Rhaegar finished soothing Lyanna, then stepped outside and pulled Ser Arthur Dayne aside for a private word.
The Sword of the Morning's eyes were bright with news. "I followed the lead you gave me and looked into Magister Illyrio in Pentos. We found more than we expected."
Illyrio wasn't just tangled with the Blackfyres—he was tight with the Golden Company. The sellswords were rumored to hold one of the two lost Targaryen ancestral swords—Blackfyre.
While the spies dug, they spotted an Asshai ship doing quiet business with Illyrio. Inside the hold: three dragon eggs.
"Real ones," Arthur said. He knew the prince had been hunting every scrap of information about dragon eggs, so he'd ridden hard to deliver the report.
Rhaegar's weary face sharpened. "Three dragon eggs—confirmed?"
"My man watched Illyrio open the crate himself. But the eggs are locked away in a hidden vault under his manse. The shells look… petrified. Covered in stone."
"Petrified dragon eggs," Rhaegar murmured.
His mind went straight to Daeron's three dragons. The blue one had almost certainly come from the Hightower egg. The red and black ones were still mysteries. All three had clearly been viable.
Hatching dragons from stone?
Rhaegar weighed the risk. Was it worth the move?
Arthur thought for a moment, then offered, "If you're unsure, Prince, ask Prince Daeron. Lady Ashara says he's generous and open-handed. He already told you about possible eggs on Skagos."
"I'll consider it," Rhaegar said, suddenly tired.
He planned to dig through the library and study everything written about his great-grandfather Aegon V's attempt to hatch seven eggs at Summerhall. There had to be something he could learn.
Stoney Sept
A small border town famous for its many bronze bells ringing across the Riverlands. No great lord held it.
Thunderous hoofbeats rolled in. Tywin Lannister's army surrounded the town, trampling the green fields flat.
Stoney Sept had almost no garrison. Under the loyalist host it folded instantly, becoming soft clay in their hands.
"Where is Robert Baratheon?" Tywin demanded.
His men dragged the innkeeper's wife forward. She was plump, terrified, and shaking.
"I don't know—I swear I don't know!"
Tywin's face darkened. They rounded up more townsfolk and questioned them one by one.
Robert had spent months recovering here. His easy charm and open laugh had won the locals completely. Not one person gave him up.
"Fine," Tywin said with a cold smile. "They want the hard way."
He wasn't Jon Connington; he didn't give a damn about smallfolk lives.
"Search every house. Anyone who interferes dies."
The army poured into the town. Doors were kicked in, shops smashed, women dragged screaming from their beds. The Lannister soldiers especially went to work—exactly as they had in Tumblestone—looting, raping, burning.
Screams filled the streets all night.
By dawn the town was half-ruined.
Tywin's face was thunder. "Useless. How is Robert still not found?"
"We checked every cellar and sewer, my lord," a Lannister officer mumbled, head down.
"Then keep looking. He's here. These gutter rats are hiding him."
He would not leave without Robert's head.
The ground suddenly trembled. A thick dust cloud rose on the horizon, banners snapping in the wind.
Trout. Falcon. Direwolf.
"Damn it," Tywin snarled, swinging into the saddle. "Hoster Tully's brought the rebels."
He had once considered Hoster worth marrying into. Now the man was just another traitor.
"Form ranks! We fight!"
The two armies crashed together inside and outside the town. Steel rang in every alley. Men fought on rooftops. The bronze bells of Stoney Sept tolled wildly, a mournful chorus over the slaughter.
In the middle of the chaos a giant in blackened, fire-twisted armor waded through Northerners, his two-handed sword chopping them down like wheat. The Mountain—Gregor Clegane—still wore the helm that had fused to his face in dragonfire. Only his bloodshot, hate-filled eyes showed.
Under the eaves of that same house, Robert Baratheon crawled out of a whorehouse hiding hole. He saw the monster slaughtering townsfolk and roared in fury.
"You fucking animal—die!"
No armor, just a scavenged sword. Robert charged.
He had spent a day and night listening to the people of Stoney Sept scream. Now his friends had come. Time to repay the debt.
"ROBERT!" Tywin's face twisted with pure hatred the instant he spotted him.
His revenge had arrived.
Several days later
News of the loyalist defeat reached King's Landing. Because the bells of Stoney Sept had rung through the entire battle, men already called it the Battle of the Bells.
Red Keep – Royal Bedchamber
"Idiot!" Aerys screamed, smashing his favorite wine cup against the wall.
Tywin had led ten thousand loyalists against ten thousand rebels. The fight ended in a bloody draw; both sides withdrew. Robert was badly wounded and had to be carried away by Ned Stark. Hoster Tully had taken a serious wound himself and limped back to Riverrun.
The only confirmed loyalist loss of note: Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. Robert had run him through the neck in single combat and taken his head.
"Send for Barristan Selmy! The king commands his presence!"
Aerys was nearly frothing. Ser Gerold held young Jaime back and went to fetch the Lord Commander himself.
"Father lost again?" Jaime muttered, rubbing his forehead.
Strictly speaking it hadn't been a defeat—both sides had hurt each other and pulled back. But Tywin had wasted time looting the town and still failed to find Robert before the rebels arrived. That made it a failure.
The report spread through the Red Keep in minutes—straight to Daeron's ears.
"Tywin really is average at war," Daeron said, shaking his head.
He was in Shaena's chambers. She sat embroidering quietly while he thought about how to retrieve those dragon eggs from Pentos.
"Harboring rebels—guess they earned it," he added with a shrug. Stoney Sept had sheltered Robert; they weren't innocent like Tumblestone.
Shaena looked up. "I had a dream."
Daeron paused. "What did you see?"
"Dragons hatching from stone."
Her voice trembled. She gripped the tapestry so hard her knuckles whitened.
Daeron rose at once and knelt beside her, voice gentle. "It's all right. Take your time. Don't force it."
"Be careful of the red priestess," she whispered, clutching his hand. "Don't trust her words."
Daeron pulled her into his arms and stroked her long silver hair. "I won't. Easy now."
Shaena slowly calmed, nestling against his chest, eyes fixed on the single remaining gray-white petrified egg in the incubation brazier. She had seen two paths: one of blood and fire, one quiet and natural.
Daeron stayed with her the rest of the day. To keep nightmares away he even called Jaehaerys and Viserys over so the room filled with noise and laughter. He made a mental note to explore the mines again—maybe he could find something to help control her Dreamwalker gift. The talent was useful, but it frightened her.
"Melisandre's playing games behind my back?" His eyes narrowed.
He already knew the red woman wanted to convert him and spread her Lord of Light. She had been too quiet lately; that alone made him suspicious.
He couldn't kill a witch like her yet. The system still needed certain magical roles for items like enchanted ink and dark amulets.
"Big brother," Jaehaerys asked, staring at the gray-white egg with open longing, "can I have that one someday?"
"If you behave," Daeron said, only half-teasing.
Jaehaerys thumped his chest. "I'm the best-behaved!"
"Me too!" Viserys nodded hard.
"You two are hopeless," Daeron laughed.
He trusted the little brothers he had basically raised himself.
Shaena stayed quiet, gaze moving between the petrified egg and Jaehaerys. Her delicate brows drew together in the faintest frown.