Aegon's gaze swept across the room full of slumbering dragon eggs once more before settling on Daenerys's still-lowered, blushing face.
"Let's go," he said, his voice returning to its usual steady tone. "To your room."
"To... to my room?"
Daenerys snapped her head up, the flush on her face deepening instantly, turning a shade so red it looked as if it might bleed.
A clear flash of panic and embarrassment flickered in her violet eyes, along with a hint of retreat she couldn't hide in time.
Though she had just taken the initiative to kiss him, using that almost desperate method to declare her feelings and stance, it was more of a spiritual confirmation and sense of belonging.
Suddenly hearing that they were going to her room triggered certain more concrete and private associations uncontrollably, making her heart beat like a drum.
This... this was too fast, too sudden.
She wasn't ready yet, neither physically nor mentally.
Aegon looked at her suddenly changing expression and the obvious misunderstanding in her eyes, pausing almost imperceptibly.
He immediately understood what she was thinking.
This caused a very faint, almost helpless trace to cross his usually expressionless face.
He wasn't completely ignorant of human nature; he was simply accustomed to more direct and efficient ways of communication, overlooking the young girl's sensitive and confused state of mind.
"Do you remember those three dragon eggs?" Aegon spoke, his calm tone correcting her misunderstanding while also shifting the core of the conversation. "The three from Illyrio Mopatis's courtyard that I took from him and gave to you for safekeeping."
Daenerys was startled, her thoughts pulled back from her blushing fantasies, and she nodded subconsciously.
"I remember. I... I've always kept them in the brazier in my room, warming them with charcoal fire, just... just like the stories I heard before."
"Those three, and these here," Aegon pointed to the dragon eggs on the surrounding stone shelves, "are not quite the same."
He walked to a dull, lifeless, grey-white dragon egg and brushed his fingertips over the cold, hard shell. "The dragon eggs here have been dormant in the Valyrian Ruins for far too long."
"Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years."
"The passage of time and the depletion of magic have turned most of them into true stone. Even if a trace of warmth remains, the cost of reigniting the fire of life within them would surely be heavy, and the process destined to be long."
"It is a long-term plan that requires patience, resources, and perhaps luck."
He turned to look at Daenerys, his gaze becoming focused. "But those three are different. I have observed them carefully; though they too have weathered the years, the spark within them feels... newer, more vigorous to me."
"It's as if their slumber has not been so ancient, and the loss of magic relatively less. The hope of hatching them is far greater than for most of the ones here."
Daenerys listened intently, temporarily forgetting her embarrassment as she followed up, "Why would they be different? Because they were better preserved?"
"Not entirely." Aegon shook his head slightly, a hint of contemplation in his eyes. "I suspect they might... originally have come from House Targaryen."
"Targaryen?" Daenerys repeated in surprise.
The family's dragon eggs?
"Yes." Aegon walked to the center of the stone chamber, seemingly organizing his thoughts as he spoke slowly.
"The last dragon eggs of House Targaryen were consumed by Wildfire during the reign of Aegon V in the Great Fire of Summerhall, along with the King, Prince Duncan, the Kingsguard, and many members of the royal family."
"That was a well-known tragedy..."
Daenerys nodded. Viserys had recounted this painful history many times through gritted teeth, believing it was the fault of fools that greatly weakened the power of the Targaryens.
"But before that," Aegon's tone shifted, "during the reign of Jaehaerys I the Conciliator, three dragon eggs were stolen from House Targaryen."
"Stolen by a bold woman and taken across the Narrow Sea, they were reportedly sold to the Sealord of Braavos at the time."
"Jaehaerys I sent envoys to negotiate their return, but the Sealord of Braavos refused on the grounds of legal purchase. Ultimately, the matter was dropped, and the whereabouts of those three dragon eggs became unknown."
He looked at Daenerys. "When I was in Braavos, during my talks with the current Sealord, I made a point of asking about this. He claimed to be unaware, but told me with certainty that there are no dragon eggs in Braavos today."
"So, you think Illyrio's three..." A light of realization dawned in Daenerys's eyes.
