Verkyra Targaryen, eldest child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, born within the darkness of the 7 realms, gods sole heir to eternal tranquility.
A child, destined for war, not for love.
Yet she loved, so love was taken from her.
Will she conquer the world...
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03. Unraveling secrets
Madness, they say, is a slow and creeping terror, a descent marked by a thousand tiny fractures in the soul. It creeps in slowly, like shadows lengthening at dusk, woven from a myriad of factors — stress, grief, anger, the relentless pressure of a world out of balance. It is a terrifying descent, a tragic unraveling of the mind. Yet, for Verkyra Targaryen, madness was not some distant specter to be feared. It was an old adversary, a path well-trodden and deeply worn into the fabric of her being. It was as familiar to her as the blood in her veins.
For her, it took so very little to spark the wildfire within. The princess despised this truth about herself — the ease with which fury would consume her, the way it smoldered beneath her skin, ready to ignite at the slightest provocation. This time, it was Aegon who had fanned the flames. His mere existence was enough to set her blood boiling, to strip her of reason and fill her with rage that burned hotter than dragon fire.
She loathed him for it. Loathed him for making her forget the very reason she had returned to King's Landing. Her purpose had been clear — to seek justice for her slain child, to hunt down the killer and exact vengeance with all the wrath of her ancestors. But she had faltered, distracted by the poisonous presence of the Targaryen prince, now self-hatred gnawed at her insides, a bitter bile that tainted her every thought.
"Vermithor." she whispered, the name a tender caress on her lips as she ran her hands along the ancient dragon's bronze scales. The beast was a living fortress, his presence both a comfort and a reminder of her own strength, he had been her constant companion, protector, and weapon. Yet, for the past two days, she had not flown with him, not since she had retreated to the solitude of her chambers, her mind a prison more confining than any walls of stone.
Alliyane, her loyal maid, had knocked tirelessly at her door, the soft raps echoing through the emptiness of her isolation. But Verkyra had remained silent, shutting herself away from any comfort or company, afraid that if she were to open the door, the dam would break and she would loose herself entirely to the maelstrom within.
Vermithor, however, had felt her anguish, his own fury echoing hers. He had felt the chaos within his rider, the discord that rippled through their bond like cracks in the earth. His roars had shaken the heavens, the very foundations of the city, his collosal form darkening the skies above King's Landing as he soared in relentless circles, a harbinger of wrath. The small folk cowered in fear as the dragon's frustration manifested in terror, his mighty form a reflection of the storm brewing within Verkyra.
The bond between them was unbreakble, and in the depths of his rage, Vermithor had become an extension of her own turmoil. Yet, as she stood before him now, his massive eyes glowing like molten gold, she knew that the madness she possessed was not something that would be banished by locking doors or avoiding mirrors. It was in her blood, in the very marrow of her bones, a legacy as much a part of her as the dragon that loomed above her.
