The flags of the new order snapped in the wind above the ramparts of the Wolf's Den. There was the grey-and-white wolf of the Pack, the broken shackle of the Free Army, and now, a fresh banner of black silk bearing the red, three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Gendry had moved his headquarters from the original fireweed estate to this newly fortified bastion. The white towers rose like jagged teeth above a moat filled with sharpened stakes, a fortress designed to withstand the fury of the Magisters he had displaced.
"Illyrio says they come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai," Daenerys said, her voice soft with wonder. She stood in the castle's courtyard garden, her silver hair catching the late afternoon sun. "He says they have been stone for ten thousand years, but look how they shine."
On a cedar wood chest lined with purple velvet lay three massive eggs. They were the most beautiful things Gendry had ever seen. One was deep green, shimmering with bronze flecks as Dany turned it in her hands. Another was the color of pale cream, shot through with streaks of gold. The last was black as a midnight sea, but with ripples of scarlet that looked like cooling lava.
"They are heavy," Dany whispered, lifting the black one. "I thought they would be like porcelain, but they feel like solid rock. The scales are so fine, like metal."
Gendry looked at them, and for a moment, the names Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal flickered in his mind like embers in a forge. He knew the wheel of destiny was beginning to turn, and these stones were the grease that would make it spin.
"May I examine them?" Qyburn asked, stepping forward. The disgraced maester's eyes were bright with intellectual hunger. He circled the chest, his fingers hovering just inches from the scales.
"Magic made flesh," Qyburn murmured. "The Targaryens guarded these with their lives. Even as fossils, they are worth more than the city of Myr itself. But in this age, the fires have gone out. These are relics, Princess. Stone cannot breathe."
"But they feel... warm," Daenerys insisted, her violet eyes clouding with confusion.
"A trick of the sun on the scales, Your Grace," Qyburn replied gently. "In the history of the Citadel, there is no record of a fossilized egg returning to life. Even at Summerhall, where King Aegon V tried to hatch seven eggs with wildfire and blood, the result was only ash and tragedy."
Gendry watched the exchange in silence. He knew Illyrio wouldn't give away anything truly "living" without a price. The fat man and the Spider were using these eggs to tether Gendry to the Targaryen cause, unaware that Gendry already understood the true game. They wanted him to be the shield for their "True Dragon," yet to be revealed.
"Keep them safe, Dany," Gendry said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "And don't be late for your lessons. A Queen needs to know her numbers as well as her lineage."
"I will, Gendry," she said, her smile small but genuine. "Will you come to see me tonight?"
"I will."
As the guards escorted Daenerys and her treasures away, Gendry turned to Qyburn. The air between them grew cold.
"Illyrio has leaked the truth of my birth," Gendry said, his voice flat. "The world knows I'm a Baratheon bastard now. The Small Council in King's Landing is likely debating my execution as we speak."
"The fat man has a leaky tongue when it suits him," Qyburn agreed. "He wants the Iron Throne to panic. He wants them to see a Baratheon leading a Targaryen army and strike out blindly. Chaos is his favorite medium."
"And Viserys?"
"He is a growing rot," Qyburn sighed. "He spends his days in the Myrish brothels, guarded by the two Unsullied Illyrio sent with him. He screams that you are a 'thieving blacksmith' and that he is the only true king. His instability is attracting the wrong kind of attention."
"Let him scream," Gendry said, his jaw tightening. "As long as he stays away from Daenerys. If he crosses the line, he'll find that a blacksmith knows how to deal with broken steel."
Gendry looked toward the horizon, where the sea met the sky. "The eggs Illyrio gave us are stones. But if there are living ones left—in the depths of Dragonstone or the ruins of Summerhall—I want them. They belong to Dany. They belong to the future I'm building."
"Tyrosh and Lys will not wait for your dragons to hatch, Regent," Qyburn reminded him. "They see your fleet growing. They see Myr falling. They are already whispering to Volantis."
"Then let them whisper," Gendry said, his hand falling to the pommel of the Valyrian steel arakh. "I've already broken the Cat. The Tiger will be no different."