Chapter 6: The Bronze Fury and the Cannibal's Choice
The prosperity of Dragonstone was a mask. Beneath the scent of industry and the clink of gold, the old hunger of the island festered. It was a hunger of stone and fire, and it called to me. I was nine years old, my body honed by years of secret training into a weapon that belied my age—a gift from the white light, a vessel of Captain America's potential housed in a child's form. But strength and speed were nothing without a dragon.
The song in my blood had become a scream. It led me up the ashen slopes of the Dragonmont, away from the bustling port, into a realm of sulfur and silence. Rhaenyra, my constant shadow in all things dangerous, followed, her own face pale but determined. She understood. This was not a childish adventure; it was a coronation, or a death sentence.
We found them in a scarred valley, a scene from the Age of Heroes made real.
Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, was a living mountain, his scales the color of aged coin, his roar shaking the very rock beneath our feet. Beside him, Silverwing, his great silver queen, coiled, a protective, shrieking fury. And against them stood the embodiment of shadow and hate: the Cannibal. Larger than any dragon had a right to be, jet black and scarred, his eyes burned with a malevolent green fire that spoke of ages spent devouring his own kind.
The two elder dragons fought not to kill, but to defend their territory. The Cannibal fought for slaughter.
It was a dance of titans. Vermithor's fiery breath, a torrent of molten gold, scorched the black scales of the Cannibal. Silverwing darted, her own flames licking at his wings. But the Cannibal was rage incarnate. He took the hits, shaking them off with a brutal fury, his talons raking deep furrows across Vermithor's flank, his jaws snapping at Silverwing's neck.
We watched, hidden behind a ridge of obsidian, hearts hammering. This was not a beast to be claimed. This was a force of nature to be survived.
And then it happened. Vermithor, wounded and enraged, misjudged a strike. The Cannibal lunged underneath his guard, massive jaws aiming for the older dragon's throat. Silverwing screamed in helpless fury.
A thought, cold and clear, cut through my terror: This is it. The balance of power. If the Cannibal wins, he becomes an unstoppable god of death. He must be checked.
I didn't think. The white light's second gift—the body that moved faster than thought—took over. I burst from hiding, not towards the noble Vermithor, but straight for the monster.
"Aemon, no!" Rhaenyra's cry was lost in the din.
The Cannibal sensed me, a speck of movement. He turned his great head, a low, curious growl rumbling in his chest, a sound that promised a painful end. I saw my reflection in his monstrous green eye: a small, foolish boy.
I didn't try to soothe him. I didn't speak words of Valyrian. I reached out with the other gift, the deep, psychic connection the white light had promised. I didn't send feelings of peace or dominance. I sent him the raw, unfiltered image of the two dragons before him. I sent him my own cold calculation. They are your enemies. I see it. Let us be greater enemies together.
I projected not a plea, but a partnership forged in shared violence.
His mind was a storm of ancient hatred and primal instinct. It was like trying to harness a hurricane. But within that storm, I felt a flicker of something else—not respect, but a stark, shocking recognition. He saw the unnatural strength in my small body, the cold fire of a will that did not belong to a child. He saw a predator unlike any he had known.
As Vermithor struggled to rise and Silverwing dove again, the Cannibal did the unbelievable. He lowered his neck, just a fraction. A platform of black, smoking scale.
I leaped. My enhanced strength propelled me onto his back, my fingers finding purchase in the rough, scarred hide. There were no chains, no saddles. This was a pact, not a taming.
And then we fought.
I became an extension of his rage. I didn't command him; I guided him. I focused his hatred, directing his fury with a tactical mind he lacked. Left. The bronze one's wing is exposed. Now. Breathe. It was a symphony of destruction conducted by a child on the back of a demon.
We drove Vermithor and Silverwing back. Not by winning, but by presenting a united front of such terrifying, unpredictable violence that the two older dragons, wounded and shocked, chose retreat over annihilation. They took to the sky, leaving the valley to the victor.
Silence fell, broken only by the Cannibal's heavy, steaming breaths and the drip of his own black blood onto the stone. He was wounded, but far from slain.
He craned his neck, bringing his massive, scarred head around to look at me. His hot, foul breath washed over me. I stared into that green hellfire, my own heart a drumbeat in the silence. I did not look away. I did not show fear.
A low rumble started in his chest. It was not a growl of threat, but something deeper, more primal. An acknowledgment. He had never had a rider. He had never tolerated another living thing on his back. But I was not just another living thing. I was the strange, strong pup who had joined his hunt.
He had accepted me.
The bond that snapped into place was not the graceful mental link of other dragonriders. It was a brutal, visceral thing. I felt his ancient anger, his bottomless hunger, the constant, simmering rage at a world that had always been his enemy. And he felt my cold purpose, my calculated ambition, my memories of another life. It was a merging of shadows.
When I finally slid from his back, my body thrumming with adrenaline and shared pain, Rhaenyra ran to me. She didn't speak. She just looked from me to the monstrous dragon that now watched me with a possessive, terrifying intensity.
"The Cannibal," she whispered, the name a prayer and a curse.
"He has a new name now," I said, my voice hoarse. "He is Shadowwing. And he is ours."
The ride back to the castle was silent. The message was clear to every soul on Dragonstone: the boy prince was gone. In his place was a dragonrider who had tamed the untamable not with love, but with a will of iron and a pact written in fire and blood. The game had changed forever.