Jake had never felt hunger like this before.
Not the kind that came from missing lunch or sneaking too many snacks before dinner — this was deeper.
It gnawed at his belly like fire, twisting and biting, as if something inside him was trying to wake up and eat him from the inside out.
He had learned, by now, how to find food.
Not much — just enough.
The rocky tunnels of Dragonstone were full of life, if you knew where to look. The smaller caves near the sea cliffs were nests for birds, loud and panicked when he approached. The rats in the deeper tunnels were slower and easier. Sometimes, something bigger — mountain hare — would come down from higher slopes. Jake caught a few. Clumsily, but enough to fill his stomach and keep him growing.
And he was growing. Slowly, but noticeably.
His legs were stronger now. His wings stretched farther than before — still useless for flight, but more solid, more balanced. He could climb with more confidence. His tail no longer dragged awkwardly behind him, and he could swing it when he needed to.
He still couldn't roar. Not properly. But when he opened his jaws and let out a breath, the smoke was thicker, darker — and the fire was starting to obey him more.
He'd learned to keep the flames low, small, just enough to warm a rock or start a blaze when he needed it. If anyone saw a burst of fire from the cliffs, they might come looking.
Jake wasn't ready for that, Dragonstone was a lonely place. But it was never silent.
The wind was always blowing across the sharp rocks, howling through narrow passes. Steam hissed from cracks in the stone. Sometimes the whole mountain rumbled — soft and deep, like the breath of a sleeping giant.
And sometimes… Jake swore he heard wings.
Not the quiet flutter of birds. These were heavy, beating through the sky like distant thunder. But he never saw them up close.
He only ever saw shadows.
Once, at dusk, he lay beneath a shelf of rock watching the sea, when a great shape passed over the water. Long and low. Its wingspan must've stretched nearly the width of a ship. Its scales shimmered red in the fading light.
He didn't know which one it was — Caraxes, maybe. Or Meleys, the Red Queen.
But he stayed hidden. Frozen. Silent.
Instinct told him: Don't move. Don't let them see you.
The nights were the hardest.
The darkness on Dragonstone was heavy. Not like his old world, where streetlights and houses glowed even at midnight. Here, the only light came from the stars, the moon, or the glow of lava cracks in the stone.
He slept curled against warm rocks, where steam rose from the mountain's heart. Sometimes, he dreamed.
Strange dreams.
He saw shadows of dragons flying through clouds of ash. Heard men shouting in High Valyrian, though he didn't understand the words. Once, he dreamed of fire swallowing a city and when he woke up, smoke was rising from his mouth.
He wondered, often, why he was here.
Why a ten-year-old boy, obsessed with fantasy shows and dragons, had ended up inside one. What it meant. What he was supposed to do.
He didn't know.
But he could feel it, deep inside his bones — a kind of burning patience.
Something was coming.
Not yet.
But it would.
Jake learned the island's rhythms.
In the morning, the fog rolled in off the sea. The cliffs turned gray, and he moved carefully, avoiding the open ledges. The birds nested near the coast; the rats stayed deep until the heat rose.
When the sun reached its peak, the stone grew hot underfoot. That was when he liked to climb, spreading his wings at the highest ledge he could reach. He'd stand there, facing the wind, eyes closed, imagining what it would be like to fly.
He wasn't ready yet.
But the time would come.
He could feel it in his wings.
He stayed close to the southern cliffs for shelter, where the stone folded in strange ways, creating overhangs and caves protected from above. The first few times he ventured inland, toward the higher slopes of the volcano, he'd smelled something else.
Old ash. Burnt bone. And something faint but familiar.
Dragon.
The scent was old — not recent — but it made his body tense up, his tail flicking like a whip behind him.
There had been dragons here. Probably still were.
He didn't want to meet them. Not yet.
He was fast for his size, but he knew the stories. Even among dragons, the strong eat the weak. He remembered one name in particular: Cannibal — a monstrous black dragon that lived wild on Dragonstone, known to feed on smaller dragons and their eggs.
Jake didn't know if the Cannibal was still alive, but he wasn't about to find out.
So he stayed south, close to the sea, where the cliffs were sharp and narrow. A tight fit for a full-grown dragon, but perfect for one still growing.
One morning, while chasing a sea-bird across a ridge, Jake slipped.
The rock beneath his claws crumbled. He tumbled forward, over the ledge — and for the first time, his wings caught the air.
Not well. Not enough to fly. But enough to slow the fall.
He crashed hard, rolling down a slope of jagged stone, scales scraping against the rock. He landed in a puff of dust and broken feathers, dazed but alive.
And when he stood bruised, limping, but still standing he smiled, in his own way. A huff of smoke, a flick of his tail.
That had been close.
But it had also been his first flight — just a taste.
He climbed back up, slower this time, and stood again at the ledge.
The wind rose beneath him, tugging at his wings.
Soon, he would fly. Not yet. But soon.
Far away, across the waters, the dragons of the Dragonpit stirred in their stone stalls. Rhaenys Targaryen flew on Meleys, swift and proud. Young Rhaenyra, still a girl, spent hours staring at the skies, dreaming of her own golden Syrax.
The world was still at peace.
But peace was a thin thing.
And beneath the volcano, wrapped in smoke and stone, a nameless dragon waited — black and red, glowing from within, alone in a world that did not yet know him.
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