The sun hung low and red as Aryan—Viserys of House Targaryen—slipped through the bustling market square of Saltpans in plain traveler's garb. Even with his army encamped in the wilds, he risked exposure daily, driven by the conviction that to change the story, he needed to tip the scales far more than any canon Targaryen ever dared.
Dragons were symbols—and weapons. In Aryan's old world, he'd known their legend made and broke empires. Here, he intended to make legend flesh.
Intelligence and Obsession
The dream of dragons had shaped Aryan's every plan since childhood—both as a reader and as a would-be conqueror. In secret, he'd pieced together every rumor, merchant's tale, and coded message from Essos about the existence of dragon eggs. In canon, Illyrio had gifted Daenerys three petrified eggs as a wedding gift, purchased for a king's ransom from the shadow markets of Asshai.
But Aryan's accelerated campaign meant Daenerys had no arranged Khal; there would be no simple, convenient gift. If they wanted dragons, they would have to claim them with cunning, risk, and the smallest hint of Targaryen flame.
An Unlikely Lead
Marei returned to the command tent at dusk, face flushed. "Your Grace, a Lyseni factor in the Old Fishmonger's Quarter asked after Valyrian glass and talismans. He's no simple merchant—he speaks Low Valyrian to his bodyguards, and his purse is fat with Lannister gold... but he buys only relics that 'remember fire.' My contact swears he's shipping crates east soon."
Aryan's heart hammered. Asshai-bound goods—and someone buying magical relics with Westerosi coin. If there were dragon eggs in play, they would follow that trail.
He gave orders at once—acquire uniforms from the Lyseni merchant's guards, map every alley to the wharf, and prepare Daenerys for subterfuge.
The Night Heist
Under cover of fog, Aryan, Daenerys, Marei, and two trusted men infiltrated the warehouse on the wharf. The Lyseni factor, fat and arrogant, had bribed most of the port guards to look the other way, but paranoia meant a half-dozen armed guards prowled the interior.
Aryan's meta-knowledge fueled his planning: dragon eggs are heavy, warm to the touch, hidden inside crates lined with black stone and velvet—he'd read every theory, every forum post, every offhand detail from the books.
Inside, the air reeked of spice, salt, and something older—like dying embers. Daenerys's eyes widened; she could feel something before she saw it. Using a mix of Valyrian phrases and bluff, Aryan distracted the guards long enough for Marei and Daenerys to slip past.
Among stacks of caged parrots, bronze statues, and jars of dark glass, Marei signaled. Aryan helped crack a crate open with hidden blades.
Inside, nestled in black ash and wrapped in ancient gold-stitched velvet, lay three unmistakable ovoids—each larger than a man's skull, their surfaces swirling with subtle patterns of green, black, and cream.
They were real.
The Escape and the Cost
There was no time for awe. A guard shouted; Daenerys let fly a practiced shriek, confusing the Lyseni thugs, while Marei knocked a lantern into a barrel of lamp oil. Flames and smoke spread in moments.
With years of discipline behind him, Aryan marshaled the escape—eggs hidden beneath thick cloaks, Daenerys pressed close, cover stories ready. In the chaos, as wealthy buyers and criminal muscle scrambled to save fortunes, Aryan's small team slipped through an alley, vanishing as the fire leapt skyward.
Only when they reached the safety of the woods did Aryan allow himself a moment: he held the largest egg, its surface oddly warm, the weight of glory and doom in his hands.
Daenerys—eyes wide, voice trembling—touched them as if in prayer. "Brother… do you realize what this means?"
Aryan nodded, fighting both hope and dread. "We just changed everything. Now we truly wake the dragon."
A New Fire in the Tale
News of the Saltpans fire would travel fast, as would rumors of strange "Valyrian relics" disappearing in the night. Lannister gold had failed; the eggs were theirs.
Aryan held Daenerys's gaze, speaking for them both, "The world has forgotten the price of dragonfire. We will remind them—not with madness, but with purpose. Not with screaming, but with strength and wisdom. This time, the dragons answer to us."
In the cold morning, as the company gathered around the crates, hope sparked afresh in every eye. The Targaryens had not only reclaimed their birthright—they had seized the myth that made kingdoms tremble.
End of Chapter 14