Illyrio's manse was burning.
BOOM!
Flames roared everywhere, thick black smoke choking the sky while servants and maids screamed in blind panic.
"Gods damn it—how the hell is there a dragon?!"
Illyrio's face was pure terror. He clutched a wooden chest to his chest and ran for his life.
Inside that chest were the three petrified dragon eggs.
He had no idea how the secret leaked, but the Targaryens had come with fire and blood.
There was no time to grab the gold. These eggs were his future—his one shot at climbing back to the top.
BOOM!
A roaring curtain of crimson dragonfire slammed into the outer wall, shattering every window and flooding the hallway with heat. It nearly cooked him alive.
"My eggs! My dragon eggs!"
Illyrio tripped hard, sprawled across the floor, then scrambled up like a man possessed. He was already picturing his comeback.
He never got the chance.
Heavy, measured footsteps echoed behind him.
Illyrio's eyes widened. He spun around.
At the far end of the smoke-filled, flame-blackened corridor, a silver-haired figure stepped calmly up the stairs and walked straight out of the inferno.
"You came alone?" Illyrio snarled, already calculating a counter-kill.
Daeron's purple eyes were ice-calm. His arms hung relaxed at his sides as Dark Sister and Red Rain appeared in his hands.
"Dark Sister?" Illyrio recognized the blade and started to tremble. "You're Prince Daeron Targaryen."
Daeron said nothing. He simply raised the sword and pointed it at the fat magister's face.
"Heh. I started as a sellsword, boy. You don't know who you're—"
Illyrio's rage took over. He dropped the chest, yanked a razor-sharp hand-axe from his belt, and charged.
He had Vitality. He'd walked the Gem Sequence. This whelp was dead.
Daeron's expression never changed. His blade angled 45 degrees down-left, then flicked upward in one clean, lazy motion.
CLANG!
The axe heading for his face split in two. The steel blade parted like warm butter, the cut mirror-smooth.
So did the head holding it.
"Dragon eggs aren't for men like you to covet," Daeron said quietly.
He didn't even blink as he stepped over the corpse and kept walking.
BOOM!
Victarion Greyjoy and a squad of Ironborn finally rammed the estate gates open with a heavy log.
"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" he roared, charging in with his greatsword raised.
The whole compound was an inferno. Servants were fleeing in every direction, screaming.
Only the main keep was eerily silent.
"Where's the prince?" Victarion asked, confused. "Didn't he get here first?"
Skreeeee—!
A torrent of red dragonfire crashed down from above, shattering the keep doors and sending waves of flame rolling out.
The fire roared. Smoke billowed.
A silver-haired figure stepped straight out of the blaze like it was nothing. The flames actually parted around him, refusing to touch a single hair.
Victarion froze, mouth hanging open.
Davos came running up behind the troops and saw the same impossible sight: the prince walking calmly from the heart of a dragon's fire while Caraxes crouched atop the keep, wings spread wide, molten-gold eyes glaring down at them.
"Nobody move!" Davos shouted, throwing his arms out. "Stay right where you are!"
The mixed force—Stormlanders, Throat Guardians, and Ironborn—held their breath. Not one man dared make a sound.
Even the red dragon overhead felt like background noise. Every eye was locked on the silver-haired prince walking out of hellfire like it was a summer stroll.
They couldn't believe it. A man untouched by dragonflame.
"By the Drowned God…" Victarion whispered, rubbing his forehead like he was still dreaming.
Daeron looked perfectly calm, radiating pure dragonlord presence as he descended the steps.
One arm cradled the wooden chest. The other held Illyrio's severed head by the hair.
He stepped clear of the flames and walked straight toward his men.
The soldiers parted instantly, opening a wide aisle.
Daeron didn't look left or right. He tossed the bloody head at their feet and declared in a clear, ringing voice:
"The war is over. We've won!"
"OHHHHH!!!"
The men snapped out of their trance and roared like lions.
Skreeeee—!
Caraxes screamed in answer, his cry rolling over half the city like thunder.
Daeron waved them forward. "Loot the place."
He wasn't trying to be subtle.
The second he'd decided to raid Pentos he'd dropped any idea of staying quiet.
We literally flew dragons to their front door. You think they're going to miss the message?
He wasn't Rhaegar. He didn't do things halfway.
If you were going to hit someone, you hit them so hard the entire world felt it.
This one strike was his announcement to Essos and every corner of the planet:
The last dragonlord family was back.
The Targaryens who once ruled half the world were back.
Anyone who dared covet their eggs or their treasure would get a personal visit from a dragon.
Dragonstone.
Thunder cracked. Rain hammered down.
