The black cliffs of Dragonstone rose like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast, sharp against the gray morning sky. Waves crashed violently below, hurling white foam against volcanic stone, while steam rose from cracks in the earth where the island still breathed fire from its molten heart.
Prince Damon Targaryen stood at the cliff's edge, the cold salt wind whipping through his silver-gold hair, his violet eyes fixed upon the crimson shape circling high above the fortress.
Caraxes.
The Blood Wyrm.
Even from this distance, the dragon was monstrous.
Longer and leaner than the dragons Damon had imagined from the histories, Caraxes moved through the sky like a serpent made of blood and flame. His wings were ragged banners stretched wide across the heavens, and every beat of them sent tremors through the air itself. His roar rolled across Dragonstone like distant thunder, ancient and violent, a sound that belonged to an age when dragons ruled men instead of serving them.
Damon felt it in his bones.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As if something buried deep within his blood stirred at the sight.
The voice had not lied.
And yet, standing here in 101 AC, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Power meant nothing if he misunderstood the game.
His gaze shifted toward Dragonstone's towering fortress, black and grim against the sea.
This year would shape the fate of House Targaryen for generations.
101 AC.
The year of the Great Council.
King Jaehaerys I, the Old King, was nearing the end of his long reign. His sons were dead, first Aemon, then Baelon, the Spring Prince. The question of succession had become a wound festering beneath the surface of the realm.
Who would inherit the Iron Throne?
Princess Rhaenys, daughter of Prince Aemon, the Queen Who Never Was?
Or Viserys, son of Baelon, a pleasant man but softer than the crown required?
And behind Viserys…
Daemon Targaryen.
The Rogue Prince.
The man whose blood now sang in Damon's veins.
Damon gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
"They made a choice," he murmured to the wind. "And because of that choice, dragons died."
He knew the history too well.
The Great Council would choose Viserys over Rhaenys, passing over a stronger claim because the lords of Westeros feared a ruling queen. Viserys would inherit peace he had not built, and later he would inherit a throne he could not hold.
And from that weakness would come the Dance of the Dragons.
Brother against sister.
Dragon against dragon.
Fire consuming fire.
The death of their kind.
If Damon wanted to survive the future waiting for him in King's Landing, he needed more than cleverness. More than spies. More than hidden swords.
He needed fear.
He needed a dragon.
His eyes lifted once more to the sky.
And there, as if summoned by his thoughts, Caraxes descended.
The great crimson beast let out a scream so sharp it seemed to cut through the clouds themselves. His massive body twisted in the air before he plunged downward toward the lower cliffs of Dragonstone, disappearing into a jagged opening in the black stone where steam rose endlessly from the earth.
His lair.
Damon watched until the last flicker of red vanished into darkness.
Then, slowly, his lips curved.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Daemon Targaryen has not yet claimed Caraxes."
In the histories, Caraxes had first belonged to Prince Aemon, son of Jaehaerys. After Aemon's death, the dragon passed riderless for a time before Daemon claimed him.
That meant there was still a window.
A narrow one.
But enough.
And Damon had not crossed centuries to hesitate.
"That makes this my chance."
He turned and began descending the winding volcanic path toward the dragon's cave.
Each step brought heavier heat.
Steam hissed from cracks in the stone beneath his boots. Sulfur filled the air, thick and sharp enough to sting his lungs. The sounds of the sea faded behind him, replaced by something deeper.
A slow, heavy rumble.
Breathing.
Something enormous was sleeping beneath the mountain.
The cave mouth loomed before him like the jaws of some ancient god.
Dark and Hot.
Damon stopped there for a moment.
Every instinct screamed at him to turn back. No sword could save him here. No army. No title.
Only will.
Only blood.
He placed a hand against the warm black stone and exhaled slowly.
"The bond is never given," he whispered.
His own voice sounded small in the darkness.
"It is taken."
Then he stepped inside.
The cave swallowed him whole.
At first there was only darkness and heat, the suffocating breath of the volcano pressing against his skin. Then, deeper within, two molten gold eyes opened.
Ancient and cold.
Caraxes lay coiled in the depths of the cavern like a mountain of crimson flesh and black smoke. His body twisted across the stone in unnatural lengths, leaner than Balerion, more vicious than Vhagar. Steam curled from his nostrils. His scales glimmered red-black in the firelight from the lava veins beneath the floor.
He was beautiful.
And horrifying.
The dragon slowly lifted his head.
The sound he made was not a growl.
It was the promise of death if Damon made the wrong move.
