104 AC
Dragonstone was colder than usual, the sea winds cutting through the ancient stronghold with sharp salt-slicked edges. Fires burned high in the great hearths, but winter's breath still whispered through the stones. Dragons slept fitfully in their pits, and the keepers whispered of omens in the smoke. Yet amid the unease, I found a strange stillness.
Silverwing had grown restless.
She climbed to the cliffs more often, her wings twitching, her eyes fixed westward. The older keepers noticed. Maelion said nothing, but his gaze lingered when I walked by, and his orders came with fewer words. There was a shift in the way they treated me—not as a stable boy, nor a mere keeper—but as something in between. The one Silverwing had not yet chosen, but had not rejected either.
One morning, I was summoned not to the dragonpits, but to the rookery. The chamber was cold and silent, broken only by the rustle of ravens. Maelion stood beside a sealed raven scroll. His voice was low, unreadable.
"Queen Aemma has died. The child—Baelon—did not survive."
A silence fell between us.
"The king has named Princess Rhaenyra as his heir."
My heart beat once, heavily. The realm had turned, though the world did not yet know it.
"They will come to Dragonstone soon," Maelion continued. "There will be ceremony. Watchers. Lords and knights, dragonlords and flatterers. The girl must be seen in strength. And Silverwing... must be moved."
He looked at me then, not as a master, but as a man placing trust.
That evening, I approached Silverwing at the eastern terrace. Her wings unfolded as I neared, but there was no menace in her movement. Only curiosity. We walked together—me beside her shoulder, her steps echoing like distant thunder. She followed without command.
The western cliffs stood jagged against the sky, the sea below wild with whitecaps. Silverwing settled on the edge, her wings open like a banner. She had not flown since the death of Vermithor, but she looked to the skies more often now.
That night, I sat by her side.
"They call her the Realm's Delight," I said. "The first named Princess of Dragonstone. She is young, but the fire is in her."
Silverwing rumbled deep in her chest.
"Not yet," I whispered, echoing old hopes. "But one day. She will ride, and I will fly beside her."
The ceremony came days later. Princess Rhaenyra, only seven, arrived on Syrax—a young, golden dragon barely grown into her wings. She sat tall in her saddle, her eyes bright and proud. Lords bowed, knights praised, and her father declared her heir beneath the watchful shadow of the Dragonmont.
But I saw more.
When she dismounted, she walked near Silverwing. The older dragon turned her head, curious. Rhaenyra did not flinch. She looked at Silverwing, then at me. There was no fear in her gaze—only recognition. Of fire, perhaps. Of what it meant to be seen by a dragon.
Afterward, Silverwing paced the cliffs restlessly. Her tail lashed, her wings unfolded into the wind. We were close—closer than ever before. She let me touch her freely now. I spoke to her in High Valyrian, and she rumbled when I read from the old scrolls of Valyria and conquest.
That night, by torchlight, I found the words again:
"Blood calls to flame. Flame remembers blood."
Perhaps she remembered the Queen who once rode her. Perhaps she remembered the skies she once ruled. But I knew now—I was no longer just a dreamer with a mop and callused hands.
The skies would call.
And I would answer.
Soon.