**YEAR 2067 AFTER THE LONG NIGHT**
**ONE YEAR AFTER THE TRAGEDY AT SEA**
**Dragonstone**
**THE SILENCE**
One year has passed since that night.
One year of days that dawn the same, of nights that stretch like wounds that won't quite heal. The seasons have come and gone, the wind has blown from every direction, the waves have pounded the cliffs with the same fury as always.
But Dragonstone is no longer the same.
Children's laughter no longer echoes in the courtyards.
Before, at dawn, you could hear their shouts playing hide-and-seek among the pillars. Before, at noon, they would race around the fountains while the nurses pretended to be angry. Before, at dusk, their mothers would call them to supper and they would protest because they wanted to keep playing.
Now there is only silence.
The fortress corridors seem longer, emptier. Every corner holds a memory of those no longer here. A forgotten toy behind a door. A charcoal mark on the wall where someone measured their height. A laugh the wind brings from time to time, only to remind.
But the island still stands.
The fishermen go out each morning with their boats, casting their nets into the sea with the same hope as always. The merchants arrive each week with their ships laden with cloth, spices, stories from distant lands. The forges never go dark; the hammer's strike against metal is a constant heartbeat, proof that life continues.
Life, stubborn, refuses to surrender.
At the center of it all, the Targaryen fortress stands like a defiant fist against the sky.
Its black towers, built from the island's rock, seem taller than before. As if grief had stretched them upward, seeking comfort from the clouds. The banners, the standards with the three-headed dragon, hang motionless most days, as if they too were in mourning.
But inside, life makes its way.
Inside, AEGON is one year old.
He crawls through the corridors with the curiosity of one who doesn't know what was lost. His violet eyes, pure as gems, explore every corner with wonder. His small hands touch everything they find: the wood of doors, the stone of walls, the fur of dogs sleeping by the hearths.
He doesn't know that his arrival into the world coincided with the greatest tragedy his family has suffered. He doesn't know that while he was being born, his grandmother and his uncles and his cousins were dying at sea.
He only knows how to crawl, laugh, cry when hungry.
ORYS is also one year old.
The baby rescued from the ships, the bastard of some dead sibling —no one knows which, they never will— is now part of the family.
He sleeps in the same cradle as Aegon. Eats at the same table. Receives the same love.
Dareo and Elera raise them as twins.
For them, there is no difference.
—They are ours —Elera says as she watches them play on the great hall's carpet.
The two boys crawl toward each other, bump together, laugh. Aegon is larger, stronger. Orys is smaller, thinner. But together, they form a whole.
—Both of them.
Dareo nods.
He stands by the hearth, watching the scene. On his face, the marks of the past year are deep. The dark circles, the wrinkles around his eyes, the way he clenches his jaw without realizing.
But when he looks at the children, something softens.
—Both of them —he repeats.
And for a moment, the pain eases.
**THE TOWER**
Above, very high, where the wind whistles strongest and seagulls dare not fly, AEROM watches.
He has not been the same since Aere's death.
The whole island knows this. His children see it every day. The man who guided them from Valyria, the leader who built a home from nothing, the father who always had a word of encouragement, is no longer there.
In his place is a shadow.
He speaks less. Much less. When he does, the words are short, direct, as if speaking cost him enormous effort.
He smiles less. Almost never. Only when he sees the children, and even then, the smiles are brief, like lightning in a stormy sky.
But he never stops watching.
From his tower, the highest in the fortress, his eyes sweep the horizon again and again. The east, where Valyria lies in ruins. The north, where the mountains disappear into the mist. The south, where merchant ships sail toward Pentos. The west, where Westeros waits, unknown, ignored.
He watches.
Always watches.
The ravens accompany him now more than ever.
Dozens of them perch on the windows, on the battlements, on the roof. Black as night, silent as death, they watch everything below with their shining eyes.
Sometimes, the villagers see them and cross themselves.
—Lord Aerom speaks with the black birds —they whisper in the market, in low voices, as if afraid of being heard—. As if they were people.
And it's true.
Aerom speaks with them.
He whispers words in a language no one understands. Sometimes they respond with caws that seem to have meaning. Other times they simply listen, tilting their heads as if they comprehend.
One night, Dareo climbs the tower.
The stairs seem longer than ever. Each step is an effort. Not from physical fatigue, but from what he knows he will find.
When he reaches the top, his father has his back turned, looking out the window. The ravens surround him, perched on the frames, on the beams, on the floor. Their black eyes gleam in the twilight.
And Aerom is whispering.
Strange words, sibilant, belonging to no language Dareo knows.
—Father?
The whisper ceases.
Aerom slowly turns.
His grey eyes, those eyes Dareo has seen all his life, seem deeper than before. As if they looked not only at what's before them, but also at something else. Another layer of reality.
