Daeron stretched lazily, still tangled in the sheets. "So whose idea was this?"
Sylla Errol lifted one elegant finger and tapped her own chin.
Damn. The hunter always shows up in the most unexpected way.
"Why?" Daeron asked, genuinely curious.
"Why not?" she countered, sliding closer so her head rested on his chest, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
Daeron gently disentangled himself and got up to dress.
"You're Daeron Targaryen," she said softly, eyes shining. "Dark Sister at your hip, Caraxes under you. Every daughter in the Seven Kingdoms dreams about you."
He finished buckling his belt, cupped her pale face, and pressed a light kiss to her cheek. "Thank you. Last night… I won't forget it."
Women only slowed down how fast he could draw his sword.
Sylla's eyes flickered with a hint of reluctance, but she was no clingy girl. She pulled the sheet up over herself, savoring the afterglow. She'd already lost too much in life to waste time being needy. When the prince wanted her again, he would come.
---
Outside Storm's End, Daeron couldn't stop the small, satisfied grin tugging at his mouth.
So that's what it feels like.
No wonder so many lords and ladies lost their minds over it.
"Still… Sylla isn't an ordinary woman," he thought, replaying their pillow talk. She'd pointed out that stripping land from the Stormlords would hurt their productivity—when winter came, their smallfolk might actually starve.
Economic base determines the superstructure.
The reminder hit hard. He needed to develop his own fief properly, turn it into a perfect, self-sustaining city.
Link King's Landing, his fief, Coppergate, and the whole Stormlands into one solid trade route. That would fuse the economies and cultures of the Crownlands and the Stormlands for good.
---
King's Landing
Daeron landed Caraxes in the outer yard and had barely stepped through the Red Keep gates when Ser Gerold Hightower appeared.
"Prince, perfect timing," the White Bull said. "His Grace summons you to his bedchamber."
Daeron nodded. "Lead the way."
He walked ahead, silver-gold hair swaying, stride a little more… confident than yesterday.
Ser Gerold raised an eyebrow. The boy definitely got lucky last night.
A long while later, Daeron emerged from the royal apartments.
"Nothing but nonsense," he muttered.
Aerys had spent the whole meeting trying to sweet-talk him into handing over one of the dragons—promising Daeron would be named heir, swearing eternal fatherly love, the usual.
The power of dragons was obvious to every soul in the Seven Kingdoms now.
Aerys was drooling for one.
"You're not getting a single scale," Daeron thought. He trusted his father about as much as he trusted a cat not to eat fish.
Go bother Rhaegar instead. His big brother actually believed in prophecies.
He'd only gone a short distance when someone called after him.
Varys stepped out of the shadows with a polite smile. "Prince, the lady on Silk Street is still waiting for you."
"Melisandre wants an audience?"
Varys gave a small nod and gestured gracefully. "If you would."
Daeron considered it. Couldn't hurt.
---
Silk Street – Private Manse
Melisandre stood beside a brazier in her red robes, eyes locked on the flames as if she could read the future in them.
"The magic surge in the east is far stronger than anything here in Westeros," she said without preamble.
Daeron and Varys exchanged a glance. The red priestess was already full of surprises.
She continued, face blank. "The red comet came early. Everything is awakening. A new age of competition has begun. No one alive can escape it."
"Speak plainly," Daeron said.
Melisandre closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "The Lord of Light has shown me that the world's magic is becoming unstable. To face what is coming, we must unite every force that can be united."
You read Aegon the Conqueror's "A Song of Ice and Fire" too?
Daeron hated mystical theater. "What do you want?"
"I ask you to embrace the Lord of Light," she said, finally dropping the mask. "Bring a spark of light into the coming Long Night."
Daeron stared at her. "You know about the treaty House Targaryen signed with the Faith of the Seven?"
"Of course." She sounded utterly confident. "I won't force you to change your public worship. You can believe in the Lord of Light in private—just as you pretend to be pious toward the Seven while believing in neither."
"I'm not pretending to be pious," Daeron said flatly.
He rejected her on the spot.
Look, the Lord of Light actually delivered results.
But that didn't mean Daeron was joining the fan club.
Three hundred years ago, if she'd tried converting the Valyrian dragonlords, the Red Temple would have been burned to the ground.
"I have foreseen darkness!" Melisandre played her ace.
"How long?" Daeron's eyes sharpened.
She relaxed, fingers trailing through the flames. "Perhaps years. Perhaps a decade or more. I have seen the Long Night coming—darkness and endless winter swallowing the world."
"And you… you are the reincarnation of Azor Ahai reborn."
