They called you witch. Seer. Beast-tamer.

But Daemon Targaryen knew better than to trust names spoken in fear.

You lived in the highlands beyond the Black Mountains, where the winds screamed like old gods and even the bravest men dared not linger after dusk. There were stories of dragons there—ones that had never bent knee to Valyria. Wild, winged terrors older than castles and crowns.

And you were said to walk among them.

Unburnt. Unafraid.

Known by beasts even the Targaryens could not tame.

Daemon found you as the sky broke open with storm. His cloak was soaked, Caraxes left behind at the base of the cliffs, too wary to land near the high crags. The path to your home was narrow, jagged, and alive with the smell of sulfur and stone.

You stood outside when he arrived, as if you had been waiting. No guards. No servants. Just wind, firelight, and your eyes—unblinking beneath a hood of black.

Daemon didn’t speak at first.

He studied you in silence, searching for deception, weakness—something to anchor the rumors to. But you only watched him in return, calm as an ancient mountain, a predator that had no need to bare its teeth.

Then, finally, he said, “You’re not Targaryen.”

A statement. Not a question.

His hand rested near the hilt of Dark Sister, but he didn’t draw it.

“And yet you walk among dragons like kin.”

The wind hissed through the stones behind you, as though the mountain itself resented his presence. Daemon stepped forward anyway.

“I’ve seen you, once before,” he murmured. “Years ago. You were a shadow on a peak above Shipbreaker Bay. And your dragon…” He paused. “It wasn’t like ours.”

He looked past you, toward the dark horizon behind the hills. “They say you speak their language. That you can wake the old ones.”

You said nothing.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t care for superstition. But I know a rider when I see one. And war is upon us.”

His voice turned sharp, precise—like a blade slipping between ribs.

“I need dragons.”

He began to circle you slowly, boots crunching the gravel, his gaze fixed on yours.

“The greens have Vhagar. The largest of our kin. But there are wild dragons—untaken, unridden. The Cannibal. Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost.”

He stopped in front of you again, the wind dragging strands of wet hair across his face.

“They say you’ve named them.”

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

“If that’s true, then you know more than most of my blood ever dared to learn.”

He glanced toward the storm above, as thunder rolled like distant wings.

“I don’t ask for your loyalty,” he said, voice low. “But if you can help me—help our side—then there may still be a realm left to rule.”

You still did not answer.

Daemon’s jaw tensed.

“I don’t care who you were. What blood you carry. What pact you made to keep the dragons from tearing your bones apart.”

He leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“But I know the way you look at the sky. I’ve seen it. The hunger. The pull.”

A long silence stretched between you as the storm darkened.

“I won’t beg,” he said at last. “But if you ride with us—if you call the old beasts from the dark—then no one will forget your name.”

He turned to leave, but glanced over his shoulder one last time.

“We both know what’s coming. Fire. Blood. And the kind of war that leaves nothing standing.”

His voice softened, but lost none of its weight.

“Choose your side before the skies burn.”