105 AC
Dawn came slow to Dragonstone. Mist clung to the black rocks like ghosts, veiling the sky in pale gray. I woke before the bells tolled, before the cooks stirred their pots. My body still trembled from the night's flight, but my mind was clear.
I had done it. Claimed her. Flown her. In secret, yes—but it had been real.
Silverwing rested far down the cliffs, her vast form hidden from all but the sky. I felt her presence like a tether in my chest, a pull I hadn't known I longed for. The bond was raw, new, but it pulsed with heat. With life.
I wore gloves now. Thick ones. To hide the thin burn marks along my palms and forearms—scars from clutching her unarmored back during flight. The keepers would ask questions if they saw. The maesters more so.
So I kept my head low.
Each morning, I trained as before—pikes, swords, balance on slick stone. But now, every movement had meaning. I wasn't just honing muscle. I was preparing.
Preparing for the skies.
At night, I returned to her, slipping past guards and torches, scaling paths I'd memorized in my bones. Sometimes, I didn't fly. Sometimes, I merely sat beside her, pressed against her side, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath. She was warm even in the deepest dark.
She was mine.
Rumors swirled like leaves in the courtyard. Dragon keepers swore they'd heard wings in the night. A flicker of flame far above the towers. None dared speak it aloud—but whispers traveled fast in stone halls.
Once, as I passed two kitchen girls, I heard one murmur, "Silverwing stirred last night. She hasn't flown since Queen Alysanne."
The other made the sign of the Seven. "That beast is too old now. Maybe a storm woke her."
I smiled beneath my hood.
Every hour that passed tightened the secret around me like armor. I couldn't tell Maelion. Not yet. Nor the elder keepers. Even those who'd shown me kindness might not understand. Silverwing had belonged to a queen. A royal. And I—I was still just a bastard.
But the skies did not care for titles.
Only for wings.
And mine were growing.