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The third egg cracked last. The smallest one. It split slowly, pieces flaking off like autumn leaves. The hatchling inside was tinier than the others, thin, gray-white, almost translucent. You could see the veins and bones beneath its skin. It crawled out of the shell fragments, made no sound, and curled into a tight ball on the floor like a rain-soaked kitten.
Viserys finally touched the first hatchling. His fingers brushed its back, light as if afraid it would shatter. The little dragon flinched, arched its back, and crawled away. It headed straight for Daenerys, stopped at her feet, and nudged her shoe with its head. She crouched and reached out. The hatchling didn't pull away. It tilted its head, pressed against her fingers, then climbed into her palm and curled up, eyes closing.
The second hatchling followed. Slightly larger, faster. It crawled past Viserys's knee without stopping and climbed Daenerys's robe until it reached her shoulder. It perched there, head tilted, and let out a soft silver-bell cry even though its eyes were still shut.
The third hatchling stayed curled on the floor. Daenerys gently picked it up and placed it in her other palm with the first one. It rolled over, exposing its pink belly, and hooked a tiny claw around her finger before going still.
Viserys knelt on the stone, staring at the three hatchlings now resting on Daenerys—two in her hands, one on her shoulder. None of them had gone to him. He reached toward the one on her shoulder. The little dragon opened its mouth and hissed, a clear warning. It still hadn't opened its eyes, but it knew exactly whose hand was coming. It didn't like him.
Viserys pulled his hand back. He looked at it for a long moment, then let it fall to his side. His face was blank, but something moved deep in his eyes—not tears, not fire. Something heavier. Something that had broken inside him and, instead of cutting, had pulled all the broken pieces together so he could stand steadier than before.
He didn't believe it. He didn't believe these dragons could dislike him. He was Targaryen blood. The heir of Aegon. True dragon blood. These dragons should love him. Should obey him. Should let him ride them.
He stood, stepped in front of Daenerys, and snatched the hatchling from her shoulder. Fast. Hard. His fingers closed around its body and yanked it free. The dragon screamed—not the squeak of a newborn, but a piercing shriek that made Limpick's ears ring. Its golden eyes flew open. Golden, exactly like Ember's. Exactly like Yuan's. Exactly like the one from the fish pond.
It stared at Viserys, pupils narrowed to slits, mouth open, tiny white teeth flashing. Then it bit him. Hard. Teeth sank into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Blood welled up, hot and red, and dripped onto the floor. Viserys didn't let go. He squeezed tighter. The dragon thrashed, tail whipping, claws raking bloody lines across the back of his hand. It bit again, deeper this time, teeth scraping bone.
Viserys cried out—not from pain, but from something else. He lifted the dragon to eye level and stared at it. Blood—his blood—coated its teeth, its lips, its tongue. Targaryen blood mixed with dragon blood. He had waited so many years for this moment. And the dragon was biting him. The dragon didn't like him. The dragon wanted to get back to Daenerys.
"That's enough," Limpick said. His voice was quiet but steady, carrying through the hall like a stone dropped in still water.
Viserys looked at him. His eyes were red—not from crying, but from staring too long into the fire. Blood ran down his fingers in thin streams.
"It doesn't like you," Limpick said. "Squeezing it to death won't change that."
Viserys's fingers loosened. The dragon slipped free, hit the floor, scrambled up, and raced back to Daenerys. It climbed her robe and perched on her shoulder again, breathing hard, golden eyes fixed on Viserys, blood still wet on its snout.
Viserys stared at the hatchling, then at his own hand. Two deep puncture wounds marked the webbing, edges already turning white, blood still seeping. He raised his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood away. It tasted salty, metallic, ordinary. Red. Just like any beggar's, any sailor's, any butcher's blood on the streets of Pentos. Not gold. Not silver. Not purple. Simply red.
He had thought his blood would be different. He had waited so long to believe it was. But it wasn't. He wiped his fingers on his trousers until they were clean, then let his hand fall to his side.