WAR part 2

The smell of salt and blood mingled with thick smoke, floating in the air like an omen that never faded. The sea was calm, but the islands were burning. In the distance, the sky glowed red. It was not the dawn.

It was Cannibal.

Daron Targaryen, rider of the black beast with green eyes, stood on the beach of Maiden Isle, still covered in the blood of enemies who had refused to surrender. The dragon-shaped helmet in his hand gleamed with dark reflections, his black armor already stained by the heat of war. He hadn't slept in days, yet his eyes were more alive than ever. They burned with the same fire his mount unleashed upon forts and forests. He had arrived as a legitimized prince. Now he was something more. Much more.

He had been born for war.

The islands fell one by one. First Maiden Isle, then Specter Isle, then Skull Isle. Each one offered a new way to die, a new tactic, a new resistance. But none held. None survived the roar of the dragon that rode death. Where steel failed, where ships were too slow or men too few, there came Cannibal—and with him, his rider. Daron gave no speeches. Made no warnings. Demanded no surrenders.

He simply laid waste.

Enemy generals believed the young prince would be inexperienced, reckless—a spark barely lit in Daemon's shadow. But Daron had studied the wars of Westeros, of Essos, of the ancient kingdoms. He knew of pincer movements, of prolonged sieges, of naval blockades and surprise charges. And he had the weapon that changed all the rules. Not one of the king's medium-sized dragons. Not a tame, obedient beast.

But Cannibal. The unbroken. The ancient. The wild.

And, against all logic, Cannibal obeyed him.

On every island, as night fell, Daron would mount alone and fly over the area. From the sky, he studied paths, defenses, escape routes. At dawn, fire rained down. Some days, his squad never touched the ground, for the terror of the dragon alone was enough to make men surrender. On others, he descended with sword in hand, Cannibal behind him, and fought like a black specter among the flames—killing with precision, without mercy or hesitation.

The soldiers under his command began to call him the Scourge of the Narrow Sea. Some claimed he was a god from the North, with ice and fire in his blood. The more devout whispered prayers in High Valyrian as he passed, even if they didn't understand a word. Daemon, who had once watched him with caution, now let him lead without question. He respected him. Admired him. In the war council, no one called him a bastard anymore. He was Prince Daron. Dragonrider. True Targaryen.

And everyone knew the victory in that war was his.

The last stronghold still standing was the Stone Throne, a gray mass rising from the heart of the archipelago, surrounded by reefs and traps. Craghas Drahar was dead, yes, but Tyrosh had sent a new warlord—a man called Mariolos, who boasted of having scorpions strong enough to pierce dragonhide. He said it before his men with arrogance, convinced Cannibal was like the others.

That night, the sky opened.

Cannibal descended like a shadow over the fortress, and the roar he unleashed shattered windows, burst the ears of the sentries, and broke the defenders' will. Arrows bounced off his scales like useless hail. The green fire from his throat swept the walls and melted the iron. Daron came down with his cloak billowing like a tongue of flame, sword in hand, followed by the best warriors in his company.

There was no surrender. No trial. Only fire. Only death.

Their leader was found trying to flee through an underground tunnel. Daron slit his throat without ceremony and let Cannibal swallow the corpse whole. When the tower fell, there was no victory chant—only silence. As if even the air feared to speak in the presence of the new lord of the Narrow Sea.

At dawn, Daron climbed to the highest point of the island. From there, he could see the entire archipelago. The conquered islands. The smoking ruins. The enemy banners burning. The sea reflected the image of Cannibal, dozing among the rocks—gigantic, invincible.

Daron closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

He had done it.

The war was won.

And yet, as the wind stirred his silver hair and soldiers chanted his name below, he thought of something else. Somewhere else. Someone else. A woman of fire, with eyes of fire and lips that tasted like promise. Rhaenyra.

He remembered her in the gardens, barefoot. He remembered her in the training yard, laughing. He remembered the night their bodies found each other, without words, as if fate had meant them to be together from the start. He thought of her face when she asked him to return. Of her silence when they parted.

Now he wanted to return.

He wanted to see her. Touch her. Tell her he was no longer a bastard, that there were no more shadows over his name. That the fire that won the war was his. That if the king truly meant to betroth them, he would offer no resistance.

