The black-fused walls of Dragonstone were awash with noise.

Within its great hall, alight with braziers and candles and song, a grand feast was taking place. Scores of sheep and boar were served with the famed spices traded by the Velaryon fleet, and peoples of all, young and old, noble and common, were permitted to share the bounty. A grouping of amateur musicians that had apparent never met before had banded together with lute and drum and flute, and they were riotous and happy to play their tunes together, bawdy singers joining in when appropriate, with dancing and merriment making way all through the hall.

For on this night, the whole of Dragonstone celebrated Ser Alfred Broome, slayer of the Cannibal.

I watched with a smile from the high table as Ser Alfred regaled a number of children with his tale of victory from a lower table. He was holding the half-melted scorpion bolt that did the deed for emphasis, and various other folk listened in to his story with bated breaths, cheering and gasping and hollering with each segment. He'd told his tale at least ten times already, and though the story never changed, for it was not in his nature to embellish, he did not tire of telling it, and similarly, it seemed as though none were tired of hearing it. The Cannibal had been a scourge on Dragonstone for over a century, the subject of nightmares and fear, for he not only hunted dragons, but also held a craving for human flesh. There was a reason few folk lived on the northern slopes of the island. The Targaryen's had never felled the beast and appeared to have no intention to do so any time soon, no matter the cries and pleas of those they overlorded. Unfortunately, most presumed that the Cannibal would be their ever-present demon. Thus, Ser Alfred had not only become a hero worthy of storybooks with his felling of the dragon, but he had also become the hero that these people needed in the now.

It was heartening in a way, to see him so relaxed and social. Ser Alfred had always been a dour sort, unbending and unbreaking in his steadfastness, rarely allowing himself the basic freedom of relaxation. Looking at him now, regaling children with stories, sharing drinks and laughs with the Ser Robert and the rest of their men, and flirting with the women that approached him… I was gladdened to see him in such a way. He deserved it.

We all did.

Atop the high table, I sat seemingly alone, simply happy to bask in the atmosphere. At the beginning of the feast, I was sat with Ser Alfred, Ser Robert, Nettles, Maester Tollard, and a number of other soldiers of renown, though that quickly changed once the festivities kicked off proper. Ser Alfred and Ser Robert and their men quickly made their rounds on the main floor, happy to make talk with the masses. Nettles snagged a flagon of ale and left after a while, whistling The Dornishman's Wife as she did so. Only Maester Tollard remained up here with me, though his reasoning more-so had to do with his being passed out drunk, his face half mashed into a greasy haunch of mutton. The poor sod was a lightweight the likes of which I'd never seen. Gods did I wish I had a camera.

Thoughts on camera's, on any appliances and modern technologies from my past life, brought my mood down. It always did, ashamed as I was to admit it. No matter how much I worked to improve the standings of the people of Westeros, I would never be able to see such marvels again within my lifetime. With Westerosi nobility being such a slow-to-change folk, it was doubtful that anything of the sort would happen over the course of the next thousand years, even with my pushing. Depression always fell upon me when I spiraled into such thoughts.

Grunting, I stood and made away from the feast. I refused to allow such thoughts to plague me, but until they made their escape from the recesses of my mind, it was best to make away from the festivities. I did not wish to bring the cheer of the people down to any degree.

Walking the halls, I came to an empty balcony with stone-wrought gargoyles keeping watch on the view of the ocean and breathed in the salty and sulfury air. Something about it always calmed my nerves.

As I leaned over the railing, I eyed the courtyard idly, going stock still after a moment. Though I was high up, four stories above the ground floor, I could make out a lit lantern, heading towards the beach. Towards Stormcloud's hut.

Any attempt to calm my nerves was impossible to occur after seeing that. Cursing, I rushed away, panic filling me. Why is it always her? I took a turn into the servants passes, with their steep but quick stairwells, and hustled down those stairs as quickly as I could. Reaching the bottom floor, I ran towards the courtyard, snagging a racked sword and shield, though I realized they were for training. They wouldn't cut anything.

When I reached the beach, breathing heavily from my exercise, I heard a woman's voice singing Alysanne from within the hut, the sad song about the death of the Good Queen, and I recognized the owner of the voice quickly to be Nettle's. Relief filled me, for I knew she was not, and never would be, a threat to the young she-dragon. Dropping the training equipment onto the sand, I made way into the hut at a slower, more measured pace, taking the chance to catch my bearings.

