**THE QUESTIONS**
Months have passed since the battle on the island.
The children train, fly, grow. Their bodies lengthen, their voices change, their gazes grow deeper. Aegon is nearly thirteen, with a maturity that sometimes frightens his parents. Visenya and Rhaenys, at eleven, are already taller than many girls their age. Orys, always the quietest, the most observant, seems to carry a weight that should not be his.
But something has changed.
They no longer look at their grandfather with the same innocence.
Before, Aerom was simply Grandfather. The old man in the tower. The one who knew all the answers. The one who loved them more than anything.
Now, after the battle, after the stories they've heard, after sleepless nights thinking... now there are questions.
Questions they dare not ask.
Until one afternoon.
They are in their favorite place: the cliff overlooking the sea, where the dragons rest and the wind always blows. Valerio sleeps on the beach below. Vhagar and Meraxes play in the sky, chasing each other. The four siblings, sitting on the rocks, watch.
And then Visenya breaks the silence.
—Have you noticed? —she says, in that voice of hers that brooks no evasion —. He never takes off his gloves.
The words fall like stones in a pond.
Rhaenys nods slowly. Her violet eyes, always attentive, always observing, meet her sister's.
—Never —she confirms —. Not even to eat. I've seen it. He always eats with gloves. Not even when it's hot, in the middle of summer, when we're all sweating. I've seen him.
Orys lowers his voice.
It's an instinctive gesture, as if what he's about to say cannot be heard by the wind.
—I saw him one night. A few weeks ago.
The other three turn toward him.
—I couldn't sleep —Orys continues —. I climbed the tower. I don't know why. I wanted... I don't know what I wanted. And I found him talking to himself.
—Talking to himself —Aegon repeats.
—But not in our language. It was... something else. Strange words. As if he were arguing with someone who wasn't there.
—And the ravens? —Rhaenys asks, as if she already knew the answer.
Orys looks at her.
—The ravens answered him.
Silence.
The wind blows. The waves crash. The dragons roar in the distance.
Aegon, the eldest, the one who always has answers, this time has only questions.
—Let's go ask him —he decides, rising —. Directly. Without fear.
Visenya smiles.
That fierce, defiant smile.
That's what she wanted to hear.
**THE TOWER**
They climb the tower stairs in silence.
It is the first time the four have climbed together without being summoned. They have always gone up one by one, when Grandfather called them. But this is different. This is an invasion.
The stone steps, worn by decades of use, creak under their feet. The torches, placed at regular intervals, cast dancing shadows on the walls. Above, very high, caws can be heard.
When they reach the door, it is slightly ajar.
Aegon pushes gently.
The tower room is as always: circular, with windows at all cardinal points. Maps on the walls. Books piled in corners. A small bed in one corner.
And ravens.
Dozens of them.
Perched on the beams. On the window frames. On the back of the chair. On the floor, around Aerom's feet.
And Aerom sits by the window, as always. Looking at the sea. A raven rests on his shoulder, so still it seems part of his clothing.
—Sit down —he says without looking at them, in that deep voice they know so well —. I've been expecting this visit for a long time.
The children obey.
They sit on the floor, forming a semicircle before him. The raven on his shoulder caws softly. Aerom strokes its head with a gloved finger.
—Ask —he says.
Aegon takes a breath.
He is the eldest. It falls to him to speak.
—Grandfather... —he begins, and his voice trembles slightly —. What are you?
Aerom smiles.
A sad smile. Ancient. As if the question reminded him of something he had tried to forget for a long time.
He rises slowly. His bones creak. The ravens move aside as he passes, clearing his path.
He walks toward them. His steps are slow, but sure. As if the stone floor were an extension of his own body.
—I was many things, Aegon —he says, looking at them one by one —. I was a mage in Valyria, when Valyria was the center of the world and dragons flew in flocks like birds.
He stops before them.
—I was a mage. One of the most powerful that ever existed. I learned from those who knew, from those who had seen beyond the veil. I mastered arts that are lost today.
His grey eyes seem to shine with their own light.
—I was a greenseer. I could see the past, yes. Anyone with training can see the past. But I saw the future. And what lies beyond the veil. What the living should not see.
The children hold their breath.
