111 AC
The year opened with cold winds and colder omens. Aegon, now four, had taken to strutting about the court in miniature armor gifted by Ser Criston Cole. The boy had the confidence of a king already, and that unsettled more lords than it impressed. Reports of squabbles between his mother and Princess Rhaenyra grew more frequent. The realm was quietly splitting, lines drawn in whispers.
Back on Dragonstone, I made myself more visible. Rhaenyra's return had become permanent, and with her presence came increased scrutiny. I kept my head down, my words measured, and my actions deliberate. Let them think me loyal. Let them forget my past.
Silverwing and I had mastered complex flight drills—barrel rolls, vertical dives, tight-angle turns over the sea cliffs. She responded to my every thought now. Not just a mount, but an extension of my will. I began charting known dragon roosts, flight paths, and feeding grounds. If war came, I would need to know which riders to avoid and which skies would be mine.
I spent time among the keepers too, especially those too old or disillusioned to play at politics. I listened. I learned. And sometimes, I corrected—quietly helping hatchlings overcome their fears or calming an unruly juvenile. They started calling me 'the quiet rider.' It was enough.
Maelion continued his visits, though less frequent now. He warned me the Hightowers had begun replacing loyal servants at court with their own kin. Oldtown moved like a shadow behind the throne. He handed me a sealed letter bearing the Queen's crest but written in Ser Otto's hand.
"Your discretion has served you well. When the time comes, the Crown will not forget those who acted early. Keep Silverwing close. Your moment is approaching."
I burned the letter.
I had no intention of being anyone's pawn.
Let the dragons roar. I would be ready.
Not for their game.
But for my own.