The dawn at Dragonstone was unlike any other in Westeros. The sky didn't merely turn golden—it seemed to ignite with ancient fire, as if the very black stones of the fortress remembered the age when dragons ruled the skies. It was in that rising light, amidst dancing shadows and the sulfurous scent of the dormant volcano, that Daron Targaryen prepared to face the most feared dragon of all: Cannibal.
The beast lay upon a stone ledge overlooking the sea, its wings folded like dark banners, its jagged scales glinting in the mist, and its eyes—those glowing, phosphorescent green embers—fixed on him. Despite the bond forged days earlier, Cannibal was not a creature to be tamed easily. His hunger was as old as the island itself, his will indomitable.
Daron, clad in reinforced leather, approached the beast with confident steps—cautious but not fearful. He had learned that respect was the only language a dragon like that could understand. At his side, Daemon watched with arms crossed, expression somewhere between mockery and pride.
"And what if he decides to burn you alive today?" the prince asked with his usual crooked smile.
"Then I hope his flames sculpt me into legend," Daron replied, never taking his eyes off the dragon.
Daemon let out a dry laugh. He liked that answer. Direct. Bold. Truly Targaryen.
Cannibal let out a low growl, as if he could hear them and was judging their audacity. When Daron extended his hand, it wasn't to pet him, but to show he carried no weapons. The dragon didn't move at first. Then, with the slowness of an eternal predator, he tilted his head. His jaws opened just slightly, releasing a brief puff of green smoke. A warning. A test.
"Let's go," Daron murmured, climbing up the dragon's side. The heat radiating from Cannibal's body was suffocating, and he still wasn't used to the rough texture of those jagged scales—as if Cannibal had been carved by chaos itself. The dragon shuddered, but did not throw him off.
Once atop the makeshift saddle at his neck, Daron let out a low whistle. Cannibal rose abruptly, spreading his wings and releasing a roar that made Dragonstone's foundations tremble. Then he took to the skies.
The wind struck with force, and for a moment, Daron nearly slipped. Cannibal flew as though he bore no rider—sharp turns, violent ascents, and plunges that tested every muscle in Daron's body. But Daron didn't scream. He didn't complain. He tightened his legs, gripped the dragon's neck, and endured.
From the tallest tower, Daemon watched the spectacle. He knew a test when he saw one. Cannibal wasn't just flying. He was deciding whether to accept Daron—or to dash him against the rocks.
For nearly an hour, the aerial dance continued. Then, the dragon descended more slowly, more fluidly. Not tenderly—that would be too much—but with an implicit acceptance. Upon landing, Daron slid down slowly from the dragon's back to the ground, his face covered in ash and his hair tousled, but his gaze unwavering.
"Alive," Daemon said, approaching. "That's already an achievement. Though I still don't understand why you didn't choose a more… reasonable dragon."
"Because I don't want to reason with my destiny," Daron replied. "I want to conquer it."
The phrase made Daemon's face harden briefly, as if something stirred in his memories. Then he nodded, slowly.
"Come. Let's drink."
Hours later, in the hall of dark stone, the two men shared wine and words. Dragonstone, in its severity, lent the perfect atmosphere for conversations that bordered on the philosophical and the deadly. Their relationship had changed since Daron's arrival. He was no longer a guest. Not even an ally. He was something else. A reflection, perhaps. Of a younger, more ambitious Daemon.
"Do you know what they say about me in King's Landing?" Daemon asked, lounging on a dragon-carved chair.
"That you're dangerous, unpredictable, and should be kept far from the throne," Daron listed calmly.
"Ah, exactly. And yet here you are, with the most monstrous of all dragons, training as if your life depends on it. What do they say about you?"
"They don't know yet. And by the time they do, it'll be too late to stop me."
Daemon smiled. A different smile this time. More genuine. More… brotherly.
"You are fire, Daron. I don't know if that will save or doom the world, but it will definitely make it burn."
Daron didn't reply. He raised his cup in silent toast.
In the days that followed, the training continued. Cannibal made nothing easy, but each flight was less violent, each landing less hostile. Daron began to understand the dragon's logic. His language. His quirks. His unending hunger. But also, his pain. Cannibal was no mere monster. He was a creature that had seen his kin die. That had lived longer than any dragon should.
And perhaps for that reason, in the end, he accepted Daron. Because in his brutal, reptilian soul, he recognized someone just as broken inside. A soul from another time, with scars that didn't belong to this world.
During a break, as they watched the stormy sea from Dragonstone's walls, Daemon asked:
"Do you have a plan?"
Daron didn't answer right away.
"I have a vision," he finally said. "I don't know if I'll end up on the throne, or dead. But I'm going to change this kingdom. And I need Cannibal to do it."
Daemon nodded slowly. Then he said something he had never said before:
"You remind me of myself. When I still believed I could fix the world with a sword and fire."
"And now?"
"Now I just want to see which one of us manages it first."
They laughed. For the first time, not as princes or warriors. But as brothers.
