Dragonstone
The sleeping volcano on Dragonstone was never truly silent.
It did not roar, but whispered—a deep, constant murmur rising from the bowels of the earth. The crater was perpetually choked with sulfurous smoke, staining the sky a sickly gray-yellow. The air always carried the scent of heat and ash.
Within the natural caverns of the volcano, the stone walls were warmed by geothermal fire.
This was the birthplace of dragons.
For centuries, the Targaryens had hatched and raised their dragons here.
Today, Silverwing was restless.
The great silver she-dragon—nearly two hundred feet from snout to tail—shifted irritably within her lair. Her vast wings unfurled and folded again and again, stirring gusts of scorching air.
Beneath her lay several dragon eggs.
Silverwing lowered her head, a small tongue of flame spilling from her jaws, evenly warming the eggs.
She was a gentle dragon.
Of all the riderless dragons on Dragonstone, Silverwing was the only one who had never attacked a human without cause. Even when dragonkeepers strayed too close, she merely rumbled a warning instead of burning them alive, as others would.
Perhaps it was age—she had lived nearly a century and seen too many men come and go.
Or perhaps dragons, like men, possessed their own temperaments.
Yet today, something felt different.
A sound came from the entrance to the lair.
Not the heavy footsteps of dragonkeepers. Not the scrape of boots against volcanic stone.
It was… singing.
Soft. Almost swallowed by the volcano's rumble.
But Silverwing recognized it.
An ancient melody.
A Valyrian melody.
She raised her head, her long silver neck moving like a mountain beneath moonlight. Her amber pupils narrowed, fixing on the small figure at the entrance.
A woman.
She wore a simple white linen dress. Silver hair. Violet eyes.
One hand rested protectively over her slightly rounded belly. The other steadied her against the stone wall as she stepped inside.
She sang.
The words were High Valyrian.
And the melody—
Silverwing remembered.
Long ago, when she had been young, another silver-haired girl with violet eyes had sung to her like this.
Her first rider.
The song flowed on:
Fire swallowed, fire returned,
Wings take flight,
Three heads stand as one,
Three voices sing,
By blood and flame,
By sacrifice paid,
By ancient magic,
With eyes of light,
All as one,
I sing to you,
Three heads of the dragon,
All as one,
Bound to rise.
The woman's voice trembled.
Before such a vast creature, before those inhuman amber eyes, fear was instinct.
But she did not stop.
Her voice grew steadier, louder, drowning the volcano's roar and the pounding of her heart.
All the while, she kept one hand over her belly.
A small life was growing there.
Her bargaining chip.
Her future.
Her courage.
Silverwing stared at her.
No roar. No flame.
Only silence.
She scented the air.
Blood.
Dragon's blood—thin, diluted, but unmistakable.
And the song… it carried something else. Something warm, something that melted ice like sunlight.
A strange familiarity stirred within the dragon, as if the trembling woman before her were not a stranger at all, but something bound by blood.
Deeper within the lair, Jacaerys Velaryon held his breath.
His single eye watched Sara—the woman carrying his child—as she stepped closer to Silverwing.
His palms were slick with sweat.
This had not been part of the plan.
Prince Daemon and his mother, Rhaenyra, had agreed to abandon their claim to the Iron Throne and turn east.
When Daemon announced it in council days earlier, Jacaerys had nearly leapt to his feet.
Surrender?
Just… surrender?
His eye. His dragon. His pride.
Everything he had lost—taken by Aemond Targaryen.
And now they would simply yield?
He had endured it.
He feared Daemon—and understood the prince's vision of vengeance far too well.
That night, Jacaerys had clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, forcing the rage down through pain.
"I agree," he had said.
"For the family. For peace."
Daemon had clapped him on the shoulder.
"You will be compensated, Jace.
In the East, you'll have land of your own. An army of your own.
Forget Westeros. Forget the Iron Throne.
There is a wider world."
Forget?
Jacaerys had smiled then—a perfect, obedient smile.
But inside, his heart burned.
Forget Aemond Targaryen?
Forget the bastard who took his eye?
Forget the shame, the loss, the dragon he had lost in King's Landing?
Impossible.
So when the council ended—when Daemon and Corlys sailed for High Tide to plan war against the Triarchy, when Mysaria departed to gather intelligence, and when Dragonstone's garrison thinned—
Jacaerys seized his chance.
He went first to his mother.
"I need guards," he told Rhaenyra.
"Dragonstone is vulnerable. I must protect you, little Aegon, and little Viserys."
Rhaenyra looked at her eldest son—so changed, so shadowed by loss.
Guilt and worry filled her eyes.
She agreed. He could choose his own men.
And so Jacaerys began.
The bastards swore to him.
Why would they refuse?
Targaryen blood ran through their veins, yet it had never brought them honor—only chains and contempt.
Now here stood a true Targaryen—brown-haired, yes, but undeniably Rhaenyra's eldest—who promised to change everything.
But it was not enough.
For vengeance, for reclamation, he needed more.
He needed dragons.
And so—
Sara, pregnant with his child, sang the forbidden dragonbinding song, a secret jealously guarded by House Targaryen, as she approached Silverwing.
Teaching her had been taboo.
But her child was his.
And that child would be a Targaryen.
If he succeeded—what were rules then?
Rules belonged to silver-haired kings.
He would make something new.
Sara stood three steps from Silverwing.
Close enough to die with a single movement.
But Silverwing did not strike.
She lowered her massive head until her brow nearly touched the ground, her neck bending.
The song ended.
Sara bowed.
Her hand trembled as she reached out and touched the dragon's snout.
Warm. Rough. Like sun-heated stone.
Silverwing did not recoil.
She nudged the woman gently.
"Gods…" Sara whispered.
She looked back toward Jacaerys.
He nodded.
She ran to him, tears streaming.
"I did it! She accepted me!"
Jacaerys embraced her, resting a hand on her belly.
"Careful," he murmured softly.
Only then did Sara remember, laughing through tears.
"This must remain secret," Jacaerys said quietly.
She nodded fiercely.
Later, he gazed deeper into the lair—where other riderless dragons slept.
If every dragon had a rider…
"Soon," he whispered, fists tightening.
"I will take them all.
The Greens will have nothing left."
Fate, he thought, was cruelly ironic.