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Chapter Text

[Laenor Pov]

Indeed, it seems to be true. Fans of fanfiction might give anything to learn that reincarnation or transmigration is real. My presence here serves as sufficient evidence of its reality. There was no Random Omnipotent Being (ROB) to converse with, nor were there any wishes granted to me. However, whoever brought me to this world without my consent—though I'm not complaining—has at least endowed me with the power to become a top powerhouse in this realm.

Even without any provision, my identity and bloodline in this world would suffice for me to rise to power effortlessly. Reborn as Laenor Velaryon, the son of Corlys Velaryon, "The Seasnake," and Rhaenys Targaryen, "The Queen Who Never Was," my heritage alone empowers me to command the might of this world's dragons. To be honest, I had always wanted to live in a world like this. But like every person back on earth, I also knew that this world is a fantasy created by G.R.R Martin.

Who knows if it was real? It's a surreal experience, if nothing else. The reason I'm coping here without any issues is that my identity from back on Earth has been erased from me. I know I was there living my life and how many people were there for me, but I don't remember their names or what they meant to me. And the integration of Laenor's memories into my mind is also keeping me sane, giving me something to live for here.

Discussing him, I feel no guilt for taking over his body, as he was already deceased before I did so. He had drowned in the sea, and his male companions brought him to the castle too late. However, Corlys, witnessing his only son lifeless, did what any father would—striving with all his might to revive Laenor. His efforts bore fruit, and suddenly, I awoke to find Corlys bestowing a kiss upon my lips. While I'm not objecting, if the deed was done by Laenor's mother and sister would have been a more joyous sight upon awakening.

After wiping my lips with my sleeve a couple of times, I glanced around and noticed many people staring at me. Among them were two exceptionally beautiful girls whose allure surpassed anyone I had ever seen on Earth. One with black hair began approaching me for a hug, which I eagerly anticipated with open arms and a joyful smile. However, before I could relish her embrace, I lost consciousness and blacked out. Whoever dropped me here would've enjoyed my misfortune. Damn him.

In my state of unconsciousness, I acquired the memories of Laenor and the abilities bestowed upon me by an unknown benefactor. During this time, I was moved to my chambers. The abilities I received from this higher power are akin to those of Percy Jackson. While not all of his powers, they are sufficient to garner fame comparable to Garth Greenhand and other legendary heroes from the Age of Heroes. However, I must learn to master them, except for the abilities that came as an instinctive skill. Thus, Laenor is not overpowered at present, but in the future, I may also flower girls like Garth Greenhand did.

Now I need to persuade my new parents to allow me to take leave for the nearby sea if I want to master the skills I get from Percy. After this incident, I doubt they would let me be alone on the seashore without guards or their supervision. There are also some changes in this timeline compared to the shows or books from my world. The first is that Laenor did not claim Seasmoke at this time, a change for which I am eternally grateful. Additionally, there is one dragon that survived even after battling Maegor and Balerion.

Aside from these two, I'm not sure, as Laenor didn't interact with many lords after the Great Council. Thus, my first course of action is to acquire a dragon for myself, as it seems to be the wisest decision moving forward. Additionally, I must cease hinting my preferences to my male companions. Coming from the 21st century, I do not judge anyone based on their preferences. But I am aware that I was straight back on earth, and I prefer to stay that way. Therefore, these two matters are my priorities.

I had to also make myself adept to this time too. When I'm on my thoughts about things that I need to do or not to do. Heavy, lavish doors of my new chamber opened up, and in came Maester and my new family. And seeing me awake, they make haste to come toward my bedside and started to ask about by health.

"I'm fine, Mother. There's no need for excessive worry," I assured her. "I was merely testing my limits in the sea, seeing how long I could stay submerged without coming up for air. Unfortunately, things escalated beyond my control. I promise not to repeat the same mistake," I said with a sigh, as she had been the one inquiring most persistently. Upon hearing my response, a look of fury crossed her face. And it appears frightening, I must say; father began to distance himself from mother. Ours is the Fury, indeed.

"Testing he said. This is entirely your fault, Corlys. Had you not taken them to swimming practice, we wouldn't be in this predicament. And Laenor, you are to stay away from the sea henceforth. I shall take you on Meleys wherever you wish to travel. You must obey me, or I will not bring you to Dragonstone before the Tourney to tame a dragon of your own. The choice is yours: the sea or the dragon," she declared with finality. Corlys winced at the accusation that it was all his fault.

"Mother, you can't do this to me. To claim the lordship of Driftmark from Father, I must master swimming. I've already vowed not to repeat my past mistakes. You promised we would go to Dragonstone, Mother; you can't break that promise now. And think about Laena; she'll be all alone if I miss the swimming lessons with Father," I reasoned with her. I need to get to the sea as quickly as possible because I have a plan. If it works, I won't have to go to Dragonstone.

Laena resembled a deer caught in headlights upon seeing Mother's furious gaze directed at her. She attempted to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, yet she couldn't resist sending a vengeful glare my way. I offered her an apologetic look in return; she could at least do that much for her little brother.

"Laenor is right, Rhaenys. He will need to practice swimming, for if he ever has to lead our armies in the future, it is a skill that could save his life. To assure you, I will be with him constantly and will not ask anyone else to teach him to swim," said Father, a cautious look in his eyes. At first, Mother looked furious when he mentioned I would still practice swimming, but upon hearing that it would help me in the future, she relented begrudgingly, and the fury in her eyes lessened.

"Do as you please. But if this occurs again, Corlys, you'll be Meleys' next meal, understand?" Mother's voice was resolute. "Laenor, you shall rest today. Your meals will be sent up by the servants." She then turned to Laena. "Come, your lesson is about to begin." I glanced at Father; his expression conveyed his thoughts clearly, so I remained silent as Mother and Laena left the room. Laena told me to take care of myself and promised to visit after her lesson with the septa was over.

"Did you hear that, son? My life is in your hands; do not make that decision again if you care for your father. I won't be able to save you again, as the Red Queen is not known for her mercy. Take care of yourself. I will come tomorrow morning for our lessons," said Father. He attempted a smile, but it resembled a grimace more. However, he worries needlessly because I cannot drown myself even if I wished to.

After he left my room, I began to ponder the future. It's the year 103 AC, and the tournament where Criston Cole is to become a King's guard is imminent. Skirmishes in the Stepstones have also begun, as I've recently overheard my mother and father discussing at supper. With the Stepstone war looming, it's imperative that I get my own dragon and get proficient in my powers to some extent to capitalize on the forthcoming events.

"Lord Leanor, do you truly feel no pain? If you do, inform me so that I may administer the appropriate medicine," said the Maester, whose presence I had entirely overlooked until now. After assuring him I was fine and simply needed some rest to get back on my feet, he took his leave, advising me to rest further. These rats look masters of stealth.

Although I needed rest because my mind was somewhat overwhelmed at the moment, I closed my eyes to take a nap before the servants arrived with food.

Next Morning

103 AC

Driftmark

Prepared for a new morning and a fresh start, I opened the doors and made my way to the dining chamber of the keep. I hardly recall when the servants arrived with food or how much I consumed, as my memories of last night are hazy from deep sleep. However, taking a bath and immersing myself in water this morning greatly alleviated my fatigue.

As I approached the dining chamber doors, the guards opened them for me. Upon entering, the first sight that greeted me was my family waiting for my arrival. I took my seat beside my mother, and the servants began serving breakfast. Once everyone commenced eating, I too started to eat heartily, planning for a day filled with physical activity and knowing that controlling water would consume much of my energy. I needed to eat well from now on. While eating, I couldn't help but notice the unusual quietness compared to our typical morning bustle.

I stealthily observe everyone and notice that my mother and father are avoiding each other's gaze. Laena is lost in her own deep thoughts. It appears that my father's decision to support my swimming lessons has strained their relationship. They will likely reconcile soon, but it still pains me to know that their current discord is because of me.

After breakfast, I sought my mother's attention, but she did not look back at me. Before my time, Laenor was very close to his mother, and Laena to her father. It troubled me to see her silent. Standing before her, I pleaded, "Are you still mad at me? I won't do it again, I promise, Mother. I'll never cause you worry like that again." Following my words, I embraced her. When she did not reciprocate the hug, I held on tighter. Eventually, her arms wrapped around me, and a silent sob echoed in the dining chamber.

"You do know that I love you and Laena more than anything, right? After seeing you in that state yesterday, I almost thought I had lost you. The Maester said you died, but it was only by a miracle that you survived. I don't want anything to happen to you or Laena. I want you both to live a long and happy life," she said between her sobs. Laena also joined the hug, tears streaming down her face.

After embracing for a few minutes, I stepped back from her and Laena. Mother regained her composure and, with a glance at Father, who was smiling at us, instructed him to look after me and Laena and exited the chambers. She never was one to display her vulnerabilities, even to her own family. Laena and I then began to follow Father toward the seashore, where we had taken our swimming lessons until now.

Grammar would be bad for a few chapters as I have written this story alongside my first. It would be only for 10-15 chapters; after that, I promise it is bearable. That's it. I hope you enjoyed reading this.

Chapter Text

Driftmark
103 AC


We walk through the corridors towards the rear of the keep. The Driftmark keep is directly connected to the sea at the back, and this stretch of shoreline is reserved for House Velaryon. Having reached the seashore through the back door, we arrive at the area where we have practiced our swimming until now.


"Now, Laenor, if you feel any discomfort or anything similar, scream. If you can't scream, make as many ripples in the water as possible to alert me. I know you can swim, but it's for your own safety," said Father. "And Laena, less playing, more swimming. Off you go, I'll wait here." We didn't need to be told twice. Laena and I ran towards the sea and submerged ourselves in the water.


As I submerged in the water, I felt more powerful than before, as if I were in my own domain where no one could harm me. After swimming and playing with Laena, I noticed that my father was attending to the guards and servants of the keep, who were there to deliver reports. I began my plan. First, I took a deep dive and started to swim as fast as I could. It was truly awesome.



I feel no resistance from the water. My movements are so graceful and fluid that I could outswim the largest ships in this world. After a few laps around the area to acclimate to the increased speed, I began to ascend and break the surface where Laena was swimming in circles. Upon seeing me, she let out a sigh of relief. I matched her pace and pattern in the water. When our father glanced over to check on us, reassured by our swimming, he returned to his conversation with the others.


"Cover for me. I'll be out in a second. And don't scream; I won't drown this time because I know my limits. If you do that, I'll bring you a gift from underwater," I told Laena. Without waiting for a reply, I dived into the deep. I was confident Laena wouldn't betray me. Though she's older than Laenor, she's the more childish of us. The promise of a gift would keep her quiet for a few minutes. After that, she'd scream, so I had to hurry.


As I ventured further from the water's surface, darkness enveloped the surroundings since sunlight could not penetrate this depth. Upon closing and reopening my eyes, my vision became crystal clear, surpassing that on land. I began to communicate with the smaller fish, inquiring telepathically about the whereabouts of whale sharks and dolphins. Understanding my intentions, they conveyed theirs and began swimming in specific patterns to guide me to their location.


After expressing my gratitude, I swam in the direction where they last observed the species. Within seconds, I arrived at the location, but the species I sought was not within sight. Without hesitation, I began to ascend slightly to check if they were at the surface, knowing that the gentle giants of the sea and dolphins often frolic and swim near the surface when humans are not present.


As I spotted the silhouettes of the fish I was searching for from a distance, excitement bubbled up inside me. I dove in and swam towards a group of dolphins, who were already aware of my approach. I could feel a kind of connection forming between us, so I tried to reach out telepathically. Once I explained my mission, things started to feel a bit easier, but then they playfully nudged me, asking me to join in their games.


I chuckled and switched to High Valyrian, promising them that once I completed my task, we could have our daily playdates. Their suspicion flickered in their eyes—these guys were definitely sharp! It seemed like my presence was heightening their awareness, and just to sweeten the deal, I mentioned my sister would come to play too.


The dolphins finally gave in. Following a pod of dolphins, we headed towards the whale sharks. I didn't delve into complexities, simply following the pod and bringing me the object that they would find there. They asked nothing of me, complying with my commands as the small fish had before. They are known as the gentle giants of the sea in my former world for good reason. Bidding them farewell, I urged them to return soon.


I swam as quickly as possible towards Laena, who was waiting for me. During my swim, I collected several seashells, trusting they might contain rare pearls, guided more by intuition than reason. Upon surfacing, I spotted Laena diving in search of me. I surprised her by appearing suddenly from behind. Together, we surfaced to find our father searching for us in every direction.


"You scared me to death. I thought some animal had caught me off guard. Don't do that again, or I'll tell mother about your ocean dives," said Laena, hitting me on the shoulders. Once she finished venting her frustration, she glanced at my hands, where I held seashells. She let out a joyful scream and, without a word of thanks, snatched them from my grasp. Eagerly, she headed towards the shore to see if any of them contained pearls.


I began to follow her as well. Now that my work here is complete, I just have to wait for tomorrow. The journey of the dolphins and the whale shark will take a full day before they can retrieve the object I've requested. I also need to introduce Laena to the dolphins. I believe she will adore them. It will also afford me more time to spend in the sea while Laena and the dolphins play amongst themselves.




*****




I am getting ready for sword practice with my uncle. In the series, he was portrayed as a man who can't keep his tongue in check. However, he didn't cause me any trouble because he respected my father. But there's no denying that he has a poisonous tongue. He should be called "Seacobra" because of his venomous tongue. After getting ready, I headed to the training yard where my cousins and I practice sword fighting.


As I walked through the corridors, I saw my mother approaching with a determined look in her eyes. She was wearing her riding leathers, which meant she had been out riding her dragon, Meleys, this morning. When she reached me, she kissed my cheek and then looked at the training garments I was wearing.


"You're off to training with Vaemond?" she asked with worry in her tone. I nodded in answer, as she already knows that this is my daily routine. She bent down and, looking me in the eye, said with a pleading look, "Can't you take a rest for a day, Laenor? I know you've recovered, but the maester said water had traveled into your lungs when you drowned in the sea. If you start doing physical activities without taking the rest you need, you'll only damage your body more. And it's not like one day would affect your training that much."


I want to deny my mother's request to take a rest day from training, but I don't want to upset her. I've subconsciously accepted her as my own mother, and I don't want to disappoint her without a good reason. Besides, I don't need the extra training to become the finest knight or swordsman in the realm. My supernatural alertness and battle awareness will let me master swordsmanship faster than anyone in the history of this world.


Although it had its limitations, I can turn my powers on or off. I received the nerfed powers of Percy Jackson, which are better because I don't have Percy's super endurance. Otherwise, I would have been overwhelmed in large-scale battles with my super awareness. Anyway, I couldn't deny my mother's request. I would practice my water control in my room, as I had to focus on that to increase the amount of water I could control.


"I would not go to training today because you said so. But you had to promise me that you'll not stop me tomorrow. Or I'll not be able to become a knight of the realm if I don't practice my swordsmanship daily." I said to her with a smile at the end. She became happy after hearing me accept her request not to train today.


She hugged me and told me that I should go play outside if I wished, as my lessons with the maester would start soon. She also said that she would not stop me from training tomorrow, but that I should not overdo it for a while. She promised to make my favorite dish for supper tonight.


I am going to complain if I can't go to the training yard. Why should I go to the maester? But her stern eyes told me she wouldn't budge. So with sadness in my eyes, I started to go toward my room and wait for the torture of the old coot known as the maester. And with my dyslexia, learning the common tongue would be harder than before. I hope I can at least learn to read because if not, I'll have to rely on others to read letters for me. And I don't want others to read letters that my wife or betrothed writes to me in the future.

Chapter Text

Driftmark
103 AC


As I re-entered my chambers following a brief conversation with my mother, I sat on my bed and pondered over my ability to manipulate water and how I should commence its manipulation. Focusing on all my abilities, I contemplated the best ways to utilize them. However, as I reviewed each ability, I couldn't help but wonder why a higher being had bestowed upon me these powers. It's not that I am ungrateful, but there must be a reason.


I've watched Percy Jackson and read about his abilities on a wiki page. While I enjoyed the movies and liked his character, I wouldn't consider myself a huge fan. The power bestowed upon me could be due to my heritage or simply a whim, but there must be a reason. Although this power is nerfed, it's still quite formidable in this world and timeline. If the giver seeks entertainment, they won't find it, as my foreknowledge of the timeline and this power would spoil it.


The more I thought about it, the more I envisioned every possible worst-case scenario. Eventually, I ceased to dwell on it, realizing that overthinking was futile. However, I knew I needed to harness all my abilities and continually push myself to remain in peak condition. I had this unshakeable feeling that something significant and perilous loomed on the horizon, far more daunting than the dance that awaited.


I began searching for water in my chambers. Bath water would have been suitable due to its larger quantity, but I found only a jug that holds about 1-2 liters. I can command the servants to refill the jug as needed, which is why there's no more than necessary. After clearing the table and placing the jug upon it, I allowed my instincts to guide me in manipulating the available water, for in wielding Percy's power, instinct was my sole guide.


I concentrated intensely for several minutes, and afterwards, I felt as if my will had somehow connected with the water. I immediately tried to move a small amount out of the jug. To my surprise, it rose from the jug, albeit only as much as could fit in my fist, and it required more concentration than I had anticipated. After I started moving the water that I had control over it in multiple shapes. However, after some time, I began to feel a sense of fatigue overwhelming me, a mental exhaustion that crept over my mind.


I rolled over in my bed and began to rest. I could only manipulate that amount of water for a few minutes. I realized I needed to practice this more than anything else. Ultimately, it would also fortify my will and mental strength. That's my motivation to keep at it, I suppose.


After a period of rest, I resumed my water manipulation exercises repeatedly until a servant interrupted to inform me that the maester's lessons were imminent. I mentioned my intention to bathe, and she departed, only to return later with additional servants. Submerged in the water, I noticed my fatigue diminishing, albeit slowly. This gradual recovery was a slight disappointment, as I had hoped for an instant rejuvenation to resume my practice immediately.


I believed that contact with water would rejuvenate me over time, allowing for more efficient practice by the sea and hastening my progress. However, it appears to have been in vain. After bathing and slightly recovering from the continuous drain on my mental energy, I began preparing for the upcoming lessons with the master.


*****


As I emerged from the maester's room, it was evident that joy and happiness radiated from me. The session had been tedious, and my dyslexia was of no help. The maester tasked me with reading and writing in the Common Tongue, a feat I couldn't achieve despite Laenor's prior proficiency in the language. After some time, he was perplexed, as Laenor had previously been learning well, yet now I could not even decipher the text written in the Common Tongue.


However, he didn't make it any easier; he began teaching me from scratch once more. It was incredibly frustrating to attempt learning a language that seemed unlearnable, no matter how hard I tried. It's not that I'm incapable of learning languages, but my mind struggles to grasp the Common Tongue, being naturally attuned to High Valyrian. I'm grateful to the entity that diminished Percy Jackson's powers, as it allowed me to make some progress, albeit at a snail's pace. Ultimately, I believe I might achieve a level in the Common Tongue where I can read but not write, although prolonged reading will induce migraines.


"What has happened to you, Laenor? You had learned to read and write before, so why can't you do it now? Are you alright? Should I ask Father to take you to King's Landing to consult the Grand Maester about this problem? I believe your issue stems from that incident when you nearly drowned at sea," said Laena, her voice laced with concern and urgency. And here it is now, how should I handle this situation?


I could reveal my abilities to them, and they wouldn't be overly concerned. However, I choose not to at this moment. I wish to master my control over water before disclosing my powers. I haven't even had the chance to fully understand the extent of my abilities; there might be more than I've realized so far. Thus, I needed to concoct an excuse to keep them from worrying. Before my cousins from Uncle Vemond arrived to demand more of my time, I began guiding Laena through the corridor towards our chambers.


"I'm not sure, but reading and writing in the Common Tongue are challenging for me now. Don't worry, though; I'm making progress, albeit slowly. It's nothing serious, and I don't have any other issues. I wanted to tell you something at the seashore, but you ran off. I made some friends during my dive. I'll introduce them to you tomorrow. They enjoy playing in the water, so they'll likely join you." I told her, hoping to distract her from my language practice. It seemed to work, as a look of happiness and excitement briefly crossed her face before disappearing.


"Do not change the subject, Laenor. I won't tell mother and father. But promise me, if you encounter any more situations like this, you'll at least tell me so we can resolve it together. And I would help you in my free time to read the Common Tongue," said Laena, a serious expression on her face. Perhaps I was mistaken about her; she's not entirely childish and carefree. I nodded, and we discussed the friends I had made. She repeatedly asked who they were, but I kept it a secret, saying it was a surprise. She pouted and scampered off towards her mother's chambers to spend time with her.

After enjoying a hearty supper with my family, I returned to my chambers, feeling content. I spent several hours practicing hydrokinesis, but eventually reached a point where I could not continue. I then bathed and went to bed, intending to enter the realm of Morpheus. Having practiced hydrokinesis all day, my ability to control water has improved significantly. I can now manipulate the entire amount of water in a jug with my mind for several minutes. My primary focus was to shape the water into any form I desired, as skillfully as possible. Indeed, with enough imagination and creativity, a single liter of water can be lethal.


I've called my ability Hydrokinesis because it allows me to manipulate water through the power of my mind. Since I cannot create water, the name seems quite fitting. Reflecting on my progress, even with practicing Hydrokinesis throughout the day, advancement has been modest. Considering this, it appears it will be a considerable time before I can become a formidable force within the world's navies alone.


I went to bed early in anticipation of the eagerly awaited events of tomorrow morning.

As I hastily devour as much food as I can, Laena does the same, brimming with excitement about meeting the friends I promised her she would meet today. After finishing in just a few minutes, I glance at my father, who is eating his breakfast, while my mother eyes Laena and me with palpable suspicion. I quickly divert my gaze from her and turn to Laena, who is giving my father a look that clearly says, "Hurry up."


"Enough. Out with it, you two. What's got you so excited? You've never been this thrilled about swimming lessons before. Not that I'm complaining," said Mother, her stern gaze making it clear she expected a straight answer. Laena kept silent, knowing any word from her would only worsen the situation, and she'd face my scolding if she revealed our reason for excitement. Father gave Mother a sharp look, as her words had indirectly labeled swimming as a dull activity.


"There's nothing secretive, Mother. Laena and I have made some fish friends at sea, and we're excited to meet them again. And you know how Laena loves to play around," I said, telling a half-truth while maintaining eye contact. If I had looked away while speaking, she would have known I was lying. After hearing my explanation, Father continued eating.


"Laena's reason is out. But why the excitement, Laenor? You always grumble about playing with Laena in the sea. What is it?" asked Mother.


"I can't explain it, but since this morning, I've had this feeling that I would discover treasure in the sea today," I said, my eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation. My parents glanced at me, their expressions shifting from shock to amusement, and then they burst into laughter, delighted by my childlike innocence. They don't understand, so their laughter at my expense seemed reasonable. Yet, I couldn't suppress a surge of annoyance. Sensing my mood, they quickly stifled their chuckles and regained their composure.


"I'm sure you will find it, son. I believe in you," said the father, regaining his composure. Mother simply kissed the crown of my head. I was eager to see their expressions when I received what I had asked the dolphins and whale sharks to bring.


After telling her goodbye. Laena, me, and my father started to go toward the seashore.

"Where are they, Laenor? When are they coming here?" Laena asked, glancing around frantically in search of the friends she was supposed to meet today. She had been waiting since I told her I would call them over once Father was preoccupied. Meanwhile, she busied herself by paddling in the water and playfully splashing some on her face.



"Hey Laena, what happened to the seashell I gave you yesterday? What came out of it?" I inquired, noting she hadn't mentioned it even once after taking it.


"I handed them to Father, and he promised to give me the results after swimming today. What do you think will emerge from it? I didn't express my gratitude properly yesterday. Thank you, Laenor. You are the best brother," Laena said as she embraced me. I reciprocated the hug. My trust in her deepened when she refrained from screaming today as I dived, and she kept silent about my language difficulties to our parents. The maester wouldn't inform them either, not without confirming my inability to read and write. Since my parents would seek an explanation from him, which he wouldn't have, that's why he insisted so much on my studies yesterday.


"What are your thoughts on the Dragon Egg, Laena? I understand your desire to tame Vhagar, but what if you hatch your egg or form a bond with another dragon?" I inquired, needing to understand her stance. Sadness flickered in her eyes at the mention of the Dragon Egg. She was born during the time Jaehaerys claimed our mother's right to the throne. Prince Baelon presented my mother with an egg to atone for the slights his father and he had shown towards her. It was her sole opportunity to claim a dragon, yet it ended in disappointment as the egg failed to hatch.


"I'm not sure, but I want to show everyone in the realm that I possess Dragon blood as well. What better way than taming the conqueror's Dragon for myself? That's why I aimed to tame Vhagar. However, if my egg hatched, I would attempt to bond with it too," she said, her voice filled with hope at the mention of the Dragon egg. This aligns well with my plan.


After discussing dragons with her and imagining ourselves as dragon lords of old, soaring through the skies on our own dragons, time passed. Servants from the keep approached with reports for my father. I exchanged a knowing look with Laena, who nodded back. Then, with a single dive, I zoomed towards the location where I had encountered dolphins and whale sharks the day before.


Upon my arrival, I discovered dolphins frolicking amongst themselves. Nearby, whale sharks were sleep-swimming, with one showing faint burn marks. As I approached the dolphins, they began to circle me, inviting me into their play. This time, I didn't resist and started swimming at their pace, joining in their games. After a while, I ceased playing and inquired about the task.


They were initially reluctant, but after I mentioned that my sister was waiting, they complied. The pod of dolphins began to guide me towards the whale shark, which bore burn marks. As the dolphins used their voices to rouse it, the whale shark opened its eyes, revealing the pain within. I placed my hands on it and employed my ability, Vital Kinesis. After a while, I opened my eyes to find the whale shark's pain had significantly diminished, and the anguish in its eyes had lessened considerably. 


It seems to work better on aquatic life than any other. It healed faster than I did. With eyes filled with gratitude, it looked at me and opened its mouth to let me retrieve what I had asked for from my ancient, lost homeland of Old Valyria. I took out two round objects of different colors from its mouth. One was deep black and the other, a rich purple. I let my hands roam over them, feeling the scales beneath my fingers.


Indeed, I dispatched them to Old Valyria, not into the Smoking Sea, but to the region where ships navigate safely to procure two dragon eggs for me. Why just two? Because that is all I require at present. I wish not to prolong their quest in search of additional eggs, given the myriad mysteries the sea around Valyria may conceal. In time, I may venture there myself to explore. Thus, I instructed them to retrieve merely two eggs, and they have accomplished this splendidly.

Chapter Text

In The Sea
103 AC

After expressing my gratitude to them, the whale sharks acknowledged my thanks by swimming around me several times before descending into the depths to rest. I then turned my attention to the pod of dolphins who had done the majority of the work. I had assigned different tasks to the two species: the dolphins were responsible for locating and delivering the eggs to the whale sharks, who would then transport them to me.

However, there are no burn marks on them. This proves that the dolphins in this world are as intelligent as those in my previous world. They are regarded as the smartest sea creatures for good reason. Once I communicated that I would place eggs down where we were to meet, my sister and they understood, I began swimming towards Laena with a pod of dolphins trailing behind me, making excited noises.

After arriving at the same spot a few minutes later than yesterday, I placed eggs near the seashore and instructed some smaller fish to watch over them. As I ascended, I noticed the pod encircling Laena and performing breaches around her. I swam out of the water and attempted to mimic them, but failed spectacularly. Of course, it was my intention to fail, not that I couldn't do what the dolphins were doing.

"Here they are, Laena. What do you think about them? Aren't they playful?" I asked my older sister as I frolicked with the dolphins. Glancing at our father, I noticed his initial shock at seeing his children playing with dolphins. However, after a while, realizing the pod was not harming us, he smiled, his expression a blend of pride and relief. Laena was the happiest of us all, looking as if she had found the best companions in the world.

"As I've mentioned before, you're the best brother in the world, Laenor," Laena said, trying to splash the dolphins back. Even with a mentality far older than my current physical form, it still fills me with a certain joy in my core to hear that I'm the best. "Come play with us, Laenor," Laena called out amidst her play with the dolphins. I swam towards her, behaving as one would at this age.

In about half an hour, judging by the sun's position, my sister and I emerged from the water to find our father waiting for us patiently. We made our way to the spot where he had been keeping watch over us.

"Did you two make friends with the 'Silver Swimmers'?" Father asked, curiosity lacing his tone. "I didn't see them yesterday. When do you two usually meet them?" I mused that dolphins here were called 'Silver Swimmers'—a straightforward and fitting name, if ever there was one.

"They encountered us at the end of our time yesterday. Laena and I were looking underwater when we stumbled upon them, playing amongst themselves, Father. So today, we invited them to the surface of the sea," I explained, concealing my dives from my parents. Laena nodded absentmindedly, already preoccupied with thoughts of the games she would play tomorrow with the Pod.

