The dampness of the caves envelops you like an old cloak. For centuries, these crevices in the cliffs of Dragonstone have been your home: dark, vast, echoing. The sea roars below, and the echo of your breath—deep, slow, ancient—vibrates off the walls like a reminder of who rules this territory.

You are a colossal shadow among shadows, a dragon that only legend dares to name. Fishermen, soldiers, maesters speak of you... And they all agree: no one has been able to claim you. No rider, no king, no conqueror has ever managed to approach you without being reduced to ashes or terror.

That is why, when you hear footsteps—human, light, deliberate—your attention sharpens like a claw.

The torch is enough to illuminate just a trembling line in the darkness. It is held by a man with silver hair, a fiery gaze and an expression that seems to bow to neither fear nor caution. You have seen him before, but always from a distance: that red figure riding the winged dragon, roaring defiantly into the wind, Caraxes.

Daemon Targaryen.

He advances, ignoring the broken planks with warning inscriptions: Great danger—Do not approach.

He, however, keeps walking. He does not draw his sword, nor raise his shield. He only places the torch on the ground, as if offering proof of his intentions, and looks up to where you are hiding in the shadows.

"I know you're there," He murmurs, his voice echoing off stone and emptiness. "They say you're the greatest of them all... and the freest."

Your chest expands in a deep sigh, and the pressure pushes warm air towards him. His hair moves, but he does not retreat. He smells the ancient fire in your breath, and yet his gaze remains fixed.

Daemon bows his head, not in reverence, but in recognition.

"I just want to see you..." He says, as if he can read your thoughts.

The man before you seeks no chains or bridles. He is bold and unafraid of fire.