113 AC
By now, I was no longer just the odd dragonkeeper who gave too much advice or lingered too long around Silverwing's cliffs. I had become something else entirely: the unofficial dragon uncle. Every time a new dragon hatched or a rider candidate sneezed near a saddle, someone would summon me.
"You're good with the beasties," one old stablehand muttered as I helped untangle a frightened boy from Sunfire's molted wing membrane. "Or cursed. Still can't tell."
Word had reached even the kitchens, apparently. One evening, as I sat brooding in a corner over burnt fish and day-old bread, a plump cook marched over and plopped a meat pie in front of me with a conspiratorial wink.
"For the dragon whisperer," she said. "Don't let Lord Strong see, he says your type shouldn't be spoiled."
My type. I supposed that meant 'useful but suspicious.'
Maelion continued ferrying me gossip and scrolls from King's Landing, where politics brewed thicker than the pies. Rhaenyra's children grew taller and bolder, Daemon had reportedly taught a goat to sing (or scream, depending on the account), and Ser Otto Hightower had taken to polishing his wine cup more often than his words. All signs of stability.
Silverwing, for her part, had become smug.
She no longer roared at birds or growled at keepers. Instead, she adopted a look of patient disdain, as if she too had been pulled into this absurd theatre of pre-war politics and now merely tolerated it. Sometimes I caught her watching the castle with what could only be described as draconic amusement.
"I should have taught you to play cyvasse," I muttered to her one afternoon. "Then we could lose to each other instead of the world."
She blinked once. Possibly in agreement.
I had also started giving quiet lessons to a few bold dragonkeeper apprentices. Nothing formal—just stories, warnings, tricks of body language and tone. One called me "Archrider," which I assumed was an attempt at flattery. Another asked if I had ever eaten a dragon egg. I did not answer.
As the year wound on, the tension in the air became more stale than sharp. Even the ravens seemed bored. The Dance was not here yet, but it was pacing outside the gate.
And we waited.
Silverwing curled around her perch.
I nursed another pie.
And somewhere, in the shadow of the Red Keep, kings and queens dreamed of thrones they could no longer hold alone.