Father didn't believe my lie, yet he nodded anyway. "So, did you find your treasure beneath the waters, Laenor?" he inquired, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I glanced at Laena, who returned my look with her own curiosity, as she had not seen any treasure I might have brought back from the sea either.

"I was waiting for you to ask; I placed them near the seashore. I'll get them; wait for me," I said as I ran toward the sea with renewed vigour to retrieve the eggs and surprise Father and Laena. After reaching the spot and thanking the fish for keeping the eggs safe, I swam back to shore, making sure to conceal the eggs behind my back.

As I approached the place where Father and Laena were waiting, I noticed their impatience to see what I was hiding. Father even tried to use his height to peek, but fortunately, I am quite tall myself.

"Are you two ready for the surprise?" I asked. The only reply was two pairs of raised eyebrows. Without further ado, I unveiled my find. Father looked so astonished he nearly dropped himself onto the sand. Laena didn't hesitate for a second and snatched the rich purple egg from my grasp. She began twirling with the egg in her hands. Overcome with excitement, she approached me and kissed me close to my lips. I couldn't help myself as feelings I had never experienced before surged within me. And I averted my gaze from hers, which no longer seemed innocent.

Father regained his composure and observed my reaction to Laena's unexpected kiss. He gave a mysterious smile, then turned to me and said, "Laenor, I'm at a loss for words regarding the treasure you've discovered. Despite my numerous voyages across the known world, I cannot claim to have found such a priceless treasure. I am proud of you, my son. Let's present this to your mother." His voice was filled with pride. He took the black egg from my hand and began to examine it closely. In response, I simply smiled.

After we began our journey towards the keep presenting the dragon eggs to my beloved mother.

My mother examined the eggs and then me, repeating the action several times. With a sigh and a tone of defeat, she said, "How and where did you find these eggs, Laenor? I've visited dragon hatcheries many times, but I've never seen eggs with colors like these. They're also larger and heavier than Targaryen dragon eggs, which might be because they've turned to stone. Yet, even as stone, they are a valuable treasure that could fetch you many things if sold to the right person." Laena looked downcast upon hearing they had turned to stone, yet it didn't stop her from embracing the egg she had chosen for herself.

"I am aware they have been turned to stone. However, I have resolved to awaken them from their stony slumber since the moment I found them. I believe in my ability to do so. Therefore, Laena, if you desire for this Dragon egg to hatch, I would ask that you entrust it to me every evening. And to mother and father, I seek your permission to visit the seashore whenever I wish," I declared. Laena handed over her Dragon egg with a look of hope, a hope I had no intention of shattering by failing to hatch her egg. I accepted the egg and turned to my parents, awaiting their judgment on my request.

"You have my permission to go there whenever you wish. However, I want you to take care of yourself and avoid repeating what happened last time," said Father, then he glanced at Mother to see if she would grant her permission. Laena and I also turned towards her, awaiting her opinion.

"I would prefer not to grant you permission. However, I know you might disregard my wishes, as you did when you retrieved the dragon eggs from the ocean's depths. I'm lenient this time because you've shown care and proven you won't repeat the same mistake. But I need to hear from you, Laenor, that you won't take such drastic actions again without our consent. I'll grant you permission this time, but be mindful not to repeat the same mistake twice. I yearn to see you succeed, for it would distinguish House Velaryon's dragons from those of the Targaryens," my mother said, her smile tinged with sadness.

"I will ensure not to repeat the same mistakes, Mother and Father. It won't be long, Laena, before I find a way to awaken them from stone," I assure her. Taking my black egg, I head towards my room, as today I have a swordsmanship lesson at the training yard.

"Do you think he will be able to do it, Mother? I really want to succeed, even if it's just his egg that hatches," said Laena as Laenor took his leave from the chamber where they had been talking. Her parents looked at her with sadness in their eyes. The dragon egg not hatching at her cradle had affected her deeply, a wound that could only be healed with a dragon by her side.

"Have faith in your little brother, Laena. He has surprised us today, and who knows, he might just do it again, leading to the hatching of these dragon eggs. We don't have many records of such an event, but there's nothing to say it will never happen either," her father remarked, patting her hand before he left the chamber to attend to his duties.

I sought permission to visit the seashore due to my unique abilities, a result of my Valyrian lineage and Percy powers. My vitalkinesis has evolved into a minor form of life-force manipulation, enabling me to infuse life-force into dragon eggs. Unlike other bodies of water, the sea provides an abundance of life-force that surpasses anything the keep's water can offer.

That's why I was compelled to approach the sea during this moon, to harness as much life-force as possible. However, it's uncertain how long it will take for the Dragon eggs to emerge from their stone-like state. There's the precedent of Daenerys' eggs, which hatched when certain conditions were met. It could be the life-force of many sacrificed in the pyre, the bleeding red star in the sky, or perhaps because Daenerys was a prophesied candidate.

I intended to use High Valyrian as a runic language to expedite the process. Once they emerge from their stone-like state, I would imbue them with a constant life-force until I could sense life-force radiating from them. I am experimenting to see what would happen if a dragon egg received this much life-force. I hypothesize that they would be the pinnacle of their species, but I could be mistaken, as there may be many differences that could manifest.

That's why I chose not to tame an older dragon; I aimed for the pinnacle of their species. If the dragon's growth could rival that of Daenerys's dragons, there wouldn't be much time before they reach the stature of Silverwing or Dreamfyre. Upon arriving in my room, I instructed the servants to prepare a bed of heated coals for the dragon's egg, as it requires a continuous heat source to ignite the lost spark within it.

"Here it is, My Lord. Does it meet your approval?" inquired Aleria, the servant tasked with attending to all my needs. Aleria awaited my nod of consent before the servants, who were carrying the square coal bedding, could set it down near the fire source in my chambers. Once I gave the signal, they positioned the bedding and lit some wood beneath it to warm the coals, as I intended to place my egg there. After setting the egg down, I instructed Aleria to arrange a similar bedding in Laena's room and to guide her through the same process I had just demonstrated.

Aleria nodded, took her leave, and I began making my way to the courtyard for my swordsmanship training with my uncle, Ser Vaemond.

Chapter Text

103 AC
Third Person's POV


The sun cast long shadows over the training yard, its rays glinting off the Narrow Sea's undulating waves. Ser Vaemond Velaryon, resplendent in his silver armor, stood tall at the yard's heart, his bastard sword comfortably in hand. He gazed at his approaching nephew, amidst the courtyard where his sons and others were honing their skills.

"Again," Vaemond commanded, his voice laden with the responsibility of training the next Lord of Tides. "Footwork, Laenor. You must glide across the ground smoothly and unpredictably, so your enemy cannot anticipate your next move."

Laenor nodded, silver strands slipping into his vision as he firmed his hold on the practice blade. He was a blur in motion, feet dancing in a deliberate rhythm, delivering a flurry of strikes and blocks. His stance held an instinctive quality, as if he were drawing on a deep-seated awareness and reflexes to lead him, coupled with a speed in his actions that appeared almost supernatural for someone his young age.

Vaemond observed him intently, recognizing the speed and agility with which Laenor assimilated each instruction. It seemed as though the boy's body anticipated movements quicker than his mind, his instincts directing him in ways that would take others years to learn. Vaemond had been instructing the boy for the past two years, yet this particular stance had never been revealed before. Vaemond surmised that the drowning had altered the boy, and he hoped it was for the better. As the next Lord of Driftmark, like Corlys, he could elevate their house to heights that even the Targaryens couldn't match, especially now that they had Dragon-riders within their own ranks.

"You're quick, I'll give you that," Vaemond observed, his voice carrying a note of approval. "But quickness alone won't win battles. True, with your awareness and speed, you could quickly surpass many knights, I concede. However, once an experienced knight learns your style, the word will spread. Then, they won't face you in single combat again. So, don't be arrogant about your gifts; strive to enhance them as much as possible."

Laenor, catching his breath, stood up straight and offered a slight smile. "I'm determined to keep improving and will practice every day. Yet, it's difficult to pace myself, Uncle. My mind races ahead; at times, I understand what needs to be done even before I've fully considered it." Laenor was internally surprised when his uncle discerned his weakness during training, especially since there are many knights whose skill and experience in swordsmanship far surpass that of his uncle. Therefore, it might not be easy to become the most skilled swordsman in the realm.

Vaemond raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That’s the blood of the sea in you, Laenor. Always moving, never still. But the sea can be treacherous if you don’t respect its power." He stepped closer, his expression turning more serious. "Like when you thought it wise to dive into the waves alone the other day."

Laenor winced slightly, as he would have to endure these drowning remarks till he reveals his ability. "I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to feel the water, to be part of it. I didn’t expect it to drag me down like that." This groundwork will prove beneficial when he unveils his abilities in the future. It will lead everyone to believe that he was meant to acquire these powers, as there were clear signs of his instinctual talents, which guided him to the incident in the sea where he gained all his abilities.

Vaemond’s eyes hardened, though there was concern behind the sternness. "You’re Velaryon, Laenor. The sea is in our blood, but that doesn’t mean we’re invincible. You need to learn when to hold back, when to harness that power instead of letting it sweep you away."

"I know, Uncle," Laenor said quietly, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I just... I wanted to feel something real. I wanted to be stronger."

Vaemond placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. "Strength isn’t just about power, boy. It’s about control. You have a gift—your quickness, your instincts—but if you don’t learn to control them, they’ll be your downfall." If Laenor were to acquire a dragon, he could become the mightiest Lord of the Tides, surpassing even his father. His brother had mentioned that Laenor took to swimming much earlier than most children do. Should he inherit his father's sailing prowess, Vaemond is convinced the boy will achieve greatness and elevate their house to new heights. Indeed, nothing could please Vaemond more.

Laenor looked up, meeting his uncle's gaze. I'm truly surprised to hear such support from him; I never thought he would be so encouraging. It's for the best, anyway, so I won't do anything to betray his trust in me. "I'll do better. I'll learn."

Vaemond nodded, satisfied for now. "Good. Now, show me what you’ve learned. And remember, every strike should be as precise as the currents that carry our ships. Don’t just react—command the flow."

The boy’s movements were even sharper now, more focused. Each movement of his practice sword was deliberate, aimed at disarming his opponent. Vaemond noticed the effort to dominate the bout by sharpening his awareness and anticipating reactions. And he was learning—fast, faster than Vaemond had expected.

Vaemond couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. Laenor might be young and inexperienced, but there was a raw potential in him that was unmistakable. With the right guidance, the boy would inscribe his name in the annals of history as the greatest swordsman who ever lived.


As Laenor completed the final sequence, breathing hard, Vaemond gave a nod of approval. "That’s enough for today. You’ve done well, Laenor. Remember this feeling—the control you found today. It’ll serve you well, both in the yard and in the sea."

Laenor grinned, a mixture of relief and determination in his expression. "Thank you, Uncle. I won’t forget."

Vaemond gave him a rare smile, clapping him on the back. "Good. Now, go rest. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you can do it again."

Laenor sheathed his practice sword, his thoughts already leaping to the next task, the upcoming challenge. He pondered how the eggs would react when infused with Life-force, and he aimed to estimate the process to make it as swift and efficient as possible.

Vaemond watched the boy leave the courtyard, a spring in his step signalling his excitement. He then turned to his sons, who were practicing their drills, and began to approach them, knowing that Laenor would need steadfast allies to aid him on his path to greatness. In doing so, his sons would also find their own ambitions to pursue, for it is through such endeavors that one's true potential is revealed.

Laenor POV


After returning to my chambers to freshen up, I shared the midday meal with my family and prepared to visit the seashore. Laena's dragon egg is with me; I picked it up after dining with her. She earnestly requested to accompany me to the seashore to watch how I would hatch the dragon egg from stones. However, I informed her that it would take time, and I intended to go alone. She also wished for me to take her other egg to attempt hatching it, as it has not yet turned to stone. I assured her that the dragon egg I had given her would hatch, and she needed only to wait until the end of this moon.


I took two Dragon eggs in my hands and began walking towards the seashore where we usually practice swimming. Upon reaching my destination, I started to submerge myself in the sea. After reaching a depth that was not too deep, I settled into a meditative pose and placed the Dragon eggs on my lap. I then reached out towards the sea to feel the force that resides within it.


Over time, I become aware of the boundless energy that pervades the entire ocean surrounding me. It seems innocuous in every direction, yet with my heightened senses, I perceive it as the most formidable force I have ever encountered. Its potency makes the water seem insignificant by comparison. I begin by channeling this energy towards my body, with the firm intention of not allowing it to penetrate my being, but merely to serve as a catalyst.

Chapter Text

103 AC
Laenor's Pov

As the powerful life-force began to flow into my body, I directed it towards the eggs. The energy was not entering my being but merely passing through it. Even then, I felt so energized that I wanted to stand up and traverse the entire ocean on my own. I reined in my thoughts, focusing them on the task at hand. With my hands resting upon them, I channelled the life-force into the Dragon eggs.

I could sense them devouring Life-force as if they were a black hole. I attempted to boost the energy output slightly, yet the eggs absorbed every bit of Life-force. It appears unnecessary for me to focus on preventing the Life-force from entering my body, as not a single drop escapes the Dragon eggs. Moreover, I couldn't help but feel astonished that, even as a catalyst, I can sense that if this continues for a few more hours, the energy might cause my body to burst from within if I channel more than what my current limits are.

I need to find a method to boost my energy output because, even after ten minutes of constant infusion of life-force into the Dragon eggs, there is no change in their state. To get even a small release from their petrified state, I must increase the life-force I impart. While channeling the life-force of the sea doesn't exhaust me, the risk of it entering my body and managing it properly is taxing.

However, there is a positive aspect to this, as the residual life-force within me energizes my entire body. The next step for me is to focus on my Hydrokinesis. Being in water, coupled with the life-force boost, I should be able to make more progress than I did yesterday. While in the water, I begin by using my control over it to propel myself forward and create small currents.

After beginning to create small constructs from the water I can manipulate, I started with simple water balls, which became easier than yesterday. As forming water balls became less challenging, I progressed to more complex structures and shapes, taking several breaks since my endurance currently doesn't last half an hour. By the end of this session, I was able to shape various forms by controlling a certain amount of water.

As the lingering life-force that had eased my mental exhaustion began to wane, I lifted the eggs and began to channel life-force back into them. This cycle continued repeatedly until the dragon eggs transitioned from absorbing less life-force to ceasing absorption entirely. Afterwards, I swam to the sea's surface to carry the eggs back to the keep, to place them upon the coal bedding.

After returning to place the eggs on the hot, shimmering coals, I practiced my water control and swordsmanship by the seashore. As mental fatigue from hydrokinesis set in, I began my exercises so as not to waste time by sitting around. It dawned on me that I had misunderstood from the beginning. The one who granted me Percy's powers hadn't weakened them; it's just that a peak human in this world can only handle so much power.

If I were to find a way to surpass this world's peak human capabilities, I could harness all of Percy's powers and beyond. This is because the Baratheon dynasty carries the blood of the gods through House Durrandon, as they are descendants of Elenei, daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind. The blood of the ancient Storm Kings flows through my veins, as evidenced by my inheritance of one of their iconic traits: blue eyes.

Who knows what powers I might gain from the Baratheon bloodline? To unlock them, I must elevate my physique beyond the peak human condition to that of a Demi-god. The key is to push my current limits, and with the aid of High Valyrian runes, this might just be possible. With no other options available, I've decided to focus on my current goals. I've begun training my Hydrokinesis and pushing my body to its limits, eager to discover what lies at the next level.

As I lay on the sand of the seashore, gazing at the horizon where the sun is setting, I reflect on how much I've accomplished today and even more. I plan to maintain this routine until the Dragon Eggs hatch, after which I will adjust my schedule based on the circumstances. For this month, I will wake up early to swim and practice hydrokinesis, followed by training with Uncle Vaemond in swordsmanship. Afterward, I will return here to infuse life-force into the eggs, practice hydrokinesis, and exercise my body to improve as much as I can.

I have been contemplating how to accelerate and at the same time stabilize the process of infusing life-force into the eggs. I decided to enlist the aid of High Valyrian runes and any magical items within reach. Dragon glass and Valyrian steel are the only materials available to me, so I must utilize them to devise a method to accomplish my goal.

I had an idea: what if I used Dragon glass as a conduit for magic, since a Dragon egg would also require magic, and inscribed runes onto the glass with Valyrian steel? To activate the runes, I could use spells or a simpler method—my blood, which would surely contain some magic. To avoid bleeding during the whole process, I would create a cluster that draws magic from around me and transfers the life-force I give to it into the Dragon eggs.

I believed that mastering the skills of Percy would awaken my dormant Valyrian Dragon Lord bloodline, renowned for their magical prowess and self-proclaimed sorcery. However, I found myself unable to wield magic in this realm. Yet, with the ability to use runes, numerous paths lay before me to enhance my abilities until I attain a Demi-god physique or the power to wield magic on my own.

Upon returning to my chambers and refreshing myself, I retrieve Laena's Dragon egg to return it to her at supper. I also plan to request items from my father, such as Dragon glass and a Valyrian steel dagger. While Dragon glass is readily available for various uses in these times, it remains costly, though this is not an issue for me. However, acquiring a Valyrian steel dagger will require some justification to my father, given that it is the most coveted steel in the known world.

Upon entering the chambers, I place the egg in the fireplace to warm it sufficiently. Then, as usual, I take my seat next to Mother. Laena and Father are absent from the chambers; only Mother is present in the chambers.

"Your resistance to fire is as good as some of the Targaryens. You placed the egg into the fireplace without a slight burn on your hand. And then you adjust it a few times to place it right. There were only a few that could claim that much resistance to fire in my House. You did not have that before, I did remember quite clearly. Drowning has changed you in many ways, Laenor." Mother said, looking at me with her usual regal gaze. I look at my hand and then egg after knowing I have heat immunity, I started to forget the fear of burning, as it gives me comfort that I slightly crave. Just like the sea and water, but the craving for fire is not as great as water.

"Yes, I discovered this today when I attempted to pick up the egg from the coal bedding; the heat didn't affect me as it used to. And you're right about the other thing too—the Drowning has brought many changes, and I'm still discovering what it has bestowed upon me," I said, meeting her gaze. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me as if trying to unveil all the secrets I harbored. Minutes passed, and then the chamber doors opened, and Father entered, followed by Laena.

Chapter Text

Laenor POV
 

Laena's eyes began to search for her dragon egg. The search started with me, but upon not finding the egg, a questioning look crossed her face. Before she could voice her query, I pointed towards the burning hearth, and her gaze followed. Spotting what she sought, she dashed towards it, but halted before reaching into the flames, realizing she lacked the fire resistance to emerge unscathed. Turning to me, her eyes asked if I would assist her in retrieving her desire.
 

"Let's eat first, and then I'll take it out of the hearth. It has no legs, so don't worry; it won't run away," I replied to her request with a polite smile. She huffed and seated herself beside her father. As I opened my mouth to speak, she huffed again, prompting me to smile at her behaviour.
 

The servants began to serve what would be our supper. Mother and father were conversing in hushed tones. I pondered how to request the items I needed from my father without arousing too much suspicion. They might start monitoring me if they became too curious about my activities. And if my mother heard that I had been diving in the sea for extended periods again, she would forbid me from going near the sea, which would be disastrous for me. Therefore, I needed to appear as nothing more than a curious child, inquiring about items like dragon glass and Valyrian steel daggers, under the guise of believing they possess magical properties that could help me hatch the petrified dragon eggs.
 

After supper was served, we all began to eat. The meal proceeded in silence, with everyone savoring their food quietly. Once we had finished, my father inquired about my swordsmanship training. He mentioned that my uncle believes I have great potential and that with diligent practice, I could become the finest swordsman of my generation. I assured him that I would dedicate myself to mastering the art of swordsmanship. Following our brief exchange, my mother turned to question Laena about her lessons with Septa. Laena responded to all of my mother's questions in a disinterested tone, avoiding eye contact.
 

After Mother scolded Laena for a few minutes, I decided it was the best time to inquire about something from Father. I first asked him if our house possessed any Valyrian steel daggers. He gave me a scrutinizing look with a raised eyebrow, but nonetheless confirmed that we do have some daggers, and that was all. He mentioned that he had tried several times to acquire a Valyrian steel sword from around the world, but no one was willing to part with such a weapon, even for a substantial sum. I then began discussing how I had read about the magical properties of Dragon glass and its use by Asshai sorcerers for various purposes. Father listened to my ramblings with a curious gaze and the occasional smile.
 

After explaining everything I knew about the two items I desired, I felt I had provided sufficient reasons to request them. "Father, now that you understand their uses, I believe these two items would be extremely beneficial for hatching the petrified eggs. Could you please consider giving them to me?" I asked, putting on the most innocent face I could. The knowing smiles from both my mother and father told me they had deduced why I had explained so much about Dragon glass and Valyrian steel. I avoided making eye contact with them, and a laugh emanated from my father's direction—a female laugh, which let me know immediately who it was.
 

"You could have directly asked for those things, and I would not have denied you, son. I acknowledge you are not old enough, but remember, if you desire something from someone, do not babble too much beforehand as it may bore them, and that could be enough reason for an individual to refuse your request," he said in a serious tone, the previous smile gone. I nodded in his direction. "Be direct with your request, and afterward, you can explain why you want what you've asked for. And to answer your request, yes, I will give you the two things you want. But as I have told you before, Laenor, while I admire your determination to hatch those petrified eggs, I warn you not to harbor high hopes, lest you become depressed if it does not come to fruition," he advised me.
 

"I will not repeat this mistake, Father," I promised him. He smiled at me, and then I requested a square-shaped Dragon glass with enough space to fit the eggs. He informed me that crafting such a Dragon glass block with a perfect fit for the Dragon eggs would take at least two or three days. I assured him that I was willing to wait, as there was no rush. He nodded in agreement and promised that I would have my request fulfilled in two days. A smile of happiness spread across my face, knowing that with these two elements used wisely, I could potentially hatch the Dragon eggs sooner.
 

Afterward, we cherished our family time, basking in each other's presence and discussing the trivialities of life. Later, Mother stood up and announced that it was time for us to retire for the night. The three of us rose, and I walked over to the hearth. I carefully removed Laena's Dragon egg and passed it to her; she cradled it in her hands. Then, I proceeded to my chambers, knowing the next two days would be as demanding as this one, and rest was essential.
 
 

 

After two days,
 

I have just returned from breakfast with my family and am now preparing to go for swimming lessons with my father. I glanced at the coal bedding where my dragon egg rests. Next to the bedding, there is a square block of dark red color, almost black, placed beside it. On top of it lies a sheathed dagger; the handle appears expensive, as does the sheath it is encased in. The two items I requested from my father were placed here before I woke up today. I thanked my father when we met during our meal.
 

 

Over the past two days, I have meticulously transferred life force into the Dragon eggs. Although they have not fully emerged from their petrified state, there have been noticeable changes. Scales have started to replace the stone-like exterior. These changes became apparent last night, which has greatly motivated me. The timely arrival of two particular items was the perfect complement to this progress. Now, I am prepared to test the efficacy of High Valyrian runes and, most importantly, to see if I can harness magic from my surroundings using these runes. My swordsmanship is also improving, as I gain experience from sparring sessions with Uncle Vemond.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV


Exiting the courtyard, my muscles ached, and bruises marked where my uncle had struck me. Yet, glancing back at him, sporting his own bruises and panting slightly, I smirked. ADHD may be taxing mentally, but its advantages are undeniable. I often anticipated my uncle's moves. He wasn't among Westeros' finest fighters, but he is a skilled knight of the realm, nonetheless. However, predicting and countering his moves felt like a personal triumph. Given my progress in swordsmanship, I believe I'll master more than just swords before the Dance begins, as a sword isn't the best choice for war. My goal is to become proficient with at least one more weapon suitable for battle in the war.


There is also my hydro kinesis, which is improving quite steadily. Although I can't progress much more in a single day from day one, I progressed. Although there are also many other abilities that I haven't tested out yet. But it has not been many days since I was thrown here, and although I'm very happy to be here. That does not mean I do not have my problem adjusting here. But I would try my best to master or at least become proficient in all abilities that are bestowed upon me. 


I walked to my chambers at a leisurely pace, pondering whether dragon eggs would interact with magical runes and if the runes would function properly. According to what I've learned from books, magic began to fade from this world following the doom of Valyria. Despite its darkness and cruelty, Valyria was the last bastion of magic in these realms. Even though some magic persisted post-doom, it was not as prevalent as before. This decline could also be attributed to Valyria's destruction of nearly all civilizations that had some mastery over magic, with the Rhoynar being the most notable example.

I am presently heading to the seashore, followed by servants who are carrying a block of Dragon glass. I was capable of carrying it myself, yet my father has given explicit instructions for them to transport the block. He also instructed them to depart once they have placed it at my desired location. Thus, I complied with his orders and allowed the servants to carry it. A Valyrian steel dagger rests at my hip, and I hold the Dragon eggs in my hands, which are the sole items too hot for the servants to handle.


I resolved to first carve the runes I had contemplated onto the block before proceeding with anything else. Drawing the Valyrian dagger from its sheath, I couldn't help but admire the beauty of its rippled steel pattern. I attempted to discern any runes or sense any magic emanating from it, but despite multiple efforts, I met with no success. Subsequently, I inspected the box to determine the best areas for rune carving, noting that its large size offered ample space for this task. The box also featured two deep, cavernous holes, seemingly the perfect size to house spherical dragon eggs. In every respect, it was a testament to fine craftsmanship.


I opted to add three runes initially; I could have chosen seven, but I wanted to start with fewer to understand the process. I began carving the runes and, after a few minutes, completed the task on the dragonglass. I had anticipated it taking longer because dragonglass requires careful handling due to its fragility. Too much force could break it or cause irreparable damage, and I couldn't risk that since crafting another would take an additional two days. The runes I engraved on the dragonglass are "Release," "Awaken," and "Resurgence"—simple and to the point, just the way I prefer.


I then added the final runes, which I am eager to see in action: "absorb" and "transfer" magic. After crafting and checking it at least three to four times, I made a cut on my palm and smeared blood on the runes. As a considerable amount was applied, a dim light appeared on the two runes, and then gradually, the three side runes also began to glow. I promptly placed the dragon eggs in the designated space for them. I could neither feel nor see whether the magic was properly transferring to the eggs. I needed to check the progress after two days to determine if it had accelerated or decelerated. Then, I picked up the block and dove into the sea, as the next step would be to transfer life-force with the magic that was already flowing into it.


Upon reaching the seafloor, I positioned the block and entered a meditative state to prepare my body and mind as a conduit for the life-force. Minutes later, I laid my hands upon the block, channelling the potent energy that surrounded me. A minute passed, and upon opening my eyes, I noticed the carved runes on the block glowing brighter than before. The light was not intense, but it could only be because of life-force or magic was reacting to the potent energy of the sea. The increasing glow of the runes suggested a greater transfer of magic. I ceased to ponder further, knowing that without proper focus, my body could suffer permanent harm.


I have reached the limit for transferring the life-force, so I am now practicing my Hydro kinesis. I repeated the same thing I did on the first day, except that now the Dragon eggs are not just sitting on the seafloor without anything happening to them. The magical runes are working great, and I am eager to see the results of the runes and magic. When I feel that it is safe to transfer the life-force again, I will not waste another minute and will start to transfer life-force from the sea to the Dragon eggs. I will do this more than on the previous day, which means almost double. When I came out on the surface of the sea, I saw the position of the sun, and today, I spent much more time in the sea than I had spent the previous two days combined. But I will only stop when the Dragon eggs start to stop taking the life-force. The runes are still glowing, so I will leave them be. Today, I have more residual life-force than before, so I will also be practicing more than before.


After doing all I could to better myself until evening, I proceeded to bathe in the sea before returning to my chambers. This bath was meant to provide relief, and it served its purpose well. Having secured the eggs on the shore, I plunged into the sea a third time to deposit the Dragon glass block on the ocean floor. I prefer this to the daily ordeal of cutting my palm, especially since I am unsure how to deactivate the still dimly glowing runes. Placing it on the seafloor seemed the best solution, and I plan to utilize it when I visit during this lunar cycle. Emerging from the sea, I made my way to my chambers, contemplating the day's schedule, which I intend to maintain for the week unless circumstances change.


