Seeing Cayman's darkened expression, Benick straightened his posture, a smug glint in his eyes. He was convinced he had found his bastard son's Achilles' heel. He could hardly believe a boy of uncertain origins would show no interest in his lineage.
"Cain, escort him out," Cayman commanded, his voice unnervingly calm.
Benick's eyes widened in disbelief. "Do you not wish to know who your mother is? She possesses noble blood! This could be your greatest opportunity—" He was relentless, but caught himself, his expression shifting dramatically as he almost revealed too much. "Of course, it is to become…"
Cayman chuckled coldly, the sound devoid of any warmth. "Take your leave. I shan't see you out."
In the end, Benick departed from the estate with a deeply troubled countenance, his last gambit having failed spectacularly.
Once alone, Cayman approached a large mirror in the main hall. He gazed at the handsome youth reflected at him, slightly widening his eyes. His left eye, a tranquil sea-blue, contrasted starkly with his right, a piercing purple that added an air of allure and madness. He ran his fingers through his silver-gold hair. Even without Benick's clumsy hints, he could surmise the identity of his mother. Such obvious Valyrian traits, combined with the peculiar history of Benick's rise to power during a specific window of time, rendered the answer evident.
"Targaryen," Cayman murmured to himself.
His mother was most likely Saera Targaryen, the daughter of King Jaehaerys I and the paternal aunt of the current ruler, Viserys I. During the time Benick was amassing his fortune, the rebellious princess had indeed been sampling various men in Lys. After several years, she had departed for Volantis over a decade ago. It was said that during the Great Council of 101 AC, three of her illegitimate sons had ventured to King's Landing to assert their claims to the Iron Throne, their petitions swiftly and decisively rejected.
The knowledge was a piece on the board, nothing more. For now, it changed nothing.
Cayman inhaled deeply and rose, making his way deeper into the manor. He passed through layers of loyal guards, arriving before a heavy iron gate. Producing a key, he unlocked it. A chilling breeze, mingled with the distinct scent of metal and cold stone, rushed out to greet him. Cayman squinted, greedily savoring the aroma of wealth and power. This was his treasury.
After closing the iron door, he proceeded directly to the innermost depths. There, a brazier filled with roaring flames illuminated the chamber, and within the fire lay a massive black dragon egg, nearly three times the size of a typical one.
He extended his right hand over the flames. From his palm, an abundance of golden threads erupted, entwining with one another until they formed the semblance of a small, shimmering sapling. At its crown pulsed a faint green luminescence.
He was a traveler from another realm, once burdened by the pressures of a mundane life. During a vacation to Kunlun Mountain, curiosity had overcome him upon sighting just such a golden sapling. The moment he touched it, darkness had enveloped him, and he awoke reborn as an infant in this world.
He remained uncertain of the sapling's origins, but over the years, he had discerned its purpose. With a mere thought, the sapling extended two delicate branches under his control. They pierced the petrified shell of the dragon egg effortlessly, delving deep within. The green luminescence from the crown began to flow along the branches, pouring into the fossil.
This ritual had persisted for a decade, performed every seven days. The dragon egg was not a living one, but a fossil from the Shadowlands, a relic of the early Valyrian Freehold, long thought dead. As the green light—a unique energy imbued with remarkable vitality—surged into the egg, the shell suddenly emanated a crimson glow, which darkened to a purplish, eerie hue. The phenomenon lasted only three seconds before Cayman withdrew his hand, his countenance pale and drained, as if the very life had been sucked from him.
He sensed the egg was on the cusp of hatching. After a decade of investment, his patience was nearing its reward. In this world, dragons were nearly invincible beings; a single dragon's influence far surpassed that of an entire army. He understood the stark contrast between possessing one and being without.
Initially, he had considered traveling to Westeros to stealthily tame a wild dragon. But a deeper understanding of this world revealed the naivety of that plan. His identity as a bastard, with no proof of his Targaryen blood, would see him branded a dragon thief, hunted, and killed. Furthermore, his meta-knowledge from a previous life whispered of a brutal civil war—the Dance of the Dragons—that would erupt in just over two decades. The Targaryens were a dangerous family to entangle with.
After careful consideration, he had opted for the most difficult, yet most secure, path: awakening a fossilized egg himself. It was time-consuming and fraught with risk, but its success would grant him a power entirely his own.
With that thought, he returned the dragon egg to the brazier and turned to leave, the immense cost of the ritual weighing heavily on his limbs.
Suddenly, just as his hand touched the door to the storeroom, a sharp crack echoed from within the chamber.
He froze. The sound, clear and sharp as breaking stone, sliced through the silence. It was a sound he had waited ten long years to hear. Slowly, deliberately, he turned back, his heart hammering against his ribs, his fatigue forgotten. His mismatched eyes fixed upon the dragon egg, now visible within the flames. A hairline fracture snaked across its dark, ancient shell.