The woods around the Targaryen camp were heavy with anticipation. Every member of Aryan's growing force, from grizzled Blackfyre mercenary to wide-eyed camp follower, felt a change in the air—a tension woven through every whisper and every flicker of torchlight. The three dragon eggs had become the camp's secret heart: hidden from all but a trusted few, yet the source of countless prayers and rumors.
Aryan—balanced between reader's foresight and a leader's fear—knew this moment could make or break everything. The legends whispered that dragons were not simply beasts, but the crucible and proof of Targaryen right to rule. But how to waken them—without the exact circumstances of Daenerys's pyre, or the unreliable hope of miracles?
Gathering Traditions and Knowledge
Aryan spent restless nights hunched over scavenged tomes, scrolls, and ancient tales, reviewing every snippet about the birth of dragons. He grilled old Essosi and Westerosi soldiers for songs, pieced together fireside legends from Septon tales, and conferred with Daenerys over every line he could remember from his former world.
"The fire that makes a dragon must be a fire with meaning," he explained to Daenerys, Marei, and Ser Willem, the eggs cradled before them on a table. "Blood, loss, sacrifice—these are always at the heart of legends. But there are also tales of moon-tears, sacred oils, and even spells in both Valyrian and unknown tongues."
Ser Willem remained skeptical: "This is no child's tale, my prince. Men have lost themselves to foolish hopes for less."
Daenerys, her voice steady, disagreed: "They have always been ours, even before the world knew us. I feel them, Aryan. They want to wake."
Aryan weighed every option—risk and reward calculated against the timeline rushing toward them. The army could not wait forever.
First Attempts: Fire and Words
That night, they tried a careful approach, kindling a great fire in a deep hollow beyond the main camp. Aryan used incense, rare wines, and oils gleaned from Asshai merchants. The eggs were placed in the heart of the blaze, as Daenerys and Aryan chanted old words in Valyrian—some sacred, others half-remembered theories from forum posts and ancient manuscripts.
Marei and Ser Willem guarded the perimeter; inside the fire, Aryan watched anxiously. The shells gleamed, warm but unchanged. Daenerys held her hands to the flames until her skin trembled, whispering to the eggs their names and the stories of their ancestors.
The fire died, but the eggs remained unbroken. That night, silent and tired, Aryan met Daenerys's gaze. "One miracle does not answer to another's wishes," he admitted, pain sharpening his determination. "We will keep trying."
Sacrifice and the Lion's Shadow
Pressure mounted as word came that royal agents had been seen on the roads—gold cloaks and lion banners drifting ever closer. Aryan realized that simply repeating canon would not be enough. They needed not just fire, but something deeper—will, sacrifice, and a story worthy of legend.
Aryan called a council. "Daenerys, if I fall, promise you'll see this through," he said quietly. "If I must pay with blood… I'll do it, but not recklessly."
She refused, fiercely shaking her head. "To hatch them for you but lose you would be no victory." She had a plan of her own: invoking a ritual witnessed in her dreams—a funeral-like bonfire, blessed with her own hair, Aryan's blood (from a shallow, symbolic cut), and the memories of their lost family.
Around the pyre, Daenerys led the prayers in Valyrian—a language of command, history, and grief. Aryan's blood dotted the straw, their hair mingled, songs echoed into the night. The eggs, once more in the flames, pulsed with strange heat. But the night ended with smoke, not flight—power stirring, but still out of reach.
A Reader's Leap: The Final Gamble
With time running out, Aryan looked beyond canon, into the very spirit of meta-logic. What mattered most about Daenerys's original miracle? She acted from utter conviction, loss, and choice. It was a rejection of helplessness, a final act of will.
As their enemies closed in, Aryan stood with Daenerys by the third, largest egg. He spoke clearly so all the camp could hear: "Power in this world is won—not granted. The gods, the dragons, fate itself bend for those who claim life and death as their own story."
He drew a ceremonial blade, slicing his palm and letting the blood drip onto the shell. Daenerys did the same. In unison, they pushed the egg deeper into flame, shouting the Valyrian for "Awaken, children of fire!"
The flames roared. The egg trembled. Smoke twisted and the army pressed in, eyes wide in awe.
A crack split the night. Scales shimmered. A small, sinuous form spilled forth—tiny, but alive, voice rising strong in the hush.
The camp fell into stunned silence. Daenerys's eyes filled with tears. Aryan laughed—a bounding, wild relief. "It can be done," he whispered, breathless. "We change the story. We are the story."
Awakening
That night, they stood vigil as the first dragon—black as midnight, eyes glowing molten gold—clung to Daenerys's arm. The other eggs, still inert, waited for their turn. But hope, real and hot as fire, blazed through the camp.
Aryan watched the embers and the hatchling and saw not just the path to power, but responsibility. The game was now more dangerous than ever—but at last, they had a force no king or lion or wolf could match.
End of Chapter 16