The cave seemed to devour the light.
Daron moved forward with steady steps, his cloak fluttering slightly with each draft of air emerging from the depths. Dragonstone was an ancient place, older than the memory of man, and that open crack in the mountainside felt like a threshold to another time.
He didn't know why his feet had led him there. He only knew he had to go.
As he delved deeper, the walls stopped being mere stone. Carvings began to appear, etched with unnatural precision: eyeless faces, spears of ice, shadows riding beasts white as death. The Others. The legends of true winter.
Daron recognized them. In another life, he had read about them. Their existence didn't surprise him. But to see them, so clearly represented, made the air feel heavier, as if the gods themselves were silently watching from the depths of the cave.
—"This is older than the Conquest…" he whispered. "Older than Valyria."
The markings faded as the passage opened into a massive chamber, like a cathedral built by dragons, not men. The ground was covered in ash, and the stench of sulfur was so strong it hurt to breathe. Beyond, a roar.
Not a roar of challenge. One of death.
Daron ran toward the sound.
And there, among natural stone columns and scorching steam, he saw it.
Cannibal.
A massive beast, black as a moonless night, wings like sails torn by ancient storms. In its eyes burned a green glow, the same hue as the phosphorescent flames rising from its throat when it attacked.
In front of him, Grey Ghost, a pale, young, agile dragon, fought to survive. He had been cornered, his side bleeding from a deep wound. He tried to take flight, but Cannibal knocked him down again and again, unleashing fire that lit the cave like a sea of living emerald.
Cannibal's roar shook the cavern. Grey Ghost whimpered, weak. He was going to die.
Daron didn't think. He shouted.
—"ENOUGH!"
His voice echoed off the walls like thunder. Cannibal turned.
Those green eyes locked onto him.
Grey Ghost seized the moment to escape, limping through a side tunnel. Cannibal didn't pursue. His prey had changed.
The creature rose, spreading its massive wings, its head towering like a shadowy tower. The temperature dropped—not from cold, but from fear.
Daron stepped forward.
—"If I'm going to die… let it be by you. But I will not run."
Cannibal charged.
A blast of pure fury. Daron dove toward a ledge, rolled, and as the dragon passed roaring, he grabbed onto a horn protruding from its neck with both hands. What happened next was madness.
Cannibal took off immediately. There was no time to think.
The air screamed. The wind slammed into him like a hammer. Cannibal dove, twisted, soared upward in spirals, dropped in vertical plunges, dove through clouds and burst out like lightning. Daron didn't scream. He just gritted his teeth, every muscle tense, his body adapting to the chaos—as if he had been born for this.
The dragon tried to shake him off.
And failed.
After what felt like an eternity, the flight stabilized. Cannibal no longer flapped his wings. He was gliding. As if he finally wanted to feel the rider who had dared to cling to him.
Daron opened his eyes. The view was apocalyptic: Dragonstone from above, shrouded in mist and fire, the sea a bottomless abyss beneath them.
Cannibal slowly turned his head. Their eyes met.
A pause.
A decision.
And then, without warning—acceptance.
Daron felt it. It wasn't submission. It was respect. It was fire recognizing fire.
He didn't need to say a word.
From the heights of Dragonstone, beneath the stormy sky, a deep roar echoed across the island.It wasn't just any dragon.It was the roar of an ancient god made flesh.Cannibal had a rider.And Westeros… a new herald of fire.