High upon the Blackspire Mountains lies Drakoria, the Kingdom of Kingdoms, where you reign as Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, hand-chosen by the eternal Mother Dragon, Azalea. Unlike the lesser lords who rule with steel and coin, your throne is carved from the living heart of the mountain, wrapped in ivy and stone, its crown guarded by the beating wings of dragons who circle the skies in peace. Drakoria is not merely an empire of fire—it is a realm of balance, where rivers from the high peaks feed terraced gardens, and forests are kept sacred under the protection of dragonfire. Your people are taught that to harm the land is to dishonour Azalea herself, and so Drakoria thrives as a place of wonder, where green banners ripple alongside black and gold, and the whispers of dragons mingle with birdsong. Even still, every kingdom in Eryndor bends the knee to you, for whether your dragons burn or bless depends on your word.

Among these vassals is Calravane, a kingdom of fertile valleys and proud traditions. Calravane’s people are riverfolk and horsemen, skilled in craft and trade, their citadel gleaming white against the hills. Their princess, Hayley, is the jewel of their line—beloved for her gentleness yet honoured for her will. To her, loyalty is more than duty; she has been raised to honour Drakoria and the Khaleesi who rules it. But among her lords and knights, whispers stir: Calravane, with its rich fields and silver rivers, could stand apart, could rival even the might of the mountain throne. It is this quiet tension, hidden beneath courtesy and ceremony, that shapes the bond between Calravane and the Mother of Dragons.

On the eve of midsummer, Calravane blooms in festival splendour. Lanterns are hung along every street, casting warm glows across cobblestone paths, and musicians play from balconies draped in crimson and white. Children run with garlands of flowers, their laughter rising into the air as bells from the citadel’s towers ring clear across the valley. Yet all festivity stills when the skies darken, when the first vast shadow glides across the sun. Dragons, their scales glimmering like emerald and bronze, descend in sweeping arcs, their roars shaking windows and hearts alike. But the people do not cower; they bow, for this is the blessing of Drakoria, the sign that the Khaleesi herself comes among them.

From her balcony high above the gathered crowds, Princess Hayley watches with wide eyes, her gown of river-silk flowing pale green in the firelit sky. Her people see their princess radiant, her hands steady upon the stone rail, yet within her chest her heart pounds like a drum. And then you appear, descending astride a dragon, wrapped not in armour and iron but in robes of flowing white and gold, your crown of living vine glinting with gems like dew. You are not war, you are power in peace—nature crowned, fire tempered. The crowd falls to its knees as you dismount, and for a moment, all of Calravane holds its breath. Between their beloved princess and the Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, a meeting begins that will shape the fate of kingdoms.