The next morning, the sun rose over King's Landing as if nothing had happened.
Someone found the Grand Maester's broken body at the base of the tower stairs. The court physicians concluded it was an accident—an old man, unsteady on his feet, who'd slipped and fallen to his death.
No one questioned it. Many noblemen of Westeros met exactly that kind of end.
"Damn it!" King Aerys II bellowed, pacing his chambers in his night‑robe. "That doddering old fool, dead! And now who will mix my sleeping draughts?"
He ranted for a while, more inconvenienced than grief‑stricken, until the matter evaporated from his mind altogether.
Daeron used the lull to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Father, what role do you see for me in the realm's future?"
It wasn't wise to ask for position—better to suggest destiny.
Aerys waved a hand, impatient again. "You will serve as Deputy Commander of the City Watch. Aid Lord Manly Stokeworth in maintaining order. That's enough. Now leave me—I've work to do."
Dismissed, Daeron bowed and withdrew.
"Deputy Commander," he mused to himself once outside. "A fine start."
His temples throbbed as he stepped into the morning light. He hadn't slept.
He was no drinker—never had been, neither in this life nor the last. But the half‑glass of summer red he'd drunk last night to steady his nerves still pounded behind his eyes.
"Strong wine shouldn't be gulped, my prince," said a calm voice beside him.
Daeron turned to see Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself.
He offered a faint smile. "Just a small drink, Ser Gerold. Last night was… unsettling."
Gerold's solemn face relaxed slightly. "Summer Red from Dorne? Ah. Ser Arthur Dayne's favorite. No man forgets that taste once it touches his lips."
Daeron chuckled faintly. "So I learned."
Hightower nodded. "Nerves before duty are no shame, my prince. A man must learn to drink as he learns to ride and fight."
Practical, honest advice—unexpected warmth from the kingdom's sternest knight.
They spoke as they walked, and Daeron found the old warrior surprisingly perceptive, able to offer guidance from a soldier's, not a courtier's, view.
That led Daeron to recall an entry from The Chronicles of the Dance of the Dragons.
The tale after the Battle of the Honeywine, more than a century and a half ago.
After King's Landing fell, the Green faction sent Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard to escort young Prince Maler—the son of Aegon II—south toward Oldtown. But near Darkbridge, a mob attacked them. Thorne was killed; the prince was torn apart by peasants fighting over scraps of his clothes.
When the Lord of Oldtown, Lord Monde Hightower, heard the news, he marched north in fury. His army burned Darkbridge to the ground.
Prince Daeron the Daring—first of his name—avenged his murdered nephew by mounting his dragon, Tessarion, and reducing the Caswell stronghold to ash.
But legend held that in the chaos, the late prince's dragon egg—intended as his cradle treasure—was saved.
Lady Caswell had seized it during the riot but, before her death, entrusted it to Lord Monde Hightower to save her children. He carried it back to the great Hightower of Oldtown, where its trail ended.
Looking at Ser Gerold now—a true‑blooded Hightower—Daeron's curiosity sharpened.
"Tell me, Ser Gerold," he asked lightly, "does your family still keep a dragon egg in Oldtown?"
The knight stopped mid‑stride. His brows drew together. "Why do you ask, Your Grace?"
Daeron watched his face carefully—and smiled. "So it is true."
A flicker of discomfort crossed the White Bull's normally impassive features.
"Forgive me, prince. But some secrets are not mine to share," he said at last, bowing his head.
Which was answer enough.
Daeron inclined his own respectfully, hiding the spark in his eyes. "Of course, Ser."
Then he excused himself and walked away—faster and faster until he had to restrain from breaking into a run.
A second egg.
Another dragon.
The tale was nearly one‑hundred‑fifty years old, yet the Hightowers were famous for preserving relics and secrets. If even a fragment of the story was true…
His pulse quickened.
He already had one egg—sleeping, silent, crimson—and though the heat hadn't birthed it yet, he refused to give up.
But another egg? Another chance?
If he couldn't hatch two, he would give one to Shaenie. Another to little Jae. Perhaps even Viserys one day.
And if they could hatch them… a flight of dragons would once again darken the skies of Westeros.
"No matter what," Daeron vowed under his breath, "that egg will be mine."
Hightower might be loyal to his family above all, but Daeron noted one thing: Ser Gerold was uncle to the current Lord of Oldtown, Leyton Hightower—a man rumored to dabble in alchemy, spells, and strange magical beasts.
It meant opportunity.
Later that morning, after visiting Shaenie and leaving her a silver‑star daffodil—her silent smile warmed the gloom inside him—Daeron saddled his horse and left King's Landing behind.
Better to lie low for a time; playing innocent was easier at a distance.
And fishing, at least, demanded no witnesses.
Dragon‑Tongue Farm — Lakeshore
Biu!
The fishing line arched out over the still waters. Daeron sat back, letting the cool wind wash his thoughts away.
Three days left until Spring 13—the festival where he'd buy his strawberry seeds. He needed another 210 gold.
Fishing would earn it faster than foraging; the lakes and rivers were generous, the sea less forgiving.
"Feels like those nights grinding for bass," he muttered, grinning as the float bobbed.
Plop!
A tiny ripple, then a jerk.
"Got one!" He tightened his grip, pulling.
Peaceful, simple—the kind of work that calmed his blood.
Behind him, the empire churned.
Word of the Grand Maester's "accidental" death had already rippled through court; the small council now awaited a replacement, but few cared. The real talk of King's Landing was the boy prince taking command of the City Watch.
Eleven years old, already a war hero in miniature, now wielding the capital's only standing army.
Some said the King had lost his mind. Others whispered that the dragons were waking again — and one of them wore silver hair.
Few realized they were watching the opening moves of another Dance.
Those with sharp eyes, however, were already choosing sides.
Would they back Prince Rhaegar, calm and distant on Dragonstone, or Daeron, fierce and favored in the Red Keep?
Riverrun — the Trident.
Lunchtime in House Tully's great hall.
At the long oaken table sat Lord Hoster Tully, aging but still formidable, head of his family, lines deep with care and memory.
Family. Duty. Honor.
Their words echoed through every stone of the castle.
Around the table gathered his kin.
On his left sat a striking young woman with cascading red curls — poised and queenly in her bearing. Beside her, a sharp‑eyed dark‑haired man and a ginger‑haired boy whispered together, faces lit by the fire.
Across from them sat a lean, gray‑haired knight whose piercing blue eyes seemed to see straight through people. Ser Brynden Tully — the Blackfish.
By his side lounged a handsome golden‑haired youth pestering him for tales of the Ninepenny Kings war.
Next to the boy sat another red‑haired girl, bright and buxom, glancing shyly toward the dark‑haired man across the table—while he, in turn, avoided her gaze and listened keenly to her stoic uncle.
The great river of the realm flowed quietly that day, but beneath its calm surface, politics stirred like strong currents.
And far to the south, in King's Landing, a boy with dragon's blood was dreaming of finding his second egg.