The Citadel Chronicle
Before kings, before crowns, there were only the trees — and the eyes that watched from them.
Every castle keeps a name in its stones. Most are lies. The best are true enough.
A winter that fell for a generation. A night that fell for the world.
They carved seven stars into their flesh, and the old kingdoms fell one by one.
The Freehold was neither kingdom nor empire. It did not need to be. It had dragons.
In a single day, the glory of five thousand years was unmade.
Seven kingdoms. Three dragons. One count of years, beginning anew.
Fifty-five years of peace, bought with patience — and spent by his heirs.
When dragons dance, the ground beneath them is the realm.
The dragons died. The dragonkings remained, and learned what crowns weigh.
The black dragon or the red — a question asked five times, always in blood.
The mad king called for two heads. The realm answered with a hammer.
The chronicle here overtakes the historians, and becomes the tale itself.