On Dragonstone, the slumbering volcano was always rumbling.
Not in thunderous blasts, but in a deep hum rising from the bowels of the earth.
The crater exhaled sulfurous fus all year round, staining the sky gray-yellow; in the air there was forever the scent of heat and ash.
Within the volcano's natural lair, the rock walls were baked scorching hot by the geothermal heat.
This was the ho of dragons, the place where House Targaryen had hatched and reared them for hundreds of years.
Silverwing was restless today.
The near sixty-ter-long silver she-dragon shifted uneasily within the lair. Her vast wings spread and folded from ti to ti, stirring gusts of hot wind.
Beneath her lay several dragon eggs.
Silverwing lowered her head, releasing small tongues of fla from her mouth, evenly warming the eggs.
She was a gentle dragon.
Among all the riderless dragons that remained on Dragonstone, Silverwing was the only one who had never taken the initiative to attack a human.
Even when a dragonkeeper strayed too close, she would rely issue a warning growl, rather than slay them outright as other great dragons would.
Perhaps it was because of her age—she had lived for nearly a hundred years and had seen too many humans co and go.
Perhaps it was her nature; dragons have their own temperants, as n do.
But today, Silverwing sensed sothing different.
A sound ca from the entrance to the lair. Not the heavy tread of dragonkeepers, nor the natural slide of volcanic stone. It was… singing.
Very soft, almost drowned beneath the rumble within the volcano.
Yet the lody—Silverwing knew it.
An ancient lody.
A Valyrian lody.
She lifted her head, her silver neck rising and falling like mountain ridges beneath moonlight.
Her amber dragon eyes narrowed, fixing upon the small figure at the mouth of the lair.
A woman.
She wore a simple white linen gown, with silver hair and purple eyes.
One hand covered her slightly swollen belly; the other steadied her against the rock wall as she stepped carefully inside.
She was singing.
The lyrics were in High Valyrian.
But the lody… Silverwing rembered it.
Many, many years ago, when she had still been a hatchling, a silver-haired, purple-eyed maiden had sung to her in just this way.
That had been her first rider.
The song drifted in…
The woman's voice trembled.
Before such a vast creature, before those inhuman amber eyes, fear was instinct.
But she did not stop.
She continued to sing. Her voice gradually rose, letting the song press over the volcano's rumble, press over the pounding of her own heart.
One hand remained upon her belly.
There, a small life was growing.
This was her wager, her future, the entirety of the courage that let her stand here.
Silverwing stared at her.
No roar, no fla—only that unblinking gaze.
She could scent it. The scent of blood…
This woman carried dragon's blood within her—mingled, yet true.
And that song… within it there was sothing, like sunlight lting ice.
Silverwing felt a strange sense of closeness, as though the woman trembling before her was not a stranger, but sothing bound to her by blood…
She was deep within the lair, and not far behind her Jacaerys held his breath.
With his one eye he watched calmly—watching Saera, that woman, that woman carrying his child.
She was walking toward Silverwing step by step.
Jacaerys' palms were slick with sweat.
This had never been part of his plan.
Daemon and his mother Rhaenyra had already co to an agreent: to abandon the Iron Throne and turn toward the eastern continent.
A few days ago in the council chamber, when Daemon announced the news, Jacaerys had almost leapt to his feet and roared.
Abandon it?
Just abandon it like this?
His eye! His dragon! His dignity!
Everything he had had been taken from him by Aemond Targaryen!
And now they were going to give up!?
But he held it in.
He feared Daemon—feared he would see through his desire for revenge.
Jacaerys rely lowered his head, clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, using pain to crush his anger.
"I also agree," he seed to hear himself say that night.
"For the sake of the family, for the sake of peace."
Afterward, Daemon patted his shoulder.
"You will be compensated, little Jace."
"In the eastern continent, you will have lands of your own, and an army of your own."
"Forget Westeros, forget the Iron Throne."
"There is a wider world waiting for you there."
Forget?
At that mont Jacaerys smiled—a perfect, compliant smile.
But inside him, sothing was burning.
Forget Aemond?
Forget that bastard who took his eye?
Forget the sha of a ruined betrothal?
Forget the dragon he had lost in King's Landing, forget everything?
Impossible.
So when the eting ended—when Daemon and Corlys went to Driftmark to plan the war against the Three Daughters, when Mysaria went as well to handle intelligence, when most of Dragonstone's garrison was reassigned—Jacaerys knew the chance had co.
He went to his mother first.
He needed a guard.
He told Rhaenyra.
Dragonstone's defenses were hollow now; he needed to protect her, and young Aegon and young Viserys.
Rhaenyra looked at him—her eldest son, growing ever more gloomy, a son who had lost too much.
In her eyes there was guilt, and pain for him.
She agreed, letting him choose the n himself. "I will instruct the steward to cooperate with you."