One Week Later


I dissolved the water shield that I had been marinating in for a few minutes. I'm facing a challenge with hydrokinesis. However, the other things are going great, and the petrified dragon eggs are no longer petrified. The stone part of the eggs has been replaced with dragon scales, and they are now hot to the touch, which indicates that life inside is ready to come out. But I'm not satisfied yet, though. I want these dragons to be the peak of their kind, and I want to make sure they reach that level when they hatch. So far, I've only carved runes for awakening and resurgence. Now I'll carve runes for evolving and vitality, as the vitality from magic and the life-force of the sea will fuel their evolution to be the peak of their kind. I also have something special planned for their hatching, and I can't wait to see what changes they will be born with.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV


I settled on the seashore, gazing at the setting sun. Honestly, after spending about nine days in this world, I feel that being born into it is the greatest blessing I could have. My past life held little, and I prefer not to dwell on it not that I remember much of it. In this life, however, I find myself in a breathtakingly beautiful world, surrounded by a loving family and endowed with supernatural abilities. I may not know about others, but I am living my dreams. The only thing missing is a dragon, which I would love to soar the skies with and cherish. I adored nature in my previous existence, and this world, untouched by progress, the wild brims with life. There are many aspects of this world that I appreciate, yet as the saying goes, 'not everything can be perfect.' The deceit, wars, and politics are a few elements I dislike. Nevertheless, I'm not complaining, for I understand that if everything were handed to me, life would become dull. The challenges we encounter enrich our lives and help us grow beyond our former selves.


After enjoying some moments of peace and quiet, I picked up the dragon eggs and placed them on the sandy shore. Then, I proceeded to immerse the block of dragon glass into the sea. Have I mentioned that the block is gradually changing color? It's shifting from what seemed almost black to a deep, blood red. I've pondered numerous reasons why this could be happening to the dragon glass, but the only conclusion I've reached is that it's due to the magic of this world. It's not much of a discovery; even a child could infer that. However, I'm at a loss as to why the block is turning deep red. If it were blue or even had a hint of blue, I could attribute it to sea magic, as it's typically found in the ocean and the runes are active, which would explain the blue hue, but not the deep red. The dragon eggs might also be a factor, but I cannot say for certain.


Emerging from the sea, I cradled the dragon eggs in my hands and walked towards the keep. Upon reaching my chambers, I set the eggs in their designated place and began changing my clothes, having already bathed in the seawater. With time to spare before supper, I settled at the desk by the room's edge and opened a book written in the Common Tongue. My reading skills have not improved much; I still struggle with reading properly, but I am not deterred from trying. The maester has either kept my secret from my father, or my father has chosen not to address it with me. I took up the parchment and continued to practice my writing and reading in the Common Tongue.


Engrossed in my studies, I was roused by a knock at the door of my chambers. Glancing towards the balcony and noting the darkness outside, I realized it was time for supper. I permitted the visitor to enter; my servant came in, bowed respectfully, and confirmed what I had anticipated: my family awaited me in the dining hall. Acknowledging him, I rose from my seat, took Laena's Dragon egg into my hands, and proceeded towards our dining chambers.


Upon entering the dining chamber, the first thing I did was hand the dragon egg to Laena. She accepted the egg with a joyous smile, one that had become more frequent of late. She observed that scales were beginning to replace the stone-like parts some days ago, a change that had occurred since I brought the egg to supper to that day. Initially dismissing it as her imagination, but in the end, she sought confirmation from our parents, who affirmed the transformation from petrification to scales. Overjoyed, she leaped into my arms, laughing, a sound that brought smiles to my parents' and my own faces. Suddenly, she burst into tears and amidst her sobs, she asked if the egg would indeed hatch and whether the dragon would choose her as its rider. Witnessing her distress, I consoled her, assuring her that the egg would hatch and that the dragon would undoubtedly choose her, given the care she had provided thus far. From that day forward, she was found tending to the egg, allowing no one but me to touch it.


My parents' reaction was akin to Laena's; they both appeared very proud yet skeptical, pressing me for an explanation of my actions. As usual, I remained silent, but this time I promised to provide a full explanation after the week. I believe a week's focus on transferring life-force should suffice, especially since the dragon eggs have been freed from petrification and could hatch at any moment with sufficient magic or after some time in a volcano's embrace. I am contemplating how to gather enough magic to hasten the hatching of the dragons from their eggs when I would need them to come out of their eggs. Currently, the only method I know involves a sacrifice similar to Daenerys', which I would avoid if possible. However, if no other way exists, there are many prisoners guilty of heinous crimes who could finally contribute something worthwhile with their lives.


After handing the dragon egg to Laena, I made my way to my usual chair. Once comfortably seated, I turned towards my mother and father, who had been watching me since I entered the chamber. The proud expression on my father's face was unmistakable.


"Vaemond has come after your training with him," said Father, smiling at me. My guess was correct; Uncle Vaemond had told them about today's events in the courtyard. "I cannot express how proud I felt when he told me that you bested him in today's spar, even though he did his utmost. I am blessed to have a son as talented as you," Father said, his smile broadening, while Mother looked at me with a gentle smile and joy in her eyes.


"It was only possible because of Uncle Vaemond's teachings. And my victory over him? I'm certain it was a fluke. Even though I've come a long way in my swordsmanship, I am still not equal to Uncle Vaemond," I said to them, a polite smile gracing my face. My parents' smiles broadened upon hearing my words, for they had always instilled in Laena and me the virtue of humility, knowing well that arrogance heralds a man's downfall.


"Good, I hope you remain humble, as arrogance leads only to the downfall of man. I've instructed the cooks to prepare your favorite dishes; I hope you enjoy them," said Father. I nodded, recognizing the food that the previous Laenor favored. Not that his taste was poor, but mine differed slightly from his. However, I would never say no to delicious food, so I began to eat as soon as the meal was served.


Next Day


I anticipated this week would unfold much like the last. As per my routine, I arrived at the seashore, two dragon eggs in hand.  Hanging from my hip is the Valyrian steel dagger, ready for today's task of inscribing new runes onto the block. The process of transferring life force to the eggs has grown more time-consuming; as they awaken from petrification, their absorption rate increases. Consequently, my afternoons, stretching from the midday meal to supper, are devoted to this task. However, this marks the final week, as I plan to hatch the eggs when it concludes. Having finished my soliloquy, I plunged into the sea to retrieve the block, both to inscribe additional runes and remove some of the existing ones.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV


Emerging from the sea with a block of Dragon glass in hand, I placed it upon the sandy shore. The blood-red block lay before me as I drew my Valyrian steel knife and began to etch the runes without delay. The first rune, "Growth" (Gevigon), promises to do just that: convert the life-force I provide and the magic from previously carved runes into energy that will nurture the Dragon eggs. This growth encompasses not just one aspect but all facets of the eggs. The second rune, "Endurance," is meant to bolster the eggs' resilience. Given that dragons are already known for their robust endurance, the anticipation of what kind of Dragon will emerge from these eggs is immense.


As I added a few more runes, which were not particularly important, I began to carve the final one, which had occupied much of my thoughts. Ultimately, it was something I should have considered earlier. Pondering over the last addition, I decided to enhance the dragon's most formidable weapon, something they are renowned for: "Fire," capable of causing immense destruction if used correctly. To be honest, I'm not sure how this rune will augment the dragon's power; I don't even know if these arrays are functional or merely providing the magic that has awakened the eggs from their petrification. However, if there's even the slightest chance that these runes are more effective than I anticipate, the world will witness the true might of dragons, beyond what can be felled by mere steel weapons.


After completing all the carving, I made my way toward the sea to begin transferring life-force to the eggs. I felt that I would not be able to devote as much time to training my hydrokinesis since the eggs will surely require more life-force than before.  Having spent several hours imbuing the eggs with life-force, I stood up to practice my hydrokinesis as much as possible, knowing it wouldn't be long before I needed to transfer life-force again. Observing how quickly they consumed both life-force and magic, I realized my initial thought was correct—I wouldn't have much time to practice my hydrokinesis or other abilities.

One week later,
Laenor POV


I placed the eggs on the coal bedding and stepped into the bath that had been prepared as I requested. As I submerged in the bathtub, my fatigue began to fade, and I sighed in relief, reflecting on how this week had been more taxing than I anticipated. Glancing at the dragon eggs, I felt reassured that it was all worthwhile. I allowed myself to sink deeper into the bath and closed my eyes for a brief nap before supper. I need to be at my best when I explain to my parents how I acquired the knowledge to release the Dragon eggs from their petrification and the transformations the eggs have undergone.


After a brief nap, I opened my eyes, stood up from the bathtub, and dried myself off. I then began to dress for supper, which I would be attending shortly. Next, I carefully picked up Laena's Dragon egg, which has grown larger than any Targaryen egg on record. Its outer shell shone brilliantly, and its sharpness meant I had to handle it with care to avoid cutting myself. With the egg in hand, I made my way to my family's dining chamber.


As the guards opened the chamber doors, I stepped inside and approached Laena to present the dragon egg. Reaching the chair where Laena was seated, I slid the egg towards her. When she laid her hands on it, I noticed a slight tremor in her grasp. The egg had become increasingly warm this week, to the extent that even our mother could not bear to touch it.


"Are you certain you don't want me to carry it to your chambers? There's no shame in admitting they've become too hot to handle, even mother could not hold it now" I offered. She often chose to endure rather than seek help with the dragon eggs, burdened by a sense of unworthiness and shame at her inability to hold the egg that would birth her mount.


"Thank you for your help, Laenor, but I believe my resistance to fire is growing along with the egg's temperature. I can hardly wait; I hope they hatch soon," Laena replied, gazing at her egg. She is anxiously awaiting the emergence of the dragon from the eggs. The fact that her resistance increases with the egg's temperature suggests that the dragon within has chosen Laena, or there exists some bond between them; otherwise, Laena's sudden increase in heat resistance would be inexplicable.


After greeting my parents, I settled next to my mother and the household staff began serving supper. Glancing at my mother, who was gazing thoughtfully out of the balcony, I noticed her contemplative expression. Sensing my attention, she turned and offered me a faint smile, but the tension in her eyes was unmistakable. Before I could ponder further, supper was served, and Laena, ever the impatient one in our family, diverted my attention. I focused on the meal, fortifying myself for the impending situation. Once we finished eating, everyone moved towards the couch where we typically enjoy family time. However, today was different; today, that time would be spent interrogating me.


"I hope you're ready to answer all of our questions now, son?" my father asked, initiating the conversation I had been avoiding until now. It's not that I feared anything, but I knew that after this, things would never be the same. Their love for me would remain unchanged, but there would be changes, nonetheless.


"Yes, Father, as I said, today would be the day I answer all your questions. But you already know, or at least suspect, where I get this knowledge, right?" I asked, looking at both my father and mother. Indeed, when I ponder why they haven't sent someone to spy on me until now, I conclude that they must have surmised the source of my knowledge. They wouldn't want any servants witnessing my actions and branding me a sorcerer across the seven kingdoms. If they ordered the servants to spy on me, other spies, previously unnoticed, might observe this and also seek to discover what I'm doing. It was a wise decision on their part, which I deduced after some reflection.


"Well, there aren't many sources around you from which you can obtain information on how to awaken the Dragon eggs from their petrification. And the recent changes in your behavior lend more credibility to what we presumed was correct," Father replied, his face alight with a proud smile. "How long have you been experiencing these dreams? And the most important question, what do you see in those dreams of yours, Laenor?" Father asked, his eyes reflecting worry and curiosity. Laena gathered enough clues to deduce what was happening and how I came by the knowledge. Mother wore a look of concern and gazed at me with helplessness in her eyes.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV 



As everyone in the chamber turns their gaze towards me, filled with anticipation and a deep curiosity to understand how I accomplished what they deem impossible nowadays, I stand before them. Truthfully, I yearned to share all of my abilities, but I refrained, knowing it would only result in increased surveillance from my parents which I presently wish to avoid. Moreover, my mastery of Hydrokinesis is not yet advanced enough to disclose. Therefore, I will defer that topic to a future discussion. Today, I will only reveal how I managed to reverse the petrification of Dragon eggs, sharing just enough to quell their curiosity and alleviate any fears my parents have of me performing any nefarious activities unknowingly.


"Referring to them as Dragon dreams would be incorrect," I explained. "According to what I have read from the books in our library, Dragon dreams reveal the future, but my dreams don't show the future; they reveal the past." Upon hearing this, my father's eyes widened slightly, and confusion was etched on my mother's face. Laena gazed at me; her eyes filled with awe.


Father regained his composure and inquired before mother could speak, "I understand that dreamers cannot control what they see in their dreams. But now, I am curious to know what exactly did you see in your dreams?" The glint in his eyes told me he had already figured out which part of the past I was witnessing in my dreams.


"Well, Father, you are correct that I cannot control the visions in my dreams, but thanks to the Fourteen Flames, for the past two weeks, I've been shown how to reverse the petrification of dragon eggs and the subsequent steps to hatch them. As for your question, my dreams reveal Old Valyria before the Doom. The exact year eludes me as the dreams are brief, only revealing the immediate steps to follow." I attempted to articulate everything I could muster at the moment in my response. Judging by their expressions, they seem to have accepted my explanation—or in this case, my fabrication. However, Laena appears distracted during my explanation, seemingly deep in thought.


"Son, I can do nothing but thank the fourteen flames for the gift bestowed upon you. However, you must document every detail you witness in your dreams in a journal; it could be invaluable to our descendants, or to you should you forget due to time. I am also eager to learn how you reversed petrification and the roles played by the block of Dragon glass and Valyrian steel in the process," my father said. My mother looked at me, the tension previously etched on her face now replaced by a mix of relief, confusion, and apprehension.


I then began to describe the process by which the dragon eggs were restored from petrification, omitting the part where I dived into the water to transfer the sea's life force to the eggs. I explained that I carved the runes onto the stone exactly as they appeared in my dreams and, after anointing the stone with my blood, I waited, as my visions had instructed. Within two or three days, the results became evident, confirming that my dreams were indeed reality, not mere figments of my imagination. Subsequently, I shared additional information that did not disclose much about my abilities, and they listened with expressions of awe and eagerness. Although I have no desire to deceive them, I also must be cautious not to reveal my capabilities, as doing so could bring trouble not only to myself but also to the entire House Velaryon.


After listening to my explanation, everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts, so I gave them space to process everything I had said. Suddenly, my mother stood up and walked over to me, embracing me tightly. Initially shocked, I soon returned the embrace, and we remained like that for a few minutes. Meanwhile, my father and Laena waited for my mother to explain her actions. "I was so worried, thinking something terrible might happen, and I've noticed a change in you. I believe it's because you feel burdened with the weight of the future. Dreamers often emerge in our family when dire events loom ahead. Knowing the future, people feel obligated to prevent any misfortune, and I don't want that for you. I'm relieved you don't possess that ability," she explained, still holding me, and I couldn't help but smile at her concern because I already knows the future and also want to change that.


Father and Laena also smiled at mother's concern for me. Eventually, she let go of the embrace and wiped away the tears from her eyes. After planting a kiss on my forehead, she settled into the seat between Laena and me on the couch. I returned her smile, and then they all began to ask their questions about the process, to which I responded to each one.


"You've clarified all our doubts about the process the dragon eggs underwent. Now, regarding their hatching," Father said, "you mentioned that your dreams have shown you how to hatch them. Do you need anything to help them to hatch like the block of Dragon glass you asked earlier, or did you share this because you want us to witness the hatching of the eggs?" I look towards him, readying myself for my response, knowing this is why I had to inform them about the process beforehand, not after. Laena is also giving her full attention, as this concerns the hatching of the eggs. Mother looks equally curious about what I will say.


"As I've mentioned before, I was shown all the steps in advance, and the hatching of the eggs was no different. There were two methods presented to me: in the first, I could use another block or continue with the one I've been using to carve a new set of runes and let the eggs hatch naturally. This way, they might hatch tomorrow, in a week, or by the next moon," I paused briefly to allow them to absorb my words and took a deep breath, knowing that what I was about to say next might be perceived as malevolent in both this world and the one I came from. "The second method, commonly used by the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria, allows me to hatch the dragons whenever I wish. However, as you might expect from a practice of the Valyrian Dragon Lords, it requires a sacrifice—specifically, two human lives. They typically use slaves, but some of the forty opt for prisoners. We can choose either method; the outcome is certain—the eggs will hatch," I concluded, glancing at Laena, who seemed both horrified and elated at the revelation.


Father appeared disgusted upon hearing about the sacrifice, yet his eyes betrayed a contemptuous expression that suggested otherwise. I wasn't the only one who noticed; "Corlys, are you truly considering performing sacrifices? You do realize that such practices are why Valyria is in its current state. I cannot condone the second method; Laenor has already stated that the eggs could be hatched using the first method, which he can undertake without resorting to acts unsuitable for a boy his age." Mother's voice snapped Laena out of her horrified trance, prompting her to consider which method she would be comfortable with.


"I also do not wish for my children to be exposed to things inappropriate for their age, Rhaenys. Yet, it is impossible to shield them from the world forever, and Laenor has already witnessed what you deem unsuitable for his age. My contemplation is not on performing sacrifices, but rather on why Dragon lords would opt for the latter method when they could employ the former and spare some slaves for labor in their mines. Could you clarify why they are opting for a later event in your dreams, Laenor?" inquired my father, his gaze fixed upon me. Insightful is one thing my father certainly is.


"Yes, I could, but I cannot provide a definitive answer as I am not fully informed on the subject. However, from what I gather from my dreams, the latter method of hatching eggs involves blood magic. It supposedly confers unknown benefits, which I cannot confirm. What is known is that eggs hatched using this method were distinguishable from those hatched by the former method in Old Valyria. Therefore, there must be a significant difference; otherwise, they would not be able to discern between the two hatching methods while looking at the grown Dragon."I responded, and that was all Corlys Velaryon required to finalize his decision on which method to employ.


"Well, now you know my choice of method, Rhaenys," Father said to Mother, a sweet smile on his face. Mother glared at him, but then her attention shifted to me; the unspoken question was clear. What is my decision? Despite being a mama's boy, I would not agree with her on this, because I have used all the top methods for the eggs until now, and I do not want to use method that I do not consider the best in hatching them due to morals. Thus, I looked toward my father, and my decision was made clear. Father's face lit up with happiness. Mother then turned her gaze to Laena, her last hope to dissuade us from proceeding with the second method to hatch the dragon eggs.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV

Laena, feeling the weight of all eyes upon her, requested time to contemplate the matter, as she had not yet decided which method to endorse. Mother, hearing Laena's reply, assured her to take all the time needed and to choose as she saw fit. Following this, the mother resumed the heated debate with the father about the sacrifices. She told her father that her worry was not the act of sacrificing humans, as human life held little value in their world. Her concern lay not with the actions themselves, but with the potential fallout if they were exposed—how it could besmirch the reputation of her children and their house. She was aware that some Andal lords, swayed by the Faith, would not hesitate to exploit any opportunity to attack House Velaryon in a moment of weakness. A single misstep could jeopardize the future of House Velaryon.

As I watched my mother and father argue, Laena suddenly stood up. With determination in her eyes and a steady voice, she declared, "Though I am not fond of sacrificing others, you all know my desire to hatch my own dragon egg. Mother, you understand my love for dragons and the pride I take in our Valyrian heritage, including the customs of Old Valyria. And there was also this book that I recall stating that only death can pay for life. Therefore, I have no objections to using prisoners who have committed crimes as a sacrifice to hatch the egg. I'm sorry, Mother." With that, she resumed her seat and nodded towards my father.

Although Mother seemed slightly disappointed with the outcome, I could tell she had anticipated that Laena would prefer her dragon egg to hatch immediately rather than wait indefinitely. "If you all insist on this, I can do nothing but ensure that you fools don't botch this and land us in trouble with the Faith. Now, before we discuss anything further, decide on the location, as it is the most crucial aspect of this entire process. Corlys, do you have a place where we can be undisturbed and unobserved while we hatch the eggs?" Mother asked, her gaze intensifying as she looked at Father.

Father, after avoiding Mother's gaze, began to ponder where we could carry out the task unseen. "There are many secluded places, but why venture far when we could use the cells of the keep, where we house prisoners? I could send the guards away for a while. And if you desire another location, there is plenty of space that others typically avoid," Father replied. Mother seemed intrigued by the idea of using the cells, judging by her expression. As for me, if asked where I'd prefer to hatch the Dragon eggs, an open area would be my choice, yet the cells of the keep would suffice for privacy.

"Let's opt for the cells; in there, we won't have to worry about being seen by others. We can do everything there, right, Laenor?" Mother asked me, having made her decision, if it was feasible.

"Yes, we could conduct the entire event in the cells, but ensure that the cell is sufficiently large, as we will need space between ourselves and the fire, which would be lighted for providing the heat source to the Dragon eggs" I explained to her, clarifying why a large cell was necessary. Father nodded at me, signalling his understanding and his intention to organize everything.

"So, when are we going to do it?" Laena asked, her tone brimming with excitement. She looked towards her mother and father for an answer.

"We should not rush in this situation, as haste leads to errors," Mother gently reprimanded Laena for her impatience. "We will proceed tomorrow, needing to act swiftly and silently. We won't descend into the cells together; instead, we'll go one at a time. After the eggs hatch, the dragons will remain with you two until they outgrow the keep's confines. That will take a long time, so you'll have ample opportunity to forge a deeper bond with them than anyone else," Mother explained with a soft smile. Laena beamed with joy, and I simply nodded to Mother, filled with gratitude.

"Let's proceed tomorrow after the midday meal," Father proposed, his face set in a stern expression. "It will afford me sufficient time to transfer some prisoners elsewhere, as their proximity to the cells might allow them to overhear our activities. Laenor, if there's anything you need prepared in advance, inform me now. It will be ready by the time you arrive, saving us time." I nodded, detailing the few necessities I required for the cells. Additionally, I planned to retrieve the block from the sea and entrust it to Father, ensuring its secure delivery to the cells for its intended use.

"Now that everything is done and decided, it's time for us to retire to our chambers and rest. We will need it for what tomorrow brings," said Mother as she stood up, prompting us all to rise. After exchanging goodnight wishes, we began to retire to our respective chambers, each of us filled with anticipation for the coming day.

I swiftly entered the cell where my mother and Laena were already waiting, their attention fixed on the items set up with my father's help. In my hand was my dragon egg, which I carried over to the block set upon the stone altar. I placed the egg down and turned to Laena, who was observing everything with fascination and curiosity. The preparations were minimal, as little was needed—just a few simple ingredients, including dragonglass, essential for the ritual. After ensuring everything was in its place, I withdrew my Valyrian steel knife, ready to begin the work of carving runes.

I began with the outer circle, which is made by Dragon glass blocks similar to those I've used before, but these blocks do not have a place for the Dragon eggs. I carved runes into it, designed to allow magic to flow freely and without constraint. Additionally, I included a rune for gathering magic, which would collect and store all the Blood magic available following the sacrifice of two humans. Subsequently, I inscribed numerous small runes and some clusters that would aid the hatching process, and nothing more. Once the outer circle of Dragon glass was complete, I shifted my focus to the stone altar, the final piece where I would carve the runes. After this, only a sacrifice would be necessary for the Dragons to hatch. My father also arrived while I was working on the outer circle.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV

After a while, I completed the inscription of runes on the stone altar, situated amidst the circle of Dragon glass blocks. While I was engrossed in inscribing runes, my father brought the prisoners. Knowing that I was nearly done with my task, the only thing missing was the two sacrifices. The two individuals selected for the sacrificial hatching were condemned to death a few days prior. Recently captured, these pirates bear no resemblance to those in the anime 'One Piece' I read about in my former world. They are the sole survivors of their entire crew.

Both of them are currently observing the circle and runes inscribed upon it, yet their limited intelligence has not allowed them to deduce what is about to transpire. They simply gaze at my father with hopeful and pleading expressions, which, frankly, do not suit their faces and appear more repulsive than anything else. My attention then shifts to the runes I have etched into the stone altar. The cluster almost mirrors the one I carved on the block of Dragon glass during the second week, although this one is encircled by additional runes. In this cluster, I have emphasized Endurance and fire over vitality and evolution, as the weeks-long life-force transfer has already facilitated the evolution. The use of a fire rune because we brought no wood or any combustible material to aid the hatching process; instead, we must depend on magical fire.

"Is everything in order? You should check once more, Laenor, lest your hard work from last week be wasted due to haste," said Father, peering over the High-Valyrian runes, trying to decipher them. His mildly curious and frustrated expression suggested he hadn't grasped much. Heeding his advice, I began to review my work for any errors or mistakes, though detecting them would be challenging since I had crafted this from scratch for all the experiments I conducted with runes over the past two weeks. I'm not sure if I've made any mistakes, but there shouldn't be any since the whole ritual itself is not complicated, so chances are low. The only potential error here could be mistakes in carving the runes, which I have already checked numerous times.

"It is done. Now, before we begin the entire sacrifice ritual, Laena and I must anoint our respective dragon eggs with our blood," I said, glancing at Laena to see if she was prepared. Without hesitation, my brave older sister approached the altar, dragon egg in hand, ready to be the first to consecrate her egg. I passed her the Valyrian steel dagger, cautioning her to use minimal force due to its sharpness, as too much could result in a deeper cut than necessary. She took my advice, gently slicing her palm with the dagger before smearing her blood on her dragon egg. Once I had finished anointing my black egg with my blood, I nodded to my father, signalling that all was ready, and we could commence with the purpose of our gathering.

My father brought two pirates between the stone altar and the circle of Dragon glass blocks. As I handed the dagger to him, the sight of it in my father's grasp was enough for the pirates to foresee their fate. They thrashed and turned within the circle, desperately seeking an escape, their directed pleading look to everyone present in the cells. Mother and Laena averted their gazes, focusing only on Father, who was forcefully restraining them. I met their desperate and begging looks with my indifference because they had sold many Westerosi into the Essos slave market. At that time, these two pirates showed no mercy, so why should I show any to them now?

Father slit their throats one by one, and the blood of the two pirates began to pool on the stone altar and Dragon glass blocks. As the blood touched the altar and blocks, the runes started to emit small red and silver hues. Father stepped out of the circle to observe the enchanting scene unfolding before them. The blocks and altar seemed to absorb the pirates' blood eagerly. Seconds ticked by, and the glow grew stronger until suddenly, a red fire burst forth from the circle of Dragon glass blocks. The fire, mesmerizing and intense, caused my father to retreat several steps, watching in awe. Mother and Laena were similarly captivated, gazing at the unnatural red flames with fascination. Following the fire, the runes began to shine even more brightly than before.

The pirates' bodies did not burn in the fire, but their blood was drained so swiftly that their skin shrivelled before our eyes. I turned my head towards the Dragon eggs to discern their fate. The Dragon egg's scales appeared faintly red; initially, I thought they were reflecting the firelight, but upon closer inspection, I realized the eggs were actually heating up, causing their reddish appearance from this distance. As the fire grew hotter and brighter, we all waited for it to diminish or for the Dragon's screech to pierce the air, because bright flames are making it increasingly difficult to observe the eggs even for me. Mother had already put some distance between herself and the flames as sweat began to form on her forehead. Surprisingly, Laena hadn't moved an inch from her spot near the circle of stones, gazing at the scene with a dazed look that slightly worried me.

As I gazed into the fire, growing brighter with time, I began to sense a fragile connection forming between myself and an unknown entity. In this situation, it seemed only one thing could bond with me. I strained my eyes to see if the Dragon had emerged from its shell, but the persistent flames obscured my view. The idea of venturing in to see what was happening repeatedly tempted me, yet the thought of alarming my parents with my impatience held me back. I've noticed a mounting pressure in the cell since the fire's eruption, now tangible enough to weigh upon my shoulders. Many possibilities crossed my mind for this sensation, but the most plausible explanation seems to be that the magic at work is thickening over time, intensifying the pressure I feel, especially after establishing the link. Later, I must inquire with my mother and father if they've experienced anything similar, to determine whether it was truly magical pressure or something else entirely.

Two distinct screeches emerged from the flames: one high-pitched, the other deeper and louder. At that moment, the nascent link between us solidified into a bond I could feel. But before I could savour this connection between me and my newly hatched dragon, Laena, dashed towards the blazing red fire. A brief pause ensued as everyone processed her actions, and then my mother's screams jolted me from my bewildered daze.

"Laena..." Mother's screams pierced the air as she thrashed, trying to break free from Father's hold—the only barrier preventing her from plunging into the flames after my older sister. "Release me, Corlys! You might stand here and watch, but I will not—release me this instant! My daughter is in there!" Tears streamed down her face as she struggled in Father's grasp. Meanwhile, I stood by, watching them, because I knew Laena was unharmed. I could feel it; she was safe, and the fire had not burned or harmed her in any way.

"Laena is safe, Mother. Trust me, I'm telling the truth. I can feel it. I need you to be strong for just a few minutes while I drag her out so you can see that nothing has happened to her." Hearing this, she paused for a second, processing my words. Then she began to scream at me not to enter the fire, too. I nodded towards my father, whose eyes had also moistened. Hesitation flickered in his gaze, but the trust he had in my abilities led him to nod back at me and tighten his hold on Mother, restraining her for a minute or two.

