Dragonstone, 13 years after the arrival
THE FORTRESS GROWS**
Thirteen years have passed since the three ships emerged from the fog.
Thirteen years of salty wind battering the stone. Thirteen years of hammers and chisels, of hands that learned to carve volcanic rock as if it were clay, of backs that bent under the weight of blocks seemingly determined to remind men how small they are.
Dragonstone is no longer an empty island.
Atop the black cliff, where once only seagulls nested and the wind whistled unopposed, a fortress of volcanic stone stands defiant against the sea. It lacks the impossible grace of Valyria, those towers that seemed to grow like crystal trees, but it possesses something Valyria lost long ago: it has life.
Sturdy towers keep watch on every horizon. Its walls, a black so deep they seem to absorb light, are dotted with narrow windows through which archers can shoot without exposure. Thick battlements, built to withstand sieges that may never come—but that survivors know can always come. Passageways carved into the living rock connect the different chambers, tunnels cool in summer, warm in winter, where torches flicker and shadows dance ancient dances.
A home.
For the last children of Valyria.
But not for the Targaryens alone.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families have also built their own smaller fortresses on the island. Smaller, humbler, but equally solid. The Celtigar stronghold rises on a hill to the east, gazing toward the Narrow Sea with the patience of those expecting news that never arrives. The Velaryon fortress clings to a rocky spur in the west, its walls nearly fused with the natural stone, as if the island itself had birthed them.
Three nuclei.
One blood.
The stone paths connecting the fortresses are always traveled. Young men going courting, elders visiting old friends, messengers running with news. The entire island pulses with a life no one would have thought possible when those three ships emerged from the fog, broken and desperate.
And in the sky, DRAGONS.
No longer just Valerio.
Now there are six more.
Their silhouettes cross the firmament at all hours, casting shadows that race across the land faster than any horse. Their roars echo off the cliffs, reminding all who hear that magic has not died, that the ancient fire still burns, that Valyria, in some way, lives on in these beasts and the riders who mount them.
The islanders have grown accustomed. Children point to the sky and name each dragon by its color, by its way of flying, by the roar that identifies it. The elders, those who still remember Valyria, sometimes weep when they see them. Not from sadness. From something harder to name.
The dragons are the past.
But they are also the future.
**THE YOUNG ONES AND THEIR DRAGONS**
Aerom's six children are now:
The males: 18 years old.
Dareo, Eleris, and Errol have left adolescence behind. Their bodies have filled out, their voices have deepened, their eyes have acquired that gravity that only years and responsibility bring. They are no longer the children who asked about big fish in the Narrow Sea. They are men.
The females: 16 years old.
Elera, Nemerys, and Aegar have blossomed. Valyrian beauty runs through their veins: silver hair, pale eyes, that natural elegance thought lost and now reborn in them. But they are not merely beautiful. They are intelligent, shrewd, prepared. Their mothers have taught them well.
Each has their dragon.
They have grown together, trained together, flown together. The bond between rider and dragon is sacred, the elders say, but the bond between siblings who share the sky is something more. It is absolute trust. It is knowing that, whatever happens up there, they will not be alone.
| Rider | Dragon | Sex | Color | Characteristics |
|-------|--------|-----|-------|-----------------|
| DAREO | CANNIBAL | Male | Jet-black green | The most aggressive, scales jagged as razors, eyes red as embers. He doesn't growl: he roars. He doesn't threaten: he attacks. Other dragons yield when he flies. |
| ELERIS | VALAX | Male | Dark bronze | Fast as the wind, elusive as a shadow. His wings are sharper than normal, capable of cutting masts if he passes close. He flies in silence, appearing from nowhere. |
| ERROL | AERION | Male | Steel grey | Robust, solid, enduring. Not the fastest or most agile, but he can fly longer than any other. His breath is the hottest, capable of melting rock. |
| ELERA | TYRAXES | Female | Emerald green | Elegant, graceful, lethal. She flies as if dancing, every movement a work of art. She is the most loyal to her rider; some say she feels what Elera feels. |
NEMERYS | VHAELAR | Female | Storm blue | Capricious, unpredictable, hard to tame. Sometimes she obeys, sometimes she ignores, sometimes she does the opposite of what's asked. But when she flies, she is the swiftest. No one catches her. |
| AEGAR | SERION | Male | Reddish brown | Calm, patient, almost lazy. But if anyone threatens Aegar, he transforms. His fury is legendary; few have survived to tell of it. |
Four males and two females.
The perfect balance.
Or so it seems.
**THE TRAINING**
On the beach of Dragonstone, the black sand trembles beneath the weight of dragons.
The six young ones fly in formation over the sea. Their silhouettes stand out against the morning sun, casting shadows that race over the waves as if trying to hunt them.
Dareo leads.
He rides Cannibal, the jet-black green, the most feared. The black flames his dragon spits heat the sea where they fall, raising clouds of steam that the others skillfully dodge. Dareo doesn't look back to check if his brothers follow. He doesn't need to. He knows they are there.
Elera flies beside him on Tyraxes.