"-danced in the wind, her silver wings,

The land did hear, as the dragon sings,

A song of mourning and grief and saddened things,

For the Stranger had come to take the Queen of Kings."

Nettles was contentedly sat along the sand as she sang the final verse of her song, Stormcloud's head resting atop her lap. It was a gentle scene, one that I was happy to see, though I admit I did not expect. Young dragons such as Stormcloud were often only willing to allow their riders in such a close proximity.

It did not matter, as it were, however. "You've a lovely voice, Nettles." And she really did, it was clear and able to go quite low for a woman, a pleasant ring in the ear if there ever was one.

Stormcloud hissed at the sound of my voice, but Nettles merely placed a hand on the crest above her eyes, and the she-dragon let out a grumble before quieting again. "Always have, 'tis true. One'a me best qualities, b'fore I rode Sheepy. Used ta be how I made coin, singin' wit some bards in taverns and streets. Better than bein' a whore, I say."

"I would have to agree." I spoke. "I hope you don't mind, but I saw light by Stormcloud's hut, and felt it best to investigate."

"No mind at all," Nettles said, shrugging. "Not from the lordy-lord hisself." She eyed me thoughtfully; her brow scrunched a tad. "How'd ya see me though? Can't see the beach from the feast."

There was no reason to lie, so I humored her. "I felt the need for air, simple as that. And you? You took some food and ale and left quite quickly. Is everything alright?"

She smiled, her dimples becoming apparent with the movement. "It's fine, aye. Jus' not my take, y'know? Them feasts and the like. I ain't the type to cheer and jeer after a scrap, I just wanna go on my own way and let it be done. Dragon fight's the same for me, I'm guessin'. I'll take grub and grog and have me own party."

"A party of you and a dragon," I said, raising an eyebrow. "What made you come to Stormcloud?"

"Little lass is lonely," Nettles said, stroking Stormcloud's neck. The dragon rumbled happily. "Everybody be celebratin', but nobody's keepin' wit the one that near got eaten, are they? Were I in her scales, I'd be scared out me mind. I'd want company, anybody that'd take the time, even if they ain't my favorite folk. Turns out, she was in the same way."

That… that made a frightening amount of sense, and I cursed myself for not considering such an obvious action. Of course Stormcloud would be amenable to her company. Especially when Nettles was one of the ones working tirelessly to save the young she-dragon. If anybody could calm her nerves, it was Nettles. And me, I supposed.

With that in mind, I squeezed myself next to Nettles and offered my hand for Stormcloud to smell. She did so slowly, wary as she ought to be, but after catching the scent of the Grey Ghost, she offered my hand a quick lick, her tongue hot and oily, and resettled herself.

Nettles and I fell into a silence as we gave Stormcloud attention. It was not an awkward or longing silence, but instead one of contentedness. There was nothing more to say about anything.

Still, after doing this for long enough, the quiet dragged on me, and I was the one to break it. "How is Sheepstealer doing?"

"Sheepy's fine," she responded, smiling. "He can fly if he wants to. Problem is landin', I say. His claws and scales got scuffed from the rocks he was droppin', but they're just scratches mainly. He'll be fine soon enough, I think. And Grey Ghost? How's he?"

"The Grey Ghost is much of the same." I admitted. "Last I saw of him, he was swimming along the beaches, likely to both calm the wounds on his claws and to feast on some fish all the while. I don't doubt he'll be ready to fly in a few days. Perhaps sooner, even."

Nettles hummed, eying me. "Mind if I ask you somethin'?"

I nodded her way. "Anything."

"Yer dragon," she began. "You always call 'im the Grey Ghost. Not just Grey Ghost, like I do for Sheepy. Why's that?"

"Because Grey Ghost is not his name."

"But the Grey Ghost is?" She asked drolly.

Chuckling, I shook my head. "No, the Grey Ghost is not his name either. In my view, it is a title. Think about it. Balerion the Black Dread, Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, Vermithor the Bronze Fury, Tessarion the Blue Queen, Sunfyre the Golden, Melys the Red Queen… Many dragons have a title to accompany their name, but the Grey Ghost, much like Sheepstealer and the now dead Cannibal, was a wild dragon identified not by a Targaryen or a dragon keeper, but by the people of Dragonstone. And unlike Sheepstealer, who knew and accepted his designation, the Grey Ghost, due to his nature, and the rarity of his being seen, likely did not even know what people called him. He responds to my commands and my calling him that, for I am his rider, but he does not actually possess a name proper."

