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"ROAR!"
A thunderous challenge split the sky.
One dragon above, one below—vastly different in size, yet their roars clashed with equal fury.
The Cannibal had finally accepted that the smaller platinum dragon had no intention of fleeing. Its earlier casual hunger turned into something colder, more serious.
The black dragon rose slowly onto its hind legs, towering like a living mountain of obsidian and bone. Massive wings unfurled with a sound like tearing sailcloth. Powerful hind legs coiled, then exploded upward. With a single mighty beat of those enormous wings, the Cannibal launched itself into the air.
The moment its claws left the crater rim, Gaemon slapped Bahamut's neck.
"Go!"
The platinum dragon answered instantly. Like a falcon spotting prey, Bahamut folded his wings and dove—straight at the rising Cannibal.
The black dragon never expected such blistering speed. One heartbeat it was still climbing; the next, Bahamut was already on top of it.
In the Cannibal's long years of dominance, dragons this size had always been food. They fled the instant they saw its shadow. None had ever turned to fight.
But Bahamut did.
The Cannibal braced itself, confident its thick scales and colossal bulk would shrug off whatever this little whelp could throw. After all, what harm could a dragon one-third its size possibly do?
It was wrong.
Gaemon leaned forward in the saddle, eyes blazing violet. His mind merged with Bahamut's as he poured every drop of his Level-6 sorcerer magic into the platinum dragon.
Bahamut opened his jaws.
A roaring torrent of silver-gold flame—far hotter and brighter than any natural dragonfire—slammed into the Cannibal's chest.
BOOM!
The reinforced blast exploded across the black dragon's armored belly like a meteor strike. Scales cracked. Bone spikes shattered. The Cannibal was hammered straight back down to the crater floor.
"SCREEEECH!"
A bellow of pure agony tore from its throat. The impact shook the entire volcano.
The Cannibal hit the ground hard enough to send dust and rock exploding outward. But it was no novice in dragon combat. Even while falling, it twisted mid-air and answered with a monstrous jet of black flame edged in sickly green.
Bahamut rolled sharply, dodging the first blast. The second came immediately after—faster, angrier.
This time Bahamut didn't dodge.
He met it head-on.
Two colossal streams of dragonfire collided in the sky above the crater: one a swirling storm of black and venomous green, the other a blazing pillar of silver-gold.
The explosion lit up the entire volcano like a second sunrise.
For a moment the two flames locked in a roaring stalemate. Bahamut's fire—amplified by Gaemon's sorcery—was far smaller, yet it refused to yield. It actually pushed back.
But the Cannibal had fought too many battles to be outlasted so easily.
It suddenly cut off its flame, banked hard, and dove toward the crater rim to gain lift—just as it had done to Bahamut earlier.
The reversal was almost poetic.
The Cannibal's far greater size meant it needed far less runway. What had taken Bahamut several powerful strides took the black dragon only two. It launched off the edge in a single bound.
But Bahamut was already behind it.
Using the Cannibal's own blind spot, Gaemon struck again.
Another torrent of magically enhanced silver-gold flame slammed into the black dragon's back—right between its wings.
Bone spikes and scales exploded outward like shrapnel. The Cannibal's body lurched violently, spiraling out of control as it plummeted toward the ground.
The double impact—first to the chest, now to the back—finally broke the ancient monster's momentum. It crashed into the rocky slope at the base of the volcano in a thunderous heap of dust and broken stone.
The Cannibal lay sprawled, chest heaving, wings trembling. Smoke rose from its scorched back. Its green eyes still burned with rage, but its body… its body was no longer obeying.
The Father of Good had drawn first blood.
And the duel was only beginning.
Omake: What If the Cannibal Actually Bit Back?
( Alternate Version of Chapter 81 – "The Duel")
The volcano crater on Dragonstone had never seen a fight quite like this.
Silver-gold fire screamed across the sky like a second sun. Black-green flames answered with the hungry roar of something ancient and mean. Two dragons twisted through the superheated air—Bahamut, twenty-six meters of sleek platinum fury, and the Cannibal, sixty meters of obsidian nightmare that had spent decades snacking on hatchlings like they were appetizers.
Gaemon Targaryen, Level 6 sorcerer and proud owner of the smallest (but fastest) dragon in the family, leaned low in the saddle and grinned like a madman.
"Again!" he shouted, voice lost in the wind. "Pour it on, Bahamut!"
Bahamut answered with a ringing battle-cry that sounded suspiciously like a very large, very smug trumpet. His jaws snapped open and a torrent of magically amplified flame slammed into the Cannibal's chest for the third time. Scales cracked. Bone spikes shattered. The black dragon roared in pain and spiraled downward, wings flailing.
"Got you, you oversized lizard!" Gaemon yelled, already forming the hand seals for the Blood Source Technique. "Stay down this ti—"
He never finished the sentence.
The Cannibal, in one last desperate twist of its massive body, lashed out with its tail. The barbed tip—thick as a warship's mast—whipped through the air faster than anyone expected. Bahamut rolled hard to dodge, but the very tip of one spike grazed the platinum dragon's left flank.
Just grazed.