The emerald green dragoness moves in perfect sync with Cannibal, as if both responded to the same thought. Elera looks at her brother and smiles. He doesn't return the smile, but she knows he saw her. He always sees her.
Behind, Eleris and Valax trace impossible zigzags, testing the limits of speed. Nemerys and Vhaelar do the opposite: they fly straight, straight, straight, as if wanting to reach the end of the world. Errol and Aerion hold the center, robust, constant, the group's anchor. Aegar and Serion close the formation, calm, observant, ready to help if anyone falters.
—Higher! —Aerom shouts from the highest tower of the fortress.
His voice shouldn't carry so far. The wind should take it, the sea should swallow it, distance should make it inaudible. But it carries. It always carries.
—Dragons weren't born to crawl!
The young ones ascend.
The clouds envelop them.
For an instant, they are gods.
Up there, the world turns white and silent. Water droplets condense on their clothes, on the dragons' scales, on the riders' eyelashes. The cold bites, but they don't feel it. They only feel the speed, the height, the freedom.
When they emerge above the clouds, the sun strikes them with full force. The sea of clouds stretches beneath them, infinite, white, unreal. And above, only the blue sky, empty, eternal.
For a moment, none speak.
There are no words for this.
Below, on the beach, Aere watches with a smile.
The wind plays with her hair, now completely white, but her grey eyes remain the same: alive, intelligent, full of pride.
Beside her, Valerio rests.
The great dragon, the last of the flight generation, now measures sixty meters from snout to tail. When he breathes, his chest expands like an inflating mountain. When he exhales, the hot air makes the sand dance.
She rides him sometimes. They fly together, slowly, unhurriedly, remembering times past. But most of the time she prefers to watch her children fly. She prefers to stay on the ground and look at the sky, as her mother did, and her mother's mother, and all the women of her blood.
—They are beautiful —she says.
Aerom, who has descended from his tower and stands beside her, nods.
—They are the future.
He doesn't say "our future." He says "the future." As if he won't be in it.
Aere doesn't notice. Or perhaps she does, but prefers not to ask.
—One of them will rule someday —she says—. Dragonstone, perhaps. Or maybe...
—Maybe nothing —Aerom interrupts, gently—. Valyria is dead, Aere. It won't resurrect.
She looks at him.
—Do you no longer believe?
He doesn't respond.
He just watches the sky, where his children dance among the clouds.
**THE COUNCIL**
That night, Aerom gathers the six in the great hall.
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows against the black stone walls. The main table, that long plank from dismantled ships, is empty except for wine cups and candles.
The six young ones enter one by one. Dareo first, with his firm step and hard gaze. Elera behind, softer but no less confident. Then Eleris, silent as always. Nemerys, with her eyes that seem to look beyond the visible. Errol, the dreamer, the one who always moves slowly. And finally Aegar, the youngest, the cheerful one, who smiles at everyone as she sits.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families are also present.
They have sent their representatives, the patriarchs and matriarchs who still live. They have watched their own children grow, also proud, also prepared for whatever comes.
Aerom takes his place at the head of the table. His gloved hands rest upon it.
—You have flown together and sailed together and fought together —he says—. You have fought together. You have grown together.
He pauses. His grey eyes survey his children, one by one.
—Now it is time for the blood to unite.
The young ones look at each other.
They knew this would come. They've always known it, as long as they can remember. It is the law. It is tradition. It is survival. But knowing doesn't make it easier.
—Dareo, you will marry Elera.
Dareo looks at his sister. Elera looks at him. There is no surprise in their eyes. Only acceptance.
—Eleris, with Nemerys.
Eleris, the silent one, the observer, nods slowly. Nemerys, the strange one, she who speaks with shadows, inclines her head.
—Errol, with Aegar.
Errol smiles. A shy smile, almost childlike. Aegar returns the smile, wider, warmer.
No one protests.
No one says anything.
Because there is nothing to say.
The Celtigars and Velaryons nod in approval. They too have united their children among themselves, following the same path. Alliances strengthen. Blood remains pure. Magic endures.
—So be it —says the Celtigar patriarch, an old, wrinkled man who remembers Valyria as if it were yesterday.
—So be it —repeats the Velaryon matriarch, her voice as firm as ever.
Aerom nods.
—Prepare the ceremonies. They will be within a week.
**THE THREE WEDDINGS**
A week later, three ceremonies are held in the great hall.
The hall is adorned for the occasion. Garlands of wildflowers, the last of summer, hang from the columns. Additional torches illuminate every corner. A new carpet, woven over the past year by the women of the three families, covers the path from the door to the main table.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families watch respectfully from their places. They too have united their children among themselves in recent years, following the same path. But these weddings are different. These weddings are Targaryen. These weddings are the ones that matter.
Dareo looks at Elera.
She wears white, a dress that belonged to her grandmother, rescued from the flames of Valyria and carefully restored over the years. Her silver hair, loose, falls over her shoulders. Her grey eyes meet her brother's.
He too wears his finest clothes: a black tunic with red embroidery, the colors of his house. His sword hangs from his waist, because a dragon rider must never be unarmed, not even at his wedding.
She smiles.
It is not a marriage for love, not at first.
That's what they always say.
But love will come later.