I also sprinted into the fire without wasting another second, as who knows what mother might do to us if we worry her too much. I started to make my way to the fire with the help of my newly formed between me and my Dragon. I reach the stone altar where we have placed our Dragon eggs in mere seconds. I look toward Laena, who is unharmed and naked, while patting two Dragon hatchlings the size of a medium-sized Dog.

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Chapter Text

**Laenor POV**

I was sitting on my couch, popping grapes into my mouth. Looking outside into the seashore, Embaryx and Veltharys are playing on the sand with Laena looking over them. Embaryx, my dragon, is black with grey mixing in along his belly. He has a slightly longer neck than normal, but not so much like Caraxes. He is energetic and only enjoys the presence of my family, and not even Uncle Vaemon could touch him without Embaryx snapping at him. Veltharys is a purple dragon with many other colors brilliantly mixing into her bulky body. Mother said that dragons do not have any permanent gender, but they choose theirs after birth and stick to it until something big happens in their or their rider's life.

Veltharys is a she-dragon and is beautiful amongst the two Velaryon dragons. She even surpassed Embaryx in being energetic. Probably due to her rider being Laena, who could not sit for more than a few moments. Veltharys has the same build as Drogon in the show. Now, what I did know about them is that they will not be the same Targaryen dragons but nothing more than that. So for the past six moons, I have written down everything I found that is different from Targ dragons.

First, Embaryx and Veltharys eat more to sustain their unnatural growth. Both of them have grown to the size of a growing horse in the past six moons. Second, their scales differ from Targ dragons as they are rough and hard, unlike my mother's family hatchlings, which have smooth and warm scales. But these are somewhat expected, knowing the amount of life force I have transferred into them. What I was expecting was some other wonderous magical ability.

For the past five moons, they didn't show anything other than my mother saying that their fire burns quite hotter than it should at their age. But this moon, when both Embaryx and Veltharys were sleeping in the cave with Meleys, who had taken the role of mother dragon in the life of both hatchlings, I saw something which surprised me quite a bit. The charred earth curtsy of Meley's fire had changed into grass the size of my finger. Now it wouldn't be surprising if I did not see hard land just the previous night.

After that day, I made them stay in different places where no greenery was in sight, but the result was the same: wherever they said flora flourished in a single night. Although not useful in wars or fights, this ability is still useful if it grows with time. Imagine them being able to make normal plants magical by growing them with their magic. But who knows what will happen, so I have to wait and see.

But when Laena found out about this ability, she immediately told our parents of her happiness, as our dragon could do more than destroy. They were shocked, to say the least, and after that, Mother asked us to let our dragons sleep in her garden. And now she dots on both dragons more because they make her lovely garden more beautiful. I have named my dragon after the High Valyrian word "Embar" which means the Sea in the common tongue. Laena named her dragon Veltharys because she liked the name, and it is based on our House Velaryon.

These six moons were gone, the same as the two weeks before the dragons hatched. My swordsmanship has grown leaps and bounds as time has passed; there is nothing surprising there. My hydrokinesis has improved greatly, and now I can control a great amount of water and shape it into whatever I want. I am currently doing just that as water all over in chambers is in the air and is changing shape to animals of land and sea within a few moments. Knock on the doors of the chambers, and the water gracefully filled the containers as I stood on my leg.

"Come in," I said. The heavy doors opened up, and in came my mother wearing a black and red dress made of expensive silk, which looked great on her.

She approached me and took her seat opposite where I was sitting. "Are you ready?" she asked, looking at the dragons playing with a barely noticeable smile on her face.

"Yes, I have taken out all the things I would need during our stay there," I replied, pointing at things that are out and placed nicely on the bed. "What about both of them? Who would take care of them?" I asked, looking at Embaryx and Veltharys. The tourney or tournament held in celebration of King Visery's ascension is in Maidenpool, and Father has decided that we should attend this or the counsel of Viserys will fill his head with doubts about House Velaryon's loyalty.

She replied, "I will make a journey to Dragonstone just after this and will bring two dragon keepers from there on Meleys." I nodded, but was still doubtful if dragonkeepers would be able to take care of them while we were away. "Do not worry, my son, I will travel back to Driftsmark every two days to check on them," She said with a reassuring look on her face.

"You don't need to do that." I refused because she didn't need to tire herself needlessly. Embaryx and Veltharys are big enough to hunt small fish from the sea, and there is also a small guard routine which is protecting and watches over them constantly as ordered by Father. Talking about the father, "What excuse did Father make in the court?" I asked as House Targaryen has found out about our dragons and they would have asked no question if there was only one drago,n as Laena has a dragon egg of her own, but two were impossible, as the dragon keeper keeps records of every dragon egg so the existence of Embaryx could not be explained.

"He told them that he got both eggs from Asshai. And after so long placing them on warm coal bedding, they woke from the stone." Mother said a frown came over her face at the mention of my father's trip to Asshai. "But I think even my cousin wouldn't be so stupid to believe that, therefore they would ask you and Laena in private when your father and I aren't looking. It's up to you two to convince them that they hatch just magically."

I nodded. "We'll not mess it up," I said while looking over to Laena, who looked tired and ready to return to the keep.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV

Laenor walked across the rocky terrain, making his way to the place the Red Queen had claimed as her domain—alone. For moons, this den had been hers, but in the last month, two uninvited guests had also laid claim to it.

Humming a soft tune, he approached the cave at the base of a small mountain, where Meleys lay watching over two hatchlings as they played around her massive frame. The land surrounding her was a stark contrast—burned and blackened near her resting place, yet further out, a surprising change had taken root. Plants, which had never grown in this barren landscape before, now stretched up to his knees, an unusual sight that had only appeared in the past moon.

It was Embaryx who noticed him first—or perhaps he sensed his presence. Laenor wasn't sure. But the moment his yet-to-be-mounted dragon spotted him, the young beast surged forward, bounding on his hind legs with the support of his forelimbs. Veltharys followed at a slower, more measured pace.

A smile tugged at Laenor's lips as he bent down, running his hand along Embaryx's slightly elongated neck. A deep, satisfied purr rumbled from the dragon's throat as he closed his reptilian eyes in pleasure. Through the faint bond they shared, Laenor could feel Embaryx's joy, and the warmth of it doubled his own.

Not to be outdone, Veltharys moved closer, positioning herself beside him, demanding his attention. With a quiet chuckle, Laenor obliged, scratching the rough scales of his other dragon. The moment stretched, filled with the soothing rhythm of his hands over their warm hides, the comforting sound of their contented rumblings.

After a few moments, he straightened, his gaze shifting to Meleys. The Red Queen watched them with wide, unblinking eyes. He did not approach her—not out of fear, but out of respect. She would not welcome his touch in his mother's absence.

"I'll be leaving today," Laenor spoke in Valyrian, his voice calm yet firm. "I'll return as soon as I can. Until then, behave—both of you."

They couldn't fully understand his words, but they grasped his meaning well enough. Embaryx let out a soft whimper, pressing closer, and Laenor could feel the flicker of sadness through their bond. Veltharys' gaze shifted toward the keep, searching for Laena, as if hoping she would come instead.

If he lingered any longer, Embaryx would never let him leave easily. With one last affectionate stroke along their scales, Laenor turned and walked away, ignoring the sorrowful cries that followed him.

Laenor closed his eyes, focusing his hydrokinesis to accelerate their journey as much as possible. He remained mindful of his energy expenditure—it wouldn't do to collapse on the ship and cause his father needless worry. When he opened his eyes, he found the Velaryon men in their colors and armor glancing around the ship in wide-eyed wonder. He knew the reason well enough. The winds were already in their favor today, but combined with what he was doing, the ship's speed was nothing short of incredible.

Moving toward the stern, where his father and uncle were deep in conversation, Laenor caught the tail end of his father's words.

"I do not know what it is, Vaemond," Corlys said, his voice laced with amazement. "In all my years, in all my voyages across the seas, I have never seen anything like this."

Vaemond, standing beside him, peered down at the water, his expression unreadable. "It can only be the work of higher powers—or something else meddling in our journey," he mused. His sharp gaze remained fixed on the waves as he continued, "Look below, brother. The natural flow of the water moves northwest, yet the currents around our ship are flowing differently. There is no resistance, no drag, only an effortless glide toward our destination. What, if not divine intervention, could accomplish such a feat?" His voice held a mixture of reverence and awe.

"As I said, I do not know," Corlys admitted, though wonder remained evident in his tone. "But one thing is clear—this is extraordinary. I have spent my life on the water, and yet the sea reminds me, once again, that I have not seen everything."

Hearing Laenor's approaching footsteps, Corlys turned and beckoned him forward. "Come, son. Witness this—you may never see anything like it again."

Laenor offered a small, awkward smile but obeyed.

In time, they would grow used to it. The more they sailed with him, the less remarkable it would seem. But for now, he chose to enjoy the sea, to relish the power thrumming through the waters—the domain that called to him. If not for his father's presence, he would have already dived into the depths, letting the ocean and its life surround him, embrace him, as it always did.

Laenor chewed absently on a piece of fish, his gaze drifting toward Laena. She was eating with a grimace, clearly displeased, but their father's stern stare kept her from pushing the plate away. He could only pity her—she despised eating fish at sea, yet she had no choice. Still, it wouldn't be long before they were back on land.

It had been four days since they left Driftmark, and now, on the fifth morning, Maidenpool was nearly within reach. They were breaking their fast as the ship cut swiftly through the waters, and in an hour or so, they would arrive at their destination. Normally, the journey to King's Landing could take over four days, especially if the winds were uncooperative. But with his hydrokinesis easing their passage, they had reached Maidenpool far sooner than expected. Which is far from Driftsmark than King's Landing.

For three days, his father and the crew had marveled at their ship's unnatural speed, attempting to find a logical explanation. By the fourth day, however, they had resigned themselves to the mystery. What had once been astonishing now felt almost ordinary.

"Do they know we are arriving early?" asked his uncle, Vaemond, as he finished his meal. His eyes were on Corlys, awaiting an answer. "Maidenpool's keep isn't large—it can only host so many, and with the crowds gathering for the tourney, space will be scarce."

"We can only hope our chambers are prepared as they should be," Corlys replied. "As for our arrival, they will have spotted our sails from the harbor by now. I expect our escort will be waiting before we disembark."

Silence settled over the small wooden chamber once more. Vaemond, having finished his breakfast, stood and excused himself, likely to check how far they were from shore.

Corlys turned his gaze to Laena, then to Laenor. "I trust I don't need to remind you what to say if the king or his brother question you."

Both of them nodded, their expressions serious. Their father gave a satisfied nod in return and took his leave.

Laena let out a sigh once he was gone. "Do you miss Embaryx and Veltharys?" she asked softly.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Laenor replied without hesitation.

"We shouldn't have come to this stupid tourney," she muttered.

"Laena, what's done is done. There's no use dwelling on the past," Laenor reminded her. "We're here now. We might as well enjoy our short stay while it lasts. And remember—no showing weakness before these courtiers. It would not reflect well on our house."

She huffed but said nothing. Laenor stood, stepping toward her and wrapping her in a firm embrace. She held onto him tightly, her arms strong around his smaller frame, only releasing him after several moments to press a kiss to his cheek.

A small smile tugged at Laenor's lips, mirrored by his sister. Taking her hand in his, he led her outside to the deck, where the morning sun was cresting over the horizon. They stood together, speaking of idle things for an hour, until a voice rang out—

"Maidenpool in sight!"

Both turned their heads toward the shore, and there it was in all its pink-hued splendor.

The harbor was far smaller and less bustling than Driftmark's, yet Laenor barely spared it a glance. Instead, as they drew near, his attention was drawn to the escort awaiting them at the docks.

A lone man stood at the forefront, clad in dark armor from head to toe, a crimson silk cloak draped over his shoulders. A smirk, full of confidence and mischief, played upon his lips as one hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

Daemon Targaryen.

The Rogue Prince was waiting for them.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV

Laenor watched as his father and Uncle Vaemond were the first to greet the Rogue Prince. He and Laena stood slightly behind them, observing the exchange. Daemon greeted Corlys jovially, and his father returned it in kind. If it was an act, Laenor had to admit it was a convincing one—Corlys looked genuinely pleased to see Daemon. Vaemond, on the other hand, greeted the prince with the curt politeness required by his rank, nothing more.

When the pleasantries ended, Daemon turned his attention to Laenor and Laena. His gaze became greedy, his interest plain for all to see, and he didn't even bother to hide it. Laenor's frown deepened in disapproval, but his expression only seemed to amuse Daemon, who smirked in response.

"If it isn't House Velaryon's new little dragonlords," he said, though the last part carried a tightness to it. His violet eyes locked onto Laenor. "You must be Laenor."

Laenor met his gaze squarely and nodded.

"Lord Laenor, it is my utmost pleasure to meet you," Daemon said smoothly, shifting into a more comfortable stance. Then, his eyes flicked toward Laena. "And of course, how could we overlook this beautiful young lady? Lady Laena."

He extended a hand, which Laena hesitantly offered. Daemon kissed the back of it, never breaking eye contact, making Laena flush slightly before she glanced away, her gaze landing on Laenor.

They both greeted him formally, exchanging pleasantries before Daemon gestured toward Maidenpool. "Your uncle, the King, and Princess Rhaenys await you in the keep."

With that, Laenor and Laena followed their father, their Velaryon entourage trailing behind, save for a few who remained aboard the ship. As they walked toward the keep, they passed through the market square, where nobles and merchants alike had gathered. All eyes turned toward them. Their House stood out unmistakably, their silver hair marking them as Valyrians among the sea of lesser blood.

Soon, they passed through the pink stone walls of Maidenpool and entered the Great Hall—the heart of the keep. And there, in his full royal splendor, sat King Viserys, 'the Young King.' Plump and round-faced, he was the stark opposite of his younger brother. On one side, courtiers clung to his words, while on the other, Laenor's mother sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching their arrival.

"Welcome, Lord Corlys, and my dear Laena and Laenor. You have no idea how happy I am to see House Velaryon here, my family together," Viserys declared, his voice carrying through the hall. Then, his expression shifted slightly. "Though I must admit, I was somewhat disappointed to hear you did not bring the new dragons of House Velaryon."

His tone tightened ever so slightly at the end, and Laenor didn't miss the way several faces soured at the mention of their dragons.

"It is unfortunate, Your Grace," Corlys responded smoothly. "But there was little that could be done. I assure you, you will see them soon enough."

Viserys nodded, seemingly placated. With one last glance at Laenor and Laena, he gestured for Corlys to join him, prompting their father to turn to them. "Go to your mother," he instructed. "She's been waiting for you."

Laenor and Laena wasted no time, making their way to Rhaenys, who pulled them both into a warm embrace, smiling fondly.

"I missed you both," she murmured. "How was your journey?"

Laena launched into an eager recounting of their voyage, detailing everything from the ship's speed to the endless horizon. Laenor, meanwhile, let his gaze wander over the assembled lords and ladies. Some watched them with open curiosity, while others pretended indifference. One face, however, stood out—Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King regarded them with his usual measured expression, his glances brief but deliberate.

As Laena neared the end of her tale, Laenor caught sight of three figures approaching. He recognized one immediately, and as for the other two—there was no mistaking their identities. One was a vision of Valyrian beauty, her white-gold hair framing a delicate face. The other, with silver-yellowish locks and a slender build, was no less striking. Even in this world, they were names everyone knew.

The youngest among them spoke first, her excitement unmistakable. "Laena! I'm so glad to see you again."

"Rhaenyra," Laena greeted warmly, embracing the youngest Targaryen as one would a sister. Afterward, she turned to Alicent, exchanging a polite greeting before eagerly discussing dragons with Rhaenyra.

Laenor, his mother, and Daemon observed them. While his mother's expression remained composed, Daemon's face twisted in thinly veiled boredom and annoyance.

"Rhaenyra," he drawled, "why don't you ask your friend the question you've been pestering me about all moon?"

"Oh! I almost forgot." Rhaenyra turned to Laena, her eyes alight with curiosity. "How did you and your brother hatch those stone dragon eggs?" she asked eagerly, ignoring the many curious glances that turned their way. "And don't tell me they hatched on their own. I've read every Valyrian text I could find on Dragonstone with nuncle Daemon, and there's never been anything like this before. So tell me, how did you do it?"

Laena straightened, pride evident in her tone. "It's as our mother and father said, Rhaenyra. I was there, watching over the eggs as I had been for days, and they hatched on their own. Now, House Velaryon has dragons of our own."

Daemon scoffed, his gaze narrowing. "Which you'll only be able to ride because of your Targaryen blood."

His words carried an edge, but Rhaenys met them with calm, regal poise. "Dragon lord blood has run in Velaryon veins long before either of our Houses ever set foot in Westeros."

Daemon's expression darkened. "Before, House Velaryon wasn't allowed to hatch or claim dragons. And Dragonlord blood only came from marriages, not because their ancestors tamed the greatest power in the world as mine did. It was only because of my brother's kindness that House Velaryon now has dragons of their own."

"The greatest power in the world, is it?" Laenor asked, amusement curling his lips into a smile.

Daemon's gaze sharpened, his stance shifting ever so slightly. "What? Do you disagree?" he asked, stepping forward, positioning himself directly in front of Laenor. "Then pray, tell—what power rivals dragons? What force can bring ruin and death as they do? It was dragon fire that forged the Iron Throne, dragon fire that bent the Seven Kingdoms. Without them, the Dragonlords of Valyria would not have been able to conquer the whole of Essos. I, for all my years, have never known anything greater." His voice dripped with mockery, drawing even more eyes to them.

Laenor met his gaze unflinchingly. "The Old. The True. The Brave." His voice rang clear and steady. "House Velaryon is of the Old Blood. And one never knows what powers it may hold."

"Oh, I know what powers it has," Daemon scoffed. "The power to sail wooden boats." He chuckled, eyes flashing with amusement.

"Daemon," Rhaenys' voice cut through the air, firm and unyielding. She rose from her seat, fixing him with a pointed stare.

Daemon merely smirked—until the air itself seemed to shudder with a low, echoing roar from above. His smirk faltered, and then came another roar, louder, more thunderous, reverberating through the great hall. The murmurs of the gathered nobles hushed as all eyes turned toward the source of the sound.

Rhaenys held Daemon's gaze, her own unreadable, but a challenge unmistakably burned within them.

"Daemon. Rhaenys." King Viserys' voice rang out, authoritative and displeased. He rose to his feet, making his way toward them. "Leave you two alone for a moment, and already you find another quarrel to start. We are family. Behave like one." His gaze swept over them both.

A long silence stretched between them. Then, at last, Daemon huffed, rolling his shoulders as he eased his posture. The roars outside faded.

"He said Velaryon blood is more powerful than dragons, brother." Daemon scoffed, turning to Viserys with an infuriating smirk. "Come now, be honest—it's laughable."

Viserys exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "He is a child, Daemon. And now you lower yourself to mocking a child's thoughts?" He stepped closer, jabbing a finger against his brother's chest. "Go to Caraxes. Take flight. Clear your head. When you return, I expect both you and Rhaenys to tell a tale of our youth to the younger ones here. Go."

Daemon grumbled but did not argue, turning on his heel and striding toward the exit.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV

Maidenpool

Consider Laenor officially bored.

It had been a few days since he and his family had arrived at Maidenpool for the tourney, held in honor of his mother's cousin's coronation as King of the Seven Kingdoms. And though the town buzzed with music, pageantry, and clashing steel, the excitement had long since worn thin for him.

The problem? He already knew who would win. The thrill of combat faded quickly when the outcome was carved in memory rather than forged in the moment.

Still, it wasn't entirely useless. Watching the realm's best knights fight had its merits—one could learn a thing or two, assuming they had the talent to mimic such skill. Laenor's gaze drifted to his right, where Rhaenyra sat fidgeting in her seat, eyes locked on the duel below between Daemon and Ser Criston Cole.

To Rhaenyra's right sat Alicent Hightower. Truth be told, Laenor didn't know what to make of the girl. From the leftover memories he has, he at least remembered one thing: back on Earth, he'd been a staunch supporter of the Blacks. But back then, they were only ink on a page—characters in a story. Now they breathed beside him.

If the Dance were to begin, Laenor couldn't deny it—he had quietly rooted for it. After all, war created opportunity. Power abhors a vacuum, and chaos tends to elevate those bold enough to grasp at the crown while others cower beneath its weight. In a world like this, ambition thrived under the guise of disorder.

And House Velaryon? It had always hovered just beneath the dragonlords, never quite rising high enough. But now… now it had him. A wildcard. A tide-changer. And tides, he mused, were his to command—both literally and figuratively.

There had even been a chance, however slim, that House Velaryon could have usurped House Targaryen itself in the original timeline. Dragons, they had. A claim through Rhaenys, they had. According to Valyrian custom, they might've made a case. But that timeline was gone, drowned in the sea of what-ifs. This world was his now, and he had no intention of letting it play out the same way.

If the Dance happened, he would pick the side that served him best—or perhaps forge one of his own. Now that was an idea worth entertaining.

His thoughts wandered to his mother, seated behind him in a deep royal blue gown. What would Rhaenys say if he set his sights on the Iron Throne? If he dared to strip House Targaryen of its crown—her father's house, her pride? She took such pride in her ancestry, and her love for her father ran deep. Would she denounce him? Or would she follow him?

As if sensing his thoughts, Rhaenys's violet eyes met his with a subtle question behind them. Laenor offered her a faint smile and a shake of the head before turning back toward the tiltyard.

Below, the battle between Daemon and Criston Cole neared its end. As expected, Criston's morningstar proved too much for the Rogue Prince to handle. Though Daemon fought fiercely, the outcome mirrored the books: Criston triumphed.

Criston approached the royal stand and presented the victor's laurel to Rhaenyra, who accepted it with a smile. Laenor, seated so close, could see the fine sheen of sweat on the knight's brow and the gleam in his eye. Had Daemon lasted a few minutes longer, perhaps he could have turned the tide. But the ending was already written. The laurel was always meant for Rhaenyra.

Just as the crowd erupted into cheers for Criston, the air changed.

A massive shadow swept across the field, drowning the sun in silver. The roar of approval from the smallfolk died, swallowed by stunned silence as all eyes turned skyward.

A dragon.

Not just any dragon—Laenor had seen Meleys and Caraxes enough times in Maidenpool these past days, their immense forms soaring above the city. They were titans by mortal standards.

But this one… this silver she-dragon was something else entirely.

Larger. Sleeker. Faster.

She tore across the sky like a comet, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone—leaving only a gust of wind and awe-struck silence in her wake. Laenor barely caught more than a flash of scales and the glint of sunlight on wings. But that was enough.

Quicksilver.

The dragon that once escaped Balerion's jaws still lived.

"Why is she here?" Laenor's mother asked, her voice tense with unease.

"How would I know?" Viserys replied, nervousness slipping through his usual composure. "She was never chained again after Vhagar melted her shackles and set her free."

"She seems to just be passing through, Mother. There's no need to panic," Laenor said, trying to stay calm.

"You're still young if you think this is a coincidence," she snapped, frowning in confusion. "She has never come here before. Dragons are unpredictable, Laenor—we can never be certain."

She turned sharply. "I'll be with Meleys. Send word to Daemon if anything goes wrong—we'll need both Meleys and Caraxes if we're to chase off Quicksilver." Without another word, she strode off toward where her dragon waited.

From the royal stand, Laenor watched as King Viserys barked orders to the Lord Commander, who quickly dispatched a rider to summon Prince Daemon. The smallfolk were already fleeing the arena, pouring out of their seats in a panic, hurrying back to the safety of the city. Laenor shook his head at their shortsightedness and turned his gaze to the nobles—many still seated but visibly uneasy, staring up at the sky with growing dread.

Then it came—the roar.

A sound not just of fury, but of pain, rage, and something that Laenor couldn't identify.

Quicksilver.
She burst from the clouds above, circling the tourney grounds with molten gold eyes locked on the royal stand. Her scales shimmered like forged steel, her rage palpable even from such a height.

Laenor's thoughts raced. Why is she enraged?

"Why is she doing that, Kepa?" Little Rhaenyra asked her father, her voice uncertain but not afraid. For the first time, Laenor saw something more than a pampered child in her—a flicker of steel beneath that arrogance. "Kepus says ours is Fire and Blood. Then why is Quicksilver staring at us like that?"

Viserys had no answer. He stood frozen, watching the skies with a furrowed brow and an unreadable gaze.

A sudden roar shattered the stillness—Meleys had taken flight.

The Red Queen climbed fast, a crimson blaze against the blue sky, her defiance evident in every beat of her wings. She roared back at Quicksilver, who turned to face the challenge. The two she-dragons circled one another, neither attacking each other nor backing down.

Then came Caraxes. With a scream like torn steel, the Blood Wyrm surged into the sky, red and serpentine, a blur of fury and excitement.

Laenor clenched his fists, heat blooming in his chest—not from fear, but from anger. What in the Void is Daemon thinking? Charging in like that? Quicksilver would clearly not be defeated without Meleys and Caraxes being gravely injured?

He wasn't the only one furious. Murmurs of outrage rippled through the nobles at Daemon's reckless arrival. But as Caraxes neared the others, something unexpected happened.

Instead of attacking, Caraxes veered right, flanking Meleys and letting loose a deafening cry—not at the other dragons, but at the clouds..

And then, a shadow fell over them all.
Larger than Quicksilver. Darker than a stormcloud.

The roar that followed was long, drawn out. A deep, guttural sound that made the very air tremble.

"Seven, have mercy," whispered Alicent, clutching a seven-pointed star to her chest as she dropped to her knees in prayer. All around them, gasps of horror and awe echoed. Laenor felt his heart hammering as nobles knelt and smallfolk wept.

Vhagar.
The largest living dragon, bronze with hues of green and blue, emerged above them like the fire made flesh.

And in response, the others roared—Meleys in challenge, Caraxes in ferocity, Quicksilver in a scream of fury.

Laenor turned to run toward the river—his hydrokinesis might aid his mother by distracting the older dragons—but his father caught his arm.

"I can help them," Laenor insisted.

Corlys Velaryon stared him down. "Even if you could 'help' them, what happens after?"

"I can breathe underwater! I—"

But another explosion of sound above interrupted him. The dragons had clashed.

Vhagar, like an airborne mountain, lunged at Quicksilver, trying to pin her from above. But the younger she-dragon twisted nimbly, evading the crushing force of the elder's body.

Then came the roar—not of war, but of betrayal.

Quicksilver screamed, a sound that chilled Laenor to the bone, and beat her wings with desperate strength, turning away from the field. She soared toward Dragonstone, abandoning the fight. Vhagar bellowed her victory and followed, the skies clearing in their wake.

Silence reigned for a long moment.

People exhaled. Some sobbed. Others laughed nervously in disbelief.

Laenor looked around at the stunned faces of nobles and royalty alike.

No one would forget this day. Not ever.

The ascension tourney of King Viserys Targaryen would be etched into memory as the day the world was reminded—dragons are power.
And before them, all men, kings or not, are small.

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Chapter Text

Laenor POV
Maidenpool

“Why would Quicksilver do something like that? From what I know, there’s nothing here in Maidenpool that would earn her anger,” said King Viserys, pacing back and forth across the room. Laenor, along with his family and all the Targaryens, were currently gathered there, just after Quicksilver had caused a massive incident—one that could easily overshadow the ongoing tourney.

“To answer your question, brother, we’d either have to teach Quicksilver our language and make her speak, or learn to speak and understand the language dragons converse in,” said Daemon, wearing an infuriating smirk.

“Daemon, speak to me like that again, and I’ll send you back to the Vale the next moment,” Viserys gritted out, anger flashing in his eyes. Daemon wisely shut his mouth but glared back at his brother.

“In simple words, cousin, there’s no answer to your question. We can only assume why Quicksilver did what she did,” Laenor’s mother added with a sigh. And Laenor thought that was the only answer Viserys needed. After all, whatever reasons they conjured in their minds could be right—or not. No one truly knew why Quicksilver had tried to attack the royal family.

“I know, Rhaenys, gods be good, I know that. But you—you and I and everyone in the royal stand saw it, didn’t we? She was looking at us. Us, Rhaenys. That means she came for us. What deters her from attacking again? And I don't think Vhagar will always be there to come to our aid. Without her, that would leave Caraxes and Meleys to take on Quicksilver alone—and that could turn bloody fast. Someone among you could be injured or, gods forbid, killed,” Viserys ranted, his voice growing harsher with each word. A dragon, though powerful, was not like a man. It didn’t scheme, it didn’t hold grudges—or so they had believed.

“That is a serious concern, Your Grace. What would happen if older dragons like Vermithor, Silverwing, Cannibal, and the others started to act so violently when angered? We must do something. Mere chains are clearly no longer enough,” said Lord Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand, stepping forward.

Laenor, meanwhile, completely ignored him. He still couldn’t believe that Viserys had allowed Otto to be present at such a sensitive meeting, though truth be told, all others in the room besides Viserys seemed to share his disapproval. Yet the man was nothing if not persistent; even when facing cold glares from all sides, he didn’t so much as request to leave.