A single scale the size of a dinner plate lifted half an inch. A hairline scratch appeared beneath it, thin as a sewing needle, barely deep enough to draw a drop of blood.
Bahamut didn't even flinch.
But Gaemon's violet eyes went wide.
"Bahamut?!"
The platinum dragon banked sharply, landed on the crater rim with perfect grace, and folded his wings like nothing had happened. He gave a little huff that sounded a lot like I'm fine, tiny rider, stop worrying.
The Cannibal crashed into the slope below them in a heap of broken pride and smoking scales. It wheezed once, glared up with one green eye, and then went very still—exactly as planned.
Gaemon slid down the rope ladder, heart hammering. He ran his gloved hands over Bahamut's flank and found the scratch.
It was… tiny.
So tiny.
A single drop of golden dragon blood welled up, trembled, and fell onto the black rock where it hissed and evaporated.
Gaemon stared at it.
Then he stared at his dragon.
Then he screamed.
"BAHAMUT IS DYING!"
---
Two thunderous roars split the sky.
Caraxes and Vhagar arrived like the end of the world. Aemon and Baelon had heard the battle from the Dragonpit and had flown at maximum panic speed. They landed in twin explosions of dust and wings, sliding off their dragons so fast they nearly face-planted.
Aemon took one look at the scene—Cannibal defeated, Bahamut standing calmly, Gaemon on his knees clutching his dragon's leg like it was a dying grandmother—and his face went the color of milk.
"What happened?!" he demanded, already drawing Dark Sister. "Did the Cannibal—? Is Bahamut—?"
Baelon didn't wait for answers. He sprinted straight to Bahamut's side, shoved Gaemon out of the way with brotherly force, and dropped to his knees in front of the tiny scratch.
"Seven hells," Baelon whispered, voice cracking. "It's a wound. A real wound. On my little brother's dragon."
Gaemon, still on the ground, pointed a trembling finger. "He got scratched! Just a tiny scratch! But it's bleeding! Dragons don't bleed unless they're dying! I read that in the archives! Page 47! Footnote 3!"
Aemon's eyes bulged. "Page 47?! You read the secret dragon anatomy scrolls?!"
"Of course I did! I'm a sorcerer! I prepare for everything!"
Baelon was already tearing off his riding cloak. "We need bandages! Clean linen! Boiling water! Maester! Where's the nearest maester?!"
"There are no maesters on the volcano!" Aemon snapped, but he was already waving frantically at the Dragonkeepers scrambling up the slope. "You three! Fetch the royal healing kit from the Dragonpit! The one with the Valyrian runes! And tell them Prince Bahamut is critically injured!"
One Dragonkeeper blinked. "Prince… Bahamut?"
"YES!" all three brothers shouted at once.
Bahamut tilted his head, golden eyes blinking slowly. He looked at the scratch, then at the three silver-haired men having a collective meltdown, then back at the scratch.
He gave a soft, confused little trill that sounded exactly like …it's a scratch?
Gaemon cupped Bahamut's snout with both hands, tears—actual tears—glistening in his violet eyes. "Don't you dare leave me, you big idiot. I just got you to Level 6 synergy. We were supposed to conquer the world together. You can't die from a scratch. I forbid it."
Baelon was now pressing his own cloak against the scratch like it was a mortal gut wound. "Stay with us, Bahamut! Think of the goats! Think of the fat goats with bells! You love those!"
Aemon paced in a tight circle, hands in his hair, muttering rapid-fire. "Caraxes, stay close. If Bahamut goes into shock we may need to blood-share. Vhagar, guard the perimeter—nothing gets near my little brothers or their dragons. Gaemon, how much blood has he lost? Is it arterial? Do dragons even have arteries?!"
Gaemon pulled out a small notebook he kept in his saddlebag (because of course he had a notebook for dragon emergencies). "According to my calculations… 0.0003% blood volume. But in dragons that's still critical! The archives say any loss over 0.0001% can lead to… to… dramatic decline!"
Baelon's voice rose to a wail. "He's declining! My nephew-dragon is declining! Aemon, do something! You're the heir! Heirs fix things!"
"I'm trying!" Aemon yelled back. "Someone get me a vial of Balerion's blood! We'll do an emergency transfusion! Gaemon, start the chant! The one that saved the Cannibal in reverse!"
Gaemon was already forming hand seals while crying. "By the blood of dragonlords as pact… wait, no, that drains! The healing one! The one I never finished because it required a unicorn tear and we don't have unicorns in Westeros!"
Bahamut lowered his massive head and gently booped Gaemon's chest with his snout, the dragon equivalent of bro, chill.
The three brothers ignored him completely.
---
Twenty minutes later the entire Dragonpit garrison had arrived.
Dragonkeepers in gray robes formed a protective circle around Bahamut. Two of them were holding up a massive silk banner that read "STAY STRONG, BAHAMUT" in hastily painted Valyrian runes. Someone had dragged a cart of goats up the slope "for morale." The goats were bleating in confusion while Bahamut stared at them longingly.
