104 AC
It had been weeks since Silverwing took flight with me at her side, even if only as a silent observer. The bond between us—still fragile, still unspoken—was growing. Each day, I approached her pen with reverence and care. Each day, she acknowledged me a little more. Not with affection, but with recognition. For a dragon, that was enough. For now.
My duties had expanded. I now oversaw the preparation of Silverwing's meals and helped monitor the temperature of her lair, ensuring the caverns stayed warm through the chill of late autumn. The other keepers said little, but I caught their glances. They knew something was shifting. A dragon did not allow just anyone near her fire.
When she flew, I stood at the cliffs. Not once had I dared to ride her, nor had she lowered herself enough to offer. But when she passed overhead, I could feel the heat of her wings and the tremor in the stones beneath my feet. I could feel her watching me.
The keepers called it foolish hope. I called it fate.
That moon cycle, a raven arrived from King's Landing. It bore no urgent seal, but the castle soon buzzed with whispers. Queen Aemma's condition had worsened. The Maesters had tried everything, but her womb, long a battleground, now seemed to betray her. No one said it aloud, but death hung over her name.
Viserys had visited just a fortnight past, flying in atop Balerion's skull-shaped barge, not on dragonback. He looked tired, older than his years. His concerns weighed heavily on Dragonstone's staff. Would the Queen pass? Would the babe live? Who would be heir?
But these were questions for lords and dragons with crowns. I had only one question: Was I ready?
I trained harder than ever. Each morning, I rose before the sun and climbed the cliffs with sacks of stones on my back. I sparred with wooden blades until my arms ached and my vision blurred. In the evenings, I returned to Silverwing. Sometimes I spoke to her. Sometimes I simply sat. Always, I waited.
One evening, after the last meal had been distributed and the other dragonkeepers had gone to rest, I lingered.
Silverwing was still awake, her massive body half-curled beneath a ledge where hot air pooled from deep beneath the mountain. Her silver scales shimmered in the firelight. Her eyes were open.
I stepped closer, cautious but steady.
"Skoriot iksos nyke?" I whispered. Who am I?
She did not growl. Did not turn away. I took that as permission.
"Nykea drakari. Se nyke jorrāelagon ao." I am of the dragon. And I choose you.
She shifted. Her long neck curled toward me, and her nostrils flared as she drew in my scent. The heat of her breath washed over me like a furnace. My legs nearly gave out.
But then, she exhaled. A soft huff. Not of dismissal.
Of acceptance.
For the first time, I dared to reach out.
My fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, the scales warm and dry beneath my touch. She let it happen. No snap. No fire.
Only silence. And trust.
Later that night, I sat alone in my chamber, staring at the fire. I knew what this meant. The first real step had been taken. I had touched her. She had let me live.
Still, I did not boast. The bond was not yet sealed. To claim a dragon was not to feed it or pet it or even ride it once. It was to merge wills. To speak in flame.
But now I believed.
One day, I would speak.
And she would answer.
Across the sea in King's Landing, Queen Aemma lay in pain. But that was a tale still unfolding, and its echoes had yet to reach Dragonstone.
For me, there was only the mountain, the fire, and the silver wings that would one day lift me beyond the clouds.
The world was changing.
And I was changing with it.