112 AC
By the time spring came to Dragonstone, I had developed a routine both meticulous and absurd. Each morning began with a brisk run up the eastern steps—seven hundred and ninety-three of them. I counted. I cursed every one. Silverwing would watch, tail swaying like she was laughing at me. Dragons, it turns out, are fantastic at silent mockery.
I had also taken to wearing a long, overly dramatic cloak when visiting the yard. It billowed. It swirled. It got caught on every crate, fence post, and one very stubborn goat. The keepers started calling me "Lord Driftcloak." I pretended not to hear them. Silverwing definitely heard them. She snorted smoke every time.
Training had grown intense. I could now fly blindfolded, backwards (once), and in complete silence save for the occasional maniacal laughter when we pulled off a perfect spiral. A new stablehand nearly fainted when we crash-landed during a dive test. I assured him the singed eyebrows would grow back. Probably.
Maelion had returned with a raven scroll that read: "King Viserys has decided to celebrate his health with twelve days of feasting and jousting." Then, below that in Maelion's own hand: "He coughed blood during the announcement."
The realm was in denial. But I was preparing.
Aegon had begun riding his little dragon Sunfyre—or more accurately, falling off him. Rumor had it he insisted on wearing a golden cloak while doing so. The boy had style, if not skill.
I began sending gifts to the Queen. Rare books, fresh dragonbone carvings, one letter that was entirely poetic nonsense about clouds and legacy. Eventually, I received a response.
"You are amusing, if strange. I shall not stop you."
A win, by any measure.
I had begun laying the story of my future—of claiming Silverwing through old rites, of being legitimized through silent royal approval, of stepping in when the Dance burned down the realm. But until then, I would wait.
I would train.
And perhaps, once in a while, I'd let the stablehands tie a ribbon to Silverwing's tail just to watch her incinerate it mid-air.
For now, Dragonstone was peaceful.
And peace, like goats and cloaks, rarely lasted long.