—I was Aere's husband —Aerom continues, and his voice softens —. The strongest woman I ever knew. The one who held me up when everything was crumbling. The one who gave me six children.
—I was father of six children —his voice breaks slightly —. Dareo, Eleris, Errol, Elera, Nemerys, Aegar. Six. And I lost four of them.
Silence.
—And now —he says, recovering his composure —. Now I am only your grandfather.
The children listen in silence, without blinking.
**THE BURNED HANDS**
Visenya, the most direct, the one who never holds back, asks:
—And the gloves, Grandfather? Why do you never take them off?
Aerom looks at his own gloved hands.
He raises them, observes them as if they were strange objects, as if they did not fully belong to him.
For a moment, he seems to lose himself in some distant memory.
—My hands —he says slowly — are burned, child.
His voice is soft, but there is something in it... an echo. As if he spoke from very far away.
—Bony. They burned in the Fall of Valyria, when I tried to save those I could. Fire... fire does not kill me, as you know. But it was a cursed fire. It can hurt me.
He pauses.
—It is not pretty to see. I prefer that you remember me as I am, not as my hands ended up.
Visenya nods.
But something inside her is not entirely convinced.
—Does it hurt? —Rhaenys asks, with her sweet voice.
Aerom looks at her with tenderness.
—Not anymore —he lies —. It doesn't hurt anymore.
But Rhaenys, who always sees things others don't, notices something in his eyes.
Something that doesn't fit.
**THE STORY OF VALYRIA**
—Tell us about Valyria —Rhaenys asks, changing the subject —. What it was like before. What it was like when you were young.
Aerom smiles.
And for a moment, his eyes seem to shine with ancient memories. Memories from before the pain, before the flight, before everything.
He sits again by the window. The children draw close, forming a circle around him. The ravens, as if understanding, keep silent.
—Valyria —Aerom begins, in a dreamy voice — was a great empire, children. The greatest that ever existed.
—Greater than the Seven Kingdoms? —Orys asks.
Aerom laughs. A short, dry laugh.
—The Seven Kingdoms are a bunch of savages fighting over muddy hills. Valyria... Valyria stretched across half the world. From the coasts of Essos to the Summer Isles. Our legions were invincible. Our mages, untouchable. Our dragons...
—Were there dragons? —Orys asks, eyes wide.
—Ha. Thousands.
Aerom points out the window, toward where Valerio sleeps on the beach.
—Dragons flew in flocks like birds. The skies were full of them. Every great family had their own. Ours were the best, of course.
Visenya smiles proudly.
—There was order in Valyria —Aerom continues —. Prosperity. Magic flowed like water through its streets. Lords built cities of stone and fire. No one went hungry. No one lived in fear.
—What happened? —Aegon asks.
Aerom's smile fades.
The ravens stir. Some caw softly.
—The Curse.
**THE DECLINE OF THE WORLD**
Aerom is silent for a moment.
A long one.
The children wait. They dare not interrupt.
—No one really knows what happened —he says at last —. Some say the gods punished us for our pride. Others, that our own magic devoured us from within. Others, that something awakened in the depths, something that should not have been awakened.
—What do you think? —Aegon asks.
Aerom looks at him for a long time.
—I think all the answers are true at once.
—Did everyone die? —Rhaenys asks.
—Almost everyone. Those of us who survived... fled. Like me. Like your grandmother. Like the other families. We scattered across the world, seeking refuge for five years.
—And what happened after? —Aegon insists.
—Chaos —Aerom replies, and his voice hardens —. Wars across the world. Everyone wanted the power Valyria had left vacant. Cheap kings raising armies. Ambitious mages trying to fill the void with blood and pain.
He shakes his head.
—But no one could consolidate a kingdom. No one had the vision, the blood, the patience. They only wanted to destroy what others had built.
He looks out the window, toward the infinite sea.
—Only decline. Only hunger. Only death. The world became smaller, poorer, crueler.
**DRAGONSTONE, THE EXCEPTION**
—And us? —Orys asks —. How is it that Dragonstone is so prosperous?
Aerom looks at them again.
And this time there is pride in his eyes. Genuine pride, without shadows.
—Because we did not forget. Because here, on this island, we followed the customs of Valyria. Order. Work. Family. We did not let ourselves be swept away by the greed of kings or the empty promises of mages.
