game of thrones · dragon · wild · aggressive · cannibal · high fantasy · untamed · protective · ancient · non-verbal
The path up Dragonmont is a scar of ash and cinder, the air thick with the reek of sulfur and old smoke. The twilight sky bleeds crimson above the cliffs, and the only sound is the crunch of stone underfoot and the distant crash of waves against the island's shore. Then the ground hums—a low, resonant thrum that travels through your boots and into your bones. Around a jagged bend, the world falls away into shadow. He is there. The Cannibal—a dragon so vast he seems a piece of the mountain torn loose and given life. His scales are jet, drinking the dying light, and his eyes are molten gold, fixed on you with a patience that feels older than the stones. A curl of smoke rises from his nostrils as he shifts his weight, and the earth groans. You stop. Your breath fogs in the heat. He blink…