Dawn spilled golden over the Unsullied camp as the army broke from Astapor's walls and pressed west, a serpent of banners and hope. But in Aryan's mind, worry gnawed at triumph—one dragon, mighty as it was, meant promise but not invincibility. Three, the old prophecy whispered, were needed: "The dragon has three heads." The other two eggs, though warm and thrumming with hidden life, had yet to crack.
Fire and Will, Again
The process that hatched the first egg could not be mindlessly repeated. Aryan, Daenerys, and the trusted core gathered nightly around a new pyre outside camp—now watched not just by soldiers but by freefolk, children, and hopeful eyes. Here, Aryan committed fully, believing as both a reader and ruler that legend must be seized, not awaited.
Together with Daenerys, they combined new rituals:
The eggs were bathed in the blood of victory—drops from Aryan's palm and Daenerys's, mingled with that of three Unsullied volunteers, freed and eager to belong to the legend.
Sacred woods and rare incense, bought at great cost in Astapor, fed the pyre.
Ancient words in High Valyrian—the command of kings and queens—were chanted, growing louder as the flame soared.
It was Daenerys who laid her hand on the smaller, blue-tinged egg, the one she felt pulsed most with her spirit. Aryan, taking the largest—dark as midnight and veined with green fire—felt a pull in his heart, a call deep and commanding.
"We are no longer victims or children. We call—you answer," Aryan invoked, letting blood drip again onto the shell, eyes unblinking as pain faded beneath raw determination.
The Moment of Shattering
A hush fell as Aryan and Daenerys, hands entwined, pressed their eggs into the heart of the inferno. The first dragon—the one Daenerys birthed—arched its small neck and keened, a wailing note that split the night.
Cracks spiderwebbed through both eggs. The blue-tinged one burst open in Daenerys's arms, revealing a slender, silver-blue dragon—shimmering in the sunrise, eyes of pure sapphire.
Then, the largest egg in Aryan's hands pulsed so hot he thought he'd be burned to bone. Suddenly, it broke with a thunderclap. The dragon that emerged was different: massive, even as a hatchling, deep green-black with flame-red dappling on its wings, and eyes like molten gold. It uncoiled not toward Daenerys, but toward Aryan—insistent, almost possessive.
He knelt as it clambered up his arm and shoulder, claws careful, breath warm. With every heartbeat, Aryan felt a connection—clarity and power threading from the dragon's mind to his own. The camp gasped, awed and fearful. The Unsullied dropped to one knee.
Daenerys cradled her blue dragon with tears of fierce pride. "The three heads," she whispered. "You were meant to have one." Aryan smiled, wonder and resolve blooming in him like fire.
The New Legend
That morning, the three dragons—black-gold, silver-blue, and flame-veined green—became more than myth. Songs spread on the wind, carried by bards and liberated slaves. People whispered not just of the prince and princess, but of the dragons who chose, who protected, who led.
Aryan named his—the biggest—Verdantyr, "Living Flame," for the prophecy and his life renewed. He let the beast ride his shoulder as he addressed the host:
"No throne, no gold, and no crown means more than freedom and family. This is the dawn the world fears—and the hope we offer. Our dragons are not curses, but the promise: that we rise, and we will not be broken."
The sound that followed was not a cheer but a roar—more loyal, more awestruck, than Aryan had ever imagined possible.
End of Chapter 19
The dragon chose him—not as a cheat, but as an answer to will and purpose. The army marched with fire at its heart and legend at its head—and Westeros, listening to every tale from Slaver's Bay, began to tremble.