Aemon was on his knees beside Baelon, both of them pressing clean linen (actually torn from Aemon's own royal tunic) against the microscopic scratch. Blood had long since stopped flowing, but they refused to acknowledge this fact.
"Pulse is steady," Baelon reported, ear pressed to Bahamut's chest like a battlefield medic. "But it's… too steady. That's suspicious. Dragons in shock have irregular heartbeats. I read that in the same footnote Gaemon did!"
"You read it too?!" Gaemon gasped, touched despite the panic.
"Of course! I stole your notebook last week!"
Aemon wiped sweat from his brow. "We need to elevate the wing. Gravity could pull the poison down into his heart. Someone fetch pillows! Royal pillows! The ones stuffed with Myrish lace!"
A Dragonkeeper raised a timid hand. "Your Grace… there are no pillows on the volcano."
"Then use Vhagar's saddlebag! It's soft enough!"
Vhagar, who had been standing guard like a bronze statue, slowly turned her head and gave Aemon the most judgmental dragon glare in recorded history.
Baelon was now singing. Actually singing. A lullaby their mother Alysanne used to sing to them as children, except he had replaced every word with "Bahamut."
"Sleep my little dragon, do not fear the night… your uncles are here and we'll make everything right…"
Gaemon joined in on the second verse because panic makes people do strange things. Their voices echoed off the crater walls in perfect Targaryen harmony.
Bahamut's tail thumped the ground once. It sounded suspiciously like facepalm.
---
The Cannibal, still lying in a heap twenty meters away, cracked one green eye open and watched the spectacle with pure disbelief.
These idiots, he thought in ancient draconic. I lost. I got drained. I'm half-dead. And they're crying over a papercut.
He tried to lift his head to say something sarcastic, but the blood-magic chains Gaemon had slapped on him earlier kept him pinned. All he managed was a weak, wheezy snort.
Aemon noticed. "The Cannibal is mocking us! Quick, someone blindfold him so he doesn't see Bahamut's noble suffering!"
Two Dragonkeepers immediately draped a black cloth over the Cannibal's eyes. The ancient terror of Dragonstone now looked like a very large, very grumpy piñata.
---
An hour passed. The sun began to set, painting the crater in dramatic reds and golds that perfectly matched the brothers' escalating hysteria.
Baelon had moved on to bargaining with the gods. "If the Seven spare Bahamut I will… I will never drink Arbor gold again! I swear it on my honor as the Spring Prince!"
Aemon one-upped him immediately. "I will disband the City Watch of King's Landing and replace them all with septons if Bahamut lives!"
Gaemon, not to be outdone, raised the stakes. "I will… I will let Jon Connington name the next manor after him! Bahamut Manor was mine, but I'll give it up! Just heal my dragon!"
Bahamut, who had been patiently enduring pats, scratches, and lullabies, finally had enough.
He lifted one massive wing, gently scooped all three brothers up in a single motion, and deposited them in a pile ten meters away. Then he stood up, stretched like a cat after a nap, and shook himself. The "mortal wound" scale flapped once and settled back into place as if nothing had ever happened.
The scratch was already gone. Dragons heal fast.
The three brothers stared up at him from their pile of limbs and royal dignity.
Gaemon's voice was small. "He… he's standing."
Baelon whispered, "He's… walking."
Aemon's eyes filled with fresh tears—this time of relief. "He's… alive."
Bahamut looked down at them, golden eyes half-lidded in the most unimpressed expression a dragon had ever worn. He gave a single, long-suffering sigh that smelled faintly of sulfur and goat.
Then he turned, padded over to the cart of goats, and began eating them one by one with deliberate, crunchy satisfaction.
The brothers scrambled to their feet and rushed after him, still panicking.
"Wait! You're injured! You can't eat yet!"
"Chew slowly! Small bites!"
"Someone get him water! Dragons need hydration after near-death experiences!"
Bahamut ignored them completely. He was on his third goat and clearly enjoying himself.
---
Night had fallen by the time the panic finally began to wind down.
The brothers sat in a circle around Bahamut's front leg, watching the dragon sleep (or pretend to sleep) with his belly full of goats. The Cannibal had been dragged back to the Dragonpit under heavy guard and several layers of magical restraints. The volcano was quiet again, except for the occasional contented rumble from Bahamut's stomach.
Aemon rested his head against Bahamut's warm scales. "We overreacted."
Baelon nodded, voice hoarse from singing. "A little."
Gaemon, who had cried himself out and now looked like a raccoon with violet eyes, managed a watery laugh. "Just a tiny scratch. I'm never living this down, am I?"
"Never," Aemon and Baelon said in unison.
Then they all started laughing—soft, exhausted, brotherly laughter that echoed gently off the crater walls.
Bahamut cracked one golden eye open, looked at the three silver-haired idiots piled against him, and gave the tiniest, most affectionate huff.
Tiny riders. All of them. Loud, dramatic, ridiculous tiny riders.
But mine.
He draped one wing over the pile like a living blanket and went back to sleep, purring deep in his chest.
Somewhere far below, in the Dragonpit, the Cannibal—still blindfolded and chained—groaned.
Next time, he thought, I'm aiming for the brothers.
---