News came like a storm wind from the sea: Daron Snow—now Daron Targaryen—had mounted Cannibal, the wildest and most untamable of all living dragons. No one had ever claimed him. No one had even dared to try. He had lived in the shadows of Dragonstone for decades, an ancient creature with dark green phosphorescent flames and a reputation as feared as the myths that surrounded him.
But now he had a rider.
And all of Westeros trembled.
In the Red Keep, the Small Council met in haste, though none of its members could hide the unease behind their composed faces. The rumors spread faster than wine at a feast: the legitimized bastard has conquered a beast of fire. And not just any beast. Cannibal.
Otto Hightower was the first to speak once the doors were closed:
"This changes many things," he said in a low, grave voice. "A man who has mounted Cannibal... is not merely a prince. He is a symbol."
Ser Lyonel Strong, ever cautious, replied:
"A symbol of what, my lord? The will of the gods? Or the chaos to come?"
Viserys listened from his seat, a goblet of wine in his hands, and for once in a long time, he did not seem sick or weary. His cheeks held a hint more color, and a vibrant spark danced in his violet eyes.
"He is my brother," he said, with a barely contained smile. "My blood. Son of Baelon the Brave. Who else, if not him, could achieve such a thing?"
The others exchanged looks, not daring to question the king aloud, though Otto Hightower pursed his lips with the faintest wrinkle of disagreement.
"Cannibal is no ordinary dragon, Your Grace. Some call him an abomination. A creature beyond the control of men."
"Then it is fitting that he be ridden by one who was never meant to be controlled," Viserys replied, with a dangerous calm. "Daron has lived under the shadow of his blood. Always careful. Always honorable. And now that he takes flight, you fear what he represents?"
Otto fell silent. For the king did not speak with blind passion. He spoke with pride. And within that pride, there was something else: a renewed hope.
After the council session, the words kept spreading like fire through dry leaves. Nobles, maidens, soldiers—even handmaids whispered in the halls.
Daron Targaryen. Dragonrider. Rider of Cannibal.
In her chambers, Alicent Hightower sat before the mirror as a maid helped braid her hair. The young noble looked as composed as ever, but her eyes, reflected in the glass, did not blink.
She listened.
"They say the dragon breathed green flames into the sky, as if ancient magic itself had awakened," murmured the maid. "That his roar was heard all the way to the harbor."
Alicent did not respond. She only nodded slowly and let the woman finish her task.
Once alone, she rose and walked to the window, watching the cloudy sky over King's Landing. Everything was changing. She could feel it.
The board had turned.
For weeks, she had played the game her father, Otto, had suggested with gentle pressures and affectionate advice. Please the king. Stay close. Be his comfort. Unspoken words, yet clearly understood. She had obeyed. With courtesy. With grace. With quiet resistance.
But inside, something was beginning to awaken. Not rage. Not rebellion. Awareness.
She knew what she was doing. And though she hated not having chosen it, she also understood what it could mean. Not just for her father. For herself.
That night, she went again to the king's chambers, as she had begun to do lately. Viserys was in better spirits than ever. More upright. More present.
"Daron has done the impossible," he told her, as she poured his wine. "I've dreamed of it so many times... one of ours riding that beast. But I never imagined it would be him. That I would live to see it."
Alicent listened, seated close by, her hands folded on her lap, pretending to be distracted by the fire—but absorbing every word.
"They say Cannibal devoured other dragons in ancient times," she whispered. "That even the Targaryens feared him."
"And yet, he bowed to my brother," Viserys replied, with a crooked smile. "Those dreams of greatness Daemon always had... they now fall upon Daron. But he is different. More measured. Wiser."
Alicent lowered her head slightly.
"And what will you do with him, my lord? Now that he is a dragonrider?"
Viserys did not answer immediately. His eyes were lost in the flames.
"Nothing," he said at last. "For now, nothing. I don't want him to feel used. To think his worth lies only in the power he rides. I want him to know his brother believes in him. Just as he is."
Alicent felt a pang in her chest. Not for Daron, nor for the king. For herself. Because in that moment, while he spoke of his brother with warmth, she wondered if anyone would ever speak of her that way.
Not as a piece. Not as a move. But as a person.
And still, she smiled. Because that was what was expected of her. And because she was beginning to understand that if she could not be free... then at least, she would learn how to play.
Meanwhile, in the highest corners of the Red Keep, the maesters wrote feverishly, and the ravens flew in all directions. Dragonstone, Storm's End, Summerhall—even the Eyrie.
The news of Cannibal's rider was far too great to keep contained.
And in every council hall, in every castle, in every noble house of Westeros, the same question began to stir:
What role will Daron Targaryen play in what is to come?
No one knew.
But everyone knew one thing: the board had shifted.And the shadows of dragons once more covered the skies.