Daeron bent down and carefully lifted the egg from the straw. A grin spread across his face.
"Look what I've found."
Before he could say more, Shaenie rushed forward and wrapped her arms around his head, pressing a trembling kiss to his forehead.
Words failed her. Her eyes glimmered with tears. "A dragon egg! It's real—an actual dragon egg!"
The two younger boys cheered loud enough to shake the rafters, hugging their older siblings all at once.
Even Viserys — so often dismissed as slow — understood what it meant.
For the first time since the Tragedy at Summerhall, House Targaryen had a dragon egg again.
It was a piece of what they had lost — perhaps, the very proof that their blood still held power.
When the excitement settled, Daeron finally disentangled himself, feeling the heat of Shaenie's breath still on his cheek.
"Second Brother," little Jaehaerys said, wide-eyed, "we have a dragon egg!"
Daeron could only laugh softly — but Shaenie, ever strange and solemn, calmed first. Her voice was firm when she spoke:
"Daeron. Hide it. Take it back to your lands — and never, ever let Father or anyone else know it exists."
"I understand."
They didn't need to say why.
If King Aerys ever discovered it — if he even suspected — he would seize it in a heartbeat. The Mad King's obsession with dragons ran deeper than love. It was hunger.
"Both of you," Shaenie said sharply, turning to their brothers, "listening well. This must stay secret."
"We swear!"
"Uh‑huh!"
Two little heads bobbed solemnly.
And just like that, the four Targaryen siblings shared a single, dangerous secret.
Only then did Daeron take the time to study the egg itself.
Its scales were dark red with gold flecks and faint spiral patterns in black.
A memory clicked. "This should be the dragon egg Aegon the Unworthy gifted to the Butterwell family," he murmured.
Which meant Bloodraven's agents had stolen it after the rebellion… and hidden it inside the materials salvaged from Whitewalls.
Daeron's lips parted in quiet realization. "Safe indeed," he whispered. "No one would ever think to look there."
Then a sudden thought chilled him. If Father's plan to build his marble city had actually begun…
Would King Aerys have found it first?
That possibility struck uncomfortably close.
His father's old "visions of glory" often bordered on lunacy:
1. To conquer the Stepstones and make them part of the realm.
2. To build a second Wall a hundred miles north of the first.
3. To construct a new White City across the Blackwater, made entirely of marble.
4. To raise a royal fleet to destroy Braavos and settle the Iron Bank's debts.
5. To dig a massive canal through the Red Mountains, bringing river water to the Dornish deserts.
Every one of them — mad.
Only one ancestor had ever managed anything remotely similar: Daemon Targaryen, the wild "Rogue Prince," who briefly held the Stepstones by sheer force.
"Father… are you truly insane?"
Yet even as he asked, Daeron knew it wasn't that simple.
Aerys's madness wasn't random. It followed a pattern — insanity with a twisted logic.
His paranoia about Tywin. His hatred for Rhaegar. His obsession with wildfire.
All madness — and yet, all threads in a larger tapestry of fear.
And deep down, Daeron almost believed the King wasn't wrong to fear Lannisters and false heirs.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Your Grace," came a gravelly voice. "The Hand of the King summons you to the throne room — to answer for harming a Lannister."
Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, stood at the door.
Daeron smiled faintly. "…So it begins."
He slipped the dragon egg into his inventory panel before the others could react.
"Magic?!" Jaehaerys gasped, eyes wide as coins.
"Wow…" whispered Viserys, practically glowing with awe.
Daeron ruffled their hair lightly. "Stay put. If not here, go to Mother — and don't wander."
Then he stepped outside.
Gerold Hightower stood tall and solemn, sword at his hip. Opposite him, Jon Darry looked equally tense, hand resting on his hilt.
The two Kingsguard were mere words away from drawing blades.
"What's going on?" Daeron asked, though he already knew.
Jon stepped aside slightly, lowering his guard. "The Hand sent the Lord Commander himself for you."
Gerold gave a curt nod. "Lannister soldiers are making formal accusation. The King is indisposed. I came before any orders to warn you."
So — not a summons, but a quiet favor.
"Where is my father?" Daeron asked.
"In his bedchamber," Hightower said.
"Then take me to him."
The three men set off at once.
But when they reached the doors to Aerys's room, another obstacle awaited.
"Ah, Prince Daeron," croaked the Grand Maester.
Pycelle bowed deeply, hands shaking ever so slightly. "His Grace is resting. He cannot be disturbed."
Daeron's voice remained cold. "I've been accused of assaulting a Lannister. I'll disturb him."
The maester blinked, feigning confusion. "His Majesty drank a strong sedative after the council. He will sleep for hours yet, my prince."
Daeron's mouth curved faintly. "That timing is awfully convenient, isn't it?"
"I assure you — his medicine follows schedule daily," Pycelle stammered.
Daeron glanced at Gerold. The old knight frowned, then nodded imperceptibly — confirming the claim.
Still, Daeron wasn't fooled.
He shoved Pycelle aside and pushed open the doors.
Behind the curtains, Barristan Selmy rose smoothly from his seat, his silver armor gleaming even in dim light. "Your Grace—what's happening?"
Ignoring him, Daeron strode straight to the bed.
His father slept soundly, thin chest rising and falling under the blankets.
The prince crossed the room to the cabinet where the King kept personal treasures.
"Prince Daeron?" Barristan's tone sharpened.
Daeron didn't answer. A moment later, he turned back — holding something in his hand. Something black‑hilted and sharp.
The Valyrian steel dagger.
He drew it from its sheath. The dark metal caught the light, rippling faintly like water.
"This," he murmured, almost reverently, "was once Innyr's — the Exile's dagger."
A relic of a fallen age.
Before Old Valyria's doom, Targaryens had fled with swords, crowns, and treasures of dragonsteel.
Yet over centuries — through wars, rebellions, and exiles — nearly all had been lost.
Blackfyre, the family's ancestral sword, vanished with Bittersteel across the Narrow Sea.
Dark Sister, carried north by Brynden Rivers, was lost beyond the Wall.
Now, only a single Valyrian steel crown—and this dagger—remained.
Daeron turned the weapon thoughtfully, the faint heat of the metal tingling against his skin.
"Our house has fallen so far," he whispered.
He slid the dagger into his belt, meeting the shocked eyes of the three knights.
Then he gave a single, measured order.
"Gerold, Barristan — with me. Jon remains behind to guard my father."
Without waiting for reply, he strode for the door.
The Kingsguard exchanged quietly conflicted looks — but eventually followed.
Behind them, Pycelle staggered to his feet, clutching the doorframe.
"What… what are you doing?" he croaked.
Jon Darry turned toward him, face expressionless, voice even colder.
"Doing our duty," he said. "Guarding the dragon's blood."
And he closed the doors in the old man's face.
---