Chapter 15: Three Heads

The sound of Viserion's breathing was soft and even.

He lay curled at Daenerys's side, his wings folded neatly along his back, golden eyes flicking between the dancing firelight and the shifting shadows. His scales shimmered softly, pale cream and muted gold, catching the glow from the hearth as though kissed by moonlight.

Dany sat cross-legged beside him, brushing her fingers lightly over the crown of his head. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. The connection between them had grown stronger with every hour since his hatching.

I sat on the opposite side of the chamber, watching.

Drakaina and Rhazal were outside, settled into their usual places on the cliffs. Drakaina never strayed far from Daenerys, and Rhazal… he was always in motion, darting across cliffs and rooftops like the wind couldn't catch him. Vaedron, my own, stayed perched on the tallest spire — silent, still, always watching.

Four dragons now.

And still only a fraction of what was to come.

"He's different from the others," Daenerys said quietly.

I nodded. "He's quieter. But sharper. He feels more… deliberate."

She glanced down. "He sleeps beside me. When I move, he follows. If I leave food, he waits until I eat."

I smiled. "He knows you're the heart of it all."

"I don't feel like a heart," she said. "More like a flame barely lit."

"Flames spread," I murmured. "They just need fuel."

We stayed in that chamber until the moon was high.

No servants, no guards. Just us, the fire, and the faint tremble of dragon wings somewhere far above. The stone beneath us still carried the day's warmth, and the scent of lavender and ash clung faintly to Dany's robe.

Viserion eventually dozed off completely. His body pressed into the crook of her hip, like he belonged there — and he did.

"He fits," she whispered.

"He was meant for you."

Daenerys looked back to the fire, thoughtful.

Later that night, when she had drifted off to sleep beside Viserion, I rose and left the chamber silently.

I walked without a torch. I didn't need one. The path to the hidden room was burned into my mind, a trail marked by memory, not sight.

Down past the unused corridors. Beyond the servants' quarters. Into the sealed section beneath the foundation — a place no one but I, and perhaps Melyria, had stepped into in weeks.

The air grew hotter as I descended.

Not stifling — just charged. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

I opened the obsidian door.

Inside, the three eggs waited.

One deep red like smoldering embers.

One violet shot through with silver veins.

One bright orange, warm as sunset.

They sat in silence.

I didn't touch them.

I only looked.

They hadn't changed, not physically. No cracks, no warmth, no signs of stirring.

But something in the air felt different.

More aware.

I crouched before them, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Soon," I said quietly. "But not yet."

When I returned to Daenerys, the fire had burned low.

She stirred slightly in her sleep, one hand resting near Viserion's back, protective even in dreams.

I climbed beneath the furs beside her, slow and silent. The warmth of her body greeted me, and for a moment, the world felt still.

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