Fire and Blood

Cannibal

For much a time it has resided in the far off island. He had sensed the magic of his kin dwindling in the past, but there is a resurgence. He felt the beating of the flame. The fury of three and he saw it. The women who walked into the fire and lived. He knew then and there, it would be her that he would let mount his greatness. Long has he slumbered, waiting for the right rider. Many have tried to claim him, all were unworthy of him. He, who hatched before the Doom, only bested by the damned Black Dread of that damned Aegon.

He who killed the false claimant and their sons, he who many acclaim as slayer of his kin.

He stirred once more. Awaken and filled with purpose.

I come for you now, Mother of Dragons, the savior of my kind.

Fire and Blood.

X

She awoke from her sleep, breathing heavily she grasped her chest. Unconsciously rubbing the spot where she had been stabbed. She felt it. She felt a great pull, a call from an old. Was it the Night King? It could not be, this felt familiar. It felt as if a bond was being forged akin to her and that of her scaled children. She scanned her surroundings and realized that she had slept in the cover of Drogon's wings. Rhaegal and Viserion too were in slumber. She lied back down and closed her eyes to a vision of red, black and flame.

X

The sun rose on a oddly clear day. The chill in the air was not as sharp. There were rays of light penetrating through the clouds. A sign of hope Jon guessed. He rose from his bed and took his morning bath. Jon broke fast with the Free Folk, sharing stories and laughing to bawdy speech. It helped to ease his discomfort bubbling in his chest. Every time he caught sight of the three headed dragon, his breath quickened. Damn Sam and his need to spill the truth. Bran had all but confirmed it. He, Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell and stain on the honor of Ned Stark is the actual son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Bran had showed him the tower and Gods did he wish he was blind. Ghost sensed his discomfort, attempting to comfort his friend.

Jon did not feel comfortable with these truths, Arya was impassive. Stating that he was still her brother nonetheless whilst Sansa, she was quiet. As if she was no longer present there. He was worried. His sister, no cousin, had changed from their childhood. No longer was she the dainty maiden who squealed at the sight of romance and tales of Florian and Jonquil. She was hardened, skin from porcelain to ivory and to steel. Gods, even Lady Catelyn had more emotion than her. Arya had briefed him on how she and Sansa outplayed Littlefinger, and he suspected most of the trickery was Sansa's doing. He was proud of her strength but at times he questioned her motives.

He spent much of the morning overlooking details of the Winterfell Defense. The strategy the dragon queen had arrayed was brilliant. Defense in depth, she called it. Rows of trenches and spiked ditches, while the castle walls were protected by an external like of trenches and spikes.

"We have the dragonglass, we maximize its use." She said to the war council. Already the allied forces were being drilled day and night to use the maces, Spears, clubs and pikes made from or with dragonglass. Pyromancers from King's Landing oversaw the caretaking of wildfire reserves kept far outside the castle compounds. They were hidden behind a ridge that would help maintain safety and use of the wildfire without risk of destroying Winterfell.

The morning skies were taken by the sight of the dragon queen who he would have to talk to soon. She and her dragons were flying in the skies, a sight for the ordinary person walking the ground. Gods was she stunning. Her eyes, her figure and her commanding aura. He fumed at the thought of the Blackfyre who was her spouse.

His thoughts were cut by a loud roar. A screech inhumane, guttural and ancient. Everyone stopped. He looked the queen and her dragons who landed in a rush, heads turning to find the source of that inhumane sound.

Another followed, again it was inhuman with such deep guttural strike. From the clear morning skies, a black dot was sighted. "LOOK UP, WHAT IS THAT?" Shouted a lookout. He turned his sight upwards, a black dot turned into a bird and soon he realized what it was.

A dragon.

Darker than the black behemoth named Drogon. Jon could make from the front as it descended closer, that it was larger than the Queen's dragons. As the dragon neared the ground, it raised itself upwards, displaying its full wingspan. By the Gods, it was if he was looking at the Black Dread as described by the Maesters.

Scales as black as night skies, lines of red tinges decorated the wings and webs of the dragon. Its horns were sharp and its size massive.

X

This was the feeling she felt in the night. The great call. She had a suspicion she knew the name for this dragon. Long lost since the Dance, a dragon that was as ferocious as Balerion and as mighty as Vhagar with the coloring similar to her Drogon. Speaking of which, her children showed no signs of hostility rather a sense of respect for the new dragon. Their lowered heads and distancing themselves was a sign of that.

The great dragon fully descended onto the earth, its eyes scanning her. As if judging her to be worthy or not for it. She raised her shaking hand upwards in the direction of its snout and slowly, such aching slow seconds of time, they made contact. She had closed her eyes in that moment to take in that moment. When she opened her eyes, she was staring into the eyes of this majestic creature. Its eyes shined like pools of magma.

She knew then knew its name. The Cannibal, the greatest of dragons to have survived the Dance of Dragons. Ferocious and speculated to have hatched before the coming of the Targaryens to Dragonstone.

Like her, he was once the Last Dragon.

Not anymore.