After another eight months of training, I grew stronger. My body felt lighter with each run, my arms steadier with each sword swing. My bond with Seasmoke deepened—though not the sacred rider's bond, something closer than familiarity, but still distant from true unity.
I also began spending time near the young hatchling I now knew was Syrax. I never got too close, but I watched her intently. Dragons remembered faces. Voices. Scent. I wanted her to know me from now, for she would become Rhaenyra Targaryen's mount—central to the coming war.
That day, after my training, I went to eat and rest. The dragonkeepers were provided meals by House Targaryen—not luxurious feasts, but steady, hearty food. The kind of food smallfolk could only dream of eating every day. As I chewed, I overheard whispers.
Queen Alysanne was dead.
The news settled heavily across Dragonstone. The queen who had given her life to peace and governance, who had survived the deaths of many of her children, had finally passed away from illness. Though I wore the sadness expected of me, inside, I felt the shift. Silverwing no longer had a rider.
She was free.
I controlled my expression, hiding the thrill that ran through me. The royal family would come for her funeral, and with it, the veil of mourning would also bring opportunity.
The next day, Dragonstone teemed with lords and royalty. We, the younger dragonkeepers, were kept from Silverwing—no one wanted an emotional dragon disturbed by unfamiliar hands. But I still attended the funeral, standing far in the shadows.
King Jaehaerys stood tall, giving his final words. Beside him stood familiar faces: Prince Viserys and his wife, holding a small girl—Rhaenyra. On the other side were Princess Rhaenys and her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, with their children, Laena and Laenor. I watched history breathe and walk before me.
Then came the ritual. "Dracarys," the King commanded, and Vermithor obeyed. Fire engulfed the body of Queen Alysanne. She returned to the flame.
After the ceremony, the crowds dispersed. I looked up just in time to see Silverwing circling in the sky, her cries echoing across the cliffs of Dragonstone. Mourning.
Time passed. My days returned to their usual rhythm—training, feeding, cleaning, sparring. But everything had changed. The year turned.
It was now 101 AC.
The year of the Great Council.
Lords from across Westeros gathered at Harrenhal to decide who would inherit the throne after King Jaehaerys. Despite Princess Rhaenys being the older child, her claim was passed over because she was a woman. The lords chose Prince Viserys instead.
The realm accepted it. But I remembered. The realm would burn for this choice.
Back at Dragonstone, I worked tirelessly to prove my worth. The elder dragonkeepers saw my discipline and reliability, but they kept me far from Silverwing. To them, I was tied to Seasmoke—in duty, if not in truth.
But I knew.
Silverwing didn't know me yet.
And I was patient.
One day, she would.