Illyrio Mopatis claimed the dragon eggs came from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, but that claim was ethereal and vague.
By contrast, flowing out of Braavos and passing through various hands to end up with the Magister of Pentos seemed much more logical.
"It is highly likely," Aegon nodded. "Compared to the nebulous Asshai, this possibility is greater. Furthermore, it would explain why your feeling toward those three eggs is so... special."
Daenerys recalled the inexplicable closeness and throbbing she often felt in her heart when facing those three eggs day and night; it was much clearer and stronger than what she felt just now when touching most of the eggs in the secret chamber.
It turned out that it wasn't just the resonance of blood, but perhaps mixed with a deeper connection from the same origin.
"So that's how it is..." she murmured, her treasuring of those three dragon eggs gaining a few more layers of historical weight and destiny.
She instinctively wanted to take a step to follow Aegon out of there to check on those three eggs with their potentially extraordinary origins.
But as soon as her right foot touched the ground, the sharp pain from her ankle and sole made her hiss and suck in a breath of cold air, her delicate brows furrowing tightly.
Previously, her nerves had been highly strung, and she had been so shocked by the secret chamber and Aegon's words that she had almost forgotten the injury to her foot.
Now that she had relaxed, the pain reminded her of its presence with clarity and persistence.
Not only that, but having walked so far barefoot, the tender soles that had never experienced such rough friction had long since been scraped raw by gravel and coarse stone slabs, stinging with heat.
She had been enduring it without making a sound.
Hearing her sharp intake of breath, Aegon's gaze fell upon her feet.
Those bare feet, which should have been fair and delicate, were now covered in grime. Her ankle was red and swollen, and several obvious scrapes and bloodstains could be seen on her soles, appearing particularly striking under the firelight of the secret chamber.
Only then did he realize with hindsight that he had brought her all the way back from the backstreets and down these spiral stone steps, letting her walk on her injured feet the entire time.
A very faint, almost uncatchable embarrassment rarely flickered through Aegon's usually emotionless eyes.
He was used to marching and combat, used to pain, and was strict enough with himself, but he had overlooked the fact that Daenerys was just a young girl with soft skin.
However, his face quickly returned to its calm and waveless state, as if that moment of embarrassment had never existed.
Without a word, he took a step forward. Before Daenerys could react, he wrapped one arm around her back and tucked the other under her knees, lifting her up horizontally with a slight exertion of strength.
"Ah!" Daenerys gave a short cry of surprise, her body instantly stiffening.
The man's arms were firm and powerful, his chest broad, carrying a familiar and reassuring scent, but it also brought an unprecedented intimate contact and unfamiliar physical sensation.
Her cheeks turned beet-red again, her heart thumping like thunder. Her hands hung helplessly in mid-air, not knowing where to put them.
She didn't struggle, nor did she speak out to refuse.
She simply remained stiff and submissive, allowing him to carry her.
Her long silver hair cascaded down from the movement, brushing against his arm.
She could feel his steady pace as he carried her toward the spiral staircase, step by step upward, leaving the warm dragon egg chamber and returning to the relatively cool air of the study above.
As they moved through the silent corridors of the manse, occasional patrolling Soldiers or late-sleeping servants who saw them immediately bowed their heads respectfully, looking straight ahead as if they hadn't seen Your Highness the Prince carrying the barefoot princess deep in the night.
Daenerys turned her burning cheek slightly toward Aegon's chest, not daring to meet those gazes.
Finally, they arrived at the door to Daenerys's room.
Aegon signaled with his eyes, and only then did Daenerys hurriedly reach out a hand from his embrace to push open the door with some trembling.
This was the first time Aegon had entered her room.
The air was filled with a faint, maidenly fragrance, mixed with the scent of books and ink.
The furnishings were elegant yet cozy; a lush green plant sat by the window, and a copy of "The Rise and Fall of Valyria" lay open on the desk, half-read.
Daenerys was gently placed by Aegon onto a chair with soft cushions. The flush on her face had not yet completely faded, making her look somewhat uneasy.
