The salty air of Dragonstone enveloped everything. The waves crashed against the cliffs with ancient force, as if trying to warn the men who dwelled there that the island was not theirs. It belonged to the dragons. It always had.
Daron felt it in every stone, in every pillar carved with Valyrian runes, in every step leading down to the caverns. Dragonstone vibrated with ancient energy, dense, as if its heart beat with liquid fire beneath the earth.
Cannibal now slept in the same cave where Daron had found him. His dark green phosphorescent flames still marked the walls with a sickly glow. The soldiers kept their distance under Daemon's direct orders. "Do not provoke him. And stay away from the rider if you want to live." These weren't warnings. They were facts.
Daron trained every morning in the central courtyard. Sword in hand, sweat on his brow, muscles carved by the demands he placed on himself. Skill was no longer enough. Now he was the rider of a legendary monster. A living symbol. He had to be invincible.
Daemon watched him from a gallery above. With a cup of wine in hand and a sharp gaze, he evaluated the young man's every move. It irritated him not to fully understand him. How had this boy mounted Cannibal? Why hadn't the beast devoured him? What fire ran through his blood?
By the time he descended into the courtyard, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon.
"You fight like a prince," Daemon said as he approached with firm steps.
"And you like a frustrated king," Daron replied without turning to look at him.
A tense silence. Then both smiled. It wasn't an insult, but a game. One they both understood.
"I've worn enough crowns to know they weigh more than they're worth," said Daemon, dropping his cloak and picking up a training sword.
"Want to test my mettle?"
"I want to see if the dragon made you more than just a rider."
The training became a silent duel of power and will. Sword against sword, spin against spin. Daemon was fast, elegant, deadly. Daron, more precise, brutal, with an intuition that seemed to anticipate every movement. They fought as if their bodies shared the same blood.
Perhaps because they did.
When their swords crossed for the last time, both dripping with sweat, Daemon looked at him with a different light in his eyes.
"You're not just a bastard."
Daron didn't answer. He didn't need to. Both knew words were unnecessary.
That night, Dragonstone slept under a sky covered in clouds. Daron, however, couldn't. Cannibal's green flames seemed to have entered his dreams, a fire that never went out. In his mind, he saw a vision:
A frozen field, covered by endless snowfall. Black towers rising out of nothingness. A hooded figure walking among frozen corpses. Cannibal flew over the ice, releasing green fire that did not melt the snow, but made it glow with a spectral hue. On the horizon, a white dragon with blue eyes roared. It had no rider. Only hunger.
Daron awoke without screaming. Just sweat. Just cold. He sat up and took a deep breath. He didn't need to understand everything yet. He only knew one thing: that winter did not belong to any memory… but to the future.
During the day, he explored the hidden passages of Dragonstone. Guided by ancient maps he had found in a forgotten hall of the fortress, he reached a subterranean library. Dust, cobwebs, and books with cracked leather covers. Some written in High Valyrian. Others in a language even the Targaryens no longer remembered.
There he found a lost chronicle: "On the Untamed Dragons: Cannibal, Grey Ghost, and the Last Silence." The text spoke of dragons that were not of men, never tamed, and who fed not only on flesh… but on memory, fire, and soul.
One passage read:
"And among them, Cannibal, he who devours his own, guardian of the primordial flame, shall reject all until the chosen one comes. The one with a soul from beyond time."
Daron closed the book slowly. He understood. Not with logic, but instinct. As if part of him had always known.
The next day, he mounted Cannibal for the second time.
The dragon snorted fiercely when he approached. His breath made the ground tremble. Green flames briefly flickered in his throat, but he did not release them. He only watched.
"Come on, old bastard," Daron murmured. "We'll fly again."
And they did. High, fast, with spins that sliced the air and tested the rider's mettle. Daron held on tightly, not out of fear, but defiance. Cannibal tested his resolve, his spirit, his soul. As if waiting for him to fall. But he didn't. On the contrary, he held firm. A part of him felt more at home atop that monster than on the ground.
After the flight, Cannibal landed gently. His eyes glowed with that radioactive hue, but there was no hostility. Only recognition.
Daemon witnessed it all from a tower. He descended later that night, wine in hand.
"You're Cannibal's first rider. Do you know what that means?"
"It means something in me is no longer fully human," Daron replied.
Daemon raised his cup.
"Then let's drink to that. To what we've left behind. And what lies ahead."