—Dareo. What do you need?
Dareo swallows.
—To see how you are.
Aerom smiles.
A sad smile. Tired. As if smiling hurt him.
—I'm fine.
He lies.
They both know it.
Dareo steps forward. The ravens stir, move their wings, but do not leave.
—The ravens... —he begins—. Why do you speak with them? I thought you no longer had power or magic like before, in your youth.
Aerom looks around. At the black birds watching him. At the night coming through the window.
—Because they listen —he says slowly—. And because sometimes... sometimes they answer.
Dareo asks no more.
He cannot.
Something in his father's gaze tells him he doesn't want to know the answer.
**THOSE WHO REMAIN**
The CELTIGAR and VELARYON families have also suffered.
They lost many of their own in Valyria, on those cursed expeditions that should never have happened. They lost many others at sea, on that night of smoke and death that no one yet understands.
Their smaller fortresses on the island are half empty.
The corridors that once echoed with footsteps and laughter are now echoes of what they were. The rooms that housed dozens now guard the memory of the absent.
But those who remain are loyal.
The new Celtigar patriarch is a young man, barely thirty. He lost his father in Valyria, his older brother at sea. He could have given up, could have cursed the Targaryens for bringing so much misfortune.
But he does not.
—Targaryen blood is our blood —he says at a meeting, voice firm—. As long as they live, we live.
The Velaryons nod.
Their matriarch, an elderly woman with completely white hair and hands gnarled with arthritis, also lost. She lost children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews. But she remains here.
—United —she says—. Always united.
The oaths are renewed that night.
Not with grand ceremonies, not with fireworks or banquets. With something simpler. More sincere.
Hands clasping. Gazes meeting. Promises whispered.
Dragonstone may be small, but it is one.
And that, in these times, is more than many have.
**THE WILD DRAGONS**
In the mountains, where the air is thinner and the snow never fully melts, VALERIO reigns.
The great dragon, the last of the flight generation, he who survived the Curse, the voyages, the years, is now the undisputed lord of the heights.
The other adult dragons —Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion— now live with him.
They form a wild pack that flies together, hunts together, sleeps together. Their silhouettes cross the sky in perfect formations, as if still training for war.
From time to time they descend to the coast.
People, upon seeing them, run to hide. Mothers grab their children. Fishermen abandon their boats. Doors slam shut.
But the dragons do not attack.
They never attack.
They only watch.
They perch on cliffs, on empty beaches, on the farthest rocks. They look at the fortress. Look at the people. Look at the sea.
As if searching for something.
Or someone.
—They miss their riders —Dareo says one night, watching them from the courtyard.
All five are there, perched at different points along the coast. Motionless. Silent. Like living statues.
—Like us.
Elera rests her head on his shoulder.
—Do you think they will ever accept others?
Dareo slowly shakes his head.
—I don't know. Valerio... Valerio was mother's. The others... were my siblings'.
He pauses.
—Perhaps when the children grow up...
He doesn't finish the sentence.
But they both look toward the window of the children's room. Aegon and Orys sleep peacefully, unaware of everything.
Perhaps.
Perhaps someday.
**THE DECISION TO CONTINUE**
Despite the pain, Dragonstone prospers.
It's strange, almost ironic, but it's true. While families mourn their dead, business continues. While hearts break, ships keep sailing.
Dareo resumes the trading voyages.
Not with the enthusiasm of before, not with that spark that drove him to seek new horizons. But with the necessity of one who must support a family.
Ships come and go.
To Pentos, to Braavos, to Myr, to Lys. They carry wool, salted fish, obsidian. They bring cloth, spices, wine, iron.
Goods are exchanged. Gold keeps coming.
The villagers work.
In the fields, in the workshops, in the mines. The island has resources and they exploit them with the constancy of those who know their survival depends on it.
The craftsmen create.
Blacksmiths, carpenters, weavers. Their hands never rest. They make tools, furniture, clothing. Whatever is needed.
The fishermen fish.
Each morning, at dawn, their boats leave port. Each evening, at dusk, they return with their catch. Fresh fish feeds the island; salted fish is exported.
—The island still lives —an elderly Velaryon says at a council meeting—. We still live. That's what they would have wanted.
Everyone nods.
Because it's true.
The dead wouldn't want the living to stop living. Wouldn't want the island to become a giant tomb.
Life continues.
Because not to would betray those who are no longer here.
**THE NEWS**
One morning, Elera wakes up dizzy.
The world spins. The smell of breakfast, which she'd always liked, now turns her stomach. She has to run out to the courtyard to vomit.
Dareo follows, worried.
—Are you alright?