“And what do you suggest we do now, Lord Hand?” Daemon asked, raising an eyebrow and letting his anger bleed into his voice. “Chain them tighter? Starve them until they grow violent and mad beyond taming? Or are you suggesting we kill all the dragons?”

Hearing that, everyone turned toward Otto with dangerous expressions. He had just suggested something that made it clear—at least to the others—that he was no true well-wisher of the House of the Dragon, despite all his pretenses. Even Viserys was staring at his Hand with an intensity that spoke volumes, waiting for Otto’s next words.

Call Otto a backstabber, a schemer, or a lickspittle if you wanted—but he was no fool. He sensed the hostile mood in the room and chose his next words with care.

“I would never suggest that, my prince," he said, his voice dripping with such contempt that you could almost taste the poison hanging in the air. "Rather, I suggest we seek the aid of the Citadel. The Maesters are wise and well-versed in many kinds of knowledge. As faithful servants of His Grace, they are duty-bound to act as he commands."

His velvety words seemed to sway only Viserys. Everyone else either rolled their eyes or outright scoffed at the idea of consulting the grey rats—as the Maesters were often called—when it came to dragons.

"Come now, brother, you're seriously considering his suggestion?" Daemon said, half-shocked. "We'll be asking Maesters, of all people, to solve the problem of a dragon? Have you already forgotten Grandmother's words about how the Maesters reacted when they saw Aerea after she returned from Valyria?"

“What choice do I have, Daemon?” Viserys snapped, though his anger seemed more directed at himself than his brother. “I cannot risk the lives of my family and my subjects on the false hope that Quicksilver won’t attack again. If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Laenor could see Daemon silently seething in his seat. Yet, like the rest of those present, he had no immediate alternative to offer that would spare Viserys from seeking Maester aid.

Seeing the silence stretch, Laenor decided to voice his thoughts.

“The way I see it, Your Grace, you have two options. One: prepare King’s Landing to shoot down Quicksilver if she attacks again. Or two: tame another dragon. We all saw that Vhagar alone was enough to scare Quicksilver off. There’s also Vermithor, who is almost as large as Quicksilver.”

Everyone turned to look at him oddly, so with a sigh, Laenor continued:

"I know it’s not ideal to kill a dragon as old and valuable as Quicksilver, who might still be tamed and serve House Targaryen again. But as Your Grace said, you cannot risk so many lives. Killing Quicksilver would not be a total loss. It would show that House Targaryen can—and will—deal with even their own dragons when they grow too dangerous. With one sacrifice, we could also free those dragons who are docile and tamed from the chains they've been forced into because of the fear others hold."

Laenor inhaled deeply, finishing his speech.

Aside from his parents, the strange looks everyone had given him shifted to expressions of interest and surprise.

“Though young Lord Laenor presents a realistic option," Otto began, "I still believe we should first consult with the Maesters—”

“Forgive me, Lord Otto," Laenor interrupted smoothly. "The Maesters, for all their wisdom, are not the ones to turn to regarding dragons. Frankly, I believe we stand a better chance finding aid in Volantis than at the Citadel. And even if the Maesters could offer some help, they would first require time to study the dragons properly. That would only be possible if the dragon and its rider cooperated—which they won’t. And even if they did, that path would take far too long. Quicksilver could attack again long before the Maesters gave us anything useful.”

With that, Laenor efficiently—and decisively—shut down any further discussion of seeking help from the Citadel.

Otto, maintaining his indifferent mask, simply nodded and fell silent.

"I think Laenor has given us enough reason not to turn to the Maesters," Daemon said. "But I also disagree with his suggestion of preparing King’s Landing to kill Quicksilver. Though I won’t stop you from doing so, brother, but what I think about that is that it was a one-time thing— and Quicksilver will not attack again."

With that, Daemon stood up, gave a respectable nod, and excused himself from the room.

After he left, the adults resumed their discussion on ways to arm King’s Landing. Laenor, tuning them out, found his mind wandering.

Why hadn’t Viserys considered taming another dragon? Laenor had deliberately mentioned the idea, hoping to plant the thought—to see if a man could tame a second dragon in his lifetime. This was the perfect situation to push Viserys toward such a choice. But, clearly, it had not worked. He really wanted to see if it is possible or not, damn it.

"Hey, Laena, Laenor—let's go," little Rhaenyra said, standing up and dusting off her skirts. "I think we can all agree it’s boring to sit here listening to them talk."

Laena looked at Laenor questioningly. With a small nod from him, both she and Laenor rose to their feet and followed Rhaenyra out of the chamber.

0o0o0o0o0

Laenor, along with his parents and Laena, was having dinner in a private setting. It had been more than a week since the day he had seen Quicksilver. Unlike what he had suspected, the tourney had not been cancelled. One by one, the competitions had concluded, and the nobles of the realm had begun to depart. Now, only the Velaryons, the members of the small council who were in service to House Targaryen, and House Mooton remained in Maidenpool.

“What was Ser Criston’s answer, Father?” Laenor asked. He had earlier requested his father to approach Ser Criston Cole about entering the service of House Velaryon—a move that would fulfill several purposes. The man could prove a valuable and loyal subject, provided the Realm’s Delight did not distract him.

"Although I do not understand why you made such a request," his father replied, "I did ask him if he would be interested in serving House Velaryon." He paused briefly before continuing. "As I expected, he declined. He wishes to join the Kingsguard."

Laenor shook his head, unsurprised by the response. Still, it had been worth the attempt. If Criston Cole had accepted, House Velaryon would have gained a capable and competent retainer. 

“When are we leaving?” Laena asked, her impatience clear. Being separated from her dragon for so long had made her restless.

“Tomorrow morning.”

After that, they ate in silence. When they finished, their mother and father reminded Laenor and Laena to have their belongings packed and ready before sunrise.

Laenor understood what weighed on his father's mind, but at his current age—and with his still-growing abilities—there was little he could do. For now.

That would not always be the case.

With that thought, Laenor silently vowed to hone his skills, to train harder, and to prepare himself for the future. He was certain that both his and Laena’s dragons would grow large enough to be true weapons of war in the years to come.

And when that time arrives, Velaryos will rise higher than they already are.

Time-skip ahead!

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Chapter Text

Laenor 

107 AC

Laenor was sweating profusely as he tried to control the small whirlpool he had summoned with his hydrokinesis. But the next moment, the whirlpool began to slowly disperse, and Laenor collapsed onto the sandy shore. Gasping for air, he forced himself upright and staggered toward the training sword. Picking it up, he began to swing it, determined to push himself beyond the last vestiges of strength his body could muster.

Over the years, Laenor had learned that no matter how far he pushed his body, he never seemed to suffer any lasting fatigue. Even after exhausting himself every single day, he only improved. It would be a waste not to make full use of this gift. His training also hardened his willpower; pushing until his body dropped demanded discipline and an iron will.

Eventually, his screaming muscles gave out. Laenor fell flat on his back, heaving for breath. Even drawing air into his lungs sent sharp pain through his body. After what felt like half an hour, some semblance of strength returned. He turned toward the blue sea to his left and began crawling—there was no way he could stand.

Immersing himself in the water in such a state sent euphoric waves through him, as it did every day. Laenor thanked every god there was for sending him here. Life in a medieval world had its demons, but so far, this life had been kind to him. Not that he remembered much of the one before.

He swam aimlessly, letting his thoughts drift toward the war raging in the Stepstones, and his father returning to Driftmark—thanks to Laenor’s persistence, or more accurately, the pressure he’d exerted. His mother and Laena would support the decision, though Laena might not show it openly, still bitter at their parents.

The war had begun as it did in the books: Daemon, insulted at being replaced as heir, and his father seeking a shield in case Viserys grew hostile again, had joined forces. It had been over a year since Laenor last saw his father. A moon ago, Laenor realized that while his powers may not win the war outright, they were enough to make a difference.

After five letters and countless pleas, Corlys Velaryon finally agreed to return to Driftmark—for two days.

Convincing his father to send his only son and heir, merely thirteen namedays old, into the fire of war would not be easy. But Laenor planned to reveal the full extent of his water abilities—his powers, his martial prowess, and his mount. All of it combined might just be enough.

His mother and Laena would be more difficult to convince than his father. But he would let his father handle his mother, and he would make Laena understand that he would be safe—no matter what happened out there. With that decided, Laenor let himself enjoy the water, cooling his body and mind. He needed the calm, because once he revealed his abilities, his parents and sister would have many questions.

Emerging from the sea, Laenor began the walk back toward the keep—High Tide. Shortly after the Ascension Tourney, his family had moved there. And High Tide was beautiful. Laenor preferred it to Driftmark, which, in his opinion, could use a few upgrades.

Once in his room, he made himself presentable with a bath and a change of clothes, then made his way to the hall in the family quarters, where he hoped to find his father. He had spotted the Sea Snake anchored when he came ashore.

Upon reaching the hall, he pushed open the two heavy oak doors himself—before the stationed guards could do it for him. Inside, the room was lavishly adorned with items more extravagant than what many minor lords could afford in a lifetime. But Laenor’s gaze locked onto the large weirwood table at the center, where his mother and father sat in what looked to be a heated discussion.

With long strides and a practiced, smug smile, Laenor approached.

“There he is. By the gods, Corlys, now you could confirm it yourself. I told you he hasn’t told me anything either why he has summoned you here,” his mother said with an exasperated tone and a dramatic wave of her hand—one that only made Laenor’s smile widen. It also earned him a sharp glare from her.

Corlys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides, didn’t say a word to Laenor. But the single raised eyebrow and the cold glint in his eyes were enough to tell Laenor just how furious he was—furious, but holding it back, only because it was his son standing before him and not someone else.

“Father, first, I want to apologize for being so unreasonable in summoning you,” Laenor began, his voice calm. “But I felt it was time to reveal something I’ve kept hidden.”

He had originally planned to make this revelation in front of his entire family—including Laena. But judging by the look on Corlys’s face, his father wouldn’t wait another moment without erupting like a volcano during the Doom.

“Son, this could have waited until I finished—” Corlys stood, his voice tight, his anger kept just below the surface. But Laenor cut him off.

“I would never have called you here if it weren’t important, Father. But I don’t think you’ll understand until I show you.” Laenor’s tone was respectful but firm. “So let’s go to the shore. You can decide then if it was worth the summons.”

With that, Laenor turned and began walking toward the doors.

Before he could step outside, his father called out to him.

“Laenor.”

He turned back, curious. His father’s voice had softened.

“Me coming here was already worth it. Seeing your faces—yours and Laena’s—knowing you’re both healthy and attending your lessons… that alone is enough. I was just frustrated, you know… the war and all.” Corlys exhaled, then glanced at his wife with an apologetic expression. “I shouldn’t have let it show. Not to you. Not to her.”

The anger and tension that had marred his father's face melted away, replaced by weariness and regret. With a final glance at his wife, Corlys stepped forward to join his son.

“You don’t need to explain, Father,” Laenor said with a gentle smile. “We understand.”

And so, as a family—though missing one—Laenor and his parents made their way to the shore.

They reached the quiet stretch where Laenor trained daily. The breeze rolled off the sea, gentle but salt-heavy. He stopped. His parents came to a halt beside him, their eyes scanning the surroundings with mild curiosity.

Corlys was the first to speak. “Let me guess—you’ve found another treasure like you did four years ago. But what could it be this time, for you to summon me here just to see it?”

His mother narrowed her eyes, more observant than speculative. “So this is where you’ve been training?”

Laenor nodded. “To answer your question, Mother—yes, this is my place. And no, Father. I haven’t found any treasure. What I brought you here to see is something I’ve been hiding since… since I drowned in the sea.”

His father’s brow furrowed. “Why hide it for so long? Even from us.”

Before Laenor could respond, he and his mother shared a knowing glance and matching strained smiles. That habit of interrupting—it was classic Corlys Velaryon. Laenor often wondered how a man who interrupted so much managed to be such a successful trader and diplomat.

“That’s what I was about to explain,” Laenor said. “I hid it because anything mystical—anything magical—is frowned upon by the Faith of the Seven. Back then, I didn’t know if I could protect myself if I was exposed, caught off-guard. And it could have hurt our standing with the Faith. But if I can use these abilities for war—to protect lives—then perhaps it won’t be so heavily condemned.”

He was lying, of course. That excuse had been prepared well in advance. But it sounded reasonable, and the expressions on his parents’ faces—curiosity, skepticism, unease—meant they weren’t dismissing it outright.

A long silence followed. Then his father sighed and said flatly, “The ability, Laenor.”

Laenor gave an embarrassed smile. “Right. Sorry.”

He turned to the sea.

Three years of relentless training had forged a kind of artistry out of discipline. Though he still couldn't raise tsunamis, he had mastered control over smaller amounts of water with such precision that they became deadlier than brute force. Now, with the amount of water he could command steadily increasing, he had begun combining scale with finesse—and he was proud of that.

He raised his hands. The sea answered.

Water surged upward, twisting and contorting until it took the shape of a massive horse—three stories tall, its eyes glistening with the reflection of the sky. Before his parents could even register their shock, the horse sprouted wings. It began galloping over the surface of the water, every stride impossibly fast. Corlys stared, speechless.

Then the creature flapped its wings and soared into the air, ascending high before diving straight down, crashing into the sea like a falling star.

A towering wall of water erupted in its wake, but Laenor raised a hand and a barrier of water surged up to protect his parents from the splash.

Silence fell again. A heavy silence. Salt and spray lingered in the air.

His parents stood frozen, trying to comprehend what they’d just witnessed.

And then—finally—they turned toward him.

Shock on their faces. And a thousand questions ready to fall from their lips.

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Chapter Text

High Tide

Words could not describe the expressions on Lord and Lady Velaryon’s faces. But no one could blame them—for their son had shown them something that shocked them to their core and made them the proudest parents in the entire realm… no, in the entire known world.

Corlys would fight tooth and nail, with his beloved wife, to claim that he was the prouder and more overjoyed of the two after witnessing his son's ability. For so long, it had been said that the Targaryens ruled the skies while the Velaryons ruled the seas. Yet unlike the Targaryens, whose dominion over the skies was absolute, the Velaryons faced rivals—houses that could and would replace them if given the opportunity and the resources. But all of that changed now. With this power—this power to command the waters of their domain—the tides themselves could be bent to the will of House Velaryon. It would change their future forever.

Corlys could swear by the gods old and new, by the Red God of Volantis, or by the countless deities he'd heard of and seen worshipped in his many voyages, that never in his long life had he smiled with such joy. It seemed all the gods of the world had blessed House Velaryon with open hands. First wealth and influence through him—now power, through his son.

Though born of the same blood amidst fabled Fourteen Flames, the Targaryens had never ceased to remind the Velaryons that they were Dragonlords, and the Velaryons were not. That they were the superior blood, and the Velaryons merely subjects—favored only for their Valyrian origin when the Targaryens sought brides. Never mind that House Velaryon’s lineage was older than House Targaryen’s. It was sheer luck that made the Targaryens dragonlords. Without their dragons, they would be no more than the Celtigars—a minor house with modest wealth and a few mad seers.

But it no longer mattered.

For here, before Corlys, stood a true Dragonlord—one who wielded not only fire but the might of the sea with dragon dreams no less. A son who could take House Velaryon further than Corlys himself had ever dreamed. A son who would leave behind a legacy that no one would ever forget.

And was that not what Corlys had always yearned for in his mortal life? A legacy?

Rhaenys was no less awed than her husband. The power to command the waters of the sea... Living most of her life on Dragonstone, surrounded by old Valyrian scrolls and tomes, she could confidently say she had read nearly all of them—if not all—save those elusive writings Queen Visenya was said to have hidden away. Though Rhaenys doubted anyone would ever find them, if they even existed.

But she knew one thing: never, in any record she had read, was there mention of a Velaryon—or any Valyrian house—who could control the sea. Rivers, perhaps—such power was known to belong to the Rhoynar. But even then, their magic had been tied solely to the great river Rhoyne. And Laenor had no Martell blood. Even the Martells no longer held such power.

What their son had done was unprecedented.

Then a sudden thought entered her mind—absurd, but not outlandish. The Sea God’s daughter had once wed Durran, from whom House Baratheon claims descent. Perhaps it was from the blood of the storm kings that Laenor inherited this ability. Yet, there has never been a single record of a Durrandon wielding even a drop of power over water, let alone on the scale Laenor had just displayed.

House Velaryon once possessed some kind of ancient power—that much she knew—but it had been lost to them thousands of years ago. No scrolls in the possession of either the Targaryens or Velaryons made mention of what that power might have been. It was gone, forgotten by time and buried by the sea.

Perhaps together—she, Corlys, and Laenor—they could piece together the origins of this ability. But her thoughts soon shifted to another, more pressing matter: what would happen if the truth were revealed to the world? What would it mean for House Velaryon... and for her son?

Laenor was not only a dragonrider but a dreamer as well, and there is his dragon's uniqueness to take into consideration, as Embaryx possessed the power to stimulate flora around him, aside from his ability to breathe fire. Embaryx's and growth rate alone had surpassed anything recorded or witnessed before. When paired with Laenor’s own ability to command water, and the meteoric rise of House Velaryon in recent years, Rhaenys had every reason to believe that her cousin and her maiden house would feel threatened—if not openly troubled—by the growing influence her son might wield in the near future.

Everyone knew the Targaryens had won their crown through fire. And now, there existed another power—one that could rival, perhaps even surpass, that legacy. The power to command the sea of Laenor had just been given was bound to draw attention... and not the kind one would wish for. House Velaryon would gain few allies and far more enemies. More still would see her son as a threat to be dealt with—sooner rather than later. Some would try to ally with the Velaryons. Others would try to crush them before the seed had a chance to grow.

Laenor needed protection. And Rhaenys would see to it herself—finding men who were not only competent but fiercely loyal. Men who would stand beside her son when the shadows closed in and he could not stand alone.

“By the gods, words cannot describe how proud and happy I am right now.” Of course, he was. Ambition and the pursuit of legacy could very well be the definition of Corlys Velaryon. The sheer joy on his face made Rhaenys smile—only to shake her head a heartbeat later, noticing the faint arrogance that lingered just beneath it.

“As am I. But I want to applaud you, Laenor, for hiding this ability for so long. It must have been difficult, and while I wish you had trusted us with this earlier, I understand the need for secrecy,” said Rhaenys with a nod, her voice calm and measured.

Formal and cautious—even among family. It hadn’t always been this way. Corlys still remembered the girl whose passion burned as brightly as the mount she rode across the skies. But the realm’s decisions—and her own grandsire—had shaped her into someone more cautious, more pragmatic. Gone were the endless dreams of adventure she had once shared with him in the early days of their marriage. Corlys would never forgive Jaehaerys for that. But the man was dead now, and Corlys hadn’t been able to do anything to Jaehaerys when he was alive. Not that he’d needed to. The gods had seen to that themselves to punish that man.

Still, this was no day for bitter memories.

“A feast. Yes, a feast must be held today. I would have liked to hold no less than a tourney to mark this occasion, but I must return to the Stepstones. Least Daemon comes storming here, abandoning all we’ve achieved this past year.” Corlys sighed, clearly disappointed that such momentous news would only be marked with a feast. Grand tourneys had been held for less.

“We must return to the castle and inform the servants to begin preparations,” said Rhaenys. “Though I still need to hear how Laenor trained this ability, and what its limitations are. But that can wait till tomorrow. I will be busy with the feast—and you, Laenor, will be explaining to Laena why you didn’t wait for her and didn’t tell her about this power earlier. Good luck with that one.” With a smirk, Rhaenys strode off, already making a mental list of which Velaryons on Driftmark to summon for the feast.

“I would’ve helped you, son,” said Corlys with a half-laugh. “But you know Laena doesn’t even speak to me. Still, I’m sure you’ll convince her. After all, you are my son.” With that, Corlys made a quick exit, ignoring Laenor’s pointed, accusatory stare.

Laena was her mother’s daughter, through and through. And since bonding with her dragon, her temper had only grown sharper.

Laenor POV

He was absolutely livid with his father. It was because of him that Laenor hadn’t waited for Laena. And now, like a backstabber, he simply took his leave—whistling, no less. A traitor. Still, setting that aside, both his parents had taken the news well. They weren’t angry or troubled by the fact that he had hidden his hydrokinesis for all these years.

The next challenge, however, would be Laena. And during the feast, Laenor planned to ask his father to take him along to the Stepstones when he returned the day after tomorrow. He could at least allow Laenor to join him after thrusting him into this position. 

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Chapter Text

High Tide

“Very well, sister, I agree to all of your demands,” Laenor said in defeat. He should have known there was no winning a battle against his elder sister.

“Good. I will let you know of the other things I need when they come to me,” said Laena, nodding in satisfaction. She looked like some innocent maiden in all this—which was far from the truth.

“Have some mercy, sister. I get the same amount of gold as you every moon. How am I to afford more things than you’ve already enlisted?” Laenor pleaded. But it seemed there was no mercy in this one.

“It was not I who kept secrets from her ‘sister’. You pay for what you sow. And do not think for a moment I have forgotten how you kept silent when Father sought to sell me off to the king.” Laena’s voice carried the anger and hurt Laenor had hoped had lessened. But it hadn’t. Still, Laenor was sure that their father would eventually make it up to her; he always did. Laena was a pearl in Corlys Velaryon’s eyes—there was nothing she wouldn’t get from him when she asked.

“You would be wrong in that, sister. You can ask either Father or Mother—I vehemently opposed his decision. But you know how stubborn he can be. And from what I’ve gathered of Viserys so far, he wouldn’t have accepted the betrothal anyway. He’s learned his lesson not to marry younger women,” said Laenor, not revealing that he wouldn’t have let it happen even if Viserys had wanted it. His sister would marry someone of her choosing—not a man almost as old as their father.

“I will look into it. Now, you may go. I need to get ready for the upcoming feast.” Though Laena said that dismissively, Laenor could see that her ire toward him had slightly lessened. He chuckled at her haughty expression and took his leave.

His sister’s personality had changed greatly over time, especially as her dragon grew in size. The shy, childish girl was gone, replaced by a confident and slightly imperious young woman—someone who knew how to get what she wanted from her family.

Laenor made his way to his own chambers, only a few steps and a corridor away from Laena’s. Entering, he lay down on his bed and sighed heavily.

Now to feast… and after that, war.
Laenor intended to learn as much as he could from this war. His lips quirked upward—learning in war—if someone heard his thoughts, they’d think he was mad. With thoughts of what might come drifting through his mind, his eyes grew groggy, and his breath slowed.

It was the knocking on his door that roused him. Laenor yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Aleria entered with a few servants, informing him that the feast would commence in an hour. Laenor glanced at the window and, seeing the sun’s position, realized he needed to get ready quickly before his lady mother came to reprimand him for being lazy and undisciplined.

Half an hour later, Laenor was dressed in his sea-green doublet with black trousers and a Valyrian steel dagger fastened at his belt. After one last glance in the mirror, he nodded at his reflection and made his way toward the great hall of High Tide. Feasts were held there unless they involved lords and ladies from three or more kingdoms.

The large doors of the hall were wide open, with long tables and dining arrangements set up beside them. Laenor saw numerous servants placing dishes and fussing over every detail in a mad rush.

But it wasn’t the servants who caught his eye.

It was the large pots—each nearly five feet tall—positioned in the corners. Laenor looked around. Yes, there were more than six of them. Not just in corners either. It didn’t take much for him to guess what those pots contained—or who had ordered them to be placed.

So, his father wanted to be open about his ability to his household.
Well, Laenor had no problem with that. He’d planned to use it in front of everyone in the war anyway.

Laenor soon walked toward three silver-haired boys chatting and laughing, wine glasses in hand. All of them bore the distinct Valyrian look. They were Velaryons, though the line was so distant Laenor had only met them a few times in his life. Still, he remembered their names, and since they were the only ones in the hall for now, he figured he might as well talk with them.

“Daemion, Vaegon, Aerys. I hope you three have fulfilled your dreams of becoming knights—protecting fair maidens from falling for someone as pretty as me,” Laenor said with a laugh, patting Daemion on the back. The boys smiled brightly, clearly pleased he remembered their names, and greeted him with genuine warmth, launching into tales of their adventures.

Laenor laughed and pretended to listen with great interest.

They were in the middle of conversation when Vaemond Velaryon, Laenor’s tutor in arms, interrupted and told him to join his parents, who had already arrived and taken their seats at the high table. Bidding farewell to the three newly made knights, Laenor joined Vaemond as they walked leisurely through the growing crowd.

“Lord Corlys was righteously furious when he returned from the Stepstones. And now I see such joy on his face—joy I didn’t even see when this keep, High Tide, was first completed,” said Vaemond, nodding and smiling at someone in the crowd, though Laenor could tell his focus remained on their conversation.

“It surprises and excites me more than I dare say. From a young age, I’ve seen him pour his very being into making this keep a worthy seat for House Velaryon—one from which his legacy would rule the tides as wealthy and influential lords, second only to the House of the Dragon,” Vaemond continued. “Now he’s smiling like a man who has gotten everything he ever wanted. Care to tell me what magic you’ve done now, Laenor?”

“You’ll know soon enough. And I can already see you preening like a peacock once everything is revealed,” Laenor said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“It’s about our Velaryon lineage,” Vaemond guessed, nodding to himself. It was no secret that among all the Velaryons, Vaemond might be the proudest of their bloodline. There was even a rumor he gave thanks to the Seven every day for being born a Velaryon—though it had never been confirmed.

“Yes,” was all he got from Laenor before they reached the high table. With a few steps, Laenor took his seat between his father and Laena. To his father’s left sat Laenor’s mother, her eyes scanning the arrangements, quick to reprimand the household and correct any mishaps she spotted.

His father, meanwhile, was grinning like a loon and looked positively giddy.

Laenor shook his head. “I was going to tell you all about my other abilities related to the sea… but seeing you like this, I think I’d better stop now—before you hurt yourself from smiling too much,” he said, mirth twinkling in his eyes.

Both his parents turned toward him instantly, wide-eyed.

“There are more?” his mother asked.

“Yes, you both took your leave in haste before I could reveal everything. And Laena’s absence also clouded my thoughts,” Laenor said, taking a glass of water and sipping from it.

“What more could there be? Tell me this instant,” his father said, all too eager to hear.

“Maybe Laenor is right. Corlys, control yourself. Ever since we returned from the shore, I haven’t seen you without a smile on your face. It doesn’t suit you. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the old Corlys—the silent one, always judging everyone with his eyes,” said Laenor’s mother, mock concern gleaming in her eyes.

“Oh, spare me, Rhaenys. You don’t know how I feel right now. And words couldn’t describe it, even if I tried. Now, son, torture me no more and tell me—how else have the gods been generous to House Velaryon?” The smile remained fixed on his father’s face, and Laenor could see Laena’s impatient frown as she leaned forward, clearly intrigued.

“Very well. Let no one say that Laenor Velaryon lacks mercy,” Laenor said dramatically, in a voice loud enough for only his family to hear. Laena and his father rolled their eyes in unison.

“All right, all right. These abilities may not match my control over water, but they are still quite useful—and diverse. Let’s begin with breathing underwater, which means I can never drown again. Then, I can talk to aquatic life—fish and the like. Most of them obey me as if I were their lord, though not all. Some even try to eat me if I speak to them.

“Another ability—I can control ships mentally and never lose my way at sea. I will always know where to go, no more hugging the coast. Oh! And being submerged in water heals me faster. Minor wounds close instantly when I enter a water body. Hmm… I think that’s all.”

The three of them stared at him with varying expressions. His mother watched with quiet awe, a woman who had come to expect the extraordinary from her son. His father, who had been smiling like a loon earlier, now looked like a giddy child with a new toy. He thinks I’m the best son alive, Laenor mused. Laena, meanwhile, wore a look of shock and wonder, her mouth slightly agape.

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Chapter Text

High Tide

Suddenly, his father stood up and drew everyone’s attention by banging his wine cup on the table a few times. Every man and woman bearing the name Velaryon, household guards and servants, captains and crew of the Velaryon fleet, turned to look at their lord, curious to know the cause for the sudden feast and celebration.

“You may be wondering, ‘Why the sudden feast? What have we to celebrate? We’ve won no great campaign, and my family expects no new addition.’ The answer to your questions lies with my son. They call him the Sea Snake’s boy—but that title is soon to change. For at three-and-ten, my son has surpassed me. I am but a mere Lord of Tides.”

Corlys paused for dramatic effect, and it worked—the crowd was hanging on his every word. A glance toward Laenor told him what his father wanted.

“I present to you my son—the future of House Velaryon, the pride of our blood. The Lord of the Seas, Laenor Velaryon!”

