THE HOUSE OF DRAGON: THE FIRST AGE OF TARGARYEN

CHAPTER 2

The grand hall was alive with the soft murmur of voices as Veronica Targaryen stood surrounded by a circle of lords, their faces etched with curiosity and concern. A large map of Valyria and its neighboring lands lay spread out on the table, marked with sigils and battle lines. Veronica's gaze was sharp as she listened, her fingers idly tracing the edge of an apple she held, her expression unreadable.

"...If the Free Cities continue to push into our borders, we must strike first," one of the lords was saying. "Waiting will only weaken our position—"

Another lord interrupted, shaking his head. "No, striking now would provoke a war we are not yet prepared for."

Veronica's eyes narrowed slightly, the apple still turning slowly in her hand. She remained silent, letting the debate unfold around her.

But before she could speak, the doors to the chamber swung open, and a figure hurried inside—Maester Baellen, his face pale and lined with worry. He approached cautiously, bowing his head to the council before directing his gaze to Veronica.

"My Queen," he said softly, his voice urgent yet respectful. "A raven has just arrived."

The room fell silent. Veronica tilted her head, her expression calm yet curious. "From whom?" she asked, her voice carrying a dangerous edge of command.

Maester Baellen hesitated, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "It is confusing, Your Grace. The message comes from... Westeros."

The lords exchanged startled glances, whispers breaking out like a wave of unease. Westeros? The distant land across the sea was rarely, if ever, in direct communication with Valyria, and certainly not with House Targaryen.

Veronica's face remained a mask of serenity as she extended her hand. "Give me the letter."

The maester carefully placed the small scroll into her hand. She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, her eyes scanning the message quickly. Her expression did not change, but there was a flicker of something in her gaze—something dark and calculating.

She folded the letter neatly, slipping it into the folds of her robes. "Thank you, Maester Baellen," she said softly, her tone almost too calm. "You may excuse yourself."

The maester bowed deeply. "As you wish, Your Grace." With that, he turned and left the chamber, leaving the lords still murmuring in confusion.

But Veronica's gaze had already shifted, her thoughts far from the council and their bickering. She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Continue your discussions," she commanded, her voice cold. "I have other matters to attend to."

Without waiting for a response, she swept from the hall, her crimson and black robes flowing behind her like a trail of fire.

Moments later, Veronica entered the vast chamber of the Dragonpit, where the air was thick with the scent of ash and the distant rumble of beasts. The stone walls seemed to vibrate with the presence of the great creatures that called it home. At the far end of the pit stood a figure—Vaelor Targaryen, her young son. He was staring up in awe at the massive form of Aegal, Veronica's oldest and fiercest dragon.

The creature's scales gleamed like dark emeralds in the dim light, and its eyes, glowing a deep, fiery orange, fixed on the boy with an almost sentient gaze.

Vaelor turned as his mother approached, his expression shifting from wonder to respect. He bowed deeply, a perfect picture of decorum and reverence. "Your Grace," he murmured in flawless High Valyrian.

Veronica's stern expression softened, and she let out a low chuckle, reaching out to tap his shoulder lightly. "Hūrdan, Vaelor. Dāri sīr ēza jēda kōrra ēlī." -Stand tall, Vaelor. There is no need for such formalities between mother and son.