Nettles hummed, taking in my words. "So what're ye gonna call'im then? Can't keep callin' yer dragon by his title, now can ye?"

"No," I admitted. "No. I cannot."

The topic of naming the Grey Ghost proper had come in mind many a time since we bonded. I had thought long and hard on it, and yet I still struggled with what I was to name him. If he were a simple unnamed hatchling, I could have picked the name of an unused Valyrian god and been done with it, just as many of the other Targaryen's had done. Gaelithox would have worked well, I felt. But the Grey Ghost was a well-grown dragon, and saddling him with a name that did not match him felt… wrong.

I wanted him to bear a name that had meaning beyond my conceit. I wanted him to bear a name that, when looked upon, anybody could proclaim that it was a perfect fit.

Perhaps my vanity was what was holding me back. My dragon was a simple sort. So long as I was not insulting him, he would be content with whatever I called him.

But until it came to a head, if it were ever to do so, I would leave the topic be.

"Soon enough he'll have a name," I told her. "And soon enough I will be able to usher in my plans."

"And what be those plans?"

Closing my eyes, I considered speaking them to Nettles. In truth, my intentions for Westeros would not remain secret for long. I knew my nature well. I had waited patiently for many years to make my mark on this world, summarily rejected by Rhaenyra and her ilk every time I made an attempt, unwilling to shake up the status quo. The only thing Rhaenyra cared to change was primogeniture, being that the Iron Throne would fall to the firstborn child of the previous monarch, regardless of their gender playing a role. Anything that rocked the boat she was already rocking was a risk to her goals of progression. And I understood, I truly did.

But now that I had a dragon of my own, I knew my patience was not long to last. I had to do something.

With the Grey Ghost beneath my legs, I would be able to do much and more.

…And with Nettles, and the other dragonriders too by my side, it could be done far faster.

Nodding, I spoke. "My ambition, simply put, is to allow dragons to flourish, for the species to grow beyond the paltry numbers we currently have, for I find them too beautiful and wonderous to let die off, and at the same time, for the people of Westeros to not just be fearful of them as they currently are, but to also thankful for them."

Nettles snorted. "Good luck with that. It's all fear, Maekar. Ain't ever gonna change. Only one's that ain't scared're us, an' that's only 'cause we've got a way to fight back."

"I don't need luck," I said. "For ambition without a plan is nothing but a formless dream. Years ago, with the aid of Maester Gerardys, I developed a material we dubbed concrete. A slurry of crushed rock, sand, ash and water, it is liquid stone. When placed in a mold and given time to cure in the sun, it can create strong bricks and supports far quicker than any stonecutters could dare, in greater quantities than any other could attempt to produce, and the materials to repair and build castles and holdfasts and even standard homes could be done much quicker and much cheaper. I suspect that, should I cure concrete in dragonfire rather than the sun, that it will turn into the fused black stone that made up Dragonstone. The recipe might need some tuning, but I believe I will be able to recreate the mark of Valyria."

Nettles whistled, impressed. "That'll get ya far, that will. Saving folk coin always will. But ain't gonna be enough. All it'll do is make the lords 'n ladies bigger spenders, usin' the taxes o' normal folk. It'll jus' be more'a the same in the end."

"That's true," I said, acknowledging her point. "I can't do anything about the habits of the nobles and what they spend their coin on. What I can do, however, is increase the amount of coin that smallfolk have in their purses. When King Jaehaerys created his roads, he envisioned all of Westeros coming together in trade and purpose under the banner of the three headed dragon. But his roads, even though they were completed, are simple things, wrought of gravel and rock and coarse dirt, and since his death, they have become dilapidated and fallen prey to bandit activity. Envision instead roads spanning all of Westeros, connecting the kingdoms and cities and even the small villages and hamlets together in a web of blackened, unbreaking stone. How much trade could be completed with such a track? On my own, such a project would be impossible, but with more dragonriders in the world, with dragons trained for building rather than breaking, it could be done before my life ends."

My companion's eyes were wide as I spoke my truth. "Yer goal ain't just that there be more dragons. Ya want more dragonriders too. More dragonseeds."

