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...
The vast, empty plains of Valyria stretched out beneath a darkening sky. Maelein rode alone, her white horse moving cautiously over the scorched and blackened earth. The remnants of recent carnage lay scattered—bones of a mighty dragon, charred ground, and the burnt remains of sheep. She halted her horse and dismounted, her eyes sharp and focused as she approached the shattered remains of the fallen beast.
As she stood amidst the broken bones and torn scales, Maelein felt a deep sadness, not just for the dragon that had died, but for what this brutal act represented—dragons turning against their own kind. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She reached down and picked up a piece of the fallen dragon's horn, its jagged edge still warm to the touch.
"A dragon, murdered by dragons," she whispered, her voice soft but firm as she spoke in High Valyrian.
"Zaldrīzes, ōdrikagon bē zaldrīzoti."
The wind whipped around her, carrying the scent of smoke and blood. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing her mind. Then, raising her voice, she began to sing—an ancient chant of peace and remembrance, a song passed down through generations of Targaryens. The words flowed like a river, each syllable ringing out in High Valyrian.
"Lōgor se dāezarion ānogārion, hen kesir ēzi ābrar udra. Dōrī eptan kepa, issa iā nōna, Vezof se valītsa sīr..."
As she sang, the air around her stilled. The tension that had lingered in the atmosphere eased, and the skies, once clouded and grey, began to clear. She moved carefully, placing candles in a wide circle around her. One by one, she lit them, their flames flickering but holding strong against the fading breeze. With each candle she set, the power of her voice seemed to grow, resonating across the plains.
She knelt within the circle, tracing the sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon—into the ground. The symbol glowed faintly, as if acknowledging her presence. When she finished, she held up the broken horn fragment of the dead dragon, lifting it to the sky.
"By night, we light the eternal flame, thy spirit shall reign by power and blood, bound to the presence of the holy," she sang softly.
The chant lulled into silence, and Maelein opened her eyes. In the stillness, she felt it—a presence, powerful and ancient, watching her from afar.
And then, from somewhere high above, a roar shattered the silence.
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Maelein looked up just as a shadow fell over her. A massive form emerged from the clouds—a dragon, larger than any she had ever seen, its scales as dark as night, its wings beating rhythmically as it descended. She stood still as the beast landed before her, the ground trembling beneath its weight.