And so Jacaerys began to move.
Those bastards swore loyalty to him, and he agreed. And really—what bastard would refuse?
Targaryen blood ran in their bodies, yet it had never brought them honor, only supervision and poverty.
Now a true Targaryen—brown-haired, yes, but still Princess Rhaenyra's eldest son—was promising to change everything for them.
But that was not enough.
To take revenge, to reclaim everything, he needed more.
He needed a dragon.
And so this mont had co.
Saera—Saera carrying his child—was walking toward Silverwing, singing the dragon-taming song that House Targaryen forbade to be passed beyond the bloodline.
When Jacaerys had taught her the song, he had struggled within himself.
It was a taboo, the core secret of the family, ant to be learned only by the direct line.
But Saera carried his child, and that child would also be a Targaryen.
And… if he succeeded, what would such rules matter?
Those rules were the rules of the silver-haired Targaryens.
What he ant to forge was a new Targaryen.
Within the lair, Saera had already co to within three paces of Silverwing.
At that distance, the dragon need only stretch out her head to seize her in her jaws.
But Silverwing did not move.
She rely lowered her head. The great dragon's skull drew close to this small human, her amber pupil narrowing to a slit as she watched, and scented, with care.
Saera continued to sing.
Her voice no longer trembled. It grew steady, even carrying a strange tenderness.
She thought of the child in her womb, of Jacaerys' promise, of the future.
She—a bastard girl, a plaything within the Black Walls of Volantis—would beco a dragonrider, and her child would beco a Targaryen.
It was a dream—a dream she had never even dared to dream.
When the final line of the song fell silent, Silverwing gave a low murmur.
Not an angry roar, not a warning hiss, but a sound that was almost… gentle.
Her vast head lowered further, until her brow nearly touched the ground, her neck bending down.
Saera froze.
The song stopped.
She looked at the colossal creature bowing its head before her.
Had it worked?
Trembling, she reached out and touched the tip of Silverwing's snout.
The dragon's hide was rough and warm, like stone that had lain beneath the sun all day.
Silverwing did not draw back; instead, she lightly brushed against her hand.
"Gods…" Saera murmured.
She turned to look toward where Jacaerys was hiding.
The young prince's face was tight with restrained excitent. He gave her a small nod of approval.
Saera stroked Silverwing's snout once more, then turned and ran lightly back to Jacaerys' side.
Silverwing lifted her head in confusion, watching the back of this new master.
Why did she not mount? Why did she not command her to fly?
But gentle Silverwing did not grow angry.
She turned back and continued to brood her eggs.
"I did it!" Saera threw herself into Jacaerys' arms, tears spilling from her eyes.
"Jacaerys, I did it! She accepted !"
Jacaerys embraced her, his hand resting lightly upon her swollen belly.
"Be careful of the child," he said in a low voice, with a trace of gentleness.
Only then did Saera rember. She hurriedly stepped back and wiped away her tears. "I'm sorry… I was too excited…"
"What happened today," Jacaerys said, looking at her, his gaze turning grave, "must not be spoken of to anyone. Do you understand?"
Saera nodded vigorously. "I know. It is a secret between us."
Jacaerys smiled in satisfaction.
He looked toward Silverwing in the depths of the lair, and deeper still—where other riderless dragons lay at rest.
If each dragon had a rider…
If those riders were all loyal to him…
"Saera," Jacaerys said, his eyes returning to her, "what do you think of those two brothers?"
"My brothers?" Saera asked curiously.
Jacaerys smiled. "Yes, them. I will have them attempt to ta a dragon."
Saera's eyes widened. "But the dragon-taming song…"
"I will not teach them the song," Jacaerys shook his head.
"Let them try on their own. With blood, with courage, with whatever ans they possess."
Suddenly Jacaerys looked at Saera coldly. "Saera, I trust you. Do not give cause for disappointnt."
Saera understood his aning.
"Jacaerys, rest easy. I carry your child. The dragon-taming song—I will tell it to no one."
Jacaerys studied the pitiful look upon Saera's face, seeking any sign of deceit.
Then he gave a slight nod, hatred etched upon his features.
"He thinks that by abandoning the Iron Throne he can buy peace?"
"But he is wrong."
Jacaerys' hand curled into a fist.
"I will take every dragon from this place."
"Not a single one will be left to the Greens."
"When we have secured our footing in the eastern continent, when we have conquered the Three Daughters, when we command enough dragonriders and armies…"
He did not finish.
But Saera understood.
She leaned into his embrace, her hand resting upon her belly.
"When the ti cos, we will return."
"I will reclaim all that is mine…"
Jacaerys looked down at her.
This woman—once a bastard girl, once rely a tool for him to vent his anger and twisted desire—had now beco his most loyal ally, the mother of his child, a part of his design for revenge.
Fate was indeed a cruel irony.
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