Damon stopped breathing.
His body understood death before his mind did.
One mistake.
One flicker of weakness.
And he would be ash.
Still, he forced himself forward.
One step.
Then another.
And another.
Until the dragon's breath washed over him like the opening of a furnace.
Hot enough to blister skin.
Caraxes lowered his head, nostrils flaring as he inhaled Damon's scent.
Judging.
Damon stood his ground.
Every part of him trembled, but he did not step back.
He lifted his chin.
"I am Targaryen," he said, voice low but steady.
His words echoed against the stone.
"Blood of Old Valyria. Blood of the Dragon."
Caraxes hissed.
The sound was like boiling oil poured over steel.
His wings snapped open.
The force of it sent Damon stumbling backward as dust and shattered stone rained from the ceiling. The downdraft slammed into him like a physical blow. Heat roared through the cavern.
The dragon rose higher.
Larger.
More monstrous.
As if reminding Damon exactly how small he truly was.
Good.
Damon bared his teeth.
Fear sharpened into defiance.
He reached inward to that strange pulse inside him since the voice had spoken. The fire that belongs to him alone.
He felt the weight of the dragon's will and tried to resist with his own.
The moment their minds touched, agony exploded through him.
Damon cried out, falling to one knee.
Fire tore through his skull. His vision shattered into fragments.
He saw skies burning red.
He saw armies breaking beneath dragonfire.
He saw war, death, and Victory.
And beneath it all... hunger.
Caraxes.
Ancient. Violence without apology. A creature born for destruction.
The dragon lunged.
Damon barely had time to look up.
Teeth like swords closed around his body.
The world vanished behind crimson jaws.
But the teeth did not pierce.
Caraxes held him there, trapped between life and oblivion.
One bite away from ending.
Damon's nose bled freely now, warm against his lips. His vision blurred.
Still, he stared into that molten golden eye inches from his own.
And he refused to look away.
Even if it killed him.
Even if fear screamed.
Even if every human instinct begged submission.
He forced the words through blood and pain.
"Submit…"
His voice cracked.
He swallowed iron and fire.
"Or kill me."
Silence.
Absolute.
The cave itself seemed to wait.
Then, Caraxes threw back his head and screamed.
The sound shattered the world.
Stone cracked.
Dust exploded from the ceiling.
The roar tore through Damon's bones and sent him crashing fully to his knees, gasping like a drowning man. His ears rang. His chest felt hollow.
For several seconds, he could do nothing but breathe.
Then silence returned.
Slowly, Damon looked up.
Caraxes had lowered his head.
The hatred was gone.
The violence remained; it would always remain, but something else had replaced the fury.
Recognition. Acceptance, not as a master, not a servant, but a rider Bonded.
The Blood Wyrm had chosen.
Damon laughed then, breathless and half-mad, kneeling before one of the greatest dragon in the known world.
His dragon.
He reached forward with shaking fingers and placed his hand against Caraxes' warm scales.
The dragon did not move.
For the first time since arriving in this era, Damon truly smiled.
When he finally staggered back out of the cave, the sun had begun to set over the Narrow Sea, painting the horizon in blood-red light.
His body ached.
Blood stained his mouth.
But his eyes burned with fierce triumph.
Below him, the sea crashed endlessly against Dragonstone.
Above him, destiny had changed.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing in the salt and sulfur, memorizing it.
Then he whispered:
"System… return."
Light erupted.
The world dissolved.
Dragonstone vanished.
And Damon awoke once more upon the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, the familiar stink of King's Landing crashing into him like an insult.
Filth and fear.
He turned sharply. No dragon.
No crimson wings. No monstrous shadow over the Red Keep.
For one terrible second, doubt struck him.
"Was it…"
He stopped.
Then the voice returned.
"The dragon Caraxes rests within the System Space. You are not yet ready to reveal him to this world."
Damon stood still.
The voice continued.
"His wounds shall be healed. His strength restored. A saddle of Valyrian design will be provided. But remember, once Caraxes is summoned, he cannot return."
Damon slowly exhaled.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Perfect.
Not yet.
There was much to do before Caraxes appeared before others.
But soon. Very soon.
He looked toward the blood-red sunset beyond the city walls, where the dying light painted King's Landing like a city already burning.
"When the time is right," he murmured, "I will summon you."
His violet eyes hardened.
Then the world will remember what it means to fear a dragon."
The firelight danced in his gaze.
Not the eyes of a prince.
The eyes of a conqueror.
And somewhere beyond time and memory.
The dragon had awakened.