Late 104 AC
The stone of Dragonstone had grown familiar beneath my feet. Every crack, every shadowed corner of the old fortress felt like an extension of myself now. But some corners remained watched—by more than shadows.
The bond with Silverwing had deepened, but a wall still stood between us—an invisible threshold I had yet to cross. A threshold not only of trust, but of permission. For all my progress, I remained a bastard. Not of the Targaryen name, not of noble blood. Claiming a dragon outright would raise questions. And in House Targaryen, questions bred suspicion.
Only a true Targaryen—or one with the crown's blessing—could ride a dragon without invoking wrath. That was the law, even if it was sometimes bent. But I had neither the crown's notice nor any legitimization. Only the quiet watch of keepers and the flame of my own will.
Still, something had changed. Silverwing no longer just tolerated my presence—she responded to it. When I approached, she rumbled low. When I sat near, she curled her tail around. And once, when I read from the old Valyrian tomes, she lowered her head close enough to hear every word.
I decided then. I would not wait for the crown's approval. No scroll from King Viserys would ever name me rightful. But the dragon might.
So I chose a moonless night.
The sky above Dragonstone was ink black, stars veiled by storm clouds. Most of the keep slept; even the dragons dozed deep in their cavernous perches. But Silverwing stood near the western cliffs, restless as ever, her wings twitching at unseen winds.
I crept from the rookery, torch unlit. Only the memory of tunnels guided me. When I reached her, she turned her great silver head slowly. Eyes of living moonlight fixed on mine.
"Vezof," I whispered. "I come not as a lord, nor as a prince. But as blood of flame. Will you test me?"
She huffed once. Then knelt.
The breath fled my chest.
I approached slowly, reverently. My hand brushed her warm scales. She did not flinch. With heart pounding, I climbed.
No saddle. No chain. Only my hands on her spine, gripping where scale met ridge.
"Fly," I whispered.
She needed no order.
With a single beat of wings, we soared.
The wind screamed past my ears. My body slammed low against her neck as the ground dropped away. My vision blurred, not from fear, but from joy. The sky opened. The sea below turned silver. We flew above the towers, then beyond them, into the clouds.
She dipped once, testing my grip. I held.
We flew until the horizon bled light, until the first blue of dawn painted the sky. Then, with a rumble, she turned back, wings folding slowly as we descended.
When we landed, no one saw.
No heralds. No horns. Just stone, and smoke, and the hush of morning.
I slid down, legs shaking, heart steady. I touched her neck.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She snorted and turned, curling once more by the cliffs.
I returned to my chambers before the first bell rang. No one asked where I had been.
And I said nothing.
For now, it would remain a secret. My bond, hidden like wildfire beneath stone.
I had claimed her.
But until I had a name, I could not claim it openly.
Not yet.
But one day, when fire ruled the skies again, I would rise—not as a bastard, but as a rider of dragons.
As the Heir of Flame.
That same week, word spread quickly through the keep—Prince Daemon had taken an egg from the dragonpit in King's Landing and flown to Dragonstone without leave. Whispers echoed through the halls like wildfire.
"He means to crown himself." "He brought Mysaria with him." "He took a dragon's egg meant for the heir's cradle."
The castle buzzed with tension. The young Princess Rhaenyra was too young to understand, but the older keepers watched the skies as if expecting war.
Daemon arrived at dawn, mounted atop Caraxes. He landed with no ceremony, only a curt nod to the few keepers who dared approach. I watched from a distance, cloaked in shadow. Silverwing stirred in her cave, but I said nothing. We kept our secret.
Daemon did not stay long—only long enough to issue some commands, claim a tower for himself, and make sure his presence was known.
And just like that, he vanished again, the stolen egg in his possession.
The first stones of war had been laid. But no one yet knew it.
And I—I had my own war to prepare for.
In silence. In the skies.