The crowd murmured in confusion at first, but it was quickly silenced when Laenor rose and spread his hands for flair. He pressed his will upon every drop of water in the hall—be it in pots, jugs, or cups. It rose at his command and gathered near the ceiling. Gasps and wide eyes followed.

The water took the shape of the House Velaryon sigil: a seahorse entirely formed of water. Moments later, it shifted again, this time into a great serpentine form—broad and round-bodied, with a head unlike any land-bound creature. Its horns were long, and its dagger-like teeth gleamed as it flew with grace and speed, drawing awe and disbelief from the onlookers.

A few heartbeats later, Laenor willed the water back into its containers.

The silence broke into a cacophony:

“How?”

“Is it magic?”

“Can Lord Laenor control the whole sea like this?”

“Does this mean he’s a sorcerer?”

“Lord of the Seas!”

“Can Lord Laenor control even my piss?”

Laenor’s eyes narrowed, trying to identify the last speaker, but the noise was too great to single anyone out.

“I know you all have questions—how is my son so gifted? How does this power work? My lady wife and I can only offer one answer: Velaryon blood. Ours is of salt and sea.”

He raised his cup high.

“This feast honors not just Laenor, but all of House Velaryon. For just as the Targaryens rule the skies, we shall rule the seas. To Laenor! And to House Velaryon!”

A thunder of cheers erupted through High Tide as bards began to play and people broke into dance. Laenor and Laena found themselves with many eager partners and danced with a dozen each—and with each other. When the tune changed, they returned to their seats. Laena dropped into her chair with a small groan, clearly tired. Their parents returned shortly after, laughing, having danced together.

As they sat together watching their people celebrate, Laenor leaned forward, sensing this was the right moment to speak.

“Father, I didn’t summon you here just to show my powers. I’ve been pushing myself for the past year to grow stronger—so that I can join the campaign at the Stepstones and help you win those islands. Before you refuse me, consider this: the sea is my domain now. With Embaryx at my side, I could be the piece that helps end this war swiftly and with fewer losses.”

He knew his father was a pragmatic man and would see reason in this argument. Laenor kept his eyes on him, ignoring the simultaneous outcry from his mother and sister:

“Absolutely not!”

Laenor didn’t even glance their way. Convincing them could come later. His father’s word was the one that mattered now.

“I see no problem with that, son,” Corlys said. “But hear this: on the battlefield, I will be your commander and your lord. You will obey my every command—without question or complaint. War is not a place for someone your age, and with your gifts, enemies will come for you first. No matter your power, one man alone can’t stand against a dozen. But in war, you’ll find men worth trusting—bonds forged in battle can outlast Valyrian steel.”

He sipped his wine and looked at Laenor meaningfully. Laenor nodded solemnly.

But soon, father and son found themselves in a different kind of war—a war of words, trying to convince two furious women. They won, but only by the grace of the gods, and only by agreeing to numerous conditions Laenor had to follow. If any were broken, he would return home immediately.

Satisfied with his victory, Laenor bid his family goodnight and retired to his chambers. In two days, they would depart for the Stepstones—and there was still much to be done before then. 

Vaemond Velaryon

Vaemond watched as his nephew bade farewell to his mother and sister. He could see Laena shedding tears for all to see, while Rhaenys, as always, maintained better control of her emotions. Vaemond thought his niece need not worry—her brother was no ordinary sailor or man. He was a Velaryon, and a blessed one at that.

To think the gods could be this merciful—Vaemond swore he would pray to the Seven every day to thank them for the gift they had bestowed upon his house. To say he was shocked when Laenor revealed his ability would be a great understatement. Never, not even in his wildest imaginings, had he thought that House Velaryon might possess the power to command the very lifeblood of their legacy—the waters of the sea. But that shock had quickly given way to joy. Such was his elation that he had drunk through the night, telling anyone who would listen about the gift the heir of House Velaryon had been given.

By dawn, all of Driftmark knew: Lord Laenor could command the seas and drown islands beneath waves. Corlys had to send men to drag Vaemond from the shipyard, where he had passed out drinking with the shipwrights. But Vaemond didn’t regret it—not one bit.

It was a time for celebration, and a simple feast hadn’t done it justice. It should have been an event to rival the Golden Wedding in grandeur. Let the whole realm witness the heights House Velaryon had reached—for surely the gods would reward them with even more.

But alas, war had called them to the Stepstones, where loyal men of House Velaryon were stationed. And Vaemond did not trust the Rogue Prince’s competence in commanding a fleet. Targaryens, for all their dragon-borne arrogance, could never match the Velaryons at sea. The skies belonged to the Targaryens—but the sea was ours. Always had been. Even Prince Daemon relied on Velaryon ships, as had every Targaryen before him.

And now, with Laenor commanding the very waters, the House of the Dragon would come to see that Velaryons were no mere vessels. Their blood was the same—older, even. Purer, perhaps.

Vaemond was pulled from his thoughts by a raw, guttural sound that reverberated through the harbor. His eyes lifted instinctively. He knew that sound well—it was the roar of a dragon. And by the color of the beast, it was Laenor’s.

Embaryx swooped down from the heavens, and Vaemond had to grip the railings as the ship rocked from the sheer force of the landing. Winds howled as the beast descended.

By the Seven, these dragons of his nephew and niece were growing at an unnatural rate. In just one year, Embaryx was already more than half the size of the Blood Wyrm—and the Blood Wyrm was nearly fifty years older. If they continued at this pace, Embaryx might rival Vhagar herself within a decade. But dragon growth was unpredictable; it slowed after a certain point, so nothing could be said with certainty.

Embaryx lowered his neck for Laenor, and Vaemond once again witnessed the impossible: the beast that gave nightmares to a hundred thousand souls purred like a kitten at its rider’s approach. It never ceased to amaze him—how dragons could be so utterly subservient to their rider, and yet savage to all others.

Not long after, Laenor boarded the ship with Corlys. Vaemond turned to order the sails unfurled, but Laenor stopped him.
“Do not give the order, uncle,” he said.

“Is anyone left for you to bid farewell to on Driftmark, nephew?” Vaemond asked with a smirk.

“No,” Laenor replied, a mischievous smile on his lips. “There’s something I’d like to try.”

He closed his eyes, and Vaemond noticed Corlys watching eagerly. A realization dawned. He turned his gaze to the sea, expecting to see the same magic he'd witnessed during the feast.

But the magic came not from the sea—but beneath his feet.

The ships stirred. Sails unfurled on their own. Rudders shifted. Vessels began to move—not with crews or commands, but as if guided by invisible hands. The ship Vaemond stood upon began to maneuver itself, as though a phantom captain held the wheel.

Madness. Pure madness.

And Vaemond loved it.

Because it meant Laenor—heir of House Velaryon—had not just one weapon, but many. Powers he had kept hidden. 

Vaemond laughed. A wild, unrestrained laughter that rang across the deck. The stunned expressions of the crew only made it sweeter.

“Lord Laenor,” he declared, eyes shining with pride. “Lord of the Sea.”

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Chapter Text

Dragon's Lair, Stepstones

“Did he name the isle Dragon’s Lair?” asked Laenor to his father, who stood beside him at the hull of the ship. He couldn’t deny that the name was apt, if nothing else—these islands were riddled with caves, as far as he remembered.

“Yes. Daemon named not only this one but many others as well—Dragon’s Claw, Dragon’s Tooth, Caraxes’s Wrath, Dragon’s Tail, and even one named New Valyria. Though Daemon named that last one in a drunken stupor, and only I know of it. He commanded me never to speak of it,” replied his father, amusement clear in his tone.

“You defied the Prince’s order,” Laenor remarked, smirking with mirth.

“That I did. Woe is me.” Both father and son chuckled as the coast grew closer with each passing moment.

“Though I’ve heard that Prince Daemon is very passionate about our lost motherland and the past glories of the Dragonlord heritage, I didn’t think he was seriously considering making a New Valyria,” said Laenor, subtly probing his father to gauge just how deep Daemon’s obsession with Valyria ran. In his previous life, he had read of Daemon’s pride in their heritage—but many things had proven different in this world over the past three years.

“Many rumors about men or women born of noble or royal blood are usually exaggerations of the truth. But in Daemon’s case, it’s quite the opposite. His obsession with Valyria runs deeper than any whisper would suggest. I’m surprised the man hasn’t already taken to the skies on the Blood Wyrm to fly straight into the Smoking Sea, hoping to find something—anything—more than what he’s already hoarded. Perhaps even to claim the land for himself,” said his father.

His words brought a smile to Laenor’s face. Good. Very good. He had plans revolving around Old Valyria—and he needed a man brave, mad, or obsessed enough like Daemon to see them through.

“Well, I’m surprised you, Corlys Velaryon, haven’t led an expedition to Old Valyria yourself. One successful voyage to that doomed land could make you richer than all the Lord Paramounts of the Seven Kingdoms. And the prestige…” Laenor gave his father a curious look as he mentally commanded the ship to begin docking. His ability to control watercraft had evolved significantly. Commanding this large ship was far easier now than when he was limited to fishing boats on Driftmark. He no longer needed to sit cross-legged and close-eyed like a monk; the war galley obeyed his will effortlessly.

His father snorted. “Like every brave sailor before me, I once fancied myself the man to lead that expedition. To take all the treasures said to lie upon that doomed land, to spread the knowledge of the greatest civilization ever known to man. But when I reached the Smoking Sea and saw the horrors that walk and crawl upon that land—even from afar through my Myrish far-eyes—I abandoned those fancies. I turned my ship back to Driftmark and never spoke of it to family or friend.”

They disembarked, walking down the plank to land. Laenor noted the frown and flicker of horror on his father’s face and decided to let the matter of Valyria rest.

“So, Father, what do you think of my ability to control the ship? Hugging the coast every time you sail and braving the open sea are entirely different experiences, wouldn’t you say?” Laenor asked teasingly, a grin playing on his lips.

Corlys’s face shifted from its former grimness to joy, but before he could speak, a voice called out behind them:

“A Sea’s blessing to House Velaryon! A man who can sail a ship alone with naught but his mind and navigate the deep sea without hugging the coast—is surely a gift from the Sea itself! You are a blessing to House Velaryon, nephew. May the line of House Velaryon stay blessed by the Sea, as it always has. Hail House Velaryon—the Old, the True, the Brave!”

Vaemond Velaryon stood proudly, joy and pride beaming from his face.

The Velaryon men behind him echoed his words as they crossed the rocky terrain of Dragon’s Lair. Soon, they reached the main tent situated at the mountain’s foothill. Their shouts were cut short by a sudden shriek—the sound of leather flaps rustling as the Blood Wyrm came into view, descending from the skies with a thunderous roar and landing near the camp. Laenor spotted a rider on its back.

“Let us go. It seems Daemon has returned from wherever he flew off to,” said Corlys, beginning to make his way toward the main tent.

The tent was large, furnished with chairs, a table, cups, and even a wine barrel—easy to spot for Laenor.

“And Vaemond,” Corlys added sharply, “I know you’re proud of our heritage—but try not to boast too much in front of Daemon. He takes as much pride in his blood as you, if not more. I would not have infighting when our enemy is cunning enough to use such divisions against us.” He pinned his brother with a hard stare to emphasize his words.

Vaemond growled under his breath but nodded in understanding. They stood in silence, waiting for Daemon’s arrival. It wasn’t a long wait.

Prince Daemon entered the tent clad in black armor, his ever-infuriating smirk plastered on his face—though Laenor could spot a flicker of annoyance beneath it.

“Aha! Corlys, you’ve brought your green son too. Is that why you sailed back to Driftmark? Were you missing your boy that much?” Daemon said mockingly as he strode toward Laenor’s father.

“I wanted you to see your face when my son proves his worth here—rather than flying around shouting, ‘Come out, Crabfeeder, your crabs are waiting for their master,’ and doing nothing of note,” his father bit back, as both men clasped hands with firm strength.

“Oh, come now, Corlys. You don’t expect me to believe your son suddenly gained the ability to control water. Even the Velaryons of Old Valyria were never known to wield the sea to their will. How is it your son can do so?” Daemon asked, waving a hand dismissively as he glanced at Laenor from the corner of his eye before focusing on a crude map of the Stepstones laid out on the table.

If his father and uncle were shocked that Daemon knew about Laenor’s abilities, they hid it too well for Laenor to tell. But Laenor cared not for things like that, he is more interested in revealing his ability to Daemon without reservation—he has not forgotten what Daemon said at Maidenpool..

“I told you back during the Tourney of King Viserys’s ascension at Maidenpool—Velaryon blood is old and holds secrets even I do not fully understand. And you, Daemon, are no exception to that ignorance, Targaryen or not.”

A frown crept onto Daemon’s face. He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, a globule of water rose before his eyes, floating mid-air. Daemon’s eyes widened before he quickly schooled his expression, attempting to appear unaffected.

Though he tried to mask his shock, he failed miserably as he watched the water hover—bent to Laenor’s will—without the young man even lifting a finger.

“So the rumors are true. Not only does your son have a dragon growing at an unnatural rate, but he can also control water?” Daemon muttered. “I have to admit, Corlys, I’m both disappointed and… intrigued. Disappointed that it wasn’t a member of House of the Dragon who was blessed by the magic of Old Valyria, and intrigued that we now have more than just my house to prove to the realm that we Valyrians are superior to all—Andals, barbaric First Men, or those cowardly Rhoynish.”

Although Laenor caught a flicker of excitement in Daemon’s tone, his face still showed more disappointment than anything else, and even that excitement faded quickly.

Laenor saw Vaemond scowling, but he said nothing, kept in check by a sharp look from Corlys. Daemon’s disappointment swiftly shifted into calculation as his gaze settled on Laenor with an unreadable expression. Then, abruptly, he turned back toward the map.

“Up until now, we’ve done nothing but grumble as those Essosi half-breeds hole themselves up in caves. But with Laenor’s magic, we might just have a chance to force them out. After that, Caraxes and I will deal with the rest. Let us remind these mongrels how the pure-blooded Valyrians conquer and dominate—as our ancestors once did across Essos and Westeros.”

He slammed a dragon figurine onto the table with a loud clack.

Laenor saw Vaemond straighten with pride, determination shining in his uncle’s eyes as he stared at the map of the Stepstones.

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Chapter Text

Dragon’s Lair, Stepstones

“With two dragons, there is a possibility they will change their tactics,” Daemon said. The lords, knights, and commanders gathered inside the tent seemed to agree, if their nods were any indication. Laenor looked around the war council, filled with silver- and silver-gold-haired men of Valyrian descent—except for a few, like Lord Swann’s brother and several second sons of Reach lords who had managed to survive thus far. And, of course, the Velaryons.

The council had been going on for nearly an hour, and Laenor had begun to get a sense of how far the conquest of the Stepstones had progressed. Which, in truth, was not much—beyond Caraxes burning ships and the Velaryon treasury emptying at a pace matched only by the growth of Laena and Laenor’s dragons.

The Triarchy, flush with wealth, kept hiring more and more sellswords and sellsails. Laenor’s father was losing men every time Caraxes was baited into a trap—and if they ignored the bait, those ships would strike nearby islands the Velaryons had already taken, doing as much damage as possible before going down. It seemed the Triarchy had no intention of giving up the Stepstones, considering the sheer amount of gold they had already poured into these barren rocks. Their men hid in caves and launched surprise attacks at night, destroying supplies and killing soldiers—soldiers the Velaryons couldn’t afford to lose.

House Velaryon could field more than five thousand men if it came to it, but Corlys had held back, knowing they wouldn’t be able to hold the Stepstones for long or gain much by committing all of their forces to the war. He had sent just enough to show that House Velaryon would retaliate if provoked. But between his father’s caution and the Crown’s indecision, the war had become a prolonged stalemate, one where both sides bled—Triarchy in gold, ships, and men; the Velaryons in gold from their own treasury and the Crown’s, ships, and lives. But the Triarchy consisted of three wealthy cities and could afford to throw endless coin at the cause. They were fully committed to taking control of these barren isles. And then there was Dorne, watching from the shadows—offering quiet aid to the Triarchy while pretending to sit the conflict out, though it was unfolding dangerously close to their own shores.

“… So what do you propose then, Lord Corlys?” asked Donnel Swann, frowning. His father had said Donnel joined the war effort hoping to rescue his daughter. But with every word from Lys concerning her, the man had grown more bitter, more angry—his grief twisting slowly into vengeance against the only child he had.

Laenor shook himself from his thoughts, lest he end up having to ask his father or uncle what the council had decided despite sitting through the entire meeting.

“I propose we strike for Bloodstone now—now that we have two dragons, and with the help of the blessing my son has received. We take Bloodstone and Grey Gallows, and begin construction there. Fortifications, watch posts—structures that will allow us to hold them with minimal losses. With each dragon protecting one island, we may hold them long enough to make real progress—long enough to protect ourselves from surprise attacks launched by men hiding in caves.” His father placed a dragon token and a seahorse on both Bloodstone and Grey Gallows on the map.

“And then what?” Donnel Swann challenged. “The Triarchy will simply send a large force to the other islands, bringing supplies and men to hide in caves again. We’ll be attacked from both sides—by sea and from within. Caraxes may hold off a seaborne assault, but even he would struggle under scorpion bolts and arrows. How would your son’s young dragon do the same without getting himself killed—and leaving the men on the islands exposed?”

Laenor raised an eyebrow and grinned at Donnel Swann. If he could convince his father, perhaps he could convince this man as well—and send him somewhere useful.

“Are you deaf, Ser Donnel?” Corlys asked sharply. “Did you not hear what was said about my son’s capabilities? Even if Embaryx is young, he is large—and quick for his size. If death frightens you so, say the word. I’ll see you stationed on Bloodstone, where Prince Daemon and Caraxes can protect you from all harm.”

The words struck a nerve. Ser Donnel unsheathed his sword, his temper finally snapping. But he forgot that he was surrounded—Velaryons on every side. He raised the blade, intending to strike their lord, but before he could lift it high, several swords were already pointed at his throat. One wrong word and his head would roll before he could even say “pardon.”

“Lower your sword, Ser Donnel,” Daemon said lazily, “lest you ruin this map I spent hours drawing—meticulously and painstakingly. Corlys, call off your brood as well. We don’t want Lord Swann swindling gold from my brother for the death of his brother.”

Laenor saw the corner of his father’s mouth twitch upward. When Donnel Swann slowly lowered his sword, Corlys gave the signal, and the Velaryons followed suit. Still, the knight’s face twisted with rage and humiliation—making him look even uglier than he was.

“Now, since we have resolved the inner conflict among us,” Daemon said dryly, and Laenor, along with several others, shook their heads at his words.

“I back Lord Corlys’s plan,” Daemon continued. “Taking Bloodstone and Grey Gallows, building fortifications on those islands, and launching our conquest of the Stepstones from them. But before that, we must cull the rats hiding in caves and attacking us by night. How do you propose we do that, Lord Corlys?”

“We lay siege, Prince Daemon. A siege of the caves on both islands—we would be the first to attempt such a thing,” Lord Corlys replied. “The difference now is that Triarchy men won’t be able to evade two dragons, engage our forces, and still supply those hiding within the caves. By the time we’ve finished building the fortifications, our men on land won’t be troubled by surprise attacks or the theft of supplies. Once that’s done, you and Caraxes have but one task: burn every ship not flying the Velaryon banner that dares approach Bloodstone.”

It was a sound plan—at the very least, better than being attacked from all sides, as they had been until now.

“It is a good plan, my lord. But how will it help end the war?” Vaemond Velaryon asked, voicing the concern on many minds. “I loathe to admit it, but we don’t have the manpower to build fortifications on every island in the Stepstones, let alone maintain them. Either we must raise more men or relinquish some of the islands.”

“Before I answer Vaemond’s question, I’d like to ask everyone here—what could we do to make the Triarchy abandon their campaign to claim the Stepstones?” Lord Corlys asked, glancing around.

“Keep in mind,” he added, “we cannot attack the Triarchy directly. That would go against the Crown’s orders and could lead to war between the Seven Kingdoms and the Triarchy—perhaps even a broader war between Westeros and Essos, if things worsen.”

His words silenced those who had opened their mouths to speak of crushing the Triarchy outright.

Everyone began to think—Laenor could see it on their faces. He too pondered the question, but it was Ser Manfryd Redwyne who broke the silence first.

“We could kill Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder. If Commander Cunning—as they call him—were put to death, the Triarchy might realize the folly of this war and admit defeat by ceasing to send troops here.”

Ser Manfryd was a second son of Lord Redwyne, ten-and-nine, a man grown with freckles, light brown hair, and eyes of the same hue.

“Ser Manfryd,” Corlys said, “the Triarchy has no shortage of capable admirals to replace the Crabfeeder should he fall. Unlike Westeros, Essosi wars are fought primarily at sea. And the Triarchy has only just emerged from war with Volantis—these men we face are no green boys, but blooded warriors, some more than once.”

Ser Manfryd sighed, retreating back into thought.

“The Triarchy will only stop pouring gold and men into the Stepstones when their homes are attacked, or when inner conflicts and the alliances they forged through blood and war begin to fracture,” said Prince Daemon. “No single Free City can hold the Stepstones alone. There would be too many pirates and rivals to contend with. Those Magisters are merchants through and through—they will never commit to a cause destined for loss.”

All eyes turned to Corlys to see if Daemon had struck upon the truth.

“While it’s true that an attack on their homeland or a broken alliance would end this war, neither is possible now,” Lord Corlys said grimly. “We are under orders not to attack, and with Volantis licking its wounds and Braavos having no interest in the Triarchy, they are secure at home. And as for the chances of their alliance fracturing—better not to even speak of it.”

Grunts and sighs filled the tent as wine cups were refilled and men glared at the map as if it might offer an answer.

“So does that mean we’re bound to lose?” asked Ser Donnel Swann, draining his wine in a single gulp. “Or be satisfied with two or three barren islands?”

“As Prince Daemon said, the Magisters of the Free Cities are merchants,” Laenor began. “They will only cease their efforts when they see undeniable losses. So we must show them the cost of trying to win the Stepstones. We fortify the islands. We take the caves and use them as our own, just as the Essosi did. We advance slowly, keeping our losses low, and unleash both dragons to wreak as much destruction as possible. It may take years for the Triarchy to realize the waste of gold and lives they’re pouring into this campaign—but that is how we win this war.”

The look of pride on Lord Corlys’s face was answer enough for the rest of the council.

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Chapter Text

Dragon’s Lair, Stepstones

Laenor was petting Embaryx as his bonded devoured the shark he had hunted from the sea. He wore his dragon-riding clothes, ready for flight, for soon Embaryx and Caraxes would take to the skies toward the Bloodstone. The sun would rise soon, and the flight from here to Bloodstone would take half an hour, placing them at their destination by early morning—just in time to kill as many men as possible.

The conclusion of the War Council was to follow the plan laid out by Laenor’s father. Though Prince Daemon had grumbled about the time spent on these barren rocks, he had ultimately been persuaded by promises of gold from tolls, land to call his own, and, of course, the glory of conquest.

Speaking of his father, their fleet had already set sail, leaving behind only about two hundred men holed up in the caves of Dragon’s Lair. It wasn’t many, and the caves had too many entrances to properly fortify. Their presence, with just enough supplies, was to test how much damage they could inflict—and to see how the Triarchy would retaliate to such tactics.

Laenor was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of wings flapping. With a shriek and a roar, Caraxes entered his vision, the Blood Wyrm landing beside them. The terrain where Laenor and Embaryx stood was flat, allowing Caraxes to land easily. Daemon sat astride the dragon, clad in his usual black armor—though Laenor could spot the riding leathers underneath.

Daemon dismounted and strode toward him. Laenor glanced at the two dragons—and smiled at what he saw. Caraxes was trying to snatch a piece of the shark Embaryx was devouring, but the younger dragon was eyeing the Blood Wyrm dangerously, as if warning the older beast not to try him.

“Your dragon, Embaryx, is something else,” Daemon said, stopping beside him. “Every time I see him—and at the pace he grows—it astounds me. There’s debate whether this is the natural rate of growth for dragons, or if yours are simply… special. Perhaps, when they start laying eggs, I’ll have my answer. I have to say, Lord Laenor, your mount is magnificent…”

They both watched as Embaryx snatched back the piece Caraxes had managed to steal and roared with ferocity, wings raised, posture threatening—as if ready to fight for what was his.

“… and equally ferocious. I like this one.” Daemon laughed as Caraxes roared back, angered by the smaller dragon’s insolence. “Truly. Caraxes has found his match in ferocity. About time. The Dragonpit is filled with dragons that only eat when food is brought to them. They’ve forgotten how to hunt. They sleep too much, I say. Dragons should not be fed and chained. They should be free—free to hunt, to fly, and to take what they want. It is their birthright as apex predators. What do you think, Laenor?”

Daemon cracked his whip with a loud snap. Caraxes turned his gaze toward them and backed away from Embaryx, though not before growling and sulking—clawing at the ground in frustration.

“I second you on that, Prince Daemon. Dragons are not meant to be chained in stables—because that’s what the Dragonpit is: a stable made of stone, meant to house dragons. They must retain their instincts to kill and hunt. That is what makes them apex predators—what makes them the fear and terror carried by House Targaryen. And I’ve never heard of Dragonpits or chaining in Valyria. At its peak, our motherland was said to host more than three hundred dragons among the Fourteen Flames.”

Laenor wasn’t lying. He truly believed dragons should never be chained. He had never chained Embaryx or Veltharys—not once. They knew what it was to hunt, and what it was not. But, according to his mother, they were special. They showed exceptional intelligence not seen in most dragons.

Daemon smiled in approval, satisfaction in his eyes, and patted Laenor on the back. “Seems there’s more to you than sea and salt. Now let us depart. And why aren’t you wearing armor? I don’t want you ending up like your maternal grandfather. Go—run along, put on your armor, and get back here quickly. We don’t have much time.”

Daemon shooed him off as Laenor turned and walked away. Behind him, Caraxes continued sulking, clawing up great chunks of earth beneath his claws.

~ * ~

Laenor soared through the sky on the back of Embaryx as his mount executed sharp turns and loops—maneuvers his mother had once taught him and Laena. The scent of salt and fresh air filled his lungs, and he let out a shout of joy. Laenor loved flying. Every time he took to the skies with Embaryx, the world and all its worries shrank beneath him—small and insignificant.

Embaryx suddenly dove, and Laenor gripped the saddle tightly, bracing against the wind that clawed at his face and forced his eyes shut. The young dragon leveled off beside Caraxes, who seemed to enjoy skimming low across the sea’s surface, snapping up fish with quick plunges of his head.

Embaryx snorted and growled—a sound that might have been mocking. Caraxes finally glanced at them and responded with a dismissive grunt. Embaryx arched his back and, with a powerful beat of his wings, shot upward like a black star streaking across the rising red-orange sun.

The shrill roar that followed made Laenor glance back—Caraxes was on their tail. The race was on.

Laenor leaned forward, urging Embaryx faster. The two dragons streaked across the sky, neck and neck. In the end, Laenor and Embaryx reached Bloodstone first—just barely. Caraxes was so close he could have bitten their tail.

But a win was a win.

Embaryx folded his wings suddenly, and Laenor braced himself, tightening his belt and gripping the saddle. His vision tilted as they flipped upside down briefly before the dragon corrected their course. Laenor had to stop himself from shouting with pure exhilaration. They had practiced that maneuver for weeks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Laenor saw Prince Daemon, having finished his scouting, signal him to approach from the west. With a sharp nod, Laenor sent his intention to Embaryx through their bond.

They were flying high, and the wind was fierce. From this altitude, Laenor couldn’t see much. Contrary to popular belief, Bloodstone had settlements—mostly fisherfolk and scattered streets where merchants sold stolen goods. Laenor had to watch closely to avoid burning the locals. Fortunately, they stood out—unarmored and near their boats—unlike the Triarchy soldiers.

When Laenor spotted armored men emerging in groups from a cave entrance, he waited until the flow stopped. Embaryx circled high above, and after several minutes without movement, Laenor gave the command.

Embaryx tucked in his wings and dove like a spear from the heavens. In less than a minute, they were within range. Laenor shouted, “Dracarys!”

The enemy saw them just before the inferno descended, but it was far too late. Fire sealed the cave entrance first, preventing escape. Then came the cat-and-mouse game—men running in all directions, some in blind panic, others hoping to distract the dragon.

Laenor directed Embaryx in every direction, methodically chasing and burning them. Black and grey fire consumed some whole, while others burned slowly, writhing in agony. He showed no mercy.

Once the outer field was cleared, Laenor turned to the archers hiding behind rocks. Many fled back into their caves, but not before loosing a few arrows when Laenor’s back was turned. One arrow grazed Embaryx, enraging the young dragon, who fully understood the threat to his rider.

By the time they finished, Laenor’s body ached all over. The sun hung high above, and the cave—heated by combined flames from Caraxes and Embaryx—echoed with distant screams until only silence remained. Likely, the last of them had fled deeper underground.