Daeron didn't believe a single word.
In the stories he remembered, the Prince That Was Promised was either Daenerys or Jon Snow. He wasn't in the running.
Besides, Melisandre's track record with prophecies was famously terrible. She'd wrecked Stannis in another life.
"None of that interests me," he said, turning to leave.
The red comet had arrived early, but the Long Night wasn't coming tomorrow. They were in a rising magic age. Disaster wouldn't hit the second the dragons started recovering.
Like she said—years, maybe a decade or more.
In ten years Caraxes would be a full-grown monster.
By then Daeron would have found more eggs and hatched his own dragons.
If the Others showed up, they could taste dragonfire.
Valyrian steel already killed them. Pure dragonflame was basically their kryptonite.
"Develop the fief. Stockpile grain!" he decided, walking away.
"If you change your mind, I will be here," Melisandre called after him, perfectly calm.
She had seen far more in the flames than she was telling.
For example, several faint sources of fire-magic in the east—lifeless dragon eggs.
But she wouldn't reveal any of it until he swore to the Lord of Light.
A Pentoshi merchant ship was already tied up at the Mud Gate.
---
Daeron was back in the Red Keep, sketching on his drawing board, when a disguised Stannis found him.
"You got Renly settled?" Daeron asked without looking up, carefully inking the gears of a new water-powered mill. This was going into the fief to boost production.
"I delivered him to Pentos. Maester Cressen is looking after him," Stannis answered in his usual blunt way.
Daeron knew the man only spoke when spoken to, so he kept the questions coming. "While you were in Pentos, did you meet Magister Illyrio?"
Stannis looked surprised. "That's exactly what I came to tell you."
"Oh?" Daeron's eyes lit up.
Stannis laid it out. "Illyrio invited me to let him take care of Renly. I refused."
"The man's motives are impure."
Then he described everything he'd seen.
Illyrio was hugely influential in Pentos. He'd married a cousin of the Prince of Pentos and lived like a king—until recently.
His first wife had died, and he immediately married a prostitute.
The new marriage angered the Prince of Pentos so much he banned Illyrio from the palace.
But Illyrio didn't seem to care. He doted on his new wife.
Then she died too.
Officially, it was a contagious disease.
Stannis, always sharp, added, "The prostitute's name was Syrio. She had silver hair and purple eyes—Valyrian features. I suspect she was connected to the Blackfyres."
"Reason?" Daeron stopped drawing, impressed by the insight.
"Instinct," Stannis said flatly.
The woman just felt wrong. No ordinary whore.
He continued, "While I was there I saw an Asshai ship doing business with Illyrio. Illyrio is usually cautious but flashy. This meeting was completely private. No rumors, no leaks. That's not normal."
Daeron closed his eyes and took a slow breath.
Blackfyre remnants. Asshai.
"Got it," he muttered.
He flipped open his sketchbook to the drawing he'd made back in the Crow Tree inn—three dragon eggs nestled together.
One black-and-red.
One green with copper swirls.
One silver with golden flecks.
Drogon's siblings.
Daeron kept his voice calm. "Illyrio, you son of a bitch. You finally found the three petrified eggs."
The exact origin didn't matter. Theories ranged from lost Dreamfire eggs to ancient Asshai stock. Either way, those eggs belonged to House Targaryen.
"Stannis, you just did something huge," Daeron said, genuinely praising him.
Stannis looked confused—he'd only reported what he saw—but bowed and left.
"Dragon eggs confirmed in Pentos. Now the question is how to get them out," Daeron thought, mind racing.
Force wouldn't work. Theft was even riskier.
The only real option seemed to be… taking them.
---
Dragonstone
Rhaegar stood outside the door, listening to the soft sobs inside.
He knocked gently. "Lyanna? Are you all right?"
The crying stopped.
Rhaegar sighed and stepped in.
Lyanna sat propped against the headboard in a loose maternity gown, belly round, eyes red from weeping.
The whole continent was at war. Some news couldn't be hidden forever.
"My father and Brandon are dead?" she asked, voice cracking.
Rhaegar took her cold hand in silence.
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "What about Eddard? He started this war—are you going to kill him too?"
"It was my father's decision," Rhaegar said quietly. "By the time I knew, it was already too late."
Lyanna's face twisted with fury. "You're the Prince of Dragonstone, rightful heir to the Iron Throne! You should have stopped this! No more blood!"
Rhaegar's indigo eyes flickered.
He wanted to. But the time wasn't right.
Knock-knock.
Arthur Dayne's steady voice came through the door. "Prince, your spies in Pentos have sent word."