In this disputed land stood a newly erected grey-white castle, its banners fluttering proudly in the sky: the grey wolf of the Wolf Pack, the broken-shackle emblem of the Free Army, and now, a black banner bearing a red dragon.
After the Wolf Pack and the Free Army had seized most of the Disputed Lands and the city of Myr, Gendry grew accustomed to living near his old Gunpowder Grass plantation. Following extensive renovations and relocations, a new stronghold—the Wolf's Lair—rose in its place. A moat bristling with spikes surrounded the outer perimeter, while sturdy white towers crowned the inner walls.
In the gardens of the Wolf's Lair, Daenerys stood beside Gendry, her silver-gold hair glinting in the sunlight. "Illyrio said these were dragon eggs from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai—fossilized over millions of years, yet still radiant and beautiful," she said softly.
"This is indeed a priceless gift," Gendry replied, "but that fat man never gives anything for free."
Illyrio Mopatis had given up both Daenerys and her brother to Gendry's care—but not without receiving compensation: gold, fine silks, and the finest crafts of Myr.
Before them lay a bronze-bound cedar chest lined with the richest velvet. Upon it rested three massive eggs.
Daenerys gazed at them with wonder. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen—each one distinct, their shells patterned like jewels. She lifted one carefully with both hands, expecting fragile porcelain or glass. Yet it was far heavier—solid as stone. Tiny scales covered its surface, each catching the orange glow of sunset and flashing like hammered metal.
One egg shimmered deep green, mottled with bronze-like specks. Another glowed milky white, veined with streaks of gold. The last was black as midnight, rippled with dark red whorls like flames moving beneath the surface.
"Drogon, Viserion, Rhaegal…" Gendry murmured. With that whisper, the wheel of Daenerys's fate began to turn.
"I will cherish them forever," Daenerys said, her eyes alight. She had heard countless tales of dragon eggs but never seen one, let alone held them in her own hands.
"May I?" Maester Qyburn asked. As a former maester turned scholar and strategist—and Gendry's trusted mentor—he was more than qualified to examine them.
"These are relics of sorcery," Qyburn said after circling the eggs. "The very foundation of House Targaryen's power. Even fossilized dragon eggs are worth a king's ransom."
He gestured toward them one by one. "Green and bronze, white and gold, black and red—if dragons were to hatch, their scales would mirror the colors of their shells. The old legends are true. No two dragons were ever the same."
Gendry nodded. He knew more than most about dragons—and not only from stories. A trace of dragon blood flowed in his own veins.
"But I fear," said Maester Coban, "that no living dragon eggs remain in this age."
"A living egg?" Daenerys asked, eyes widening.
"Yes, Princess," Qyburn replied. "Had these been alive, even the governor of Myr would never have parted with them. The Targaryens guarded their eggs with their lives—kept them sealed in vaults and crypts beneath Dragonstone and the Red Keep. Over centuries, many hardened to stone. They became fossils."
"Even so," Gendry said, "Illyrio was generous. He must be planning something."
He studied the black egg, its red ripples burning in the dusk. "Those eggs may be fossils, but they'll make both Illyrio and Varys regret their schemes before long."
The fat man believed fossilization was final—that no magic could wake stone. But he had not foreseen two things: magic's slow return to the world—heralded by the reappearance of the White Walkers—and the ancient whispers that even a fossilized egg might stir again if bathed in blood and fire.
"Will they ever hatch?" Daenerys asked quietly.
"I'm afraid not, Princess," Qyburn said firmly. "Even newly laid dragon eggs often failed to hatch. For fossils, the process is irreversible."
Daenerys lowered her eyes, disappointment shadowing her features.
"Come now, Daenerys," Gendry said gently. "Take them with care—and don't neglect your studies."
She smiled faintly. "You'll come see me, won't you?"
"Of course," he said.
She lingered a moment longer before the guards escorted her and the chest away. The fading light gilded her silver hair as she disappeared into the castle.
When she was gone, Gendry turned to Qyburn. "The fat man's generosity surprises me. Three dragon egg fossils—he must have more hidden away."
"Most likely," said Qyburn. "Rumor has it Illyrio once dealt in smuggled dragonbone—perhaps even keels of old dragon skeletons. Such a man would have no shortage of channels."
Gendry frowned. "And what of the Targaryen relics? All the dragon eggs said to be left after the Doom of Valyria—where did they go?"
"That mystery has never been solved," Qyburn replied. "Even after the dragons died, the Dragon Kings hoarded many eggs. They experimented on them—some even used seven eggs at once at Summerhall. But after the fall of the Targaryens, no record remained of those eggs. None were found when Robert Baratheon took the throne."
"I'll find them," Gendry said quietly. "The true ones. Somewhere in Dragonstone, the Red Keep, or Summerhall—they're waiting. They belong to me and Daenerys… to our bloodline."
Qyburn inclined his head. "The princess is loyal, my lord. She depends on you. With the education and courtly training she's receiving, she'll one day bring great honor to Westeros."
"But her brother Viserys…" he continued with hesitation, "is another matter. He's older, higher in succession, and far less stable. His mind festers with envy."
"Still visiting brothels?" Gendry asked.
"Yes. Illyrio assigned two Unsullied to guard him, but he remains reckless. He claims you broke your promise to restore his throne and despises how our soldiers treat him like a fool. Your lineage—your… origins—only deepen his resentment."
Gendry shrugged. "Let him rot. As long as he keeps his distance from me and Daenerys, I won't lift a finger. A man like him will drink or whore himself to death soon enough."
"It was Illyrio who exposed your parentage," Qyburn said.
"I know," Gendry replied coldly. "And he isn't working alone. There's someone in King's Landing feeding him information."
"There must be," Qyburn agreed. "The fat man has an insider—clever, influential, and dangerous."
"Then we must treat Illyrio not as a friend but as a rival," Gendry said darkly. "He and Varys used Daenerys as bait. Whatever game they're playing, it isn't for our benefit."
"All merchants are like that," Qyburn said. "Their loyalty lasts only as long as their profits."
Gendry's gaze shifted toward the distant sea. "Enough of the fat man. We have more pressing matters—Tyrosh, Lys, Volantis, and the powers across the Narrow Sea."
Qyburn nodded. "Tyrosh controls the Black City, positioned within the island chain. Once our fleet blockades it, taking the city won't be difficult. The greater challenge lies in consolidating our rule—keeping the exiled governors and their mercenaries from stirring rebellion. That will demand manpower, gold, and time."
Gendry's jaw tightened. "Then we'll give them neither rest nor mercy."
As the last rays of the sun slipped beyond the horizon, the three dragon eggs in the princess's chamber glowed faintly in the dark—green, gold, and red—like embers waiting to breathe again.
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