The dawn after the Saltpans heist broke chill and bright. Aryan—Viserys, the prince reborn—stood beside Daenerys, three dragon eggs heavy in their arms. Even exhaustion and bruises couldn't dim the sense of rupture in the air. Aryan felt it: the story had veered from the familiar path. Here, they gripped the one thing that could make legends real.
Guarding the Legend
Their camp in the tangled woods came alive with whispers. Marei scanned the trees for pursuers. Ser Willem, half in awe, half in terror, kept the guards rotating double watches. Aryan gathered his closest advisors—Daenerys, Willem, Marei, and trusted lieutenants—around a small fire.
"We can't display them openly," Aryan said, setting the largest egg—dark green, flecked with gold—upon a woolen blanket. "If word spreads too soon, the Lannisters and Baratheons will throw every sellsword in the east at us. But we must study how to awaken them."
He caught Daenerys's gaze, her eyes lit with stubborn hope and unspoken questions. "The eggs are our most dangerous secret. Only those here must know. If even one slips from our care, all we've built will be lost."
A loyalist swore he would guard one with his life; Willem recommended moving camp twice in a week. Aryan, drawing on both canon and his old world's obsession with plausible deniability, prepared misleading rumors—one egg "smuggled to Lys," another "hidden with pirates," only one remaining "lost" in the woods. Meanwhile, all three stayed within their tightest circle.
The Study of Dragons
For Aryan, meta-knowledge was both a weapon and a burden. He remembered forum theories, stories of blood magic and tragic hubris. With no Red Priestess conveniently on hand, he sifted truth from embellishment.
He and Daenerys spent hours silently tracing the eggs' patterns by firelight. Warmth seemed to pulse beneath their palms, an almost imperceptible vibration in the shell when Daenerys prayed in High Valyrian. "They respond to me," she whispered, confidence growing daily. "But not like a hatching chick… It's different. Deep. Patient."
Aryan thought aloud, "If the stories are right, dragons need fire—real fire, not just heat—and a reason to return. In canon, it was a funeral pyre, death as a sacrifice… and Daenerys's will."
He looked at Daenerys—no longer a frightened girl, but a partner in legend. "We may not know exactly how, but let's try what we can: incense, sacred firewood, songs in old tongues. Let's not risk lives until we truly must."
Shifting Power: Aryan's Growing Legend
Rumors flew faster than ravens. In villages and towns, the "Silver Prince" was no longer just a shadowy leader. Songs spread—of Targaryen banners unfurling in the mist, of a brother and sister wielding ancient power, of soldiers seen weeping in awe around a campfire. Support for their movement swelled, swelling their ranks day by day.
Daenerys, carrying her smallest egg wrapped in furs, visited wounded and hungry, whispered the old words, won villagers who would once have closed their doors.
Aryan, ever watchful, was careful to feed the legend but shield the truth. His meta-awareness reminded him: too much myth invites challenge, too little and hope will wither. He worked quietly with spies, bribed traveling singers to spread useful tales and hide their numbers. Above all, he drilled security—every soldier tested, every visitor watched.
Testing the Bonds
Trust became currency more precious than gold. Ser Willem gently cautioned Aryan, "Power makes men foolish. Too many eyes want these eggs for themselves."
Aryan nodded, meeting the old knight's wary look with certainty. "We share leadership and risk. No one is above suspicion. And if I die, Daenerys leads. If we falter, Marei scatters the relics, and the fire waits for another age. We are no longer the helpless exiles."
When a small group of mercenaries tried to desert with rumors of "the king's treasure," Aryan personally confronted them: firm words, offers of amnesty if they swore anew, but the threat of exile—or worse—if they betrayed House Targaryen. Most bent the knee; others slipped away into the night, but not before Aryan ensured they'd be watched by allies in the next village.
Meta Reflections, New Resolve
At sunset, Aryan and Daenerys sat together where the woods gave way to the river. The cream-and-gold egg glinted in her lap.
"You've changed everything, brother," Daenerys murmured, voice gentle and strong. "This story never happened before."
Aryan smiled, his mind flicking through streams of analysis—theories of fate, butterfly effect, his own doubts now fading into fierce determination. "No more waiting for the world to destroy us. We choose when the fire comes. We choose which story is written in the bones of Westeros."
As darkness fell, Aryan felt, for the first time, not just the thrill of being a player in the game, but the burden—and honor—of shaping it. Power was no longer a distant dream or a cheat code from knowledge. It was a trust, a bond, and a flame they would use, not to destroy, but to build.
The dragon eggs, warm and patient as the story itself, waited. Aryan and Daenerys would be ready—no longer victims of fate, but its living authors.
End of Chapter 15