106 AC
The days passed, and the whispers died.
Togar was gone, but no horn was sounded, no questions raised. Dragonkeepers sometimes vanished—burns, rockslides, careless steps near volatile creatures. His absence was noted, then quietly forgotten. Perhaps he had no kin left to ask. Or perhaps the others, those old enough to know how the world turned, had their suspicions and chose silence instead.
I kept to my routine. Rose early. Worked the pits. Fed hatchlings and swept ash. When I could, I slipped away to the cliffs. Silverwing waited, always near the ledge, always watching the skies. We flew only at night now, circling far above the island where no eyes could follow. It was freedom, but a quiet one—muted, hidden.
King's Landing sent word of a grand tourney being planned for the Prince's name day. Talk shifted to banners, horses, and feasts. No one cared about the old keeper who had limped too close to a dragon. No one cared about the cliffs.
Even Maelion, who had once watched me like a hawk, seemed distracted. He asked fewer questions. When I passed him scrolls, he barely looked up.
"You still keep to the cliffs?" he asked one morning, without accusation.
"Yes," I said. Nothing more.
He nodded. "Good place to think."
The days grew warmer. Summer crept in like a lazy hound. The island buzzed with life again, and with it, so did the dragons. Syrax was seen over the Narrow Sea. Caraxes flew patrols with Daemon perched proud atop him. Even the young hatchlings grew bolder, snapping at one another over scraps.
But Silverwing remained calm. Distant. She never roared, never challenged. She had chosen me, and now we simply... existed.
Sometimes, I would lie beside her massive frame, feel her heart beat through the stone, and wonder how long this would last. How long a secret could survive in a place where fire ruled.
But for now, it did.
Togar was gone. The skies were quiet. And the world, ever hungry for spectacle, had moved on.
Let them feast and joust. I had a dragon.
And she had me.