Three days later.
Rhaegar had put to sea.
He took with him Ser Arthur and Oswell of the Kingsguard, and their great ship slipped slowly away from Dragonstone.
Daeron stood on a cliff, watching until they vanished.
He could not help admiring Rhaegar; the man was a man of action.
He had spoken, and he had gone.
"Your Grace, should we leave as well?"
Davos's face was grave; he feared the islanders would pick a quarrel.
Now only the Dornish remained on Dragonstone.
"Leave for where?"
Daeron answered calmly. "This is my family's seat; outsiders have no say here."
It was almost amusing.
With the gossip Ashara had supplied, he had managed to trace Rhaegar's intended path.
Taking the Tourney at Harrenhal as the pivot,
Rhaegar's scheme seemed to be: sail to the Eastern Continent, recover the ancestral sword Blackfyre to boost his prestige, then depose Father Aerys… but the search for Blackfyre had clearly failed.
The plan had changed: Prince Doran would bankroll it, House Whent would host the tourney, the tourney would serve as a rallying point, and then the coup would follow… that was what Rhaegar intended, and what the original story might have held.
Now Rhaegar had spurned Prince Doran's coin and was sailing to Braavos to borrow a fortune from the Iron Bank, intending to fund House Whent's tournament himself. It was worth noting that House Whent was wealthy and, after House Tully, the greatest lordly house in the Riverlands.
But the Whents had risen late; they could not produce the colossal prize purse for the Tourney at Harrenhal in one stroke.
Someone behind the scenes had to be footing the bill.
That someone had to be Rhaegar—or Prince Doran of Dorne.
Yet now Rhaegar had refused Doran's gold, preferring to borrow from the Iron Bank.
As for the company he took to sea:
apart from Ser Arthur, a Dornishman, the rest were Rhaegar's closest friends and personal guards.
An intriguing choice.
Daeron glanced toward the Stone Drum Tower and murmured, "The Tourney at Harrenhal—your first move against your father, and your first step to shake off Dornish meddling?"
He had little love for the Dornish just now.
Never mind that in the original tale, when House Targaryen fell only the Dornish tried to crown the exiled Viserys in the Eastern Continent and win back the iron throne for him.
If Doran had truly meant it, he would have sent money and men long ago.
What the Dornish really wanted was revenge, tooth for tooth.
The Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, had lost patience and died in Trial by Combat against the Mountain.
A futile loss.
"You may resent your father, but you will not supplant him— not yet."
Daeron faced two questions.
He saw Rhaegar's plan: should he expose it? Should he stop it?
No need to expose it, and no need to stop it.
To expose it now would only make Rhaegar find another way; it would warn the snake and waste the value of what he already knew.
Stopping it was out of the question.
Judging by the Tourney at Harrenhal in the original story, Rhaegar had acted like a fool, turning alliance-making into feud-making.
If he were to stop anything, it would be Rhaegar's designs on another man's betrothed.
Robert had done him no harm; Lord Steffon Baratheon had even died in Shipbreaker Bay searching for a bride for him.
And Rhaegar had repaid him by stealing Robert's betrothed—no wonder Robert caved in his chest with a warhammer at the Trident.
"Come, we're going to Dragonmont."
Once the ship was out of sight, Daeron turned and started down the hill.
He gave Davos a special task.
Today was the 6th day of Summer; five days remained until the 11th.
The 11th was an important festival.
He had promised Shae and the others that once they were settled on Dragonstone he would show them around the island.
Davos was to fetch them so they could all enjoy the Summer-Eleventh revels.
Most important, he must bring Barristan.
"We can't try to hatch a dragon egg without a proper escort."
Daeron trusted the Dornish least of all; he needed more swords.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Davos accepted the urgent mission and set off at once.
Summer, Ninth Day, Wednesday, blazing sun, nine in the morning.
Deep inside Dragonmont.
Daeron was filthy, a hoe in one hand and a satchel across his shoulder.
"Your Grace, are you all right?"
Barristan stepped forward to take the gear.
A day earlier Davos had landed safely with Shae and the rest.
"Ahem… I'm fine."
Daeron coughed. "Has Ser Gerold gone back?"
Barristan nodded.
He had not come alone; with him was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the The White Bull, Gerold Hightower.
Whether it was Daeron's sincerity that had moved Lord Leyton or Rhaegar's influence,
Lord Leyton had replied at once to his uncle Ser Gerold in King's Landing:
he would return the dragon egg.
Refusal had never been an option.
While the crown kept silent, the Citadel could keep a dragon egg and call it its own.
Once the crown asked, you had better hand it back—unless Oldtown's Hightowers fancied reliving the glory days of the Dance of the Dragons.
Daeron, for his part, was happy to oblige Lord Leyton.
Lord Leyton had set three conditions.
First, Daeron must supply him with special crops for his studies, to the best of his ability.
If some rare metal could be thrown in, so much the better;
such crops were hard to come by.
However rich House Hightower might be, they could not buy what was not sold.
Daeron agreed readily.
He had special crops in abundance; his stay on Dragonstone had already yielded a hoard of samples.
Second, once Rhaegar took the throne, a seat on the Small Council must be reserved for House Hightower.
Note: after Rhaegar's coronation.
Daeron accepted at once.
If Rhaegar could win the crown, he was one thing; if Daeron could put him there, he was quite another.
Third, nothing—yet.
But Lord Leyton invited Daeron to visit Oldtown in person.
Most likely to propose a marriage.
"Your Grace, let me carry that."
Barristan reached for the satchel.
Daeron slipped away and changed the subject: "Ser, I found two stalks of fungi deep in Dragonmont, roots gnawed by beasts— we must be close."
Barristan's face turned stern. "Fear not, my prince. If there is a monster, I'll take its head."
A single day on Dragonstone
had shown him how perilous the prince's undertaking was.
A fire-breathing beast lurked in the mountain—perhaps a wild dragon.
Prince Daeron had combed most of Dragonmont; only the most tangled underground caverns remained, success and disaster equally near.
Evening.
Daeron sat alone by his hearth, lifting the lid of the incubator.
Sssss!
A cloud of acrid white smoke rose; on the glowing coals lay two eggs, one red, one blue.
"You are beautiful."
He turned the blue egg in his hands, delighted.
The shell was chiefly cobalt, shading to black at the broad end and tapering through violet to a final touch of honey.
A rare ombre.
It had come from the Citadel in Oldtown, handed to him by Ser Gerold himself.
When it hatched, it would surely be a splendid blue dragon.
He murmured, "When you wake, shall I name you Tessaerion?"
He set a sun essence between the two eggs.
The blue egg—likely sired by the Blue Queen Tessaerion—was still fresh and full of life.
Feeling the sun essence's warmth, it drank deeply.
He had already fed it one sun essence to rouse it, but the egg was still ravenous.
Under the pressure, the red egg began to quicken its own feeding as well.
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