Grinning, I nodded, my chest burning with want. "With the Cannibal dead, hatchlings will finally be able to grow in number. If any show similar natures to the monster, they will be cut down before they become too much of a hassle. But wild dragons provide a danger all on their own, even without having cannibalistic tendencies. At the rate I want dragons to breed, there will soon come a time when there are not enough Targaryen's to mount them all. Especially after the war is done. Whatever Targaryen's that remain will have no choice but to permit more dragonseed riders to pacify the growing population of dragons. However, unlike what happened with us five, these seeds will not be rushed with the breakout of war. An order of dragonseeds raised and trained from young to do as House Targaryen bids, perhaps groomed in a similar way as pages and squires are to become knights, though I envision there will be no such discrimination of gender in this order. Once attaining these knighthoods, or whatever they will be called, these seeds will be permitted to attempt to tame a dragon. And should they succeed, they will act on behalf of House Targaryen in whatever capacity is best needed, be it as war bringers, peacekeepers, message bearers, or assisting us in creating roads, in changing the land, in changing the world."

"Roads can't do that much," Nettles protested, eyes still wide. Like she'd never seen me before. "They can't."

"On their own? Of course not." I declared. "Roads are a means to an end. They connect peoples and cultures together so trade and immigration can happen easier. But roads are not the only thing dragons can help with. Did you know that as a dragon ages, their fire changes? The fire of a young dragon is not nearly as dangerous as the fire of an older dragon. The older a dragon becomes, the more powerful their fire is, and at some point, though I admit do not know when, their fire will not just burn, but destroy. My Ghost's flame is not yet so strong that it can destroy rock, but your Sheepstealer, he likely could, couldn't he?"

"He can," Nettles said. "I've seen it. He made a new cave with his fire when we first came to Dragonstone. Took no time at all."

"Then you must understand the potential this holds. Sheepstealer made a cave using his flame, but what happens if he kept going, what would happen if your dragon chose to keep breathing his fire into the cave?"

"…It'll get deeper?" Nettles asked, wary and somewhat confused.

I snapped my finger, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. "Indeed. Deeper. And if he kept going, it'd go even deeper. And eventually… he would find an end, and rather than a very deep cave, we would have a tunnel. You have not seen much of Westeros beyond Hull and Dragonstone, but the land is not as hospitable for roads as I would wish. The Vale of Arryn is the greatest example of this, being made up of all mountains with very little flat or farmlands. To traverse it, you must hire the services of a trail tracker or a shepherd that knows the way. There is no way a road would work in the Vale. But if we had the older dragons burn tunnels into the mountainside, then the most geographically isolated region in Westeros would finally join with the continent as a whole."

"And tunnels aren't all that could be done!" I proclaimed. "With the fire of these older dragons, we could cut a swath through the Riverlands, furthering ocean access. Similarly, we could to the same in the North, lengthening the river channel starting from their western shores of the Blazewater Bay though Moat Cailin, into the Bite. Hells, we could create tunnels that go so deep into the earth that we could travel beneath the Narrow Sea, mitigated our reliance on shipping lanes that are easily held back by the forces of the Essos. Through dragons, we could truly unite Westeros beyond anything ever seen, and it is my goal to see that happen. Should my goals come to fruition, the peoples of this land will see what I see, not beasts of war, bringing fire and blood and death wherever they might go, but messengers of great change, growth, and a prosperous future."

Spiel completed, I took a deep breath and lay back against the sands. Nettles was silent, and this time, I felt no need to break the quiet. To anybody, my words would be a shock. They were treasonous beyond reckoning, and had I spoke them to anybody else, I would not doubt that Black or Green I would be summarily brought into questioning. Even among the other dragonseeds, I was sure this would happen. Addam would rat me out immediately to Rhaenyra, wanting to be as useful to her as he possibly could. Ulf and Hugh would take my thoughts, mull them over, and then share them with the highest bidder, for they cared more about their personal pleasures than they did the betterment of the realm.

Only Nettles would take my words without ulterior motive. Her loyalty had been to Prince Jacaerys above all others, and with him dead, I knew her thoughts were muddled on what was right. But beyond all else, she knew that I trusted her and favored her, and that, more than anything, would bring me a measure of time.

"Why're you telling me this," Nettles asked softly, stroking along the ridge of Stormcloud's skull. The she-dragon had fallen asleep, letting out smokey snores from her nostrils. "Why me?"

Because she would listen without issue. Because there were only six dragons still living with the power to break rock as I proclaimed, being Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Vermithor, Silverwing, Caraxes and Sheepstealer, and I felt she was the only rider of one of these dragons willing to do any sort of drudgery. Because she was my lieutenant in this war, and if I couldn't keep her in my confidence, I couldn't keep anybody in my confidence.

Because… "Because I trust you."

