Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

Boom!

A cascade of molten bronze dragonfire rained down, striking the massive black silhouette.

"Roar!"

Emerging from the fiery deluge, a terrifying black dragon was revealed in full. Its scales were charred like coal, and its green, slitted eyes glared with malice at its attacker.

"Skreee!"

Vermithor soared above, exuding dominance and disdain.

Aemon's gaze locked on the massive black dragon, his shock evident. "The Cannibal!"

The largest and oldest wild dragon on Dragonstone, infamous for devouring dragon eggs and young dragons, it was aptly named "The Cannibal."

"What a monstrous beast," Aemon muttered, scrutinizing the dragon's details.

Its blackened scales absorbed light, and its spine was lined with jagged spines like twisted thorns. Its enormous jaws dripped with viscous, acrid drool that hissed and corroded the ground below, leaving behind withered and lifeless patches.

"Roar!"

The Cannibal's piercing roar echoed across the skies, ignoring the other two dragons as it lunged for its prey: the battered and fleeing Sheep Thief.

"Stop it!"

Aemon's command came without hesitation, his intent clear.

Boom!

Vermithor dove, spewing another torrent of bronze fire.

Silverwing hesitated, then followed her mate's lead.

Below, the Sheep Thief lay sprawled on the ground, its thin and battered body covered in fresh wounds. It whimpered pathetically, its cries as grating as its appearance.

No one paid it any mind. All eyes were on the impending clash.

Boom!

The Cannibal halted mid-pursuit, turning its head upward to spew a plume of toxic green flames.

The two streams of dragonfire collided in midair, creating a dazzling explosion of light. Bronze fire hissed like boiling water, while the green flames swirled like toxic mist. The resulting smoke covered the area in a pungent white haze, billowing over Dragonmont like creeping clouds.

"Attack, Vermithor!"

Aemon steadied himself on the saddle, his voice firm and unyielding.

The Cannibal shifted its gaze to the sky, its glowing green eyes locking onto the source of the shout.

"Skreee!"

Vermithor swooped down, talons extended like an eagle's claws, raking across the black dragon's head.

Slash!

Caught off guard, the Cannibal let out a guttural roar as Vermithor's claws tore through the scales on its head, leaving deep gashes that bled profusely.

Its pale, jagged crown-like horns, already fearsome, now dripped with fresh blood, adding to its menacing appearance.

"Skreee!"

Silverwing followed close behind, releasing a vortex of swirling dragonfire.

The Cannibal folded its massive, blackened wings in front of its body like a shield. The thick, leathery membranes absorbed the brunt of the fire's impact, leaving the beast unharmed.

"Hm?"

Aemon frowned, observing the dragon's durability. "Its wings are so thick they can block dragonfire?"

From this close, the size difference between the dragons became starkly evident.

The Cannibal lived up to its reputation as the largest and oldest wild dragon. Over 70 meters long, its muscular frame dwarfed Silverwing by several sizes.

"It's an ancient dragon," Aemon muttered, his expression turning grim.

Dragons grow throughout their lives, with their size often betraying their age. Older dragons, like Vhagar, showed signs of aging—sagging skin, thinning horns, and loose neck folds.

Even Vermithor, over 80 years old, bore the weight of time, with a stately, weathered appearance that spoke of its long years.

But the Cannibal's deep green eyes hinted at something beyond mere age. They exuded a cunning intelligence, a depth only dragons nearing or exceeding a century could possess.

"Roar!"

Furious from the relentless attacks, the Cannibal spread its wings and surged forward, aiming to close the distance.

"Don't let it get close!"

Aemon acted quickly, guiding Vermithor toward Dragonmont's peak.

Boom!

The Cannibal streaked through the air like a black comet, spitting another wave of green dragonfire.

"Dodge!"

Aemon shouted, narrowly avoiding the searing flames as Vermithor veered sharply.

"Skreee!"

Silverwing wasn't as fortunate. The green fire grazed her back, causing her to shriek in pain and lose balance.

The Cannibal seized the opportunity, lunging at the disoriented silver dragon.

Crash!

The two dragons collided midair, their claws and teeth tearing into one another.

Though typically gentle, Silverwing fought fiercely, her ferocity catching her opponent off guard. She managed to drive the larger dragon back, biting down on its shoulder and shattering its blackened scales.

"Roar!"

The Cannibal howled in rage, clamping its jaws around Silverwing's neck in retaliation.

"Attack, Vermithor!"

Aemon's voice cut through the chaos.

Boom!

Vermithor dove like a meteor, slamming into the Cannibal and forcing it to release Silverwing.

With unmatched precision, Vermithor's claws locked onto the Cannibal's neck and chest, pinning the larger dragon beneath its weight.

"Dragonfire!"

Aemon seized the moment.

"Skreee!"

Vermithor unleashed a torrent of molten bronze flames, dousing the Cannibal's head. The dragon roared in agony as the fire consumed it, the stench of burnt flesh filling the air.

Crash!

Engulfed in flames, the Cannibal plummeted from the sky, crashing into the ground with a deafening thud.

Vermithor and Silverwing emerged from the smoke, circling Dragonmont in synchronized flight.

"Is it dead?"

Aemon peered downward, his knuckles white as he gripped the saddle. The Cannibal was a menace—a predator of its kind—and its death was necessary for the safety of Dragonstone.

Stone Drum Tower

From her vantage point, Rhaenyra watched the battle unfold in stunned silence.

By the time she processed the chaos, the black dragon had already fallen.

"Skreee!"

Syrax, sensing the fight, grew restless, her blood boiling with the instinctive call of her kin.

"She's already down," Rhaenyra murmured, stroking Syrax's neck in an attempt to calm her.

But Syrax refused to listen, tugging at her rider's skirt and urging her onto the saddle.

Unable to resist, Rhaenyra sighed and mounted the golden dragon.

"Fly, Syrax!"

"Skreee!"

Dragonmont

The clash hadn't gone unnoticed.

Deep within the dragon nursery, a heavy stone door trembled.

"Elder, the younglings are out of control!"

A young dragonkeeper stumbled out, his singed hair blackened by flames.

"Are the chains secure?" the elder keeper asked gravely, his eyes wary.

Before the younger man could respond, the door shattered.

Boom! Boom!

Two juvenile dragons burst forth, their roars echoing as they spat fire.

One, covered in golden scales with pink-tinged wings, radiated beauty and grace.

The other, a cobalt-blue dragon with bronze underbelly, exuded raw power.

Both dragons took to the skies, their cries blending with the calls of the older dragons above.

Over Dragonmont, the gathered dragons began to circle in a synchronized display, a primordial dance of dominance and unity.

"Why are they doing this?" Aemon murmured, bewildered.

A sudden vision overtook him—a long-forgotten memory of Valyrian fire mountains, where dragons once gathered to celebrate the defeat of a kin-slayer.

"Dragonlord…" Aemon whispered, understanding at last.

The dance was an ancient ritual, a tribute to the slayer of a predator—a recognition of strength and leadership among their kind.

For now, Vermithor led the dance, with Silverwing and Syrax flanking him, while the younger dragons circled below.

But the ground still smoldered, and Aemon's instincts screamed a warning.

The Cannibal wasn't finished yet.