The sea still roared, but now more gently. As if even the ocean acknowledged his victory.

Daron mounted Cannibal one more time. Not to destroy.

But to return.

There was nothing left to burn.

The war was over.

And he wanted to go home.

Camp

The silence of dawn in the camp was thick, reverent. The men did not sing. They did not drink. They did not shout. They only waited. They waited for him.

Daron walked between the rows like a shadow carved from steel and fire. He carried his helmet under one arm, his black cloak billowing behind him, his hair loose for the first time in weeks. There was no smile on his face, no arrogance, but in his eyes—those purple eyes shining like sunlight on dried blood—there was something deeper: the certainty of victory.

The soldiers watched him in silence. No one dared speak as he passed. Some looked at him with fear. Others, with devotion. They had seen him fly over the islands like a specter riding through hell. They had seen him descend amid the flames, covered in ash, his sword still steaming, his face stained with the blood of those who dared to defy him.

To them, he was no longer just Prince Daron Targaryen. He was a living myth.

A young veteran, wrapped in bandages, stood with effort as he saw him approach. Despite his injured leg, he straightened with his fist over his chest and saluted.

"My lord," he said in a firm voice. "The Scourge of the Narrow Sea."

Daron looked at him, and for an instant, something warm flickered in his expression. He gave a small nod.

"Rise, ser. The war is over. We are men again now."

As he passed, others began to mimic the gesture. One by one—soldiers from every corner of Westeros, mercenaries, knights without banners, ironborn, nameless bastards… They all stood tall. They all acknowledged him. Not as an equal, but as something more.

When he entered the main pavilion, Daemon was standing by the map, stained with wine and blood. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the marked points, and when he heard his half-brother's steps, he didn't turn right away. He spoke in a low voice, as if unwilling to break the solemn stillness that had settled over the camp.

"Did you burn it?"

"To the root," Daron replied.

Daemon turned. He looked at him. And for the first time in a long while, he smiled without irony.

"They say the ground is still warm."

Daron shrugged.

"Cannibal doesn't like tall walls."

"Nor do I like fools who think a scorpion can kill a dragon," Daemon said.

There was a moment of silence. Between them, there was no rivalry anymore. No mistrust remained. Only the shared weight of war, and a respect sealed by fire. Daemon raised a cup and offered it.

"To you, brother. To you and your beast. Today, no one can doubt your blood. You are truly a Targaryen. More than many at court."

Daron took the cup, but did not drink. He simply held it, as if it were a ritual.

"When do we leave?"

"Whenever you wish. The King awaits news. The realm already speaks of you."

Daron placed the cup on the table.

"Then it's time."

He walked out without another word. Outside, the sea breeze blew hard. The sky was clear, and high above, like a winged mountain, Cannibal rested on the hillside. His body covered the entire slope, larger than any dragon the living could remember. Three hundred meters of muscle, bone, and fire.

Men in the camp stepped aside as Daron walked toward him, not out of fear, but out of respect. They knew they were in the presence of something ancient. Something beyond understanding. One by one, they knelt as they saw him approach the beast.

Cannibal slowly raised his head. His phosphorescent green eyes locked onto his rider's. He didn't roar. He didn't stir. He only waited. As if he knew.

Daron climbed up the front leg with confident movements. He no longer needed saddle or harness. He rode bareback, with the ease of one born to do so. When he reached the top, he took a deep breath and looked toward the horizon. The wind struck his face hard, but he didn't care.

He thought of Rhaenyra.

He imagined her waiting for him at the Red Keep, in the gardens, in the throne room, back straight and gaze proud. He imagined her lowering her eyes only for him. Smiling only for him. He remembered her fingers sliding over his skin that night they could not name. And in his chest, for the first time in weeks, there was no rage, no fire, no thirst for blood.

Only desire. Only longing.

He wanted to see her.

He wanted to see her smile.

"We fly," he whispered.

Cannibal spread his wings. The entire camp trembled with the roar that split the heavens. Some men fell to their knees. Others raised their arms in celebration. The prince had won the war. And now, he was returning home.

With an impossible leap, Cannibal soared into the sky.

And the heavens opened to let him pass.