The sea wind tore across the narrow causeway beneath Dragonstone's towering black cliffs, sharp with salt, ash, and the promise of bloodshed.
Two armed hosts faced one another in rigid formation.
To the east stood the City Watch, Daemon's gold cloaks, shields locked, spears leveled, their cloaks snapping in the gale like sheets of beaten gold.
To the west gathered the King's party, Hightower guards armored in green and steel, flanked by two solemn Kingsguard in white cloaks, bright as moonlight against the storm-dark sky.
And at the forefront of it all: Prince Daemon Targaryen, the stolen egg of Dreamfyre tucked beneath his arm, expression carved from stone.
From the opposing line, Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, stepped forward, his face pinched with disapproval.
"Return the egg," Otto called, voice straining against the wind. "You endanger the realm with this insolence, Prince Daemon."
Daemon's smile curved, cold and taunting. "A long ride for a lecture, Lord Hand. I must be more important to you than I thought."
"This is no jest," Otto snapped. "You stole an egg meant for the cradle of the King's dead son. Dreamfyre's egg was chosen by Queen Aemma herself. Would you spit upon her memory as well?"
Daemon's eyes narrowed, his posture sharpening. "Careful."
Otto inhaled, steadying himself. "You parade this… scheme with your whore-"
Daemon moved before the sentence finished.
Dark Sister hissed free with a whisper like winter through bare branches.
"Say that word again," Daemon said softly, stepping so close Otto could feel the cold kiss of Valyrian steel at his throat. "One more time. I dare you."
The causeway erupted with noise.
The gold cloaks surged forward, shields raised, ready to spill blood. Otto's guards scrambled, drawing blades they barely held steady. Even the Kingsguard shifted, bracing for a sudden charge.
High above, an answering roar split the sky.
Caraxes unfurled along the volcanic ridge, wings stretching like torn red sails, his long serpentine neck curving as he bellowed a low, rolling threat.
The Blood Wyrm's cry shook dust loose from the cliffs, making every man below flinch.
Fear rippled through the Hightower ranks.
One dropped his shield. Another took a stumbling step back. Eyes darted from Daemon's blade to the massive red shape howling above them.
Otto forced himself still, though sweat gleamed at his temples. "If you shed blood today, Prince Daemon, you doom yourself. King Viserys-"
"My brother," Daemon said, "is welcome to lecture me himself. Since he clearly sends cowards in his stead."
Before Otto could retort, a strangled gasp rose behind Daemon.
"Daemon…" Mysaria whispered, one hand gripping the wall, the other clutching her swollen belly. "Something… something is wrong."
Daemon didn't turn. "Not now."
But she doubled over with a cry that echoed off the stone. Her knees hit the ground.
And at that moment- golden wings beat the air.
Syrax descended in a whirl of heat and dust, the great she-dragon's claws sparking against the causeway as she landed. Light spilled from her scales like molten sunfire.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, barely ten years of age, slid from the saddle with practiced grace.
She took in the chaos- the drawn blades, her uncle's sword at Otto's throat, Mysaria collapsing- and her silver-gold brows knit sharply.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Are you all mad?"
She strode through the armed men as though born to command them.
The Kingsguard parted for her; the gold cloaks bowed their heads.
Another scream tore from Mysaria's throat.
Rhaenyra's eyes flew to her. "She's in labor- gods be good, help her!"
The men blinked at her, dumbstruck.
Rhaenyra pointed furiously toward the keep. "Fetch the maester! Now!"
"You three- carry her inside! Move!"
Suddenly everyone was scrambling, Hightower guards, gold cloaks, even the white cloaks, lifting Mysaria and rushing toward the carved doors of Dragonstone.
Daemon finally turned, dropping beside Mysaria, his hands trembling as he steadied her.
Rhaenyra grabbed his arm. "We must get her inside," she urged.
Daemon hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded. "Go."
The tension on the causeway shattered like thin ice as they disappeared into the keep's shadowed halls.
Inside Dragonstone
A storm of frantic motion filled the chamber, maester and midwife rushing, hot water steaming, linens scattered. The smell of sweat and burning hearthwood thickened the air.
Otto and his men were shoved into the corridor beyond.
Daemon stood rigid in the corner, jaw clenched, Dark Sister sheathed at last. Rhaenyra remained beside him, refusing to look directly at the bloody bed.
"Why did you steal the egg?" she asked quietly.
Daemon didn't respond at first. His gaze was on Mysaria- then on the egg still cradled in his hand, its glossy black surface shimmering in the firelight.
"For my son's due," he said at last. "A child of House Targaryen should sleep with a dragon egg in his cradle. It is our birthright."
"That's for trueborn heirs," Rhaenyra murmured. "A bastard-"
The egg twitched.
A sharp, unmistakable shudder rippled through Daemon's grip.
At the same moment, the midwife cried:
"The head- it's crowning! Push!"
Rhaenyra froze. Blood drained from her face.
The egg was hatching.
Daemon moved instantly. He strode to the hearth and placed the egg within the flames.
"Dragons are born of fire," he whispered.
A memory flickered behind Rhaenyra's eyes, her own cradle, her father's hand placing an egg beside her. A night of smoke and golden light.
Syrax, emerging from the heat.
"This is good," Daemon murmured, voice low. "My brother will not deny dragon-blood, not when the child bonds with a dragon. He'll have to legitimize him."
Rhaenyra assumed his smile was for the newborn. She did not see the ambition behind his eyes.
Mysaria screamed, the sound splitting the chamber. An infant's thin cry followed, sharp and piercing.
The egg in the hearth cracked.
A fissure spread. Flames surged around the shell.
With a final, sharp snap, the egg burst open, and a hatchling pushed free.
It bore a ring of tiny horn-nubs upon its skull. Too small to notice… yet from above they formed the faint outline of a crown.
The dragon's body was a deep, visceral red, wet and gleaming like fresh-spilled blood, brighter than even Caraxes' crimson hide.
"Look!" Rhaenyra breathed. "His dragon's red, like Caraxes!"
Daemon didn't hear her.
His gaze was fixed on the newborn child.
The maester wiped the boy clean, wrapped him in linen, and offered him forward.
Rhaenyra took him, awkward but gentle, rocking the infant as she'd seen her mother do countless times. The baby blinked up at her with violet eyes.
"Congratulations, Prince Daemon," the maester said. "A healthy boy."
Daemon's smile deepened.
But the dragon was already moving.
The hatchling scrambled from the hearth, smoke curling from its nostrils. Its eyes roamed the chamber, until they locked on the child.
A sharp chirp broke from its throat.
"Seven hells," Rhaenyra muttered, placing the baby swiftly on a table. She remembered Syrax's claws all too well.
The dragon climbed the table leg, wings fluttering. It reached the child, curled protectively around him, and nestled its head against his chest.
Both fell asleep at once.
A hush settled over the room.
Daemon stepped closer, his face softened by something rare, something almost tender.
Rhaenyra looked up at him. "Have you chosen a name for your firstborn?"
Daemon's voice was low, sure.
"Baelon," he said. "He deserves that name."