I wake before the dawn's first light, every muscle aching as I slip from the rough-hewn cot. Around me, the other keepers stir—six boys, pale in the dim glow, each of us bound by purpose. I swallow a gasp at the chill in the stone chamber; no flush, no ticking clock. Only the hush of Dragonstone's black towers beyond our windows. It must be near five bells, I think, watching a sliver of sky brighten.
"Come," the eunuch Keeper calls, voice low but firm. We fall in line, shoulders square. From the moment we turned six, we were taught loyalty above all—loyalty and courage enough to face these beasts. At sunrise, our training will break for a meager breakfast; until then, we push on.
The light grows stronger as we march through narrow corridors carved from volcanic rock. My side throbs, a reminder of the Rite I endured—the scar that brands me forever a Dragon Keeper. I steady my breath. Stand out, and you become dragon food, I remind myself.
At last, the sunrise shatters the gloom. We're led to a long table etched into stone. The meal is scant—hard bread and watered porridge—but I devour it, eyes sharp for every flicker of movement around me. While I eat, I commit two vows to memory: blend in until my name is earned, and learn all I can of dragon habits. Knowledge is survival—and perhaps the key to forging my own destiny.
Breakfast ends, and our real trial begins. A low, rumbling hiss echoes through the courtyard. The ground trembles. I steel myself as a lithe, pale-gray hatchling emerges—Seasmoke, they call him. His limbs are gangly, wings folded, nostrils flaring against the sea salt breeze.
"Seasmoke… līr gūrēnna. Ābrar sīry," intones the elder Keeper. Calm your fire. Eat gently.
One by one, the boys step forward with chunks of raw meat. When my turn comes, sweat beads at my hairline—but I force my trembling hand to hold the offering. Seasmoke's yellow eyes lock onto mine. A soft growl, a tiny cough of flame, and the meat is crisped to ash. He snaps it between jagged teeth, then nudges my palm as if in thanks. My heart soars.
Next, we're herded toward a cavern mouth—stench like rotting seaweed and sulfur greets us. Inside, the floor is littered with steaming dragon droppings. The Keeper's voice cuts through the stink: "Rīnnon nādrī, se dēmalion ēdruta." Collect and cart away.
For twenty minutes, we shovel the foul waste into a wooden cart. My arms burn; my throat tightens. But each heap I lift steels my resolve. This is life as a Keeper—degrading, dangerous, yet suffused with awe.
When my back finally straightens, I stagger outside. The cliff's edge crashes into waves far below. The cart groans as we tip the contents over the lip, and I turn away before the last chunk falls. Salt spray cools my face. I close my eyes and inhale the ocean air.
A day of pain, ritual, and wonder—and the true dance has yet to begin. But I feel it now: the spark of something greater. Someday, I will ride a dragon of my own. Until then, I live—and learn—in the shadow of the wyrms.
Time passed in the blink of an eye. Three moons had gone since I began tending Seasmoke. At first, every flick of his tail brought dread. Now, I read his moods in the twitch of his wings or the tilt of his head. The fear never vanished entirely, but it dulled into respect. He was not a pet. He was a god of fire and sky.
Life as a Dragonkeeper was grueling but rhythmic. Wake at first light. Train in silence. Learn the High Valyrian tongue and the ancient Keeper codes. Feed and care for the dragons. Shovel their droppings. Repeat. Each task, no matter how filthy, was sacred.
Seasmoke was mine to care for—not mine to ride, never that, but mine to understand. He had no rider yet. One day, he would, and the bond between beast and rider would demand even more of me. A dragon bonded to a lord became twice as temperamental, twice as fierce. And their care became a matter of royal importance.
I did not seek to claim him. I knew better. But I studied him, talked to him in whispers, dared to stroke his scaled jaw when he was calm. Every moment was a lesson. Every glance a gift.
Three months in Westeros, and still I did not know the precise year. But by the boy's memories and the age of Seasmoke, I guessed: the late reign of King Jaehaerys. The Great Council had not yet come. Laenor Velaryon had not claimed the pale dragon.
Time would tell. For now, I walked the long road to survival—and waited for history to stir.