Canibal's wings sliced through the gray sky like black blades from a nightmare. His silhouette eclipsed the sun, casting a shadow so vast it blanketed the cliffs of Dragonstone and beyond. The dragon's roar — a primordial thunder that seemed to rise from the world's very core — made the soldiers on the battlements tremble. It was a sound not heard in generations.
The maesters would later say that on that day, the wind changed direction.
The ravens took flight. The waves crashed harder against the rocks. And the men — the few who dared look up — swore they saw the devil himself riding fire.
But it wasn't a devil.
It was Daron Targaryen.
He rode the wildest and oldest of all living dragons: Cannibal. The devourer of his own kin. The black specter of Valyria's past. His body was a mass of scars, his skin like cracked, gleaming obsidian, and when he breathed his fury, his flames burned dark green — phosphorescent, like sorcery or poison.
No one at Dragonstone moved as he descended. Silence ruled, unnatural and complete. Only the rhythmic beat of enormous wings and the crunch of earth beneath the dragon's claws could be heard.
Daron dismounted with the ease of a seasoned rider, though his legs still trembled from the brutal ordeal that had been their first flight. Cannibal had tested him with every turn, every climb, every dive. He had tested his mettle. His flesh. His soul. And had accepted him.
For now.
The dragon stepped back, his breath deep, the emerald vapor slipping through the cracks of his jaw. Daron turned toward the fortress gates.
Daemon Targaryen was already waiting.
He wore no crown, no cloak — only a black tunic, fitted and plain, with his sword at his side. His violet eyes, sharp slashes of judgment, studied Daron with a mixture of surprise, doubt… and respect.
"You rode Cannibal?" he asked, voice firm, though low.
"Do you doubt it?" Daron replied, not slowing his stride, his face still smudged with ash and a fresh cut on his brow. He walked like a man who had just conquered a kingdom.
Daemon looked him over, then turned to the dragon watching from the cliffside — still alert, its body taut like a trap of bone and flame. Something flickered in Daemon's eyes. Not fear. But caution.
"That dragon was never ridden," Daemon said, almost to himself. "He never even let himself be seen."
Daron stopped in front of him.
"Maybe he was waiting for the right rider."
The words hung between them like a lit torch. Daemon tilted his head — and, for the first time, smiled.
"Or maybe you're mad," he said. "Though that's never been a flaw among our kind."
They stood in silence. It wasn't camaraderie. It was two wolves sizing each other up. Two beasts who knew the other could bite — but hadn't yet decided whether to fight or to run together.
"How did you do it?" Daemon finally asked.
Daron took his time replying. His eyes drifted to the horizon, where traces of the flight still floated in the sky.
"I went into a cave… and found what I wasn't looking for. The past. The Others. Darkness."
Daemon frowned.
"The Others?"
"Yes," said Daron. "But that doesn't matter now. Deep inside, I saw Cannibal attacking another dragon. Grey Ghost, I think. I jumped in without thinking. And he… let me live. Let me ride."
Daemon looked at him more closely now. Something stirred inside him — not just admiration, but the sense that Daron was part of something greater. A shift in the game, the movement of pieces yet unseen.
"Dragons feel things we don't," said the prince. "Invisible bonds. Older than the world. Maybe he knew you before he met you."
Daron nodded slowly. His breath was beginning to calm. But it wasn't peace he felt. It was the stillness before a storm.
"I feel the same," he said. "Like we recognized each other. Not with the mind… with the blood."
Daemon crossed his arms.
"That blood is dangerous."
"All blood is," Daron replied. "But ours was made for things great… or terrible."
Another silence fell between them. This one wasn't uncomfortable. It was the weight of shared understanding. A bond, still new, forged in fire, flight, and legacy.
Finally, Daemon turned toward the castle.
"You have a place in Dragonstone, if you want it. We don't fear dragons here… nor the men who ride them."
Daron watched him walk a few steps away. Then he looked up at Cannibal.
The dragon watched him back, motionless, with eyes that weren't eyes — but ancient embers. Despite the bond they had just formed, Daron knew he would never fully control him. Cannibal was not a mount. Not a tamed beast.
He was an old god, cloaked in scales.
And yet… he accepted him.
Daron approached slowly. Cannibal didn't move. Didn't growl. Didn't breathe fire. He simply watched.
When the young man extended his hand, he touched the dragon's warm snout. The skin was rough, like hardened volcanic stone. Power vibrated beneath the surface. It was like touching a sleeping volcano.
A fleeting image entered his mind: the Long Night, a frozen sea, creatures with blue eyes… and Cannibal soaring above them, spitting green fire that didn't melt — it cleansed.
Daron shivered. But didn't pull back.
The dragon closed his eyes.
And roared.
Not in rage. Not in fury. It was a roar… of acceptance.
From the towers of Dragonstone, the sound echoed like a prophecy made flesh.