Walking down the corridor, Daeron ran into someone he didn't expect.
"Prince," said Varys smoothly, bowing low. "A word, if you please."
Daeron blinked. "Lord Varys? What business could you have with me?"
He rarely dealt with members of the Small Council—especially its shadowy Master of Whisperers, the infamous spider who seemed to know all secrets and serve none.
Varys smiled, eyes half-lidded. "As you know, I keep a few… little birds, to better serve His Grace."
"Let me guess," Daeron said, tone wry. "One of your birds decided to sing for me this time?"
"Not a song, my prince," Varys whispered, leaning closer. "A discovery." His powdered hands fluttered like pale moths. "Word reached the Red Keep that you struck Lord Geryn Lannister before His Majesty took his medicine. And—by curious chance—the Hand received his message while the Grand Maester was visiting the Tower of the Hand."
He straightened with a faint, knowing smirk. "I leave you to think on what that means."
He bowed again and glided away, silent as smoke.
Daeron watched him go, eyes narrowing.
On the surface, it was intelligence—but the intent behind it mattered more than the words.
So, he thought, Varys hates Pycelle.
And Pycelle hated anyone younger, sharper, or breathing.
A small smile tugged Daeron's mouth. "Interesting."
Varys might have been a mystery, but he'd once served faithfully under House Targaryen — and unlike Pycelle, the old fraud hadn't yet sold himself entirely to the lions of Casterly Rock.
Which made the choice easy.
Varys would be kept close. Pycelle… would not.
Later that afternoon – 3:30 p.m.
Daeron rode out of the Red Keep with Ser Jon Darry, heading back toward Dragon‑Tongue Farm.
Before leaving, he'd paid visits to two men: Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, and Kevan Lannister.
King Aerys was sleeping off the sedative, and Hightower had passed word from the throne: the King wished his beloved son to remain in King's Landing and "aid his father in ruling."
Translation: keep him close where he could be controlled.
Gerold, however, had spoken more sincerely after — quietly expressing that Daeron's calm presence might help temper his father's moods. The moment in the throne room when he had talked Aerys down from sending Barristan into the duel had earned respect even among the hardiest of knights.
Kevan, meanwhile, lay mummified in bandages — barely able to roll over. His wounds were minor but plentiful. He had listened, weary but courteous, even relaying a message from Tywin himself: the Hand wanted Daeron to remain in the capital, "to learn responsibility."
This time, Daeron had agreed — with a twist.
Instead of serving in the palace, he volunteered to join the City Watch—the so‑called Gold Cloaks.
Founded long ago, the Watch had once been a ragged band of half‑armed guards until Prince Daemon Targaryen, the "Rogue Prince," took them in hand. He had armed, drilled, uniformed, and organized them — giving each man a golden wool cloak to wear.
Since then, gold had been their color, and their loyalty — at least in theory — to the blood of dragons.
Perfect, Daeron thought. If you're staying in the city, control the army that answers to no lord but the crown.
When both Tywin and Hightower learned of this, they'd no doubt report back separately — exactly as he wanted.
Dragon‑Tongue Farm.
Evening wind swept through the open fields as Daeron walked alone down the dirt path, the farmhouse coming into view.
Ser Jon was off scouting new terrain.
Today was Spring, Day 5 — and by the old rhythms of his strange new world, the mines near the waterfall should now be open.
He was eager. The farm needed stone, iron, copper — everything a builder or dreamer could ask for.
"Woof! Woof, woof!"
A sudden bark interrupted his thoughts.
Out of the roadside bushes tumbled a scruffy gray puppy, tail wagging furiously as it blocked his way.
Daeron blinked. "A dog?"
"Woof!" The pup yipped again, tongue lolling, fur muddy, eyes bright.
He smiled. Of course. The system's farm event.
On the fifth day of spring, every farmer in the valley received a pet — cat or dog, their choice.
"So it's you, hm?" He crouched, letting the pup sniff his hand. "Fine. I'll take you."
He scratched behind its ears. "You'll be more use than the chickens, at least."
The puppy barked again — wagging so fiercely its whole body swayed.
"Come on, then."
He scooped it up easily by the scruff. The pup folded its paws obediently, eyes wide.
"I'll call you Doro," he said.
"Woof!"
By dusk, the day's work was done — watering crops, collecting eggs, tidying the small coop.
Back inside his warm cabin, Daeron rubbed his palms together and tossed the now‑washed Doro down on a rug before the fire.
The puppy yawned and stared at the flames — specifically, at the large oval shape resting within them.
The dragon egg gleamed in the flickering light, crimson and gold, scaled like living flame.
Daeron caught the dog's stare and smirked. "Silly mutt. A hundred of you still wouldn't be worth one of those."
The dragon egg had been placed carefully in the hearth ever since his return.
In the chronicles, Daenerys Targaryen would one day hatch hers after the Red Comet's rise and a blood sacrifice — pure accident paving the way for prophecy.
But Daeron's situation was different.
The Red Comet had already risen — heralding a resurgence of magic.
The egg in his possession still carried the faint pulse of life.
"When the world's magic waned," Daeron murmured, watching the flames curl around it, "the dragons died… the eggs turned to stone… even the warlocks lost their craft."
But tides turned.
The comet meant a new flood of magic — and the rise of life force across the world: crops that glowed, beasts that thrived, men like him wielding power beyond mortal limits.
"My chances of hatching you," he said softly, "just got a lot better."
He stared at the egg, entranced by the red gleam flickering like molten gold.
There was no man alive who wouldn't crave a dragon.
Even Tyrion Lannister, in the histories, had begged his uncle for one — even a hatchling, he'd said.
And Daeron was no average man. He was dragonborn.
He grinned, eyes bright with feverish want. "I… I just want a dragon so bad," he whispered. "I dream about it, I need it!"
He gazed down at the egg. "Hatch soon. Together we'll conquer the world."
The heat licked his skin — unbearable to most men — but he didn't flinch. He reached straight into the fire, placing his palm upon the blazing shell.
Hiss!
Smoke rose between his fingers, his flesh blistering white. The pain was sharp — almost holy.
"Woof! Woof‑woof!"
Doro panicked, jaws closing around Daeron's sleeve, trying to pull him away from the flames.
"I'm fine," Daeron murmured, smiling faintly as he withdrew his hand. His skin shone red and pale, but only lightly scorched — no deeper harm.
The blood of dragons, after all, burned hot.
"I'm not unburnt," he said softly. "But close enough."
He leaned closer to the fire again, eyes filled with longing.
"Come on, little one," Daeron whispered to the egg. "Wake up."
And in the flickering light, for one impossible heartbeat, he thought he saw the faintest movement beneath the shell — the slow, steady pulse of something ancient remembering it once had wings.
---
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