sunken hollow of strange, fused sand.
The pale-gold "bench" crouched where the Dead Dragon had been utterly obliterated. Three small heads drooped, six golden eyes fixed on the ground, sniffing or sensing something.
Now and then the middle head lifted, gazed in some direction, and let out a low, thoughtful rumble.
Through their mind-link Aegon could faintly feel curiosity, probing, and… an inexplicable, languid satisfaction, as after a meal?
Was it absorbing something the dragon had left behind—energy, or whatever else?
Aegon didn't press, didn't disturb.
Ghidorah's very existence defied reason; a few quirks were only to be expected.
With their minds linked, the creature couldn't get lost.
He looked down at the longsword he had picked up beside yet another Ironborn corpse.
The blade was common, its edge already curling; the grip slimy with soaked blood.
He had lost count of how many weapons he'd gone through since entering the ruin.
'Hopefully this hell-hole still holds some decent steel besides that armor,' he muttered, eyes on the Mercenary figures cautiously searching and hauling loot among the rubble. 'Valyrian Steel, preferably…'
'Your Grace!'
Speak of the devil.
Several Mercenaries, arms full, hurried toward him from different directions.
Their faces showed fatigue, but their eyes were bright.
The first to arrive was a lanky fighter missing a front tooth. He gingerly set a bulging sack—crudely sewn from canvas—at Aegon's feet and loosened its drawstring.
Clatter—
A blaze of color spilled out.
Rubies, sapphires, cat's-eyes, emeralds… plus heaps of rough-cut yet vividly colored crystal and agate.
Tumbled together, they flashed blinding hues under the yellow sky.
Among them, several large gems were clearly those the Ironborn had hacked from the murals.
'Stripped from the dead Ironborn, Your Grace!' the gap-toothed Mercenary grinned, empty socket showing. 'Those pirates stuffed their pouches, boots—thought they'd get rich!'
'Well done.' Aegon nodded. Hard coin, valuable in both Essos and Westeros.
A quick estimate: this sack alone might equal the cargo of a small caravan.
'But…' Another Mercenary, burn-scarred, scratched his head, dispirited. 'Plenty of places got torched by that monster's breath or buried when walls came down.
What was on the surface melted or charred; what's underground we can't reach. We only stripped the Ironborn and a few other bodies the dragon-flame missed.
He gestured to a nearby pile: thirty-odd suits of plate, more coats of leather—bloody but intact; swords, axes, spears, shields, some of fine make; plus several pouches clinking with gold, silver, and copper coins.
Not a fortune, but more than enough to arm a company of a hundred. Those plates were worth their weight.
As Aegon ordered the gear sorted, Karl loped over from a nearby fissure, lean face alight with restrained excitement.
'Boss—Your Grace—you need to see this!' he hissed, eyes gleaming. 'We found… something different.'
Aegon's interest pricked; he waved the others to continue and followed Karl to the crack.
The fissure yawned beside the base of a half-collapsed tower—apparently melted by dragon-heat, then split open, a hand's width wide and bottomless.
'There's a space below, like a storeroom, but the entrance had been blocked till the collapse opened it.' Karl slipped inside first, raising a freshly lit, oil-soaked torch.
Aegon followed.
At first the gap was tight, then, after a few metres slanting down, it widened sharply.
Flickering light revealed the scene.
A small stone chamber, walls smooth, unadorned—no living quarters.
In its centre sat rows of oval objects.
Each the size of a man's head, sheathed in dull, grey, stone-rough shells, lifeless.
Eggs.
Dragon eggs.
And—Aegon's gaze raced over them—his pulse quickened.
Well over a hundred, packed tight, filling the room. Though they looked like river stones, their shape, size, and the faint whiff of brimstone and ash betrayed their birthright.
'Seven save us…' Henry, squeezing in behind, gasped, round face stunned. 'So many… stone eggs?'
'Dragon eggs, Henry. Petrified ones.' Karl's voice shook—not with fear, but raw thrill. 'I saw a single one in a Pentoshi merchant's treasure vault, worshipped like a holy relic!'
'Even petrified, collectors in Volantis and Braavos would pay kingdoms for them!'
Priceless?
Aegon stepped closer, fingers brushing one cold, rough shell.
He seemed to feel a faint, sleeping tremor.
Not physical—more a hazy resonance in the blood.
He knew their worth went far beyond "curios."
Daenerys Targaryen—his aunt only in tale—had hatched three such eggs in fire and blood and launched her conquest of the slave cities.
Magic could wake them.
Fire and blood could wake them.
And he—Aegon Targaryen—carried the purest Valyrian dragon-blood, with Ghidorah, a king of monsters from another universe, at his side.
In other hands these eggs were dead stones, costly ornaments.
In his… they could be war-beasts that once more soared and spat flame!
The very cornerstone of a future dragon-rider legion!
Aegon's breath quickened; visions of dragon-wings blotting the sun, of castles burning beneath dragon-fire, flashed unbidden across his mind.
He mastered the surge, withdrew his hand, turned to Karl, voice calm yet iron: 'Karl, pick your men. Handle these eggs yourself. Wrap them in the softest cloth you can find, move them gently—lose none. They are our future. Understand?'
Karl straightened, meeting Aegon's eyes, and nodded hard. 'Understood, Your Grace! My life on it!'
'Henry, help him. Choose only men you trust.'
'Yes, sir!'
With his most priceless prize secured, Aegon stepped back into the light.
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