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 wind howled through the narrow pass, carrying the faint echoes of clashing steel and distant shouts. The Bloody Gates, the formidable entrance to the Vale of Arryn, loomed high, framed by jagged cliffs and sheer mountainsides. The gates were built to withstand any invader, with towering walls and thick iron portcullises, blocking entry to any who sought to breach the secluded valley.
The chilling silence was broken only by the twang of arrows and the clattering of shields as the guardsmen of the Vale stood vigilant on the ramparts above. Below, soldiers in full plate armor wielded their swords, glancing warily at the sight before them. Their eyes flicked between each other, as if gauging the presence of the newcomers.
A voice thundered across the pass, reverberating off the stony walls and echoing through the very heart of the mountains.
"Who would dare pass the Bloody Gates?" the captain of the guard demanded, his voice harsh and commanding.
The soldiers shifted, their eyes narrowing as they peered down from their perch above the gate. The heavy air seemed to vibrate with tension as their gaze fell upon the small company standing defiantly at the base of the gates.
At the head of the party, a lone rider sat atop a dark destrier, his cloak whipping in the wind like the banner of the North. Flanking him were a handful of northern soldiers, their faces stern and hardened by the cold. Behind them, a large, imposing box—wrapped in heavy chains and secured to a wagon—rested ominously, shrouded in thick wolf pelts. Whatever lay within was hidden, but its weight seemed to drag the air around it into a suffocating silence.
The rider pushed his hood back, revealing a face of rugged strength and icy resolve. The man's hair was dark, his eyes a piercing gray, reflecting the steel of the North. He sat tall and proud, radiating a commanding presence that made even the seasoned warriors on the ramparts hesitate.
He raised his gaze to the gate, meeting the guard captain's stare without flinching.
"Lord Aroen Stark of Winterfell," he announced, his voice carrying powerfully through the bitter wind. "I am here to meet your king."
THE HOUSE OF DRAGON
THE FIRST AGE OF TARGARYEN
The high ceilings of the Eyrie's Great Hall seemed to stretch into the heavens, adorned with banners of the falcon and moon, the sigil of House Arryn. The floor beneath was polished marble, smooth and cold, and at its center yawned the infamous Moondoor—a narrow opening that led to a sheer drop thousands of feet down into the valley below. The Lords and Ladies of the Vale filled the hall, their murmurs hushed as they took in the sight before them.