Aside from her brother Viserys and Ser Willem Darry in her childhood, no other man had ever entered her room, especially so late at night.
Even though this person was Aegon, the one with whom she had just confirmed a special relationship with a kiss, the sense of intrusion into her private space still made her heart race.
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Aegon's gaze swept across the room and soon settled on a specially shaped copper brazier beside the fireplace.
The brazier was larger than those typically used for heating, with a deeper rim, and inside lay a thick layer of silver charcoal burning to its end, glowing with a deep red light.
And in the center of the charcoal, three dragon eggs were carefully placed, being warmed.
He walked to the brazier, crouched down, unafraid of the residual warmth radiating from the coals, and reached out to pick up the black-red dragon egg in the middle.
The eggshell was scalding to the touch, but Aegon's expression remained unchanged. His fingertips gently traced the natural dark red ripples on its surface, sensing the much more active and robust life pulse within compared to most dragon eggs in the secret chamber.
Daenerys, forgetting her shyness, watched Aegon's movements intently.
She saw Aegon pick up the scorching dragon egg with his bare hand without flinching, and her heart stirred.
When she had touched the dragon eggs before, she had only felt them to be hot, not burned.
Is this the blood of the true dragon? Fearless of fire?
'In the ruins of Valyria, besides finding those dragon eggs,' Aegon examined the egg in his hand, speaking slowly, his gaze never leaving the mysterious patterns.
'I also gained some... knowledge. About how to awaken dormant dragon eggs, how to rekindle life into an ember about to die out.'
Daenerys held her breath, her purple eyes widening, filled with incredible excitement and anticipation: 'You... you have a way to hatch them?'
Could she, like Aegon, have her own dragon? This thought made her tremble.
'There is a method,' Aegon finally looked up at her, his gaze profound, 'ancient, powerful, but it requires a price. It needs blood, the blood of the true dragon. And... the blood of one person may not be enough.'
He did not elaborate on what the price specifically was, but Daenerys could read the gravity in his eyes.
'It needs... the blood of both of us?' she asked softly, her fingers unconsciously clutching her skirt.
Aegon nodded, giving his confirmation.
Daenerys hesitated almost not at all. She took a deep breath, suppressing the excitement in her heart and a trace of hidden worry about the unknown method, her eyes becoming resolute: 'What do I need to do?'
Aegon put down the dragon egg in his hand and stood up again.
He drew Dark Sister, the valyrian steel sword that always hung at his waist.
The ancient blade flowed with a dark luster under the candlelight in the room. Holding the sword in his left hand, he made a clean, horizontal cut across his right palm.
A slender cut appeared, and crimson beads of blood quickly welled up, gathered, and flowed along the lines of his palm.
He turned Dark Sister around and offered the hilt to Daenerys, his voice calm and steady: 'It might hurt a little.'
Daenerys looked at the gleaming, cold sword edge, then at the glaring bloodstain on Aegon's palm.
She didn't speak, only extended her slender, pale, slightly trembling left hand to take the cold, heavy hilt.
Turning her right hand palm up without a hint of hesitation, she imitated Aegon, drawing the sword edge across her own palm.
The sharp Valyrian Steel offered almost no resistance. After a touch of icy coolness came a burning pain.
Blood welled up, flowing slightly slower than Aegon's, its color perhaps a shade lighter, but under the candlelight, it was equally bright and glaring red.
She let out a muffled groan, biting her lower lip, not letting the sword slip from her hand.
Aegon took back Dark Sister from her and sheathed it casually, as if the wound on his palm didn't exist.
He extended his bleeding right hand, palm up, looking at Daenerys.
Daenerys understood. She also extended her bleeding right hand, trembling, and placed it into his palm.
Their hands, one strong and broad, the other slender and soft, were both stained red with blood now.
Aegon's fingers closed, intertwining with hers, holding them tightly.
Warm blood, carrying the warmth of both their bodies, mixed and gathered in the interlocked fingers, then began to drip down, drop by drop.
