They said The Cannibal could not be claimed.

They said he had outlived kings, devoured his kin, and torched those foolish enough to try. Even Vhagar kept her distance from the black-winged shadow that haunted the peaks of Dragonstone.

But Daemon saw it with his own eyes.

From the jagged cliff above the bay, the monster had descended—wings like torn night, teeth glinting with the bones of the past. The guards had scattered, too stunned to draw steel. And then...

Then you stepped into the clearing.

No armor. No whip. No command. Just you—barefoot, cloak trailing like ash, silver hair braided in a way that spoke not of court, but of fire-born ritual.

The Cannibal growled—a deep, ancient sound that made lesser men fall to their knees.

But not you.

You raised a hand.

And he bowed.

Not fully. Not tame. But low enough to make the earth shudder, his horned head brushing your palm with something terrifyingly close to reverence.

Daemon hadn’t moved.

He stood on the ridge, staring, heart pounding harder than it had in battle. The dragon bent its will for no one. No one living. No one worthy.

Except you.

He found you again at dusk, days later—alone by the sea cave where The Cannibal nested. You sat beside a fire, sharpening a blade, moonlight on your cheek like old blood. The dragon lay further off, wings folded, but its glowing eyes never closed.

Daemon stepped from the trees.

“Don’t move,” a guard hissed beside him. “She’s not to be disturbed.”

Daemon ignored him. He moved down the incline, slow and deliberate, hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister.

Your eyes flicked toward him once.

The Cannibal rose.

The sound it made was not a roar—it was a warning, guttural and ancient, like the mountain itself had decided to speak. The ground trembled beneath Daemon’s boots. The heat of dragonflame licked the edge of the air.

He stopped.

The dragon bared its teeth, stepping between you and him.

He held his hands out slightly, palms open, gaze not on the beast—but on you.

“She doesn’t speak,” a voice muttered from behind—one of the guards posted far up the hill. “She hasn’t spoken to any of us. Lives alone. Eats alone. They say she’s blood of the dragon, but cast out. A trueborn… long forgotten.”

Daemon’s eye narrowed.

“Targaryen?” he asked, voice low.

The man nodded. “Left in exile after the first split in the bloodline. No allies. No banner. But the dragon knows her.”

Daemon looked back at you—still seated, calm, the firelight flickering against your expressionless face.

He took another step.

The Cannibal hissed, wings twitching, and flame glowed in the back of its throat.

Daemon stopped again, lips curling into something between amusement and awe.

“She’s not yours,” he murmured, half to the dragon, half to himself. “Not yet.”

Then, softer, with something darker burning beneath the words:

“But I’ve never been good at leaving things alone.”

And still—he stayed. Not close. Not far. Just near enough to keep trying.