Inside the Stone Drum, Lyanna's screams echoed through the halls as she gave birth.
Rhaegar stood outside the door, eyes closed, silently praying to the old gods of Valyria.
He didn't believe in the Seven or the old gods of the North. Only the ancient Valyrian deities felt real to him anymore.
"AAAAH!"
Lyanna's scream cut off.
A newborn's cry filled the air.
"Waaaah—waaaah!"
Rhaegar's head snapped up.
Ser Arthur Dayne approached quietly, face grim.
"Prince… news from across the Narrow Sea."
Rhaegar stepped into the hall so Lyanna wouldn't hear.
Arthur kept his voice low. "Our spies in Pentos report that two nights ago Prince Daeron raided the city, killed Magister Illyrio, and took the three dragon eggs."
"What?!"
For the first time in years, Rhaegar Targaryen completely lost his composure.
At the exact same moment, the baby's healthy cry rang out louder.
The old maester came down the stairs, hands bloody, smiling.
"Boy or girl?"
"A boy, Your Grace. Lady Lyanna—"
Rhaegar didn't wait. He rushed upstairs.
One perfect night, the once-brilliant Prince Rhaegar received two pieces of news.
The good news: Lyanna had given him a son—possibly the Prince That Was Promised.
The bad news: Daeron had beaten him to the eggs.
Rhaegar stood there, completely at a loss for the first time in his life.
A few days later.
King's Landing – Red Keep.
Daeron returned just as fast as he'd left. Caraxes touched down in the outer yard and he strode straight into Maegor's Holdfast.
"Prince, welcome back," Ser Gerold Hightower greeted him at the door.
Daeron nodded. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Actually… yes." Gerold hesitated. "Prince Rhaegar returned briefly from Dragonstone, then went straight back."
Daeron noticed the Kingsguard's eyes flick to the wooden chest under his arm but said nothing.
The raid on Pentos had been loud on purpose. The story was already spreading across both continents.
If Rhaegar needed a public excuse, he'd provide one.
The real reason was simple: Illyrio had stolen Targaryen property. Daeron took it back.
As for whether Rhaegar was pissed?
Daeron's inner voice was blunt: Why waste time talking when you can just take it?
He stepped into the royal apartments.
"Big brother! Big brother!"
Jaehaerys and Viserys came running, circling him like excited puppies.
Daeron grinned and opened the chest.
Three dragon eggs gleamed inside.
"Whoa! Three dragon eggs!" Jaehaerys bounced on his toes.
Viserys, now seven, understood exactly how valuable they were and cheered right along with his brother.
Daeron was about to hand them out when he asked, "Where's Shaena?"
"With Mother," Jaehaerys answered, smile fading.
Viserys, still too young to filter, blurted out, "Mother and big brother had a huge fight. She's really mad."
Daeron paused, ruffling Jaehaerys's hair. "What happened?"
"That wolf girl gave birth," Jaehaerys said, wrinkling his nose. He really didn't like Lyanna.
"I'll go check on her."
Daeron changed direction and headed for Queen Rhaella's chambers.
He knocked.
Shaena opened the door, eyes tired.
Rhaella sat on a velvet chaise, face cold as ice. She clearly hadn't calmed down yet.
"Rhaegar upset you?" Daeron asked, surprised.
Rhaella shot him a withering look. "He got that woman pregnant in secret, then had the nerve to ask me to legitimize the bastard and restore the old Targaryen custom of multiple wives."
Daeron raised an eyebrow.
His big brother really was something else—knowing he'd never get it past their father, he'd gone straight to their mother.
And she'd shut him down cold.
Rhaella's sharp eyes landed on the wooden chest. "Are those the eggs you stole?"
"Want to see?" Daeron set the chest on the table without hesitation.
These were the exact three eggs that would one day become Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserys's dragons in the old timeline.
Even with the red comet arriving early and all his butterflies, these eggs still carried weight.
Daeron had already decided exactly who would get them. No one else was touching them.
Rhaella leaned forward. Shaena helped her stand and walk to the table.
She picked up the deep-green egg with bronze flecks, turning it slowly in the light. Then the pale white one with gold swirls. Finally the midnight-black egg shot through with dark red waves.
"Dragon eggs," she murmured, almost in a trance. After a long moment she looked up. "You did well, son."
The moment the words left her mouth, the baby in her belly gave a strong kick.
"Ah!"
Daeron moved like lightning, catching her before she could fall.
Rhaella clutched the green egg to her chest, startled.
Daeron gently helped her back to the chaise. "Close one."
If he hadn't been fast, his mother would've taken a nasty spill—pregnant and holding a dragon egg.
He shook his head with a small smile.
Just one more reason to end this war soon.