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Illyrio Mopatis returned to the Free Cities with a promise. He would travel to Asshai himself if he must, to search the marketplaces for those rumored dragon's eggs. A treasure like this could not be entrusted into the hands of a servant. At the beginning of the Dance of the Dragons, one had, instead of locking King Jaehaerys' crown away, made off with it instead.
Despite the Pentoshi's great show of affluence, Rhaella still was not convinced of his generosity. Who in the Seven Kingdoms would procure a real dragon's egg to trade for a seat on the small council that was not secure yet? Perhaps the people in Essos thought different on these matters. Or perhaps his price would rise once an egg was in his sure possession. One ought never to underestimate the greed of men.
Many moons turned without a word from Illyrio. When she was not spending time with her children or reading up on dragons, Rhaella found herself gazing out across the sea more and more throughout the day.
"Word will come," Artemisia assured her one morning. "He would not have risen from simple sellsword to magister had he not been reliable and well-connected."
The Princess of Dorne had been of great assistance since answering Rhaella's call. When the Usurper's fleet had sailed to Dragonstone, Rhaella had fled with her children and Dany's nursemaid, Thistle, to Braavos. There, Artemisia Martell had taken her under Dorne's protection, and her son Oberyn had sworn to get revenge for their loved ones.
Her children seemed to thrive in the Dornish climate. Daenerys was a strong and healthy girl – the gods be praised – and Viserys followed Jon Connington everywhere, demanding stories or lessons in sword fighting from the knight. Aegon had grown closer to her, although he did not remember her from King's Landing. Rhaella told herself he had been too young. She had lost too much to acknowledge that this boy might not be her grandson, but a Targaryen bastard instead.
Watching him play with the other children in the Water Gardens, Rhaella once again began to think her quest a foolish one. What good will come of it? Was she going to spend what life was left for her chasing dreams instead of preparing a reality in which her children could reclaim their throne?
It will not matter who sits the Iron Throne when the snows come and the dead walk among us, Rhaegar had warned her in the dragon dream he had sent from beyond the grave. If not for his words, she would never have cared about the prophecies at all. Enough tragedy had befallen those who thought they beheld the signs. I fear the Starks speak truth, Mother, and winter is coming.
Winter is coming. And with it, the creatures in the long winter nights that feast on human flesh, if the stories were to be believed. Rhaella had dismissed them before, because they were just that – stories – but after the dream she could no longer be so sure. The real war isn't with my cousin Robert. And it cannot be won without dragons. It had been the urgency in Rhaegar's voice that had opened her ears and made her consider the path she was now walking.
It might be a foolish one, especially for someone her age, but for now that mattered little. As long as she possessed no dragons, they would be no closer to winning this war her son had spoken of. She might as well divide her time between reading the books Artemisia's maester had provided her with and teaching her children how to be good rulers, better rulers than their father ever had been. She would not let this search for answers consume her like it did her son and her grand-sire. Her children needed her. She would not favor the dead over the living.
***
Illyrio's train was as splendid as the first time he had arrived in Dorne, winding its way through the narrow streets of the shadow city below Sunspear. After the official welcome, the Pentoshi had four burly slaves set down a large cedar chest onto the throne room's marble floor tiles. The chest was beautifully carved and lacquered, its vine pattern inlaid with gold.
"Your Majesty," he said, motioning for Rhaella to open it.
As she undid the clasps, she became acutely aware of the eyes surrounding her. Artemisia had vouched for her staff, yet it needed only one word out of Dorne how the dowager queen was still alive, forging alliances and receiving visitors from beyond the Narrow Sea. The Usurper would march to war against them and they would lose whatever advantage their supposed demise afforded them. By now, all of the Seven Kingdoms thought the last Targaryens had drowned outside of Dragonstone.
Nestling atop rich velvets and damasks lay three large eggs, each more beautiful than the next, their patterns colourful as though encrusted with gems. The gods be good. Three. One for each head of the dragon.
"From the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai," Illyrio said. "They are fossilized now, but I am certain Your Grace knows what to do with them."
Rhaella needed both hands to lift one from its cradle. It was heavy, unlike poultry eggs, and warm, as though it had been freshly laid. As though there was still life inside. Its shell was pale cream streaked with gold. Another was a deep green that shimmered with burnished bronze flecks depending on the angle light fell on it. The last was black as the midnight sea with scarlet ripples and swirls that seemed to glow like embers.
"This is too great a gift." Three would be enough to contract the Golden Company.
"I leave that to your children to decide."
"Are they for us?" Viserys asked, violet eyes glittering like the tiny scales on the eggs. He had always loved stories about dragons and, like every child, had dreamed of one day becoming a dragonrider. What had seemed like a vain fantasy before, now seemed so much more possible to attain. If only they knew how to hatch dragons.
