Chapter 28: The Scholar-Prince and the Dragon's Fall
Time: 75 AC - 87 AC
POV: Aerion Silvanor
My diplomatic visit to King's Landing had concluded successfully, cementing the quiet understanding between the Silvanar Empire and the burgeoning Targaryen dynasty. Yet, my thirst for knowledge, nurtured by my father's vast wisdom and the comprehensive curriculum of the Valaean Academy, remained unsated. Westeros, though seemingly rudimentary in its understanding of living magic, held millennia of recorded history, of human philosophy, and a methodical approach to knowledge that intrigued me. So, instead of returning directly to Ael'tharion, I sought a different path for the next five years: the Citadel of Oldtown.
It was a stark contrast to the organic serenity of my home. The Citadel was a sprawling, ancient fortress of grey stone, its walls imbued not with the gentle hum of life, but with the weighty silence of countless tomes and the clinking of steel links. I presented myself as Prince Aerion Silvanor, a scholar of the Emerald Empire, eager to exchange knowledge, to observe, and to learn. My presence, a Dragonlord Prince with pointy ears and an ageless countenance, caused no small stir among the Maesters.
They were a fascinating lot, these men of the Citadel. Dedicated, methodical, their minds vast storehouses of accumulated human knowledge. They knew of remedies, of stars, of histories, of the very fabric of the world, all cataloged, weighed, and measured. I spent my days in the vast libraries, absorbing their texts on Westerosi history, on the nuances of human warfare, on their understanding of the stars and the seasons. I engaged in debates with Archmaesters, patiently listening to their theories on magic, rarely correcting their misconceptions, but often subtly guiding their thought processes towards broader, more interconnected conclusions.
They, in turn, were endlessly fascinated by me. They studied my physical form, subtly at first, then with bolder attempts. My extended lifespan, my precise control over plants, my rapid regeneration (which I largely kept hidden, revealing only minor feats that could be attributed to 'unusual physiology') baffled them. They pressed me on the nature of Ael'tharion, the methods of growing living cities, the precise applications of natural magic. I shared theory, philosophy, the concept of harmony with the earth, but never the precise equations of power, never the true depths of Ael'athar ability. My pointy ears, for all their attempts at discreet observation, remained an unsolvable enigma to their anatomical studies, confirming to them my otherworldly nature.
The five years were invaluable. I gained an unparalleled understanding of Westerosi society, its strengths, its vulnerabilities, and its unique, often brutal, history. I learned their perspectives, their limitations, and their brilliance. I forged quiet connections with some of the more open-minded Archmaesters, who recognized that my presence, even if mysterious, offered a glimpse into knowledge beyond their comprehension. By 80 AC, my time in the Citadel complete, I left Oldtown, richer in understanding, and made my way once more to King's Landing.
The subsequent seven years saw me move between King's Landing and various diplomatic assignments, though my base remained often near the Targaryen court. My father, Kaelen, saw the benefit of maintaining a close, personal tie, a visible presence in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. I honed my skills, not just in diplomacy, but in understanding the delicate intricacies of human ambition, loyalty, and betrayal. Veridian, my magnificent green dragon, became a familiar, comforting sight in the skies over the Blackwater, often seen soaring with the Targaryen dragons, her very presence a testament to our enduring alliance.
Then came the year 87 AC, a year that would irrevocably alter the course of my life, and perhaps, the future of the royal houses of Westeros.
It was a night of reckless revelry. The Red Keep hummed with the loud, boisterous sounds of a feast, celebrating some minor victory in the Stepstones. I preferred the quiet solitude of the dragonpit, the ancient, colossal dome that housed the Targaryen dragons when they were not ranging free. I found a certain majesty in the raw power contained within those walls, a kinship with the scaled beasts.
Suddenly, a piercing shriek ripped through the night, a sound of agony and terror, followed by a guttural roar that vibrated through the very stones of the pit. It was a dragon's cry, panicked and uncontrolled. My senses, honed at the Valaean Academy and sharpened by my time in Sothoryos's wild jungles, immediately went on alert. I heard the frantic shouts of guards, the sickening crack of breaking stone, and a high-pitched, desperate scream that was distinctly human.
I looked up. High above, silhouetted against the stormy, moonless sky, was a dragon—a young, inexperienced beast, its flight erratic and uncontrolled, clearly panicked. And tumbling from its back, a tiny, rapidly falling figure. Even from this distance, I recognized the flash of silver hair. It was a Targaryen princess.
My mind raced. The distance was too great for even Veridian to intercept in time if I mounted her. There was no time for deliberation. Instinct took over.
"Veridian!" I commanded, not with words, but with a surge of mental will that flowed through our bond. My dragon, sensing the urgency, launched herself from her perch with a roar that shook the pit, her immense wings beating the air with furious speed.
Meanwhile, I sprinted from the pit, calculating the trajectory of the falling figure with impossible precision. She was plummeting towards the jagged rocks of the cliffs overlooking the Blackwater. There was no direct path. With a powerful surge of my earth-shaping abilities, I caused a spire of rock to erupt from the cliff face directly in her path, just enough to break her fall, hoping to cushion her impact. But that alone wouldn't save her from the unforgiving stone.
As I neared the edge, the wind whipping around me, the falling princess seemed to hang for a split second in mid-air, a silver comet against the blackness. I leaped, a desperate, impossible leap, my muscles coiling, propelled by my inner strength. My hand shot out, and I caught her, a slight, frail weight. The impact jarred my bones, but my rapid regeneration had already begun knitting the micro-tears in my muscles as quickly as they formed.
It was Princess Viserra Targaryen, daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. Her eyes, wide with terror, were the same deep violet as her mother's, but filled with shock and fear. Her dragon, panicked and riderless, veered away, screeching into the storm.
I landed heavily on the precarious rock spire I had raised, cushioning her carefully against my chest. Her body was trembling, a faint scent of wine clinging to her. She looked up at me, her eyes still dilated with terror, but slowly, recognition dawned.
"Prince... Prince Aerion?" she whispered, her voice fragile.
"Are you harmed, Princess?" I asked, my voice calm, though my heart, even my Elven heart, hammered in my chest with the adrenaline of the near-disaster.
Within moments, Veridian was there, landing with a soft rumble on the narrow spire, her luminous green eyes fixed on Viserra with concern. Guards, alerted by the dragon's distress and my own sudden departure, arrived, their torches bobbing in the stormy night. They found me, an Elven Prince with pointy ears stark against his silver hair, holding a terrified Targaryen princess on a newly conjured rock spire, a magnificent green dragon watchful behind us.
The incident was chaos, quickly subdued. Viserra was shaken but miraculously unharmed, a testament to my swift intervention and the subtle strength of my powers. She was quickly taken back to the Red Keep by her relieved guards, while I returned to my chambers, the echoes of her scream and the feel of her fragile weight still lingering.
My mind, usually so composed, felt a strange mix of exhilaration and protectiveness. Princess Viserra. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was the sheer vulnerability, the near-tragedy, that had awakened something within me, a protective instinct far stronger than simple admiration. I had saved her life. And as the storm raged outside, I knew that this unexpected act of heroism had just tied my fate, and that of the Silvanor Empire, to the Dragon Kings of Westeros in a way even my Father could not have entirely foreseen.