Prince Daemon signaled him to land near the Velaryon encampment, where tents were being raised and ships docked along the shore. As Embaryx descended, Laenor didn’t miss the fatigue on Daemon’s face, or the way he was breathing hard. Even the Rogue Prince had his limits.

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Chapter Text

King’s Landing, 

Days after the torching of the Triarchy Men at Bloodstone

Westeros

The Small Council was in session. The men whom the King of the Seven Kingdoms deemed capable of giving him good counsel were seated around the oak table. King Viserys himself sat at its head, in a large chair, idly twirling a cup of wine in his hand. His eyes drifted repeatedly toward the chamber doors, as if expecting someone. At his side stood the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, who, like the rest of the council, wore a grim expression.

“Your Grace, you must take this matter seriously. House Velaryon’s rise is a threat to the Crown. Wealth, influence, dragons—and now dark sorcery. They are doing everything it takes to match House Targaryen,” Otto cautioned, his tone firm and persuasive. “You must act before it is too late.”

“What do you expect me to do, Otto? Kill a boy of ten-and-three?” Viserys replied dismissively, waving his hand. “And it’s not even confirmed that there’s any truth to these rumors.” His eyes flicked again to the door, then returned to the cup in his hand.

Laenor Velaryon, the boy in question, had been the subject of Small Council whispers for a week. Rumors claimed he could control the sea, drown all of Driftmark with the lift of a finger. Viserys laughed at such tales. The smallfolk needed their amusements. Stories bloated in taverns and mutated by word of mouth were nothing new.

“I received word from a source I trust completely,” Otto pressed. “Laenor Velaryon made no attempt to hide his power. He flaunted his dark sorcery during the feast held on Driftmark to celebrate Lord Corlys’s return from the Stepstones. It is true. The boy can control water through sorcery. And we should have expected as much—his dragons grow at an unnatural rate. No Targaryen dragon has ever grown so swiftly. Perhaps the boy practices the same dark arts once employed by Queen Visenya.”

“Lord Hand speaks true in this, Your Grace,” Maester Runciter added, his voice weary. “The growth of the Velaryon dragons has become a subject of great interest to the Citadel. But when they requested Lord Corlys to allow Maesters to study them from afar, he refused outright. As though he were hiding something. The Citadel only wished to observe—perhaps find an answer that might benefit House Targaryen’s own dragons.”

“The Maesters would have discovered nothing of value,” Viserys said dryly. “Dragonlore is not something someone not of dragon blood can grasp. Dragons do not enjoy being watched and observed either. They would attack anyone who provokes them, Maester or Archmaester alike. If anything, those Maesters should thank Lord Corlys for saving their lives.”

“What of Laenor?” Otto asked again, pressing the issue.

Viserys turned to another man at the table. “What do you think of the boy, Lord Strong? I would hear your counsel.”

Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, had been silently listening until now. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “The Hand is correct. House Velaryon’s continued rise should be a matter of concern to House Targaryen. And it is true—they now have dragons of their own.”

Otto nodded in agreement, satisfied—until Lord Strong continued.

“But this threat could be turned into a boon, Your Grace. If House Targaryen and House Velaryon are joined once more by marriage, what now seems an uprising threat could be transformed into the greatest of allies for the House of the Dragon.”

His words stunned many in the room—chiefly the Hand and the Grand Maester. But soon, shock gave way to consideration. One by one, the others began nodding, murmuring their approval of the Master of Laws’ plan.

“I second Lord Strong’s plan, Your Grace. House Velaryon is of Valyrian blood, with an ancient lineage, immense wealth, and growing influence. And Laenor Velaryon, their heir, now wields new powers. He would make a fine Prince Consort—and eventually King Consort—for Princess Rhaenyra, providing her with the support she may need if any lords question her claim in the future,” said Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harrold Westerling. The man loved the Princess as a father might love a daughter, and his words made that bond clear.

Otto, shaking off his initial shock, opened his mouth to speak—but was once again cut off, this time by the King himself.

“Hmm. The plan has merit, Lord Strong,” muttered King Viserys. “Though I must consult with Alicent first. And Rhaenyra hasn’t yet come of age.”

“I would advise against it, Your Grace. Such a marriage would bring House Velaryon dangerously close to the Throne, and we know not their true intentions—”

Otto’s warning was cut short by a derisive snort from Ser Harrold.

“What are you implying, Lord Hand? House Velaryon has always been close to the Throne. I don’t recall a single Velaryon betraying House Targaryen for power. Do not forget—they were the first to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror,” Ser Harrold reminded him, his voice sharp.

“And yet,” Otto replied tightly, “Lord Corlys and Prince Daemon are waging war without His Grace’s permission. Corlys is ambitious—that is no secret. Unlike his predecessor, he does not hide it. Have you forgotten how he tried to sway the Lords of the realm during the Great Council to choose his wife as heir?”

“If seeking prosperity and wealth for one’s house is now a crime,” Ser Harrold countered coldly, “then we’ll have no shortage of criminals in the realm—starting with you, my Lord Hand. Or are we to suspect House Hightower as a threat now, simply because Queen Alicent married the King?”

“Watch how you speak of House Hightower—and of my daughter, your queen, Ser,” Otto snapped, rising to his feet.

Ser Harrold’s hand moved instinctively to the pommel of his sword, gripping it tightly, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

“Enough!” barked Viserys. “Otto, sit. Ser Harrold, control your temper.”

A tense silence fell over the chamber.

“Let us end this session,” Viserys said at last, his voice firm. “I have heard all your counsel. I will inform you of my decision soon.”

With that, the King stood and left the chamber, though his thoughts remained restless. The image of Laenor Velaryon—barely a boy and yet commanding powers that defied reason—swirled in his mind like a maelstrom.

The idea of Laenor discovering the long-lost magic of Old Valyria both unnerved and intrigued him. That another house—one not of Targaryen name—might be reclaiming the arcane might of their fallen homeland was disquieting. Yet… a part of him felt wonder. The Valyrians had once been the greatest civilization known to man. Perhaps, through Laenor, some part of that glory might return.

But such thoughts could wait. The Triarchy still threatened the Stepstones, and they would not yield easily. Perhaps it was time to send more than gold to aid Corlys.

A matter for tomorrow’s council.

For now, Viserys intended to find his wayward cupbearer and demand why she had once again neglected her duties. And unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be found.

His realm’s delight had flown off on her dragon again.

The gods had given him a restless daughter indeed.

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

Laenor stood inside his tent, beside a table cluttered with parchments. The script etched onto them resembled High Valyrian—but not quite. This dialect, which Laenor had been studying for the past three years, diverged from the fluid tongue spoken in Essos. Why? Because it’s better than High Valyrian to express his intent to magic. His mastery of High Valyrian allowed him to decipher it, but what he found was a bastardized form—not one spoken, but stumbled upon through countless failed experiments.

When spoken aloud, it sounded more primal, harsher than the smooth cadence of High Valyrian. That primal quality led Laenor to call it Old Valyrian. And yet, not even this Old Valyrian could fully tame the chaotic magic of this world.

Laenor had come to understand that the magic here was inherently destructive—chaotic at its core. His attempts to use runes beyond simple magic transfer and blood sacrifice had all failed. After much thought, he realized something strange: why had transferring magic to dragon eggs or using blood rituals worked so well, while all else failed?

The answer, he concluded, lay in the vessel.

Dragon eggs, it seemed, were among the few things capable of containing this world's chaotic magic. When Laenor carved runes onto steel and activated them with his blood, the runes lit up, drew in ambient magic—only for the steel to melt before releasing any intended effect. The melted metal showed no signs of enchantment; it was just ordinary slag.

Next, he tried dragonglass. It held the magic for four to five seconds—then shattered violently, injuring his hand. Undeterred, he tested wood, bronze, copper—anything he could get his hands on. The results were always the same: wood exploded like dragonglass, and the metals melted or failed entirely.

It was only when he repeated a magic transfer to a dragon egg—Laena’s egg—that he confirmed he was carving the runes correctly. The issue wasn’t the script, it was the container. Only certain vessels could endure this volatile power.

Laenor began to suspect that blood sacrifice could enable even mundane materials to hold chaotic magic—just as Valyrian steel had done. After all, wasn’t that what Valyrian steel was? Steel folded, enchanted, and empowered through blood sacrifice and runic inscription until it became a vessel worthy of true magic.

And so, with no mentor to guide him, Laenor did the only thing he could: he began developing new runic arrays on his own. Every failure was a lesson. Dragonglass, he’d discovered, could hold magic briefly—four or five seconds. The runes worked during that window, but ended in explosion. He began ordering dragonglass in bulk, shielding himself in armor as he tested and refined his arrays.

That is how Laenor came to uncover Old Valyrian—letters of High Valyrian that resonated unnaturally well with magic.

The parchments before him now were filled with runic arrays—many of them likely useless unless empowered by blood sacrifice. Still, he hadn’t stopped creating them. One in particular held his focus: a runic mimicry of Bombarda, a spell from the world of Harry Potter. It functioned as a magical explosive, but it required Laenor’s blood to activate, and the blast occurred within five seconds. The problem wasn’t the detonation—it was the power. The runes simply didn’t store enough magic in that short time to collapse caves or bring down walls. The debris wasn’t lethal enough.

Laenor considered seeking out Prince Daemon. The man would no doubt be pleased to provide a few captured soldiers for blood magic experiments—perhaps turning dragonglass into a true magical missile. But Corlys, his father, had forbidden it. Laenor’s command over water had already unsettled the Faith of the Seven. If he were caught practicing blood magic, House Velaryon might face serious consequences—and they were already embroiled in one war.

Just then, Laenor heard movement outside his tent. Moments later, Prince Daemon barged in, followed closely by Lord Corlys. His father's eyes scanned the room, landing on the scattered parchments—and widened in alarm.

A heartbeat later, Laenor understood what his father must be thinking.

But he did not panic.

Why would he? Daemon would likely assume Laenor was simply studying High Valyrian. After all, Old Valyrian looked remarkably similar.

And then Daemon spoke—and Laenor realized, with a chill, that he’d been wrong.

“Are these Valyrian glyphs?” asked Prince Daemon, though the question wasn’t directed at Laenor or his father. He picked up the parchment, and his face twisted into a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, apprehension, anger—before settling into a mask so unreadable that even Laenor couldn't decipher it.

“Who taught you this?” Daemon asked, his voice cold and devoid of emotion—so unlike the Rogue Prince.

“What is the matter, Da—” Laenor's father began, but Daemon cut him off with a raised hand.

“I asked: who taught you this?”

“No one. I learned it myself,” Laenor answered truthfully.

“You lie. How could you learn a language no one speaks or teaches? Did Rhaenys tell you about it?” Daemon pressed, eyebrows furrowed.

“Why would I lie? My mother doesn’t even know I know Old Valyrian. Until now, I thought I invented these symbols, and only I knew this language,” Laenor replied, curious how Daemon recognized it. But the prince spoke before he could ask.

“You didn’t invent this. It’s called Valyrian Glyphs,” Daemon stated. “They were meant to be magical. My family has a few scrolls written in them. From what I know, these glyphs were used as spells by Valyrian sorcerers in the days of Old Valyria.”

Daemon’s words stunned and excited Laenor. If he could study those scrolls, perhaps he’d learn whether Valyrians had once wielded magic without sacrificing slaves. “If what you say is true, Prince Daemon, then I would like to see those scrolls when we return,” Laenor said eagerly.

“You’ll have to ask Viserys, but I doubt my brother would deny you. Now, answer me—how did you learn these glyphs without Rhaenys teaching you?” Daemon asked again, his eyes sharp with curiosity, almost expectant.

Laenor glanced at his father, who wore a resigned look. That was answer enough.

“I don’t know about spells, but these glyphs—this language—are magical, yes. Runes, to be precise. You carve them into surfaces and activate them through magic. At first, I used High Valyrian for runes, and after a lot of trial and error, I discovered that some letters resonated more with magic than others. That’s how I stumbled upon these. I named it ‘Old Valyrian.’”

“Runes, you say.” Daemon mused. “I’ve heard of them. My lady wife’s house—House Royce—is obsessed with their so-called ‘Runestone’ heritage. I thought nothing of it; their armor’s just bronze, and they’ve all but forgotten what the runes on it even mean. But now… tell me, Laenor. Tell me everything. How do these runes work? How do you activate them? And can I learn it?”

Laenor, who shared Daemon’s love for magic, understood his enthusiasm. He began explaining the fundamentals of runes, drawing a simple array for demonstration. Daemon listened with wonder, absorbing every detail. When Laenor mentioned that to activate the runes, one had to smear them with blood—specifically, blood from a Dragonlord—Daemon went still.

“You’re saying my blood… has magic in it?” he asked, visibly shaken.

Laenor nodded, and Daemon immediately asked him to draw a Runic array. He wanted to see for himself.

But then came the hard part. Laenor had to explain the hurdle he’d encountered—the failure to fully activate or channel the runes—and when he did, Daemon looked visibly disappointed. Laenor then told him about a possible solution, which made Daemon frown in confusion.

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for? For the sacrifice to offer itself?” Daemon snapped.

Laenor only glanced pointedly at his father. Daemon looked between father and son a few times before realization struck.

“Corlys, you stupid cunt… are you the one stopping your son from rekindling the already dying fire of magic?” Daemon asked, utterly baffled.

“I don’t wish to do that, but my son’s safety—”

Daemon cut him off sharply. “Your son has a fucking dragon to protect him—and not to mention the others we command! What were you afraid of? Pigs breathing fire on you?”

“The Faith—” Corlys began again, but Daemon wasn’t having it.

“Fuck the Faith,” he snarled. “We’re not Andals. We never were. We are the blood of Old Valyria. Do you know what made Valyria great? Dragons, Valyrian steel, the Black Wall—all of it born of magic. Magic, Corlys. Magic. And your son might just bring it back to us. And you’re suppressing him over what? Fear of zealots who call magic evil because they weren’t blessed with it? They fear it because it makes us better than them. They fear a world where they are no longer the measure of man, because they fall short of it.”

Daemon’s voice had risen to a thunderous pitch now.

“That’s why they tried to bind us with the same chains they wear. But Maegor reminded them why we’re not the same. We’re better. And by the Fourteen Flames, if these Poor Fellows rise again, Caraxes and I will make them poorer—by taking their lives.”

He turned back to Corlys, breathing heavily. “You have my support. And wait until I tell Viserys. I’ll make sure Laenor has the full backing of House Targaryen. Now—do you have anything else to fear?”

Prince Daemon was practically shouting by the end. Laenor slipped out of the tent and glanced around—thankfully, there was no gathered crowd.

“Very well, Daemon,” Corlys said at last, quiet but firm. “I hope I don’t come to regret trusting you—because my son’s life is worth more to me than you could possibly imagine.”

His words made Laenor smile. Daemon gave Corlys a solemn nod.

“You can trust me with this, Corlys. I give you my word.”

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

Laenor was seated at a table with his father and Prince Daemon, the three of them waiting in silence until the servant finished pouring wine into the cups before them and left the prince’s tent. They each lifted their cups, sipping the wine. Laenor noted the slight sweetness in its taste compared to what he preferred back in his own world.

After Daemon’s earlier outburst in Laenor’s tent, the three had moved to Daemon’s tent to discuss when and where the sacrifices would take place—since this time, they weren’t within the safety of their own keep, where such things could be done discreetly without fear of looking over their shoulders too much.

“Why think so much? We go to the caves. There are literally thousands of them on Bloodstone,” Daemon said with a tone of casual confidence. “With Caraxes and Embaryx, if the Triarchy’s men come out of hiding, they’d be doing us a favor, wouldn’t they? The more sacrifices, the more power.” There was hope in his voice—as if he were wishing the enemy would attack. Laenor only hoped Daemon wouldn’t do something foolish to provoke them during the ritual.

“Though more is better, Prince Daemon, we must also be discreet,” Laenor replied carefully. “Dragonfire at night would draw attention—from both their men and ours. It could cause the ritual to fail... or worse.”

“It would’ve been easier if we were on Dragonstone,” Daemon muttered. “There, we wouldn’t have to check every corner for spies and traitors. Still, I think you and your father worry too much. The Faith doesn’t hold as much power as you think it does.”

Laenor’s father sighed. Daemon was still vehemently opposed to hiding anything to do with magic. The gods, at least, were merciful in one regard: Daemon had agreed to keep the blood sacrifices secret for now and would respect the elder Velaryon’s wish to reveal nothing until the Stepstones were fully conquered.

“You’re too reckless, Daemon,” Laenor’s father said, voice calm but firm. “It isn’t the Faith I fear, but the devout lords who follow it blindly. And the fear and mistrust that magic inspires across Westeros. Things may be different in Essos, but that’s why the Andals fled Andalos—they feared magic. That’s why even here, they tried to root out every trace of it. Westeros is their heaven, and they believe magic has no place in it. Their collective strength, or their subtle poison, could destroy us.”

He fixed Daemon with a hard look. “You may be a dragonrider, but all it takes is a single knife in the dark, or a cup of poison—and you’d be gone. And with you, the only dragonrider of House Targaryen.”

The words seemed to land. Daemon didn’t answer, but the reminder of how few dragonriders remained gave him pause. Rhaenyra was not counted because her dragon, though older than Emabryx, is still vulnerable to arrows, much less scorpion bolts, and the girl herself is too young.

“So what are we to do?” Daemon asked finally, his voice full of frustrated heat. “Hide our magic in shadows and behind veils like cowards?”

“No,” his father replied calmly. “Do what Laenor did. He kept his powers secret for years—trained in silence, honed his craft until he could defend himself and others. Revealing magic now, when only Laenor understands how to activate the runes, is folly. First, we must test if other Velaryons and Targaryens can awaken the glyphs with their blood, as Laenor could. Then we must study these Valyrian glyphs—call them Old Valyrian, if you wish—and train with them. Weaponize them. Once we’re ready, only then do we reveal this power to the world.”

He ended his speech with finality. Daemon grunted but remained silent, draining his cup and refilling it himself.

“Are you planning to take the captives for sacrifice, Daemon?” his father asked.

Daemon only nodded. The Velaryons had taken prisoners, but most had been tight-lipped. The few who did speak offered only fragments of useful information.

“I’ll take them under the pretense of feeding them to Caraxes,” Daemon muttered. Laenor noticed the faint flicker of approval in his father’s eyes.

“Laenor,” his father turned to him now, “what exactly do you plan to empower with this blood magic? Steel—or something else?”

Both Daemon and his father leaned in, intrigued. Laenor’s answer widened their eyes, and as he explained what would be imbued with power and how he intended to wield it, Daemon’s excitement quickly boiled over. He rose and left for the training yard, eager to channel his energy into drilling the men.

Laenor’s father lingered, asking questions that revealed just how deep his curiosity ran. Only when satisfied did he finally leave. But Laenor noticed the fatigue in him—subtle, but growing. As Daemon had said, the old man was worrying too much.

~*~

Laenor dismounted Embaryx near the cave, which was lit with torches and guarded by the snoring bulk of Caraxes, lying peacefully outside. Embaryx, eyeing the older dragon, only snorted and lowered his forearm, allowing Laenor to unstrap the largest chunk of dragonglass he had brought on Bloodstone.

The slab was dark—black as the darkness itself—but if one looked closely, faint runes shimmered along one side, almost imperceptible. It bore a runic array Laenor had meticulously refined and carved, knowing how easily dragonglass could fracture. Though the array was moderately complex, its core intent was singular and potent: to absorb and empower itself.

With a burst of strength, Laenor hefted the slab and began walking toward the cave. Prince Daemon was already waiting inside, leaning on Dark Sister, a glint of excitement in his eyes. He helped Laenor set the dragonglass down near the center, before three men who were bound and gagged. Two of them struggled violently against their restraints, their bodies showing the signs of brutal handling and torture.

Laenor ignored their suffering and unsheathed his Valyrian steel knife, kneeling to carve runes into the stone floor—lines that snaked outward from the captives and led to the dragonglass slab.

“So this is it?” asked Daemon impatiently.

“Yes, this is it. Now we just have to activate these runes and slit their throats to offer them as sacrifice to the magic. The runes will do the rest,” Laenor explained calmly.

Daemon, ever curious, questioned him about the runic array—how it worked, how the blood would travel, and how it would be absorbed by the dragonglass. All the while, the three captives thrashed harder, eyes wide in terror. They had understood enough. Their muffled screams echoed off the stone, but the bindings Daemon had used ensured they would not escape.

After several minutes, Daemon grew impatient once more. He tapped the hilt of his sword against his boot, scowling.

Laenor’s father had not yet arrived.

It took over fifteen minutes for him to finally appear, walking swiftly into the cave. Daemon looked ready to strangle him on sight.

“Vaemond was adamant about following me,” Laenor’s father said curtly. “Said he couldn’t let me go alone, especially not with men hiding in these caves. Either I had to take him or take guards. I gave him a few tasks and brought some guards a short distance from the camp, just to throw him off.”

Daemon let out a string of curses so foul they would’ve made even the saltiest fisherfolk blush. Laenor’s father shot him a glare as the Prince cursed his brother with creative vulgarity.

“Now, Laenor, let’s begin,” Daemon said, trying to shake off his irritation. “Watching magic might improve my mood.”

Receiving a nod from his father, Laenor turned to the dragonglass and the carved runes on the cave floor. He checked them carefully—one final inspection for flaws. Finding none, he drew a deep breath and stepped toward the captives.

He sliced the gags from their mouths. They began to scream, to plead for mercy, to curse him as "demon" and "hellspawn."

Laenor did not hesitate.

He slit their throats, one after another. Their blood spilled, running down the grooves in the stone, flowing toward the dark dragonglass, as the runes began to glow.

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

“Well, don’t keep me waiting, boy. Say something—did it work? Did you succeed?” Daemon asked impatiently.

His father, on the other hand, was gazing at the dragonglass with fascination, wonder, and growing interest.

“Do you not see the color of the dragonglass is different than when I brought it in? Have you not noticed that it was black before?” Laenor replied incredulously. Perhaps Daemon had slept through the ritual—any man who watched it happen wouldn’t be asking such questions. One glance at the ashes of the three bodies, with no scorch marks or stench of burning flesh in the enclosed cave, should have told any sane man that something unnatural had occurred here.

“If the changing color of things is proof of magic, then am I to presume sorcerers have been living in Flea Bottom right under my nose? Maybe I should return to King’s Landing and enlighten my brother the king. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to meet these spellcasters,” Daemon whispered with a dramatic flair, his tone shifting to mock surprise and indignation.

Laenor caught the twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth—he was amused.

“Very well, Prince Daemon. It seems you want to hear it from my own lips. Yes, it worked,” Laenor said. “Do you see the color change? That alone isn’t magic—not until it happens without dye or brush, from a distance, while watching three men turn to ash without fire. Not a single bone remains. That’s not something even a grown dragon could do—dragonfire leaves bones unless you command it to burn over and over again.

“And the blood—did you see it vanish into the dragonglass, like a dying man in a desert finding water after days without drink? All of this—the blood absorption, the clean, complete disintegration of flesh without flame, the untouched earth, and the dragonglass now glowing crimson-black with power—these are all signs of a successful blood sacrifice.

“And the fact that the dragonglass is intact and humming with energy means that we, Prince Daemon, you, I, and my lord father, have taken the first step toward reviving the dying flame that is magic.”

Laenor finished with a proud grin and an amused gleam in his eyes, watching Daemon closely.

“You could’ve spared me your explanation and just said ‘It was,’” Daemon muttered, his voice low, expression unreadable. “I’ve killed men for less. Patience is not a virtue I claim.”

“Aye, you might have. But those were lesser men,” Laenor replied with a smirk. “And I am not one of them.”

“That, they were. Andals,” Daemon said with a scoff. He looked at the dragonglass, then at Laenor, then back again. A wide grin broke across his face, and with a few long strides, he pulled Laenor into a hug, lifting him clean off the ground.

Daemon was taller, but Laenor was growing, and he felt sure he would surpass the Prince one day.

“But you and I—we’re not like them,” Daemon whispered in the embrace, his voice thick with emotion. “And you proved that today. You brought back something I thought we had lost forever, something I feared would never return.”

“Sentimental Prince Daemon… and here I thought I’d seen it all,” Laenor’s father murmured with a small smile.

Daemon released him with a smirk and strode toward the dragonglass, ignoring the jibe.

“Magnificent,” he breathed. “It looks like an active black volcano, breathing rivers of crimson fire. And they call this art dark? Say magic is evil? Fools of lesser stock. They’ll never see or feel what we do. I’d wager ten gold dragons that even the grey rats of Oldtown, in all their ‘wisdom’, couldn’t deny how awe-inspiring this is.”

His tone was reverent, like a man standing before a holy relic. Daemon didn’t care for the division of magic into “light” or “dark.” Like Laenor, he adored the raw power—the ability to bend reality.

Laenor shared the same thrill. It wasn’t their fault they were born in a world where magic demanded blood or the souls of men. Because Laenor doesn’t know which of them tames this chaotic magic around them, yet. But maybe with this war providing him with resources whenever he would need to experiment with, Laenor would gain further insight into why only blood magic and dragon eggs could interact with magic without destroying themselves.. 

“How much time would you need,” Daemon asked, turning from the dragonglass, “to make the thing that can test if someone’s blood contains magic?”

“I can make it here and now,” Laenor replied, “but I’ll need your help cutting this dragonglass, cleanly—from here…” He pointed, “…to here. Use Dark Sister, Prince. Make it clean.”

Laenor stepped back as Daemon unsheathed the Valyrian steel blade. With practiced ease, Daemon sliced through the dragonglass like a hot knife through butter.

He looked at Laenor, and Laenor gave an approving nod.

Moving to the newly cut piece, Laenor took out his own Valyrian steel dagger and began carving, his hand as precise and delicate as a jeweler’s. He became so absorbed in his work, he didn’t even notice when Daemon and his father quietly left the cave.

The device took the shape of an egg sliced in half. Its flat surface—where Daemon had made the clean cut—was glass-smooth. Laenor carefully bored a hole the size of a small inkpot into it—this was where the blood would be poured.

The runic array he etched had a simple purpose: it would absorb seven drops of blood, extract any latent magic, and channel that into a second, simpler array whose only function was to ignite flame.

The strength of the flame would reveal the potency of magic in the blood.

The stronger the fire—the stronger the magic.

This was Laenor’s first magical device in this world that would last more than a few seconds, so naturally, he felt it deserved a name. Calling it “the thing to test magic” simply wouldn’t do. He considered many possibilities, but most names that came to mind were too complex—and this device, he felt, was something basic. With enough practice in runecraft, any man could create it. It needed a name, simple and fitting.

As Laenor stepped out of the cave, his brow furrowed in thought, a sudden idea struck him. Why not name it after the place it was created?

The more he considered it, the more it made sense. So, without much further thought, Laenor named the dragonglass device Bloodstone. His very first creation.

Laenor found his father and Prince Daemon sitting on a boulder near Caraxes, gazing silently at the silver-lit sea under the ethereal moonlight. The sea shimmered with ghostly beauty. Caraxes stirred the moment Laenor approached—not at the sight of the him, but at the object in his hand. The Blood Wyrm rose on his hind legs and grunted, sniffing the air with slow, deliberate intent. Laenor noticed that the dragon was not sniffing him—but the Bloodstone.

And then Caraxes purred.

Laenor raised an eyebrow at the dragon, then glanced at Prince Daemon, who merely shrugged, as if to say “don’t ask me.”

Ignoring the dragon’s interest, Laenor approached and presented the Bloodstone to his father and Daemon.

“This is Bloodstone,” Laenor said with a smile. “A magical device that detects and measures the presence and potency of magic in one’s blood.”

He explained its construction and use—how it required exactly seven drops of blood, which it would absorb, and how the absorbed magic would activate a runic array to light a small fire. The intensity of the flame would determine the strength of magic in the blood.

His father asked the first question.

“What happens if someone’s blood doesn’t contain magic? Will the blood remain on the surface, or will it be absorbed, but no fire lit?”

“If it’s absorbed and there is no fire,” Laenor answered, “then the blood contains no magic—or so little that it’s useless.”

“Corlys,” Daemon interrupted impatiently, raising his hand. “You can ask your endless questions later. I can’t wait anymore.”

He had already unsheathed a dagger and was preparing to draw blood.

“Wait, Daemon,” Corlys interjected, earning a sharp look from the prince. “I think Laenor should go first. That way, we’ll know for certain that the device is functioning as intended.”

Daemon sighed in frustration but relented, stepping back.

Without hesitation, Laenor pricked the tip of his index finger with the point of his Valyrian steel dagger. The metal bit cleanly, and blood welled up quickly. He allowed the drops to fall into the hollow on the Bloodstone’s surface.

The runes shimmered to life.

A heartbeat later, a narrow, one-foot-tall flame of blue fire erupted from the device. It burned fiercely for half a minute before fading.

