Time passed, and after nearly eight months of the same exhausting routine, something finally changed. One morning, word spread through the Keeper's Hall: a new hatchling had been found.
Excitement rippled through the older boys like lightning. Even the elder Keepers, so stoic in daily life, showed flickers of emotion in their eyes. When I saw it, I understood why. The hatchling shimmered with yellow-gold scales, her eyes a piercing green like wildfire caught in glass. Beautiful, curious, and terrifying in her raw, untamed energy.
I watched her for hours that day, noting the patterns of her movement, the flick of her tongue, the way she cocked her head at each voice that dared approach. When her wings unfurled for the first time—translucent and glowing like citrine—I knew her name, though no one had spoken it aloud yet.
Syrax.
She would become the dragon of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm's Delight. And with her appearance, I could finally place the year.
It was likely 96 or 97 AC. Rhaenyra would be born soon, in 97 AC, and by the time she was seven, she would claim Syrax as her own. This golden hatchling would grow into a young dragon by then. Which meant, I had nearly a decade. A decade to prepare for the Dance of the Dragons.
The thought settled over me like a heavy cloak. With it came a clarity of purpose.
By now, I had trained as a Dragonkeeper for almost a year. I had seen behind the curtain of loyalty and tradition. I understood now—truly understood—how deep the indoctrination went. From the day they can speak, the Keepers are taught that only the blood of Old Valyria, only those of House Targaryen, can bond with a dragon. To attempt otherwise is not just foolish—it is blasphemy.
It's why even during the Dance, when Rhaenyra sought to bond bastards and commoners to dragons, the Keepers opposed her. Not out of malice—but out of belief. Faith, even. A twisted one.
Had I not carried the memories of another life—twenty-two years lived on Earth—I might have believed it too. I would have swallowed it whole. But I see it now, how belief can be shaped like a blade.
And perhaps, how it can be broken.
Some Dragonkeepers carry Valyrian blood, faint though it may be. Like me. Not all are bastards of the royal line, but enough descend from forgotten cousins, from long-lost branches. And with enough time spent with a dragon—feeding it, learning it, surviving it—a bond can be forged.
Not a rider's bond. Not yet. But a seed of one.
After a year with Seasmoke, I understand him better than anyone. His moods, his likes, his distastes. I could tell when he was agitated before even the elder Keepers noticed. I could have tried. I still could. But I haven't. Because to claim a dragon is to declare.
And a man—or boy—can only declare once.
A rider may only ever have one dragon in their lifetime. To change, the first must die. And even then, the second might reject them. Might kill them.
Seasmoke could be mine. I'm sure of it. More sure than I am of most things. But if I take him, then he is all I will ever have.
And for what's to come—for the firestorm that will split the realm—I will need more than just the certainty of today. I will need the right dragon.
So I wait. I watch. I learn.
And in the deep caverns of Dragonstone, as the cries of hatchlings echo in the dark, I begin to plan.
First, I will need a big adult dragon. Options are limited.
Vhagar is out of the question. Even if I could bond with her, it would be too noticeable—far too disruptive. Her presence alters the course of the Dance dramatically, and I need her where she belongs: as the weapon of the Greens.
Caraxes is also out of reach. The Blood Wyrm must belong to Daemon, for it is he who will stand against Vhagar. Without Caraxes, the balance would tip too far.
Meleys, the Red Queen, already has a rider. The thought of attempting to claim a ridden dragon chills me to the bone. For all my knowledge, I am not immune to fire. A command of "Dracarys" would be the end of me.
The Cannibal? Never. I want to live a long life. That ancient beast is as much nightmare as dragon.
No. My choice must be deliberate.
Silverwing.
A formidable dragon, hatched in 36 AC, once ridden by Queen Alysanne Targaryen herself. By the time of the Dance, she will be over a century old—experienced, powerful, and one of the few adult dragons who survives the war in the written accounts. Her temperament is reputed to be docile, friendly even. She let strangers approach in the past. She mourned her rider when Alysanne died.
More than anything, Silverwing has no current rider.
She is perfect.
The key will be patience. I cannot simply appear at her cave one day and hope to mount her. Suspicion would follow. I must plant the seeds now.
Admiration. Curiosity. Respect.
If I can become her Keeper—or at least familiar enough to be near her often—then when the time comes, no one will question my bond.
A dragon remembers. A dragon chooses.
And I intend to be chosen.