112 AC
If the previous year had been filled with feasts and forced smiles, this one was all quiet tension and sideways glances. King Viserys had taken to his bed more often, and though he still rose to preside over court, it was clear to anyone with eyes that the king was fading.
Dragonstone remained quiet—deceptively so. I used the silence to train further, taking Silverwing to higher altitudes, through storm clouds, and even once across Blackwater Bay in the dead of night. I'd become confident, though not yet reckless. Not yet.
A raven came with a curious offer: to serve as an escort for a visiting trade envoy from Braavos, under the guise of "one of Dragonstone's trusted dragon aides." It smelled like a test. I accepted.
The envoy turned out to be two thin men, one with a voice like a squeaking hinge and the other who only spoke in riddles. We circled Dragonstone on Silverwing, who tolerated their screaming well enough. They returned to Braavos pale, windburnt, and deeply respectful.
Rhaenyra, too, had become more visible. She passed me once on the stone bridge above the cliffs. Her children were in tow, with Joffrey asking if I was a knight or a sellsword. I said neither. That seemed to please him.
Word came from the capital: the Queen had ordered new guards for the Dragonpit and a review of the remaining unclaimed dragons. There were whispers of Ser Criston Cole drilling new recruits harder than ever. War was not yet spoken aloud—but its breath fogged every mirror.
Maelion, always subtle, handed me an old diagram one evening. "The lines of succession are like a dragon's wings," he said. "Best studied before the wind catches them."
I didn't ask where he got it. I just memorized it.
That night, I rode Silverwing again. High above the sea, I looked toward King's Landing, wondering how long the peace would pretend to hold.
If fire was coming, I would meet it in the air.
But not yet.
Not until it was mine to start.