"Perfect. Full of spirit already!"
Daeron laughed and scooped up the feisty little black hatchling, gently plucking the last bits of eggshell from its head.
The newborn dragon had personality to spare. Its wings and hind legs worked together perfectly as it scrambled up Daeron's arm and settled on his shoulder, folding its wings like a living cloak and claiming the spot as its own.
"It's so smart!" Jaehaerys's eyes sparkled. He looked ready to reach out and pet it.
Daeron turned so the whole family could see. "The fourth dragon of House Targaryen—and a black one at that. He's going to grow strong."
Jaehaerys and Viserys couldn't hold back any longer. They crowded in close, staring at the new arrival in wonder.
"Hiss-graa!"
The black hatchling wasn't shy. It hissed at the two boys and opened its jaws, trying to breathe fire. Nothing came out except a puff of black smoke that made it cough.
Pfft!
A small cloud of warm smoke burst from its mouth.
"Whoa!" the boys gasped, even more impressed.
Daeron stroked the little dragon's neck. Newborns can't really breathe fire yet, he thought. Caraxes was always the exception.
Maester Aemon watched with open joy, then grew more solemn. "Daeron, since you hatched this one yourself, the honor of naming him belongs to you."
Daeron didn't hesitate. "His name is Drogon."
Traditionally a black dragon should have been called Balerion or given some ancient Valyrian god-name. Drogon had simply been the name Daenerys gave her dragon in memory of Khal Drogo. But Daeron felt a strange attachment to it. He wanted this little one to grow into the same wild, terrifying "Black Dread" the original Drogon had become.
"Drogon…" Maester Aemon rolled the name on his tongue. "Unusual, not the classic style for dragons, but it suits a hatchling perfectly."
"I'll raise him myself," Daeron said with a smile. "I'll make him strong."
The moment the new dragon hatched, word spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.
In her chambers, Queen Rhaella—still pale and weak from giving birth—stared in disbelief. Daeron had stone eggs… and he actually hatched another dragon?
She knew her second son had five petrified eggs. But how did stone become a living dragon?
"Waaah—waaah—"
The baby in the cradle started crying. Rhaella's frown softened. She rose on shaky legs and lifted her newborn daughter to nurse.
The birth had been hard. It happened the very night the great storm struck. Only the Yi Ti healer's medicines and skilled hands had kept her and the child safe.
She cradled the tiny girl and whispered, "You were born with the storm, little one. I hope you grow up healthy and strong."
Her ladies and wet nurses stood nearby. They remembered how things had been when the princes were babies—how young Daeron used to curl up beside the cradle with his brothers and fall asleep there. Back then Rhaella had rested easy. Only after Viserys turned three had she finally made him sleep in his own room.
One bolder lady stepped closer. "Your Grace… Prince Daeron has returned. Should we send for him so he can meet the princess?"
Rhaella's brow tightened with irritation. She kept nursing without expression.
"Your Grace?" the lady tried again.
Rhaella looked up sharply. "There's no need. Let him tend to his own affairs first."
The lady bowed and retreated at once.
Rhaella's chest burned with resentment. She hadn't scolded or struck him—he was acting like a victim.
Baby Daenerys, eyes still closed, gripped the breast tightly and gave a hard suck.
"Ouch!" Rhaella winced, then gently patted the baby's bottom instead of slapping. Daenerys simply sighed and drifted back to sleep.
---
Daeron carried Drogon back to the Red Keep and called an immediate Small Council meeting to discuss the profits and complications of the Narrow Sea campaign.
"Dragon! Where's the dragon?!"
King Aerys burst in half-dressed, purple eyes locking instantly on the black hatchling perched on Daeron's shoulder. His face twisted with naked hunger.
"Another black one…"
He rushed forward as if he meant to snatch it.
Daeron pushed his father back firmly. "This one stays with me. No one else is touching him."
Aerys exploded like a firecracker. "Boy, you already have three dragons! How many more do you need?!"
"Two," Daeron corrected calmly. "Shaena has one. Now I have three. I will not hand him over, and no one else is qualified to raise him."
Aerys spun in a circle, gesturing wildly, all royal dignity forgotten. "Give me one! I want a dragon!"
"You can't handle one," Daeron said bluntly.
Aerys's mental state made him unfit to raise or tame a dragon. Handing Drogon over would probably get the hatchling killed.
Aerys drew himself up. "I am the king! You carry my blood—why shouldn't I have one?!"
"Then call him," Daeron said. "See if he answers."
Aerys leaned in, confident. He shoved his face right up to the hatchling and barked in High Valyrian, "Rise, new dragon!"
Drogon's sensitive nose caught a blast of wine breath. He hissed, lunged, and sank tiny teeth straight into the king's nose while claws and wings flailed.
Aerys screamed. "Get it off, you stupid lizard!"
Daeron quickly pulled the hatchling free. Blood trickled from Aerys's nose and several long scratches ran down his cheeks.
"Seven hells!" Varys closed his eyes in genuine pain, hoping it was a hallucination.
The rest of the council stared at the floor, afraid to speak.
"That damned hatchling scratched my face!" Aerys howled, furious enough to want the dragon strangled on the spot.
But he wouldn't actually do it. He would sooner execute a councillor than harm a single scale on a dragon.
Maester Aemon finally spoke. "Aerys, go have those scratches treated before they scar."
"I know, you old fool!" Aerys snarled, storming out with Ser Gerold hurrying after him.
At the door he spun back and pointed at Maester Aemon. "Old man, I am the king. Next time you will address me properly!"
Maester Aemon simply smiled like he hadn't heard a thing.
Once the king was gone the council room felt ten degrees cooler.
Daeron rapped the table to regain everyone's attention. "My lords, news of the Narrow Sea battle will soon spread across both continents. The pirates of the Stepstones have suffered catastrophic losses. We should enjoy a period of peace."
He laid out his plans clearly. "I intend to reorganize King's Landing, expand the Constabulary Knights, and bind the Crownlands, Riverlands, and Stormlands into one solid territory."
Tywin spoke first. "The treasury is flush with gold after your victories. Expanding the knights is feasible. However, you struck Tyrosh itself and angered every pirate in the Summer Sea. The Narrow Sea battle does not end the war—it only begins the next one."
The room fell quiet. The nobles looked uneasy.
Daeron scanned their faces. "The Stepstones are full of gem mines. Essos has more full knights than we can count. Do you truly believe that after raiding Tarth once, they won't raid Oldtown or Lannisport next?"
Ser Alliser nodded firmly. "I agree with the prince. The enemy has already come to our doorstep. We must strike back hard enough that they never dare return."
Davos added, "The Narrow Sea battle has bought us time to grow stronger."
Lord Corlton frowned and said nothing. Lord Staunton openly sneered at the two lowborn councillors.
Mace Tyrell kept quiet, caught between sides.
Daeron's eyes narrowed. The tension in the council wasn't simply new men versus old—it was nobles versus everyone else.
They don't see me as their master, he realized. They still think they can push back.
He kept his voice even. "The conflict between the two continents has already begun. There is no point in arguing. You will support me in strengthening the Iron Throne so we are ready for whatever comes."
The meeting dragged on, but the real issue was clear: the nobility was testing how far Daeron could push.
Tywin had barely spoken, yet his single comment had opened the floodgates.
Daeron understood perfectly. This was the nobility's first organized challenge to Targaryen centralization.
He would deal with it later. First he needed to turn the war's profits into real power. Only then could he force the crown's authority where it belonged.
For now he let the grumbling pass. The nobles would learn soon enough.