And as the sun set behind the volcanic hills of Dragonstone, Daron once again walked toward the stone stables where Cannibal slept. His steps were firm. His gaze, calm.
Cannibal lifted his head at the sound. He didn't roar. He didn't snort. He simply watched. And when Daron approached, the dragon allowed him to touch him.
There was fire in that connection. Ancient fire. Fire that couldn't be explained with words.
And somewhere deep within Dragonstone, destiny trembled—for the rider of chaos had been chosen.
The court of King's Landing never truly slept. Even as the first light of dawn kissed the towers of the Red Keep, whispers already drifted through the columns, soft steps echoed along the corridors, and watchful eyes lingered behind velvet curtains. The city itself seemed to hold its breath. Something was coming.
For weeks, rumors had grown like ivy creeping along the castle walls. It was said that King Viserys Targaryen—fickle of temper and gentle of heart—was spending more and more time in the company of the young daughter of the Hand of the King: Alicent Hightower.
The septons spoke of virtue. The maids, of smiles. And the nobles, of alliances.
But no one truly expected what that day would bring.
By midday, the Great Hall had been adorned more splendidly than it had since Viserys's own coronation. The towering columns were draped in banners of crimson and gold, the sigil of House Targaryen gleamed on the tapestries, and the air was thick with incense and freshly cut flowers.
The nobility of the Seven Kingdoms had gathered quickly. Lords Tyrell and Redwyne, bannermen from the Vale, envoys from the Reach. Even lesser lords had been summoned—an uncommon gesture that only stirred more suspicion.
Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, stood by the Iron Throne with perfect composure. Yet his eyes shimmered with barely restrained triumph. He knew what was coming. He had dreamt of it for years.
When King Viserys entered, clad in a black robe trimmed with gold, the hall fell into hushed reverence. He moved slowly, with solemnity—but also with resolve. He looked less burdened than he had in recent days. His beard was freshly trimmed, his brow unlined. He looked… content.
At his side walked Alicent, like a vision conjured from the Starry Sept.
She wore a gown of deep green—a shade that only the keenest observers would recognize as a signal: the color the Hightowers light when calling their banners to war. But for now, it was merely beauty. Her steps were measured, deliberate. Her hands folded before her, her chin gently raised. The picture of courtly grace. But her eyes… her eyes did not lie.
What shone in them was not love.
It was duty.
"Lords and Ladies of Westeros," began Viserys, his voice stronger than usual, "I have not summoned you today to pass judgment, nor to declare war, nor to dispense justice. I have gathered you… for a matter that touches the very heart of the realm."
The murmurs rose like waves lapping at the shore.
"As you all know, since the death of Queen Aemma, my soul has wandered in a shadow without end. And though her memory shall never fade from my heart… I have found, by the mercy of the gods, that comfort may yet be granted to those who remain among the living."
He paused, turning toward Alicent. She lowered her eyes, as though unaware of what would follow.
"Alicent Hightower," the king continued, "has offered me her company, her counsel, and her compassion. In her, I have found not only a virtuous lady, but a partner worthy of the Iron Throne. Therefore, with the consent of the Faith and the royal council… I have taken Lady Alicent as my wife. She is now queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
A funereal silence swept through the hall… and then came applause—measured, forced. Some clapped out of courtesy. Others, for advantage. Few, out of genuine joy.
Otto Hightower stood on the brink of a smile. His carefully sown plan had finally borne fruit.
The court's reaction was a mosaic of emotion.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, standing beside her septa, did not clap. Her young face, already full of resolve, betrayed nothing. But her eyes were daggers. The woman they now called queen had once been as close to her as a sister. Betrayal, even veiled in silk, was still betrayal.
Lord Strong, shrewder than most, raised only an eyebrow. He understood that this union changed everything. The game of influence had begun anew, and the board was already shifting.
Ser Criston Cole, silent, watched Rhaenyra more than the new queen. Not out of love—not yet. But with a growing loyalty he had yet to recognize.
In a corner, Master of Coin Lyman Beesbury muttered something about the economic burden of another royal wedding so soon.
Alicent remained composed, though her chest rose and fell in a measured breath. Her thoughts, hidden behind smiles, burned like fire beneath the ice. Was this what she wanted? To be queen? To bear kings?
No. She did not want this.
But she had to.
Because her father commanded it. Because the realm demanded it. Because if she didn't—someone else would. And in the court, those who do not move are left behind.
And she was no longer a child.
After the ceremony, the celebrations began. Wine, venison, song. Bards composed verses on the queen's grace and the king's generosity. But the smiles were practiced, and the toasts slow to rise.
Viserys seemed more at ease than he had been in months. He even jested with Lord Beesbury and raised a cup to Queen Aemma's memory. But not once did he speak of his daughter.
Not a single word.
Alicent, for her part, was the visible soul of the celebration. Smiling. Serene. A queen.
But when she retired to her chambers, and the heavy doors closed behind her, she allowed herself one solitary moment.
She removed the crown.
She looked into the mirror.
And for the first time, she wondered: Who am I now?