They walked to the special brazier and held their interlocked, blood-drenched hands suspended above the charcoal and the three dragon eggs.
Aegon lowered his eyelids and began to chant softly.
It was an extremely ancient, obscure language with strange intonations, each syllable seeming to carry weight.
Daenerys recognized it. It was High Valyrian, but more ancient and complex than any text she had studied, filled with a sense of mysterious power.
It was the incantation of Blood Magic.
The mixed blood dripped onto the dark red charcoal below.
"Sss—"
A light sound, not like blood evaporating, but rather like molten gold falling into cold water.
The next moment, a strange change occurred.
The charcoal, which had been dimming and about to extinguish completely, seemed to be injected with a violent surge of life the moment the blood fell!
The dark red charcoal suddenly brightened, becoming as hot and dazzling as the core of a furnace!
The light was not static but leaped and swirled as if alive, as if what had fallen was not blood but scalding, magic-laden lava!
"Boom!"
A wave of scorching air exploded outward from the brazier!
Immediately after, golden-red flames sprang up from nowhere, no longer the gentle warmth of charcoal but like raging dragons with form, wildly soaring, instantly engulfing Aegon and Daenerys's interlocked hands suspended above!
The flames wrapped around their hands, licking their arms. The heat distorted the surrounding air, illuminating their faces with flickering light.
The temperature in the room rose sharply, and the edges of the books began to curl slightly.
Yet, the two at the center of the flames were strangely unharmed.
There was no expected excruciating pain of flesh tearing open, no stench of burning.
Only a gentle, immense flow of heat, seemingly originating from the depths of their bloodlines, surged through their interlocked hands, rushing, converging, and circulating within their bodies.
The flames appeared violent, but upon touching their skin, they brought only a strange, encompassing warmth, as if they were an extension of their own bodies.
Aegon didn't even frown, still steadily chanting the incantation, his voice low and clear amidst the roar of the flames.
Daenerys was initially startled, her eyes wide, but the expected pain never came. Instead, there was that strange warmth connecting her bloodline with Aegon's, resonating with magic, and the suddenly intense, clear, drumbeat-like pulse of life from within the three dragon eggs transmitted through the flames!
She forgot her fear, forgot the wound on her hand, forgot everything around her. She just stared entranced at the leaping golden-red flames, at the faintly visible outlines of the three dragon eggs within, feeling the firm, strong grip from Aegon's hand in her palm, and the immense, flowing heat mingled with their blood and magic.
Time, within this ritual of flame, blood, and ancient incantation, seemed to lose all meaning.
It was unclear how long had passed—perhaps an instant, perhaps a century.
Aegon's chanting gradually softened and finally ceased.
The flames, as if having exhausted their power, began to slowly weaken and shrink, returning to the steadily burning charcoal in the brazier, though the light was now much brighter and purer than before.
The high temperature in the room began to recede.
However, just at this quiet moment when the flames were about to die out and the echoes of the incantation still seemed to linger in the air...
"Crack."
An extremely faint, yet incredibly clear, crisp sound came from the center of the brazier.
Like the first crack of spring ice, like a hatchling breaking its shell.
In this pin-drop silence, the sound was no less than a thunderclap, instantly cleaving through all stagnant time and space, and cleaving through their focused gazes.
Aegon and Daenerys both shuddered almost simultaneously, their interlocked hands tightening involuntarily.
Their eyes locked onto the source of the sound...
In the center of the brazier, on the dragon egg with the deepest color and black-red patterns like dried bloodstains, a small yet exceptionally clear crack appeared at the top of the smooth shell.
Immediately after, another "crack" sound.
Another crack bloomed on the milky-white egg with golden patterns.
Then, a third sound, from the bronze-colored egg with swirling smoky hues.
Fine cracks, like spiderwebs, slowly but inexorably spread across the surfaces of the three dragon eggs, centered on those initial fissures.
The charcoal in the brazier, as if given a final incentive, suddenly shot up one last bright flame, gently licking the cracking shells, then finally settled back into a steady, deep red glow.
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