In a time before legends were forged and before the Targaryens claimed the Iron Throne, Veronica Targaryen, the first of her name, rises from the ashes of the past. Born of fire and blood, she wields the ancient power of dragons and navigates the tr...
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The icy winds of the North cut sharply through the skies as Veronica soared high above, astride her magnificent dragon, Tharion. The chill bit at her skin, but the cold did not bother her—she was the blood of the dragon, and no mere frost could freeze her fire. Tharion's wings beat steadily against the northern gusts, each powerful stroke propelling them forward. Far below, the snow-draped forests and frozen rivers stretched like a white tapestry, and nestled in the heart of it all was the sprawling fortress of Winterfell.
From above, the view was nothing short of breathtaking. The high towers of Winterfell reached toward the sky like the fangs of an ancient beast, and the walls, rimmed with frost, encircled the keep protectively. Veronica's sharp eyes caught the flicker of movement below—small figures pointing upward, gasping in shock and awe. A dragon in the North was something of legend, a myth that none in these lands had ever seen.
But legends were meant to become reality. Today, the North would know her name.
"Ilve, Tharion," she commanded softly in High Valyrian, her voice steady and calm. ("Down, Tharion.") Tharion rumbled low in his throat but obeyed, descending slowly over the Great Hall of Winterfell, his massive shadow cast across the snow-covered courtyard and villages surrounding the keep.
As they neared the ground, Veronica felt it—a presence, ancient and powerful, tugging at the edge of her senses. The great weirwood tree, the Heart Tree, stood tall and solemn in the godswood. Its white bark gleamed eerily against the darkening sky, and the crimson leaves rustled gently in the wind. The carved face on its trunk, weeping red sap like blood, seemed to stare directly at her, its expression one of endless sorrow.
Veronica touched Tharion's neck gently, feeling the tense muscles rippling beneath his obsidian scales. "Jorrāelagon, Tharion. Jorrāelagon," she whispered. ("Calm, Tharion. Calm.") But the dragon snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. He did not like this place—the North was no land for dragons. The cold, the silence, and the watchful eyes of the trees unsettled him.
Ignoring the beast's unease, Veronica dismounted gracefully, her boots crunching in the thin layer of snow as she approached the tree. She could feel it now, the power pulsing through the roots beneath her feet, resonating with something deep inside her. And then the screams began.
The wind picked up, carrying with it faint, haunting cries—the sound of agony, of fear. It was as if the very air around her was alive with the echoes of the past. She hesitated only a moment, then stepped forward, eyes fixed on the ancient face carved into the weirwood.
"Skoriot daorun dārys?" she murmured, her breath misting in the cold air. ("What do you want to show me?")
And then, in a sudden, blinding flash, the world around her shifted.
