108 AC
By the time the summer heat came thick across Dragonstone, I no longer feared the wind. Silverwing flew at my command now. We climbed high over the island, dove through banks of cloud, chased gulls along the coast. My hands, once raw and trembling on her back, moved with ease. I rode as if born to it.
I no longer trained by moonlight alone. Some rides took us out at dawn, others under the fading light of dusk. There was still caution—always caution—but less hiding. The keepers knew. Most said nothing. A few nodded when I passed.
Maelion spoke less these days, but when he did, it came with a strange quiet approval. "You ride well," was all he said once, before returning to his scrolls.
But it wasn't just about riding anymore.
I had begun watching the horizon.
Dragonstone felt smaller now. Not the castle, nor the cliffs, but the idea of it. What once seemed like the whole world was now a single, craggy corner. I would stare west toward Blackwater Bay and wonder what lay beyond it. I listened when ships came with tales of Tyrosh, or Lys, or even the far-off deserts of Dorne.
And the thought came:
I could leave.
Not today. Not recklessly. But soon. With planning. With purpose.
Silverwing was not a hatchling to be hidden. And I was not a boy anymore.
I started mapping the skies. Watching the trade winds. Tracking which ships came and went, and when. I memorized the names of distant islands, the stretches of coast where riders might rest unseen.
It wasn't escape I was chasing. Not truly. It was choice.
Here, I lived in the shadow of secrets. Bastardy. Blood. Unclaimed names. On Dragonstone, I was tolerated. Elsewhere... perhaps I could be more.
One evening, Silverwing landed on the cliffs and refused to move. She turned her head to me, nostrils flaring, as if sensing my thoughts.
I placed a hand on her warm side. "Not yet," I said softly. "But maybe. Someday."
The old dragon said nothing. But she stayed there long after sunset, wings tucked, watching the sea like she too was waiting.