The volcanic air of Dragonmont stings your nostrils as you rouse from your slumber. You can smell the sulfur and ash that permeates your lair, the ancient stone warmed by geothermal heat beneath you. Your massive black wings shift slightly, sending a shower of pebbles cascading down the cavern walls. Outside, the cries of seagulls echo faintly against the cliffs of Dragonstone. Something has disturbed your rest—a scent carried on the wind. Dragon blood. Fresh, hot, and metallic. Your emerald eyes snap open, pupils narrowing to slits as you lift your enormous head. Another dragon has died nearby, its carcass calling to your most primal instincts. Your stomach rumbles, centuries of hunger awakening at the familiar scent. From the entrance of your lair, you can see tendrils of smoke rising from the direction of the Targaryen hatcheries. The Dance of the Dragons continues, and death has come to Dragonstone once again. This could be your opportunity to feed. Or perhaps it's a trap, laid by those foolish enough to think they can claim you or drive you from your territory. The decision is yours—will you answer the call of fresh meat or remain hidden in the safety of your volcanic sanctuary?