THE HOUSE OF DRAGON: THE FIRST AGE OF TARGARYEN

CHAPTER 1

                                              THE HOUSE OF DRAGONS

                                        THE FIRST AGE OF TARGARYEN

"Skoros iksāþ īlva Targārien?"—Why do we name Targaryen? 

In the halls of power and among the warring factions of ancient Essos, there arose a figure who would be worshipped as both conqueror and queen. Veronica Targaryen—First of Her Name, the Unyielding Flame—stood against the tides of chaos, commanding the loyalty of her followers and the fear of her enemies. Wherever she walked, men and women fell to their knees, hands reaching out as if hoping to grasp a spark of her fire.

"Veronica Targaryen, First of Her Name, Unyielding Flame, Lady of Fire and Blood!" The voice echoed like thunder through the grand hall, silencing all who dared to murmur. Heads turned, and the sea of nobles, lords, and soldiers parted as if a force unseen commanded it.

She stepped forward—tall, regal, and fierce—her very presence exuding power. Her silver-white hair cascaded like molten moonlight, her eyes blazing with the cool intensity of a storm at sea. Clad in armor glimmering with Valyrian steel, she moved as if forged from the very fires that gave birth to dragons. The crowd's gaze, both awed and fearful, seemed to shrink under her gaze, as though the very air crackled with the heat of her defiance.

A hush fell over the assembly. There stood Veronica Targaryen, the woman who would challenge gods and kings alike. Every step she took was a proclamation, every glance a reminder—she was no ordinary ruler. She was a force unto herself.

"Vaorezsan ēdruta, prūmȳs se tubis ēdrutaks iā tubissa. Prūmagon hen zaldrīzes, ēdruta iā tubissa iā kesīr mazverdagon."
"The fire and blood run deep into the veins of whom it may lay within. The blood of the dragon runs deep into the veins of whom it may lay within."

The voice lingers, deep and reverent, as the view sweeps through the shadowy, towering halls of the dragonpit. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of charred stone. Torches cast flickering red and gold light on the darkened walls, illuminating the intricate carvings of dragons in flight and fierce battles etched into the stone.

A lone figure appears, shrouded in a deep crimson cloak—the dragonkeeper. His footsteps are soft, almost reverent, as he descends deeper into the bowels of the pit, where the very air itself seems to hum with an ancient, slumbering power.

With a murmured chant, he raises his hands, the Valyrian words pouring forth like an invocation, summoning the presence of the great beast that dwells within the darkness. The ground trembles, dust cascading from the stone ceiling as a deep, resonant growl echoes from the shadows.

Then, from the depths, two massive, sapphire eyes flicker open, blazing with untamed fury. The dragon Aegal stirs, its scales shimmering like molten steel in the dim light, wings unfolding with a sound like thunder as it rises to meet the call.

The deep, earthy scent of stone and the lingering musk of dragonfire filled the air as Vaelor Targaryen stepped cautiously into the dragonpit. The dim torchlight cast long shadows along the ancient walls, each flicker illuminating the glistening scales of the creature that loomed in the darkness. His heart raced, but he kept his expression calm, his gaze fixed on the great beast that awaited him.

Standing at his side, the dragonkeeper bowed his head. "He is to be yours, my prince," the keeper whispered in hushed tones, reverence lining his words. "But first, he must know you. He must choose you."