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...
In the far North, beyond the reach of man's dominion, a lone raven soared high above the snow-covered wilderness, its black wings cutting through the icy winds. Flurries of thick snow swirled in the air, casting a veil of frost over the desolate landscape. From its vantage point, the raven's keen eyes caught sight of a lone, ancient tree—a towering weirwood standing tall amidst the cold. Its twisted, pale bark gleamed under the muted light, and blood-red leaves clung stubbornly to its branches despite the season's harsh grip.
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As the raven descended, it landed gently on one of the branches, blending seamlessly into the shadows. There, it observed with curious eyes the small figures gathered beneath the ancient tree. The Children of the Forest moved in silence, their small, slender forms half-hidden beneath cloaks of leaves and fur. They murmured softly in their own ancient tongue—a language lost to time, unintelligible to all but their own kind.
In the hands of one of the Children, a dagger of dragon glass glinted faintly, its dark, smooth surface polished with care. Intricately carved, it seemed to hum with a power older than the winds that howled through the North. The raven's eyes narrowed, watching as the Child stepped forward, clutching the blade as if preparing for a grim task.
Then, from the shadows beneath the trees, a low, guttural scream split the stillness—a sound that sent shivers down the raven's spine. The bird's eyes turned a brilliant shade of white, as though it were no longer a mere creature but an extension of another's gaze. Someone else was watching through the raven's eyes, peering into the sacred grove from afar.
The White Walker bound to a gnarled root thrashed violently, its icy chains rattling with each furious struggle. Its ghastly, pale-blue eyes blazed with hatred, the chill of death emanating from its twisted form. With every snarl, its jagged teeth snapped hungrily at the air, craving the warmth of living flesh. But the Children remained unfazed. They circled the creature slowly, speaking in soft, sibilant voices, as though deciding its fate.
Finally, one of the Children stepped forward, raising the dragon glass dagger high. With a swift, unhesitating motion, the blade plunged deep into the Walker's chest. The creature let out a hideous shriek, a sound that resonated through the forest and echoed into the still night. But as quickly as it had begun, the scream ceased. The Walker's body shuddered, and then, with a final, rattling breath, it collapsed into silence.
The Children exchanged quiet, knowing glances, their faces betraying neither triumph nor fear. One by one, they turned, their eyes shifting upward to the raven perched above them. The bird's white eyes met theirs, and for a moment, it felt as though time itself held its breath.
Then, in a dimly lit chamber far away, a man sitting upon an old wooden chair leaned forward, his gaze focused, intent. His eyes, pale and clouded, seemed to glow faintly in the firelight. He blinked, and the raven's vision faded.