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She's pale, but there's something in her eyes... a light she hasn't seen since before the tragedy.
She smiles.
—Yes. I think... I think I'm pregnant.
Dareo freezes.
The words take time to process. Pregnant. Again. After everything. After so much pain.
—Are you sure?
—Not completely. But I know. I feel it.
Dareo doesn't know what to feel.
Joy, yes. Of course. But also fear. A deep, visceral fear that grips his insides.
Weeks pass.
The symptoms are confirmed. The nausea, the fatigue, the strange cravings at midnight.
Elera is pregnant.
**FEAR AND HOPE**
Dareo doesn't sleep that night.
He rises when Elera is already asleep, wrapped in the sheets like a cocoon. He walks barefoot through the corridor, descends the stairs, goes outside.
The cliffs greet him with their eternal wind, their murmur of waves, their darkness speckled with stars.
He walks to the edge.
Looks at the sea.
The same sea that swallowed his mother.
His siblings.
His nieces and nephews.
—What if we lose them again? —he whispers to the wind.
The wind does not answer.
—What if...?
—What if we don't try, we've already lost?
The voice startles him.
He turns. Elera is behind him, wrapped in a blanket, barefoot on the cold rock.
—How...?
—I know you, Dareo. I knew you'd come here.
He embraces her. Tightly.
—I'm afraid —he admits, voice muffled against her shoulder—. Very afraid.
—Me too.
She pulls back slightly to look into his eyes.
—But we can't live in fear. We can't let them win.
—Them?
—Whatever killed our family. The smoke. The light. Fate. If we stop living, if we stop trying... then they win.
Dareo looks at her for a long time.
His wife. His companion. The mother of his children.
—You're right.
—I'm always right —she jokes, with a smile that is pure light.
For the first time in months, they laugh.
Two laughs lost in the night, mingled with the murmur of the waves.
Two laughs that say: we are still here. We still fight. We still live.
**THE NEWS SPREADS**
News of the pregnancy spreads across the island like wildfire.
There are no social networks on Dragonstone, no newspapers or official messengers. But people talk. They always talk.
—Lady Elera is with child!
—There will be another Targaryen!
—The blood continues!
Faces, once somber, begin to brighten.
The fishermen offer the best of their catches. They come to the fortress port with the best fish, the freshest, the largest.
—For the lady —they say—. So the child grows strong.
The craftsmen carve wooden toys. Little horses, dragons, small swords. They leave them at the fortress gate with notes written in trembling handwriting.
The old women knit tiny blankets. Tight stitches, soft wools, carefully chosen colors. They spend their afternoons at their doors, knitting and smiling.
Dragonstone has hope again.
—It's a sign —some say, gathered around bonfires—. The gods haven't abandoned us.
Others nod.
Because they need to believe it.
Everyone needs to believe it.
**THE MAESTER'S REVELATION**
Months pass.
Elera's belly grows. Round, firm, promising. She constantly caresses it, talks to the babies inside, sings them lullabies her mother used to sing to her.
One afternoon, the maester examines her carefully.
He is an old man, the maester. He came to the island decades ago, on one of the first merchant ships, and decided to stay. He has seen almost every child in the fortress born. He has seen too many die.
He listens to the belly with his wooden trumpet. Palpates with his expert hands. Listens again.
—My lady... —he says at last, with a smile beginning to form—. I have something to tell you.
Elera tenses.
—What is it? —she asks, fearing the worst—. Something wrong?
The maester shakes his head.
—No, no. Quite the opposite.
He leans in a little.
—It's not one. It's TWO.
Elera blinks.
—Two?
—Two babies, my lady. You're going to have twins.
The words take time to process.
Twins.
Two girls.
Elera brings her hands to her mouth.
Tears spring from her eyes, warm, uncontrollable.
—Two girls?
—Two girls —the maester confirms—. Strong. Healthy. Perfect.
Elera weeps.
But they are tears of joy.
**THE JOY**
News of the twins spreads across the island even faster than the pregnancy.
—There will be two!
—Two dragons!
—The blood multiplies!
Dareo, when he learns, falls to his knees.
He's in the courtyard when a servant comes running to tell him. His legs give way. The stone floor receives his weight.
And he weeps.
But this time the tears are not of pain.
They are tears of gratitude. Of wonder. Of hope.
Elera comes out of the fortress and runs to him. Kneels beside him. Embraces him.
—You see —she whispers—. Life always finds a way.
He nods, speechless.
That night, they celebrate.
Not with grand feasts, not with excessive banquets. With something smaller. More intimate.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families come to offer their respects. They bring gifts, embraces, words of encouragement.
The elders remember those no longer here. The children, the few that remain, race around the adults.
Dragonstone, for the first time in a year, smiles again.
