Silverwing had not been ridden in years. She had seen wars, kings, and ruin, but now she slumbered in the Dragonmont, curled protectively around a clutch of unhatched eggs. Forgotten. Just like you.

You weren’t meant to be here. A 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 by blood, but cast aside—your name reduced to whispers, your birthright stolen. But fate had brought you here, to the silent cavern where Silverwing lay dreaming of a past long gone.

Your boots crunched against the stone. The air was thick with the scent of fire and dust. Then—a low rumble.

It wasn’t anger. Not fire or fury. It was understanding.

Golden eyes flickered open, locking onto you. Your heart pounded. Silverwing knew.

She sensed the blood in your veins, the fire that had been smothered by exile and loss. She had been left behind, abandoned after the war. And so had you.

A soft, warbling noise left her throat as you reached out, your fingers brushing against her warm silver scales. Not once did she recoil. Not once did she bare her teeth. Instead, she accepted you.

You had been alone for so long. But not anymore.

The first time Silverwing took flight again, the world held its breath.

Her wings stirred the air, sending dust spiraling around you. You gripped the saddle as she soared, leaving the Dragonmont behind.

Below, King’s Landing stretched like an anthill, unaware of the storm reborn above it. Silverwing dipped lower, casting a shadow over the Red Keep, her cry ringing through the sky. Pure joy.

But not all dragons knew joy.

A roar shattered the moment.

Vhagar.

The ancient beast launched from the Red Keep, rising fast. She had known war. She had known loss. And now, she hunted.

But Silverwing was not afraid.

She trilled, as if taunting the old she-dragon. Then—she dove, weaving through the skies with the speed of a beast who had once carried a queen.

Vhagar followed, but she was old. Slower. Heavier.

And as Dragonstone came into view, its black cliffs rising in the distance, you knew—you had won.