104 AC
The mornings on Dragonstone had grown familiar—salt in the air, smoke on the wind, and the ever-present undercurrent of power that came with living among dragons. I was fourteen now, lean from training and hardened by the daily grind of a dragonkeeper's life. But more than age or strength, it was patience that had brought me closest to Silverwing.
She no longer dismissed me. There was no overt affection—dragons did not love like dogs or even men—but she acknowledged me. Watched me. She remembered me. And that was everything.
On a brisk spring morning, Maelion, the eldest of our order, summoned me.
"You'll accompany Silverwing to the cliff today," he said, his voice gruff with disuse.
My chest tightened. I bowed, not trusting myself to speak.
Silverwing had not flown in many moons, not since the death of King Jaehaerys. The great bronze Vermithor had mourned aloud to the skies, and Silverwing had stayed grounded since. But she had begun stirring again, stretching her wings in the shadows.
When I arrived at her lair, she was waiting, her silver-scaled head tilted toward the open sky. She exhaled, mist curling from her nostrils like steam from a forge.
Maelion gave the simplest of instructions: "No command. Just guide her. Let her decide."
I stepped forward.
"Vezof, Silverwing," I whispered. Come.
She turned, snorted, and—miraculously—followed.
We walked together, keeper and dragon, toward the cliff's edge. The sea howled below, wind sweeping up the jagged rocks. Silverwing paused, wings half-open. I took two respectful steps back.
And then—
She leapt.
The sound of her wings opening shook the air. Her ascent was not awkward or hesitant, but glorious. She rose in sweeping arcs, circling the peak of Dragonstone. The sunlight glinted off her silver scales as she soared higher, cutting the clouds with ease. The ground felt empty without her.
I watched in awe. My heart swelled—not with pride, but with purpose.
When she returned, she landed with care. Dust blew across the courtyard. Her gaze met mine again.
I bowed low.
From that day forward, something changed. I was permitted to feed her alone. I began speaking to her in High Valyrian, reciting verses from old dragonlore. I knew she could not understand words—but meaning? Feeling? Memory? Those she grasped.
She would tilt her head when I spoke. She would rumble softly when I brushed her. She no longer merely tolerated me.
She saw me.
As the months passed, Dragonstone remained distant from the capital's shifting tides. Prince Daemon had been given command of the City Watch and left with Caraxes. Queen Aemma's health waned. There were whispers of succession debates, but no sides had yet formed. No Greens. No Blacks. Only undercurrents.
But I cared little for politics. My eyes remained fixed on the silver-scaled future I had chosen.
Each night, I read of the Freehold, of the Valyrian riders who forged the skies with flame and blood. I studied the lore of dragonbonds, and the ancient rites whispered of in dark corners of the Great Library.
Each morning, I woke with her image burned into my dreams.
One day soon, I would not just follow her to the cliff.
I would follow her into the sky.