It has to come.
Aerom officiates each wedding.
It is his right. It is his duty. It is what he has always done.
His gloved hands hold the sacred fire, that small flame that never dies, that traveled from Valyria in an obsidian bowl, that has witnessed all the unions of his blood.
—Let the blood mingle —he says, first before Dareo and Elera—. Let magic endure.
The siblings kiss.
Then Eleris and Nemerys. Then Errol and Aegar.
Three kisses. Three unions. Three promises.
Applause resonates in the hall.
Musicians play. Wine flows. The children, those born on the island, dart between the adults' legs, not fully understanding what they celebrate, but happy nonetheless.
Outside, the dragons roar.
Cannibal, Valax, Aerion, Tyraxes, Vhaelar, Serion. Their voices echo in the cliffs, mingle with the murmur of the sea, reach the hall like a distant echo.
As if they celebrate.
As if they know.
**THE WEDDING NIGHT**
That night, Dareo and Elera talk in their chambers.
The room is modest by Valyrian standards. A large bed, covered in furs. A table with two chairs. A clothes chest. A window overlooking the sea.
Dareo stands by the window, watching the waves. Elera sits on the bed, watching him.
—Are you afraid? —she asks.
He turns. A smile plays on his lips.
—Of you, yes —he jokes.
She laughs. It's a sincere laugh, warm, filling the room. For a moment, they are not a dragon rider and his sister-wife. They are just a young man and a young woman who have just married.
Then the laughter fades. She grows serious.
—We're going to have children, Dareo. Many.
He nods. He knows.
—And they will have dragons. And so on until Valyria is just a distant memory.
Dareo looks at her for a long time.
His eyes, the same grey as his father, his mother, all the Targaryens, seem darker in the twilight.
—Or until we rebuild it.
Elera doesn't respond.
She just rests her head on his shoulder when he sits beside her.
Outside, the wind blows.
And somewhere, very far away, something waits.
**AEROM AND THE TOWER**
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches the island.
The night is clear. The moon, nearly full, bathes the cliffs in liquid silver. The silhouettes of the dragons, sleeping on their crags, seem smaller mountains, shadows within shadows.
The celebrations have ended. The lights of the great hall have gone out one by one. The families sleep. Everything is in order.
But he does not smile.
His gloved hands rest on the window ledge. The stone is cold, as always. But he doesn't feel the cold. He hasn't felt anything for a long time.
Behind him, a raven caws.
The animal perches on the back of his chair, watching him with eyes black as bottomless wells. It is not alone. In recent years, ravens have become regular visitors to this tower. They come, perch, watch, caw. Sometimes they leave. Sometimes they stay.
No one asks why.
—Not yet —Aerom whispers.
The raven caws again.
As if responding.
As if arguing.
Aerom closes his eyes.
For an instant, his eyelids tremble. His breathing quickens. His gloved hands clench on the stone.
When he opens his eyes, they are grey again.
But in the window's reflection, for a fraction of a second, they glowed.
A light.
A light not of this world.
Then, nothing.
Only Aerom, watching the night.
Only the raven, watching him.
Only the silence.
**AERE'S QUESTION**
Aere climbs to the tower.
Her steps, slower than before, echo on the stone stairs. She carries a cup of wine in one hand and a blanket in the other. Because it's always cold up there, and her husband never seems to notice.
When she arrives, she finds him where always: by the window, looking at the sea.
—You should come down —she says, approaching—. Your children need you.
He takes the cup, but doesn't drink.
—They have you —he replies, with that deep voice she loves so much.
That tone. Always that tone. As if everything were fine. As if nothing had changed.
She sits beside him, on the same stone bench where she's spent so many nights. She spreads the blanket over their legs. The wind is cold, but together they are warm.
—Aerom... —she begins, hesitating.
—Tell me.
—Are you alright?
He looks at her. That look. The same as always.
—Yes. Why do you ask?
She hesitates. Words swirl in her head, seeking the right way out.
—I don't know. Sometimes I see you... distant. As if you weren't here.
He smiles.
The same smile as always.
The one that captivated her so many years ago.
The one that has sustained her through every difficult moment.
—I am here, Aere. I will always be here.
She nods.
It's what she needs to hear.
It's what she always needs to hear.
She rests her head on his shoulder, as she has a thousand times, as she will a thousand times more. The warmth of his body envelops her. The rhythm of his breathing lulls her.
She doesn't see how Aerom's fingers, inside the gloves, tremble—because he keeps them covered, they are burned, bony—a gift from the end of Valyria.
She doesn't see how his eyes, for an instant, look toward the darkness as if someone called from there.
She sees nothing.
She only feels her husband's warmth, the same as always.
And that is enough.
Outside, in the night, the wind blows.
And atop the farthest cliff, a dragon opens his eyes.
Cannibal.
The jet-black green, the most aggressive, the one who obeys only Dareo, stares toward Aerom's tower.
His red eyes, like embers, blink slowly.
And then, for no apparent reason, he growls.
A deep, guttural growl that wakes no one but makes the other dragons stir uneasily in their sleep.
Something is happening.
Something is not right.
But no one knows it.
Yet.