He points through the window, toward the roofs of the fortress, toward the villagers' houses, toward the ships in the port.
—We are small, yes. But we are strong. Because we know who we are. And where we come from.
The children look at each other.
Proud.
—And because we have dragons —Visenya adds.
Aerom smiles.
—Yes. And because we have dragons.
**THE GRANDFATHER'S LOVE**
Aerom looks at them one by one.
At Aegon, the leader, the one who always finds the way.
At Visenya, the fierce, the one who never backs down.
At Rhaenys, the sweet, the one who sees what others don't.
At Orys, the loyal and strong, the one who is always there.
—I love you very much —he says.
And his voice breaks.
Barely. An almost imperceptible tremor. But it is there.
—More than anything in this world.
The children feel a lump in their throats.
—You are my reason to continue —Aerom continues —. To get up each morning. To watch each night. To endure... whatever I have to endure.
Aegon rises.
He approaches his grandfather. Places a hand on his shoulder. The old man's shoulder, fragile under his tunic, but firm.
—We love you too, Grandfather.
The other three draw close.
They surround Aerom.
They embrace him.
Aerom closes his eyes.
For a moment, he is not the powerful mage, nor the family guardian, nor the greenseer who sees beyond the veil.
He is just an old man surrounded by his grandchildren.
The ravens, on the beams, watch in silence.
**THE NIGHT VISITOR**
That night, Visenya cannot sleep.
Her grandfather's words swirl in her head. The burned hands. The ravens. The strange language Orys mentioned. The way his eyes sometimes seem to shine with another color.
Something doesn't fit.
Something doesn't add up.
She rises silently.
Visenya is never afraid. That is her mark, her pride, her essence. But tonight, something drives her. Something she cannot name.
She walks toward the tower.
The corridors are empty. The torches, nearly extinguished. The moon, high, casts long shadows.
She climbs the stairs in silence.
Treading carefully.
Holding her breath.
When she reaches the door, it is slightly ajar. Just as before.
She peers in.
Aerom is alone.
With his back to her. Standing by the window, looking at the night. The full moon bathes the scene in silver.
The ravens surround him.
Dozens of them. Perched on the beams, on the window, on the floor. In silence. Motionless. As if waiting.
And Aerom speaks.
It is not the common tongue. It is not the High Valyrian he teaches them in lessons. It is something else.
More ancient.
Deeper.
Words that seem to have weight. That seem to bend the air around them. That make the temperature drop a few degrees.
The ravens caw softly.
As if responding.
Visenya holds her breath.
Her heart beats so loudly she fears he will hear it.
Then Aerom turns.
Not toward her. Toward the window. Toward the north.
—Not yet —he whispers —. They are not ready.
Visenya waits no longer.
She descends the stairs as fast as she can, silently, her heart in her throat. Her feet barely touch the steps. Her breath, held, burns her lungs.
She enters her room.
Covers herself with the blankets.
Closes her eyes tightly.
She does not sleep all night.
But she says nothing.
She never says anything.
**THE DAWN**
The next day, everything is normal.
The sun rises over the sea, gilding the clouds. The fishermen go out to work. The merchants open their stalls. The dragons fly in the sky.
Aerom trains them as always.
In the small courtyard, with the fountain in the center, he teaches them strategy, history, languages. Reviews the High Valyrian lessons. Asks them about ancient battles. Makes them recite the names of forgotten kings.
The ravens are in the tower, as always.
Visenya watches him.
She searches for something in his eyes, in his gloved hands, in the way he moves.
But Aerom is the same as always.
Grandfather.
The one who loves them more than anything.
When he looks at her, he smiles.
—Did you sleep well, Visenya?
She nods.
—Yes, Grandfather.
She lies.
But she says nothing.
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches the children train.
He sees them from on high, small in the courtyard, moving with that grace that only dragon's blood can give.
The raven on his shoulder caws.
—I know —Aerom says, without turning —. She saw.
The raven caws again. A question.
—Not yet —Aerom replies —. When the time comes, they will understand. When the time comes, they will know the truth.
He looks north.
Toward where the mountains disappear into the eternal mist.
Toward where something awaits him.
—When the time comes.
The ravens caw.
They wait.
They always wait.