**AEROM AND THE UNBORN**
Aerom descends from his tower.
They haven't seen him this far down in months.
Servants step aside as he passes, surprised. Guards stand at attention. The children, those who barely know him, watch with curiosity.
He walks slowly toward Elera.
She sits in the great hall, hands on her belly. Seeing him, she smiles.
—Aerom.
He approaches. Says nothing. Only places his gloved hands on his daughter-in-law's belly.
Closes his eyes.
Those present hold their breath.
No one knows what to expect. No one knows what will happen.
The silence stretches.
And then, Aerom speaks.
—Two —he says at last—. Two dragons.
His voice is deep, profound, as if not entirely him speaking.
—Fire and blood. Fire and...
He opens his eyes.
For an instant, just an instant, something shines in them.
The same thing Dareo saw that night on the cliffs.
Then it disappears.
—They will be great —Aerom says—. Greater than you imagine.
He turns.
And without adding another word, returns to his tower.
Everyone looks at each other, not understanding.
But no one asks.
No one dares.
**THE BIRTH**
The night of labor arrives.
The sky is clear, the stars shine brightly. As if the gods wanted to illuminate the moment.
Elera screams.
Dareo sweats beside her, holding her hand, whispering words of encouragement he doesn't even understand himself.
The midwives rush back and forth. Warm cloths, cold water, scissors, threads.
Aerom waits in his tower.
Standing by the window, surrounded by ravens, he looks toward the room where his daughter-in-law gives birth.
He does not move.
Does not blink.
Only waits.
And then, a cry.
Sharp. Powerful. Alive.
Then another.
Two voices joining the first.
Two.
Dareo emerges from the room, staggering. His face is bathed in tears. But he smiles. He has never smiled like this.
—Two girls! —he shouts—. Healthy! Perfect!
The servants applaud. The Celtigars and Velaryons embrace. The news runs down the stairs, toward the village, toward the ships, toward the entire island.
Aerom descends slowly.
Each step measured, paused. As if wanting to prolong the moment.
He enters the room.
Elera is in bed, exhausted but radiant. She holds the two babies. One in each arm.
—Look, father —she says—. Visenya and Rhaenys.
Aerom approaches.
He takes one. Holds her with infinite delicacy, as if she were made of glass. His gloved hands, those he never removes, envelop her with care.
Then he takes the other.
Both girls open their eyes.
Look at him.
And Aerom SMILES.
For the first time in years, for the first time since Aere's death, he truly smiles.
—Welcome —he whispers—. Welcome to the world.
The girls look at him.
And for an instant, only an instant, something passes between them. Something no one else can see.
A connection.
A recognition.
Something.
**THE FAMILY**
That night, everyone gathers in the great hall.
It's not an official meeting, not a council. It's just family. What remains of it.
Dareo sits beside Elera, who is still weak but doesn't want to miss this. Aegon crawls near them, exploring the stone floor with the infinite curiosity of one-year-olds.
Orys is in a nurse's arms, watching everything with his dark eyes, so like Aegon's they could be blood brothers.
And in a new cradle, by the hearth, Visenya and Rhaenys sleep.
Two tiny bundles, wrapped in blankets knitted by the island's old women. Their breathing, soft and regular, is the most beautiful sound heard in months.
The Celtigars and Velaryons watch from the great hall's doors.
They dare not enter. It's not their place. But they want to see. Want to witness.
An elderly Velaryon, the same one who spoke at the council, watches the scene with moist eyes.
—Look at them —he says softly—. The last. But also the first.
—First of what? —someone beside him asks.
The old man smiles.
—Of something new. Something we don't yet know.
Aerom, from his usual corner, watches.
The ravens, at the windows, watch too.
—The pack grows —he murmurs—. Grows.
And in his eyes, for an instant, that blue gleams again.
But no one sees it.
Everyone is looking at the children.
Outside, in the mountains, Valerio roars.
The sound echoes in the cliffs, travels across the island, reaches the fortress.
The other dragons respond.
Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion.
Five voices. Five souls.
A symphony of fire and scales that echoes across the island, that makes windows tremble, that wakes dogs and makes children stir in their sleep.
Inside, the babies dream.
Visenya and Rhaenys, in their cradle. Aegon and Orys, in their beds.
They dream of dragons, perhaps.
Dream of flight, of fire, of infinite skies.
And for the first time in a long time, Dragonstone sleeps in peace.
Not the peace of the forgetful. Not the peace of those who don't remember.
The peace of those who have suffered and move forward.
The peace of those who know that life, despite everything, is worth living.
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches the night.
The ravens, around him, keep silence.
—Not yet —he whispers—. Not yet.
But this time, in his words, there is no threat.
There is hope.
For the first time in a long time, there is hope.