Nettles closed her eyes, coming to a decision in her mind. With a quick, jerky nod of her head, she appeared to come to a conclusion. Gently, she maneuvered the slumbering Stormcloud's head off of her lap, a task that proved simpler than expected, for Stormcloud quickly curled into a ball after being jostled, returning to her slumber, and then she left the hut. My heart fell at her absence, for that told me that she was unwilling to go along with my plans.

I sighed, slumping. And now that my goals were public, I would need to do as I initially intended. It looked like my Ghost and I are heading for Essos. It wouldn't be bad. I would make it work. I could-

My thoughts halted as Nettles returned into the hut in quite different state of attire.

Namely that she was naked.

Her body was taut with musculature, with a handful of scars crisscrossing over her thighs and stomach, none deep, but none looking painless either. Her breasts were small but full, and her nipples were as dark as her hair, like circles of coal against the brown of her skin. Blinking, I stopped staring at her body and craned my eyes towards her face, meeting her own eyes finally.

Eyes filled with emotions I struggled to place, though the smoldering curve of her eyelids clearly told of at least one of these emotions.

Nettles sauntered my way and straddled my lap before I could gather my bearings, wrapping her arms around my neck. Unconsciously, I grabbed her waist, and my heart beat so quickly I could hear it audibly.

"Nettles, wha-" I began, only to stop as she quieted me with her mouth. Her tongue slipped past my lips, and wrestled with mine own. My body went stiff at the invasion, as did another part of me, one that Nettles quickly caught on to, for she began to shift her hips in a rhythmic, sensual way. My mind began to slip into pleasure.

It had been over a year since I last lay with a woman. It was not that I was unwilling, it was that my standards were based on a modern position that, when looked at from a Westerosi one, seemed quite queer. I refused to spend money on a whore or courtesan; I did not lay with girls younger than eighteen; and I did not care for betrothed or married women. Of the girls I did sleep with, I made it clear that I had no intention of marrying them, for I had the hope of eventually marrying a girl of higher station. If the girls I slept with somehow fell pregnant, I would supply them with moon tea of my own coin and expect them to drink it in front of me, for I was unwilling to bear my own bastard.

I had not even considered Nettles in an intimate light. I viewed her as a friend and colleague. Clearly, I had signaled for something else in her mind. But as I lay back, feeling her lips and tongue against mine own, tracing the curves of her body as it rutted against me… I began to ask myself why I had never viewed Nettles in this sort of way?

She was a kind girl, a good person, one that I appreciated. True, she wasn't traditionally beautiful such as the Targaryen princesses that I had seen all my life, but that did not mean she was not pretty. If anything, I admired the strength of her body more powerfully than I did the dainty, fleshy figures of noble bred ladies. Slowly, I rosed a hand from her waist and traced it over her stomach, where her abdominal muscles were made obvious. I… liked this.

Instinct took over as reason made its choice. My hand lifted from her belly and onto her breasts, tweaking her nipples, earning me an appreciative groan from Nettles. Now that I had deigned to participate in this game that she started, Nettles loosened her hands from around my neck, still kissing me, and brought them down to untie my breaches.

The rest of the night fell away into a muddied but desirously enjoyable fog of passion, one that I had not wholly expected, but was happy to receive. I do not know if we made love, for I certainly did not love Nettles in such a manner, not yet at least, but the sex was long and messy, sand getting everywhere, and we delighted in it. I took her in whatever manner I could, just as she did to me, and when our peaks came, we fell asleep atop a pile of my smallclothes.

When morning came, it foretold a good omen. Dragonstone was often plagued by gloomy weather, fog and mist and volcanic steam clouding the view. On this morning, however, the skies were clear, the sun was strong, and the fog was far away. Soon enough it would come, but as I stretched, feeling the warmth of my lovers body against my own, I determined it best to enjoy the moment for as long as I could.

A strong surge of water caught my ear, and as I strained to determine what was going on, I saw my Ghost frolicking in the nearby surf. Smiling, I looked at him. His grey scales gleamed in the morning sun, shining and bouncing away glisteningly. With the light reflecting off of him, his scales almost appeared metallic, looking…

"Silver…" I mumbled, blinking. A smile split open on my face as I fell back into my clothes, bringing Nettles closer. Unconsciously, she snuggled into my side, and I ran my fingers through her hair, mind awash.

Gelion would be his name: the High Valyrian word for silver. An ode to what he could be when seen in the right light. Perhaps it was not an ostentatious name, but in my opinion, the simplicity of it suited my dragon best.

Gelion the Grey Ghost.