Daron didn't toast. He just looked at him. There was respect between them. Not affection. Not yet. But a deep understanding: two men marked by fire, destined to either burn the world… or save it.
Later that same night, Daron descended into the caverns with a torch.
He wasn't looking for books this time.
The depths of Dragonstone held secrets older than men's memory. That castle, carved in stone by dragonfire and the faith of conquerors, stood not just as a Targaryen stronghold, but as guardian of what once was. It was a place where the past whispered from the walls, and the future sometimes revealed itself in shadows.
Daron descended through a narrow crevice, flanked by damp stalactites. The torch in his hand cast flickering shapes on the black rock. His breathing was the only sound. The place, found in a dream and confirmed by the instinct of his reborn soul, seemed to call to him. Not by name, but by blood.
He left behind the main chambers of Dragonstone and followed a forgotten path, nearly sealed by time. But he knew where he was going. In part because something inside him —an instinct not entirely his— guided him.
At the bottom of the cavern, he found a circular chamber covered in Valyrian inscriptions and even older runes. Dust, moss, and ancient bones littered the floor. There, etched into the rock with a blend of fire and blood, lay a warning only someone with his knowledge could decipher:
"When winter walks, and the dead follow the storm, the dragons must choose between darkness and flame."
Daron's breath froze. Not in surprise, but in confirmation. The Others. He already knew, of course. In his past life, he had read about them in fictional histories. But to see them mentioned here, carved centuries before the Northmen even built the Wall, gave it a more terrifying weight. A more real one.
He continued deeper until the cavern opened suddenly into a massive sub-cave. The temperature dropped sharply, and a sulfurous air mixed with something wilder filled his lungs. Daron raised his torch.
Before him, a young dragon—about six meters long, with ash-pale scales and gleaming eyes—screeched, cornered. It was Grey Ghost, one of the untamed dragons. His body bore scars, marks of having fought for food, for space… for life.
Then, from the shadows, a titanic shape emerged.
A roar shook the mountain's guts. Cannibal appeared like a nightmare from the abyss: immense, with obsidian-black scales, eyes glowing green like live embers… and flames that burned with a dark phosphorescent green, like fire of condemned souls. Each step shook the stone. Each breath was a reminder of something that should never have lived.
Grey Ghost tried to flee, but Cannibal lunged with ancestral fury. Daron screamed.
"No!" —but his voice was a whisper against the beast's roar.
Cannibal struck, jaws open like a hellish chasm, catching Grey Ghost's wing. The young dragon screamed, blood splashing thick and red onto the stone. The impact made the cave tremble. Rocks shook. Daron stepped back—but didn't run.
Targaryen blood boiled in his veins. He couldn't look away.
"Cannibal!" he shouted, unsure if it would be his last word.
But then, something unexpected happened. Cannibal stopped. Not completely. Not tamely. His green eyes locked onto him. He examined. Sniffed. Rose up.
A heavy silence fell over the cave. Daron took a step. Then another. And another. Each one was a challenge to death. But he didn't look away. He didn't flinch.
"Take me," he whispered, more to himself than the dragon. "If you're going to devour me, do it. But if not… accept me."
Cannibal roared, the walls trembled, and then he spread his wings like divine judgment. The green flames burst from his throat—but didn't reach him. It was a test. A trial. Daron ran toward him, climbing with the determination of one who had already died once and returned. The scales burned his palms, but he didn't let go.
Cannibal rose in flight, furious. The air cut like blades, the ascent brutal. Daron held on tight while the dragon thrashed violently, trying to throw him off. This wasn't a flight. It was a living storm.
But Daron endured.
He screamed at the sky in fury, fire in his eyes and fate in his soul. Not for glory. Not for ambition. For destiny.
And then Cannibal leveled out. Gliding through the air, still growling, still wild—but accepting.
When they returned, they descended into the same sub-cave. Daron dismounted, panting, sweaty, hands bloodied from the sharp scales.
Behind them, the lifeless body of Grey Ghost lay destroyed, the blood still warm. Cannibal, wasting no time, pounced and began devouring him. The crunch of bones echoed through the cavern. The scene was hellish. And yet… inevitable.
Daron watched with hardened eyes.
"How many will it take to satisfy you?" he whispered. "How many more will you devour?"
The stench of blood and green fire enveloped him.
He had to find a solution.
If Cannibal was the only one capable of facing what was to come, he had to survive. But he couldn't afford to lose other dragons in the process. The war hadn't even begun. And already, the losses had started.