FIRE AND ICE - ROBB STARK X TARGARYEN OC

Eggs and Visions

Dragonstone dines like a kingdom pretending it is not perched on a volcano.

The black stone table groans beneath roasted swan, lemon cakes, flagons of Arbor gold. Torches spit resinous light against carved dragons that crawl along the walls. The sea hurls itself at the cliffs below as if offended by the audacity of stone.

At the head sits Rhaenya, silver braid gleaming against crimson silk.
To her right is Daenerys, watchful, luminous as banked flame. And next to the khaleesi, Ollyos eats as he tells a joke to the two women.

To her left Robb Stark, broad-shouldered and restless.
Jon Snow beside him, quiet and cutting as winter.

Tyrion Lannister lounges with deliberate ease.
Further down the table, politics coils thicker than smoke.

Mace Tyrell beams at everyone and no one.
Olenna Tyrell slices her meat like she is dissecting the realm itself.

Margaery leans toward sweet, pale Robin Arryn, voice honeyed, fingers brushing his sleeve just long enough to promise and withdraw.

Monterys Velaryon speaks softly of fleets. Lord Tarly listens with hawk-sharp patience.
Ser Davos eats plainly. Duram Bar Emmon watches for advantage.

It is noise. Laughter. Silk. Strategy.
Then the doors open.

Rickon Stark slips inside, not crashing this time. Sea-wet hair. Eyes lit from within.
He does not bow. He does not speak loudly. He walks straight toward Rhaenya.

The table notices. Of course they do. The volume dips a shade. Olenna’s eyes sharpen. Margaery pauses mid-smile at Robin Arryn.

Rickon reaches the head of the table and bends slightly, as if to whisper something improper.
“she laid a new clutch” he says quietly out of breath. “Not the sea cavern. The inner chamber beneath the Dragonmont.”

Rhaenya stills. Ollyos shifts closer. Tyrion’s goblet hovers just short of his lips. Daenerys’ gaze turns razor-thin.

Robb frowns. “What happened?”
Rickon’s grin flickers. Wild. Proud.
“Lysion laid eggs again.” Silence inside the circle.

Daenerys’s chair scrapes stone before he can stop it. “how many?”
“Six. Deep in the cave,” Rickon continues.

Tyrion lowers his goblet carefully. “And she permitted you near?”
Rickon’s expression changes. Reverence overtakes feral pride.

“She let me touch one.”
Rhaenya’s eyes flash shocked. “What?”
Daenerys’ lips curve faintly. “That is no small trust.”
Robb runs a hand through his hair, stunned. “Six plus the two in the hatchery.”

Across the table, the Tyrells pretend not to stare. Mace has stopped chewing. Olenna’s gaze flicks between Rhaenya and Rickon like a blade measuring distance. Monterys Velaryon leans subtly forward.

Lord Tarly’s eyes narrow. Ser Davos notices everything and says nothing.
They know something momentous has shifted.

Rhaenya stands slowly.
The hall hushes without being commanded.
“Continue your supper,” she orders before she, the Hand, Dany, Robb and Jon follow Rickon out the room.
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Rickon leads everyone into the cave. Robb and Jon follow, still stunned by the number. Tyrion mutters about “reasonable distances from maternal dragons.” Daenerys walks calm as flame beside Rhaenya.

The inner chamber glows molten red.
Lysion lies coiled around six eggs in the deepest hollow of the cave, scales silver and crimson reflecting living fire. Her eyes open as they enter.