And Tyrion found it. It took him several days to piece together, in broad strokes, how we should proceed. The Targaryens, of course, were not especially forthcoming about how dragons were handled—how they were born, fed, and raised—but scattered hints could still be found across various sources. That was enough for Tyrion to assemble the mosaic. Especially since personal interest is the strongest motivation of all.
We took the egg to Qyburn. His laboratory looked like the perfect place for our undertaking—stone ceilings, walls, and floors; a massive hearth; countless dusty bottles lining the shelves; ancient books; and all manner of strange, often utterly incomprehensible devices. The air was heavy with the smells of various poisons, herbs, and metals… Everything about the place breathed an aura of mystery and the unknowable spirit of alchemy and magic. I liked being there.
Qyburn had not succeeded in reanimating the dead Clegane. From his explanations, I gathered that to attempt something like what he achieved with the Mountain in canon, he needed a body in which life had not yet fully faded. Gregor Clegane, however, had come to him already dead.
Despite that failure, Qyburn remained an exceptionally interesting man and an inquisitive scholar.
We placed the egg in the hearth, built a small fire, and waited.
In general, I assumed that young dragons hatch when their mother is nearby, her warmth accelerating the birth process. If she is absent, the egg falls into a so-called "sleep," which can last quite a long time and from which it can be awakened by fire.
After digging through a mountain of books, Tyrion found confirmation of all these assumptions.
We began our experiment. The problem was that we had only one egg, and no other was expected in the foreseeable future. We were deeply afraid that the fire, instead of helping the dragon hatch, might simply burn it.
The first time, we built a modest fire and placed the egg near it, so that it would warm slowly and gently.
An inspired Qyburn tended the fire for more than a day, periodically turning the egg. Unfortunately, nothing happened that time.
On the next attempt, we built a stronger fire. This effort also produced no result.
After that, the three of us held a brief council, trying to determine what we were doing wrong.
I remembered the canon—Daenerys had quite literally burned together with the eggs, and only after that did they hatch. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—I am not a Targaryen and had no intention of repeating such heroic feats. For some reason, Tyrion also declined to burn alive with the egg when I suggested that perhaps we needed a living person for success.
That left only one option—to increase both the intensity of the fire and the duration of the experiment.
We all understood how risky this was, and that the dragon might die. But what else could we do in the situation we were in?
And then, on the third attempt, luck finally smiled upon us—the egg twitched and shifted its position. Qyburn, who had been staring into the flames without blinking, did not miss such an important moment.
"Your Majesty," he said quietly, drawing our attention.
Taking a poker, I rolled the egg out of the fire. For a moment nothing happened, and then the shell began to crack.
A narrow, toothy snout appeared through the opening. We continued to watch in silence, as it was impossible to touch the egg—it was still scorching hot.
The dragon squeaked a couple of times, gathering its strength. There was clear irritation in its voice. Then it finally broke through the shell and tumbled onto the floor.
It was about the size of a cat, though longer—blue-green, with brownish stripes along its body and wings. It braced itself against the floor with its legs and wings, its head wobbling uncertainly as it adjusted to the new world.
"Holy shit!" Tyrion breathed out loudly.
"A living dragon…" Qyburn whispered. Reverence rang clearly in his voice.
We moved closer. The dragon focused its red eyes on us and produced something that could be called a growl, while a small puff of grayish smoke burst from its nostrils. It looked rather amusing.
Dropping to one knee, I cautiously extended my hand toward the dragon. It leaned forward and, clearly testing, sniffed it carefully. Its tongue flicked out a couple of times.
Then the dragon shifted its gaze to Tyrion and even made an attempt to crawl toward him. It turned its head, looking first at me, then at my uncle. It looked confused and slightly embarrassed.
Tyrion, just as slowly as I had, extended his hand, and the dragon sniffed his palm attentively and without any hostility.
After that, it examined us both once more in turn, sneezed, and squeaked.
"Looks like it's hungry, huh?" I turned to Tyrion and Qyburn.
"Quite possible," the former maester nodded in agreement. When he looked at the dragon, a scientist's excitement lit up his eyes.
"The Targaryens wrote that dragons eat only cooked food," Tyrion noted, then raised his voice. "Pod!"
His squire opened the door and stuck his head into the laboratory.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Bring some raw meat," my uncle ordered.
Podrick fetched the meat quickly. We roasted it over the hearth, cut it into small pieces, and offered it to the dragon, placing it nearby.
The dragon sniffed the offering at a leisurely pace, then demonstrated an admirable appetite and devoured everything. After that, it began to droop sleepily, crawled into a corner beneath a table, curled up like a cat, covered its head with a wing, and fell asleep.
We left Qyburn to watch over the pet and stepped out of the laboratory ourselves.
"Did you figure anything out?" I asked Tyrion. "Did it like us both—or dislike us both?"
"Hard to say," he squinted his left eye. "The Targaryens did have dragons that changed riders when their masters died. Balerion himself passed to Aegon's son after his death, and then to his grandson. So it's possible that a single dragon could have two riders."
(End of Chapter)
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