"But of course, Your Grace. I promised your mother dragon's eggs, hoping they would help you reclaim your throne. As you see, I keep my promises." Now you ought to keep yours, his tone implied.
Rhaella caught her son's eye, his silver-white curls swaying as he nodded. "That is very gracious of you, magister," he said, barely able to conceal his excitement.
"We will remember your kind gift when my son reclaims his throne," Rhaella adds.
She had decided not to favor her grandson over Viserys. Aegon was too young yet, and his birth too uncertain, for her to burden him with a kingship he might never attain. Viserys, she had already crowned on Dragonstone after the Sack of King's Landing, and her son was expecting to assume the role of king one day. Rhaella had not the heart to take his titles away again, symbolic though they were, and to explain to him that his nephew was the rightful heir. It will not matter who sits the Iron Throne...
"Do you think we can hatch them, Mother?" Viserys asked later.
Rhaella sat back and watched the eggs shimmering in the evening sunlight. Her son had voiced the same question she had been asking herself since the dream. She would not follow her grand-sire's example and create another tragedy of Summerhall.
The library in Sunspear had little in the way of dragon lore, and for an idle moment, she wished she were back at King's Landing and able to peruse the books and scrolls in the library in the Red Keep.
Through Artemisia's maester, she had written to the grand maesters at the Citadel to learn more about the prophecies. Her request had not been answered yet. She had to be patient. The maesters had their own areas of studies to attend to and Rhaella had to be careful not to rouse suspicion by being too forceful in her demand.
She considered taking the risk of writing her great-uncle at the Wall again, even though her last letter had remained unanswered, too. Perhaps the North remembered parts of the prophecy the South had forgotten?
***
In the coming moons, Viserys would go nowhere without his dragon's egg and pray to the gods every night they might let it hatch. He had chosen the black one, for its Targaryen coloring. The emerald one he had given to Aegon, and the last one he had placed at the bottom of Dany's cradle, swathed in blankets. Distributed among the Targaryen children as had been done in the stories he so loved.
Then one day, when his enthusiasm began to wane, a strange guest arrived. A young woman who was striking both in height and in beauty. Her voice was melodious and sweet, carrying an accent of the East, as she requested to speak with the heirs to the dragon. Her crimson robes marked her a priestess of the Red God. Rhaella remembered one of their kind. He had been sent to King's Landing to convert her late husband to their faith and through him, spread it in Westeros.
She wondered if this girl had been sent to succeed where the Myrish priest had failed and how she knew of any surviving Targaryens. Perhaps someone had talked after all, perhaps Illyrio's interest in dragon's eggs had led men to further investigate. The priestess, however, had a different explanation.
"The flames showed me where to find you," she said.
"Why come to us?" Rhaella demanded. "Why now?"
"The Lord of Light has brought me to you to guide you in these dark times, Your Grace."
This slip of a girl presumed to guide Rhaella? She could be the girl's mother. "And where would you propose to take me?"
"North, Your Grace. Where the cold breath of darkness falls heavy upon the land. Your son shall wield the Red Sword of Heroes and he shall be Azor Ahai come again, the Warrior of Fire."
"You say Viserys is the prince that was promised?" The prophecies again. Her father had wed her to Aerys after a woods witch foretold the prince that was promised would spring from their line. Rhaegar had believed this prophesied hero to be himself. He had become a knight in answer to the prophecy and started this whole madness with the Stark girl. The dragon must have three heads.
"His future is of great import. I have seen it in the flames."
Rhaella did not believe the woman's words. You would see anything you wished if you stared into a fire for too long. Still, the priestess brought with her a prophecy she claimed was more than five thousand years old. Whether it was the same one her family believed in was open to interpretation, but perhaps there was something to learn from it.
"The Lord of Light willing, I can give you dragons, Your Grace."
How did she know of the eggs? "How? My son has spent nine moons exploring the caves on Dragonstone, where a hoard of dragon's eggs is said to be hidden, and yet he has found none. How will you give me dragons?"
"Every ingredient is already in your hands, safe that of time. A little more patience is needed. The war will come."
Rhaella suppressed a shudder, thinking of her dragon dream.
It was a gamble, letting the red priestess stay. Nobody knew where she had come from. Viserys seemed to like her, but the boy grew fond of whomever flattered him, and with her stories of Azor Ahai, the priestess did nothing but. Rhaella resented her for putting ideas in his head, but she could not have him watched every hour of the day to keep the woman and her tales away from him. Worse, he sought her out to hear more of them. He always had been fond of stories.
Rhaella hoped that this was all they were to him – stories. She had lost one son to the folly of false prophecies. She would not lose another.