Daemon, Corlys, and even Caraxes watched in awe. The fire had been clean, intense, and controlled.

Daemon strode forward, raising an eyebrow at Laenor in silent question. Laenor nodded for him to proceed.

Daemon cut his palm with his own dagger and let his blood drip into the Bloodstone. Once seven drops were absorbed, the device activated again.

This time, the fire was different.

A blood-red flame erupted—darker than Laenor’s and nearly a quarter of the size—but wild, volatile, and intense. It crackled and hissed, as if lashing out with rage and defiance. It seemed almost alive.

Laenor nearly dropped his dagger when Caraxes suddenly let out a thunderous roar beside him.

But it wasn’t the Bloodstone that had provoked the dragon—it was Daemon.

The prince was laughing. Laughing with unrestrained joy, eyes gleaming with wonder and triumph.

“Did you see that?” he exclaimed. “House Targaryen has not lost its magic. I have magic. My blood holds magic! I always knew it! Even when our dragons grew smaller, even when others doubted, I never stopped believing.”

Daemon turned to Laenor and pulled him into a tight embrace once more.

“You, boy, are a blessing from the Fourteen Flames,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You know your mother and father are proud of you. But know this—if your grandfather, Prince Aemon, had lived, he would have been proud beyond words. The gods were cruel to House Targaryen in my grandsire’s reign… but now…”

He released Laenor, eyes burning with fire. “I thank you, Laenor. Truly. You have given me what I desired since I was a boy—magic. The power that sets us apart from the rest. For that, I, Daemon Targaryen, vow this: you will always have my support and my dragon’s. Should you ever call for me, I will come. You have my word.”

“You honor me, Prince Daemon,” Laenor replied, humbled. “But I have not given you anything. The magic was always in your blood. The Bloodstone merely revealed what was already there.”

“None of that ‘Prince’ crap,” Daemon said with a grin. “Call me Daemon. You’ve earned it. We’re family, aren’t we? No need for courtly stuff between us.”

Then, turning to Corlys, he smirked.

“Well? What are you waiting for, old man? Let’s see if the ‘Old’ in your house’s words means something more than just your age—or has all of House Velaryon’s magic found its way into your son?”

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

Laenor, under the silver moonlight, watched as his father stepped forward toward the bloodstone. After taking a deep breath, Corlys made a small cut on his palm and squeezed blood onto the black-crimson dragonglass, gazing at it with focused intensity. Laenor didn’t know what was going through his father’s mind, but he, along with Prince Daemon and his father, kept their eyes fixed on the bloodstone, waiting to see if it would ignite.

And it did. The fire lit, though not in Laenor’s sea-blue hue—it began as a murky green and shifted through several shades, including sea-blue, before settling into a crystal-clear flame. The fire looked otherworldly, almost ethereal to behold. But sadly, its size and intensity were only slightly more than half of Prince Daemon’s.

Not that it seemed to sadden Corlys. He gazed at the flame with a proud, self-satisfied grin on his face.

“So, the blood of Velaryon does possess magic,” Daemon murmured, half to himself.

“Of course it does. Laenor is living proof,” Corlys replied smugly, pride swelling in his voice.

“Come now, Corlys,” Daemon said with a raised brow, “sure, the Velaryon bloodline holds magic—but if fire intensity is any indication, Laenor’s overwhelming magic clearly stems from his Targaryen blood.”

That was all it took. The two men began arguing, escalating quickly into a heated debate over bloodline supremacy. Ancestors were named, histories cited, and soon Corlys was reminding Daemon of House Velaryon’s contributions to the birth of Valyria—and just how minor House Targaryen’s role had been in comparison, at the time.

Laenor decided he had to step in before Daemon’s infamous temper led to something irreparable.

“Enough,” Laenor said, his voice like steel. “We have too many enemies to waste time flaunting superiority. Infighting only reveals weakness and foolishness—not the supremacy of our race. Cool your tempers. Velaryon and Targaryen blood has intermingled so many times that you both carry both in your veins. Badmouthing one insults the other. The hour of the wolf is near—let us retire for the night and face the morning of the day after.”

Both men grunted but took deep breaths and fell silent.

“Father,” Laenor added, turning to Corlys, “I want you to take the bloodstone and test our cousins and kin. See if any among them possess the magic to activate the runes.”

Corlys nodded, picked up the bloodstone, and after a respectful farewell, made his way back to camp.

“Prince Daemon, would you help me strap the other piece of dragonglass onto Embaryx?” Laenor asked.

Daemon nodded, and the two of them secured the dragonglass to the saddle on Embaryx. The dragon turned his neck, sniffed at the dragonglass, and let out a satisfied purr and grunt. Odd and curious behavior—but Laenor filed the thought away for later.

“What do you plan to create with that? Are you considering making the 'bombs' you mentioned this morning?” Daemon asked with curiosity, pointing at dragonglass.

“What do you think?” Laenor asked with a smug, bloodthirsty smirk.

Daemon returned it with a chuckle. “Oh, I’m eager to witness your next feat of magic, Laenor.”

He paused, then added in a more serious tone, “I know some of the Valyrian glyphs and can read their scripts—my brother helped me learn them,” he admitted in a low voice. “But I want you to teach me. What do you say? Of course, it won’t be for free. If you want gold, or training with the sword—or even dragonriding lessons—I can provide them. I’ll remind you I’m no less skilled a dragonrider than your mother, though she was a natural, like my own late mother, Alyssa Targaryen.”

~*~

Laenor was staring at the small, square pieces of dragonglass—each barely half the size of a brick, with crimson veins running through and around them. They looked deceptively harmless, lacking even sharp edges. Only, they weren’t harmless. These were magical bombs—the very ones Laenor had been working on, hoping to end this war as swiftly as possible.

But alas, things rarely go as one hopes. While there had been no issues in crafting the bombs—and Laenor had even underestimated the amount of magic saturating the dragonglass—he had expected an explosion the size of a standard Bombarda spell. What he got instead was the force of Bombarda Maxima.

He could thank the Fourteen Flames for that unexpected surprise. But the next surprise was not as good as the first one. The experiments with ritual-empowered dragonglass had led him to a crucial discovery: the dragonglass couldn’t absorb ambient magic. That revelation had been eye-opening. With that limitation, Laenor would now have to rely on sacrifices whenever he or his family wanted to enchant something— and even that would only continue to work by pouring their own blood or offering up the lifeblood of others.

Therefore, Laenor concluded that what he had created, in the end, was a battery—one filled with magic, but finite. Once drained, it would be empty and would have to be powered again by blood sacrifices. The bloodstone he crafted functioned on the magic of the person who provided the blood, so at least it wouldn’t run out over time. Still, the realization left him bitter. He had allowed himself to hope—only for that hope to be crushed by realities beyond his control.

His frustration grew when his father jubilantly informed him that only two or three Velaryons lacked magic in their blood—aside from the seven family members present. But what use was teaching them runes if they couldn't power them without human sacrifice? Laenor had not been a wizard in his previous life, so he wasn’t sure whether the concept of "light" or "dark" magic held any weight. Nor did he want to find out.

What he feared was that both his families—Targaryen and Velaryon—might walk the same path as the Valyrian sorcerers of old: keeping human lives as fuel for magic. That was not a future Laenor could stomach. He wanted magic to be something cherished—not feared. But how could anyone cherish it when it required blood to function?

Laenor knew mass killing wouldn't sit well with him—but for Daemon? He’d do it with a smile.

So Laenor resolved to find another way. A method to use magic without constant blood sacrifice—before this war ended. It had been a full moon since their last ritual, and in that time, they had endured many attacks from the sea by the Triarchy. Yet not once had the men hiding in the caves come out.

Laenor, Daemon, and his father were waiting for that moment. They have low numbers of bombs, and if they wanted to cause maximum damage, they needed to strike when the ambushers emerged—or when they fired arrows from the cave mouths to bring down dragonriders. When that happened, Laenor’s Velaryon cousins—those with magic—would hurl the bombs, activating the runes with their blood. Their goal: kill as many as possible and seal off as many cave entrances as they could.

With a frustrated sigh, Laenor covered the dragonglass bombs with a cloth and made his way to bed. It was the hour of the bat, and he intended to sleep—come morning, he would be helping the Velaryon men build fortifications.

He had made it a habit to assist the loyal men of his house, though he didn’t have to. One more pair of hands didn’t make much difference—but to Laenor, it did. It grounded him. It reminded him to be grateful for his privileges—privileges many of his men could only dream of. More importantly, it kept him humble. He’d started to feel the creeping arrogance and pride that came with the power he wields and Daemon’s influence, and working beside his subjects helped him stay in touch with reality. Helped him "touch the grass," as he liked to think.

He was about to consider a third reason when a commotion rose outside. Laenor had barely thrown the covers off when Edd—one of the guards stationed outside his tent at night—burst in.

“What is this noise, Edd? What’s happened?” Laenor asked sharply, tying his belt and fastening his sword to it.

“Lord Laenor, the cowards have finally come out of their caves. They’re firing flaming arrows at us. Hurry—Prince Daemon is already in the sky with his dragon!”

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

Laenor, after hearing Edd groan, said, “Help me up with this, Edd.” Edd hastily moved to Laenor’s armor and began helping him into it. Laenor’s gaze drifted to his dragon-riding leathers, but he decided against them—time was of the essence.

“Go now, Edd. Show those rats who've been hiding in caves until now how an honorable man of House Velaryon fights. I’m sure you alone could take down ten cowards,” Laenor said, trying to motivate him. Judging by the determined nod and the fire in Edd’s eyes, it worked. The man ran out of the tent, screaming at the top of his lungs as he charged toward the battle.

Laenor hastily gathered the twenty-two dragonglass bombs he had crafted—wrapped in cloth, with one or two already tested—and rushed out of his tent. His goal was to find one of the Velaryons, hopefully one with magic in their blood, who could activate and throw the bombs.

The flaming arrows streaking across the starry night sky made for a beautiful sight, but Laenor had no time to admire it. He darted through the camp, ducking and weaving past soldiers running toward the front lines, responding to orders shouted by their commanders.

Laenor reached the archer line and spotted his uncle, Vaemond Velaryon, shouting commands as archers loosed arrows from behind the fortifications they had spent the last moon building.

“Uncle Vaemond!” Laenor shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos. He ran closer. “Uncle Vaemond!” he called again, this time loud enough.

“Laenor? What are you doing here? Get on your dragon and burn those cave-dwellers!” Vaemond barked, never once turning to face him, his eyes fixed on the rocky hill where the enemy was hidden.

“I’m here to give you this—look at it!” Laenor yelled, grabbing his uncle’s shoulder and shoving the bombs into view.

“What in the seven hells are you doing, Nephew? Do you not see the enemy in front of us?” Vaemond snapped. His face twisted in frustration. “This is no time to be tossing dragonglass! Go now! If you’re not going to fight, then don’t distract those who are!”

“Father tested you with the dragonglass some time ago, didn’t he?” Laenor said quickly. Vaemond hesitated, his expression torn as he looked between Laenor and the enemy lines.

“Speak quickly and clearly, Nephew. I don’t have the luxury of time,” Vaemond said, finally turning toward him. He shouted for his second-in-command to take over for a few moments.

“That dragonglass was my creation—Father may have told you. This batch is something I’ve recently developed. I won’t go into all the details, but here’s what you need to know: smear your blood on this rune,” Laenor pointed to the etched array, “and throw it within two heartbeats. Do not hold onto it longer than that. Aim for the caves or anywhere a large group of enemy soldiers are gathered. And I mean a very large group.”

Vaemond’s face shifted from doubt to suspicion, then to confusion, and finally to resignation and hope. “I can only trust your word, Nephew. Let’s hope this doesn’t lead to more of our men dying. But a command is a command. Here I go, then. May the tides be with me.”

With that, Vaemond took off toward the direction the arrows were coming from, hoping to reach a position where he could hurl the bombs at the caves—and at the enemy soldiers hidden in large numbers—just as Laenor had instructed.

Laenor watched as his uncle ducked and took cover behind small rocks while enemy archers tried to pierce him with arrows. Truly, his uncle’s loyalty to the head of House Velaryon was the greatest asset they had received without paying a single coin for it. Laenor recalled his uncle's last words before he took off, and a smile crept onto his face.

“I don’t think there is any god of tides—or the sea, for that matter. But if you want the tides to be with you, Uncle... then all you have to do is ask.” Laenor muttered to himself.

With that, Laenor pressed his will upon the sea behind them. Their camp stood only a short walk from the coast, so he had no difficulty commanding the water from where he stood.

Within moments, a great mass of seawater rose and bent to Laenor’s will, forming into a towering half-dome—large enough to cover their entire camp and obscure it from the enemy’s view. Enemy soldiers stared in stunned silence, frozen in place at the sight of the watery shield shimmering under the starlit sky. From the corner of his eye, Laenor saw that his uncle was clever enough to recognize the purpose of the shield—it was a distraction, one that gave him a chance to move closer to the enemy unnoticed.

Two minutes passed before the enemy snapped out of their daze. Someone fired a flaming arrow at the shield. Laenor watched it fizzle out the moment it touched the water, falling harmlessly to the ground. More arrows followed, but none fared any better.

Laenor sighed with satisfaction. His uncle was nearly in a position. With a final thought, he commanded the water to fall gently across the burning tents, snuffing out the fires started by the enemy’s flaming arrows. Once his task was done, Laenor looked around. The expressions around him were a mixture of awe, fear, and even reverence. But all that changed in an instant.

A sound thundered from the direction of the caves—loud enough to echo across all of Bloodstone. Everyone turned toward it.

A few moments earlier – Vaemond Velaryon

Vaemond ran as if his life depended on it. And it did. He knew his nephew’s display would not distract the enemy for long. Ironically, the moment he had asked for the tides to be with him, the sea had answered—thanks to Laenor.

His nephew’s plan was madness. He didn’t even fully understand what these square pieces of dragonglass would do, and yet here he was, following that plan. Utter madness.

But Vaemond had made a vow long ago—one he had sworn to himself and to the name of his house: never disobey the head of House Velaryon, Corlys Velaryon, and his heirs and progeny. Now, seeing the sky blotted out by a wall of water above their camp, Vaemond knew he had been right to make that vow. His brother, Lord Corlys Velaryon, was already a legend—the Sea Snake, whose nine voyages would be told for generations. But as if that legacy were not enough, he had sired a son who could perform feats Vaemond had only heard of in ancient tales of gods and sorcerers.

So, when his nephew asked him to carry out a plan that might end with him dying beneath a hundred arrows, it had taken Vaemond only a moment to recall his vow. And here he was, crouching behind a rock barely large enough to hide behind. He glanced back at the camp and smiled when he saw the flames dying beneath the falling water. It was a proud smile—a satisfied one. If he were to die here, so be it. He would die content.

He had taught his sons everything they needed to know. They were old enough to fight and survive. He trusted his brother to protect them and to honor their futures. Corlys had even mentioned granting them a few of the Stepstone islands once victory was achieved. What more could the sons of a second son ask for? His wife was dead, and he had no daughters.

An arrow whistled past him, snapping him out of his thoughts. It grazed the air near his head. He shook himself from his reverie. There was still work to do.

Vaemond drew a dagger and took out one of the dragonglass blocks. The crimson veins running through it reminded him of what he had seen in Corlys’s tent a moon ago. And then came the memory: a tiny flame, the brightest blue he had ever seen, igniting from one of those dragonglass pieces after being anointed with his blood. His brother’s words still rang in his ears—House Velaryon reclaiming their magic.

If Vaemond had one regret, it was that he would not live to see his sons wield magic.

He shook his head. Not the time.

He cut a deep gash into his palm—he would need a lot of blood to smear on all the dragonglass in his possession. Taking a deep breath, he smeared his blood across the High Valyrian runes etched into the dragonglass, peeked over the rock, and hurled one toward a nearby cave where Triarchy men were hidden.

An arrow flew by, nearly nicking his scalp, but Vaemond ducked down just in time. Then—boom. The explosion was greater than anything heard or seen in his entire life. The cave entrance was obliterated, and the blast killed dozens of men nearby.

Vaemond peeked out again, eyes wide with glee. He looked down at the remaining dragonglass in his hands and then back at the destruction. He repeated the process a few more times.

By the end of it, a savage, almost mad grin had spread across his face.

The wrath of Vaemond Velaryon—the Bomber of the Stepstones—had been unleashed.

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

Laenor was running toward a slightly open patch of land where Embaryx could land, as his mount had already taken to the sky the moment arrows began to rain down. Both he and Daemon had the good sense not to chain their dragons here—because it only takes a few lucky shots to the eyes to bring down a chained dragon, and neither of them intended to let that happen.

Explosions continued to echo every few minutes, and each one made Laenor smile. Looking back, his uncle was doing an excellent job. Laenor even briefly considered giving him an official title: Bomber of House Velaryon.

He tugged on the bond he shared with Embaryx and sent a silent command, his intention clear. Embaryx, who had been soaring at high altitude, responded immediately and began his descent.

It took only a few minutes for the dragon to land, and Laenor hastily climbed into the saddle.

“Soves, Embaryx. Adere,” he commanded.

With a few powerful flaps of his leathery wings, Embaryx soared skyward once again. Laenor guided him toward the area where his uncle was taking cover, intending to provide support from above—because the Triarchy soldiers were clearly determined to eliminate the man who was causing them the most damage.

Laenor and Embaryx soon reached the spot. At once, Laenor shouted, “Dracarys!” and sent flames pouring down on the archers who had begun aiming at him the moment they saw his dragon.

From there, the two fell into a deadly rhythm.

Laenor would fly toward the Triarchy soldiers positioned far from the caves and incinerate them, while the ones closer to the caves ducked into hiding at the sound or sight of Embaryx. Whenever he spotted men holed up in a cave, Laenor would circle it three times, deliberately exposing himself to lure them out or pin them in place—until his uncle hurled another dragonglass bomb.

The tactic worked beautifully—three times.

But by the fourth, the enemy had realized the pattern.

Between Caraxes, Embaryx, and Vaemond's bombing runs, the Triarchy had taken enough casualties to retreat into their caves. Vaemond did manage to strike a few more cave entrances, trying to kill as many as possible, but the damage was no longer as decisive as before. Worse, now that their trump cards were exposed, the Triarchy would surely begin adapting their strategy.

Laenor spotted Caraxes descending nearby and steered Embaryx down as well. The battle had been short—just over an hour—but he hoped the casualties on their side had not been too high.

Corlys Velaryon

The war was over. Over for about two hours. Corlys was busy issuing commands, restoring order to the army. Men were injured, some dead, and many were angry—having been attacked at night once again. Yet those who survived were not just weary; they were surprised, awed, and a little uneasy after witnessing the abilities of Corlys’s son.

As he moved among the soldiers, giving orders, Corlys kept an ear out for the whispers—talks of Laenor’s powers and the mysterious explosions that had left many men both thrilled and unnerved. Thrilled, because it was their enemies who suffered. Uneasy, because Ser Vaemond Velaryon had caused them, and no one could quite grasp how.

Corlys had already tasked a select group of his most loyal retainers—men whose devotion to him and House Velaryon was beyond question—to spread a carefully crafted story: that the Seven themselves had blessed Laenor with the power to command the sea and root out the treacherous Triarchy. The explosions? Divine punishment, delivered by Vaemond using sacred stones gifted by the gods from near the sept.

It was far-fetched, fantastical even—but Corlys knew the nature of rumors, especially in war camps and among the smallfolk. Tales didn’t need heads or tails to spread. In fact, the more absurd they sounded, the more people clung to them. And it made sense to the men, didn’t it? Surely, the Seven would favor pious Westerosi over the heathens of the Free Cities, who worshipped queer gods and demanded blood sacrifices. Westerosi men were fools, devout fools—and Corlys was counting on it.

As for the explosions themselves, Corlys had to admit they were terrifying and immensely powerful. He was grateful beyond measure that it was his son wielding them, not their enemies. The thought of facing such "bombs"—as Laenor called them—made his blood run cold. He had already begun to imagine their potential in naval warfare and even on land. Siege warfare would be revolutionized. No longer would armies need to camp outside castle walls for years—a few bombs in a catapult, properly timed, could bring even the mightiest walls crumbling down.

But all of that would only be possible if Laenor could find a way to craft these bombs without blood sacrifices. His son had already mentioned the difficulty, and Corlys had been disappointed, though not surprised. If magic could be done without cost, Valyria would surely have found a way. Even with their slave empire, buying human lives in bulk was neither cheap nor sustainable.

Still, Corlys wasn’t too worried. His son always found a way—he created them. Corlys had faith. He just hoped Laenor would find that solution soon, because he was eager to see what new wonder his son would birth next. In the meantime, Corlys was content if his son continued making bombs with the blood of their enemies. Why rely on dragons at all if they could sink ships from afar or rain destruction down with bombs tied to hooks and scorpion bolts?

“My lord, the lords and Prince Daemon have gathered for the war council. They request your presence,” said a voice nearby.

Corlys emerged from his thoughts, giving a curt nod. He began walking toward the council tent, already guessing the purpose of this meeting. He knew the lords—seeing Laenor’s control over the sea and the scale of the destruction—were frightened. They would demand answers about his son’s powers, though Corlys himself knew little. He’d long stopped asking Laenor. His son’s answers were always vague: “a dream,” or simply, “I made it.”

Corlys could only hope they believed the horseshit he had told his men to spread. Or perhaps he could spin a new tale—that dragonglass, when bathed too long in dragonfire, turns volatile. That sounded just plausible enough. No one could verify it anyway.

As he neared the tent and came within earshot, Corlys heard an angry voice—Daemon’s, unmistakably. That was never a good sign. An angry Daemon made rash decisions, and it always fell to Corlys to clean up after him, especially with the King not present.

“…it seems you, in your bitterness, forget your place, Ser Swann. I stayed my hand—and Dark Sister—from taking your insolent head only because I was amused to no end by that eternal frown of yours. But now it seems you're begging for death. Very well, if that is your wish, I will do the honor myself—”

Corlys stepped in just as Daemon unsheathed his Valyrian blade.

“Daemon, stop. This will serve no one. What has Ser Donnel done now to anger you so?” Corlys asked, sighing as he turned toward the prince.

“Lord Corlys, Ser Donnel called Lord Laenor a dark sorcerer—accused him of performing blood magic and sacrifices. He even said Lord Laenor should be imprisoned and sent to King’s Landing,” Daemion, son of Vaemond, answered.

Corlys looked at Ser Donnel, who stood defiant yet uneasy under his gaze. Perhaps Swann wasn’t worth keeping alive after all.

“I didn’t punish you when you drew steel on me—me, the Lord of House Velaryon. You, a second son of a minor house, dared raise a weapon against me, and I let you walk free. I mistook mercy for prudence, but it seems you mistook kindness for weakness.”

He stepped forward.

“Very well, Ser Donnel Swann. You are hereby dismissed. Take your men and sail back home—if your brother will still welcome you, that is. Go wherever you like, but you are no longer welcome on the Stepstones. Remember this: when your daughter was taken, you could do nothing. Without our help, you will never avenge what the Triarchy did to her. You’ll get no vengeance. Only shame. But since you took such concern in judging my son, I’ll make sure to keep you informed of your daughter’s rising reputation in the pillow houses of Lys.”

Corlys paused, watching. Swann’s jaw clenched. Corlys subtly signaled his nephew to prepare. And, as expected, the fool lashed out.

“I gave you another chance,” Corlys said coldly. “But it seems you are no better than a rabid animal now. Prince Daemon was right—you’re begging for death. Perhaps in dying, you’ll be free of the bitterness that eats you alive.”

He motioned to Daeron and Daemion.

“Take him out. Free him from the prison that is his life.”

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

109 AC

The opulence and symbols of wealth that House Velaryon had amassed in recent years were on full display. High Tide bustled with activity, as household servants and knights busied themselves with their daily tasks. But all paused in their duties to bow respectfully to the daughter of their lord.

Laena Velaryon walked through the hallways and corridors of High Tide with graceful, confident strides. She had changed greatly from the girl she had been two years ago, when her father and younger brother left for the Stepstones. Both in appearance and demeanor, she had grown. She was still stubborn and enamored with dragons, but now she carried herself with a confidence and regal bearing that had once been lacking. She resembled her mother more than ever—especially after learning so much from her over these two years.

Laena knew that, though her mother loved her more than life itself, it was Laenor who had always been her sweet child. A true mama’s boy. Laena snorted softly at the thought. She, in turn, had always been her father’s princess. Yet during these past two years, the roles had reversed. In Laenor’s absence, her mother had poured all her affection and energy into Laena’s upbringing, taking a far more active role than before. And from the letters Laena had received from her father, it was clear he held nothing but praise and pride for Laenor.

But that was to be expected. Her brother was achieving one miracle after another—reducing casualties and bringing glory to House Velaryon through feats that seemed to resurrect the ancient magic of Valyria. Though the magic part, however, was shared only with House Targaryen and Velaryon. Due to sacrifices needed to perform those spells, well… that part Laena had heard only in passing from her mother, who had been informed by Corlys himself. Laena had received only a few parchments from Laenor—pages containing Valyrian glyphs and instructions on how to create rune arrays—which she practiced diligently, just as her brother had asked.

Laena reached her mother’s chambers and pushed open the doors, entering the most lavish room in High Tide, a space rich with comfort and luxury. Her mother was reclining on the bed, reading a letter, but her gaze drifted toward Laena and she set the letter aside to give her daughter her full attention.

“Good morning, daughter of mine,” Rhaenys greeted Laena softly..

“It was good—until you greeted me with that face, Mother. What happened? Was it that letter? Who is it from?” Laena asked, rapid-fire. Her mother sighed and rose from the bed.

“It’s from your father,” Rhaenys replied absently.

A smile bloomed across Laena’s face. “So, when are they coming back? Is Laenor flying back on Embaryx? If the letter’s from Father, why do you look so down?”

Rhaenys poured herself a glass of water, drank, then replied, “My idiot of a husband and ‘King Daemon’ have decided to remain in the Stepstones to collect tolls and tariffs—so House Velaryon can recoup the fortune we spent on the war, and Daemon can play king for a while longer,” she said, shaking her head in disapproval.

“So… Father isn’t coming back?” Laena asked in a small voice. “What about Laenor? Surely he’ll return now. With the Stepstones under control, Father and Prince Daemon can manage without him, can’t they?”

“As if that boy would come home without Corlys explicitly ordering him to,” Rhaenys said. “He’s too much like his father in that way. To them, home is a prison. If Corlys had his way, he’d live aboard a ship forever, sailing from place to place. And Laenor—especially after his near-death experience—has started to show the same tendencies.”

“But he said he’d return to teach me magic,” Laena frowned. Her brother had said so—promised even. He should have remembered that.

Her mother raised a brow. “They’ll return soon enough. Either Daemon will grow tired of his ‘kingdom,’ or Viserys will summon them back to King’s Landing,” she said, taking a seat on a nearby chair.

“Prince Daemon would never grow bored of the Stepstones,” Laena muttered. “Laenor said the Prince enjoys the sacrifices he gets to perform spells without anyone questioning him. He even told me they’re working together to rediscover the secret to forging dragonsteel—or Valyrian steel, as lords like to call it. But he also said they’d finish that work on Dragonstone, once he returned home,” Laena added, clearly frustrated.

“Hmm. You may be right. Daemon is far too obsessed with Valyrian lore and magic to lose interest that quickly,” Rhaenys agreed. “But there is one thing that might lure him back—boasting. He’ll want to show off his accomplishments in court. Daemon is too vain to resist that. And with his greatest rival, Otto Hightower, ousted from court, he might return sooner than expected.”

“What? Otto Hightower’s no longer Hand of the King? When did that happen?” Laena asked, surprised.

“A few days ago.”

Laena filed that information away for later, uncertain what to make of it. She took a seat beside her mother, thoughts drifting again to her brother. “If the war’s won and the Triarchy’s withdrawn, how are Laenor and the Prince still gathering sacrifices for their spells?”

“While the Triarchy may have abandoned the war, pirates and captives taken by Laenor’s various bombs still remain. That’s where the supply comes from.”

“Ah, yes. I hope Laenor finishes those thunder bombs soon. He told me he was nearly done. Imagine dropping thunder bombs from the sky onto ships—it would be more devastating than anything our dragons could do,” Laena said, eyes lighting up with excitement. Her brother had already created fire bombs, ice bombs, even wind bombs—which, if her father was to be believed, killed most brutally, shredding flesh like a thousand Valyrian steel blades tearing through bone.

“Laena, we can discuss your brother’s bombs after breakfast,” her mother said with a sigh. “I also intend to send a raven to Corlys, to order Laenor back. The war is over. Now go wait for me in the hall.”

With that, Rhaenys dismissed her daughter from the room.

The Red Keep, King’s Landing

One step closer to reigniting the forge that once birthed Valyrian steel—Viserys was of half a mind to sail to the Stepstones himself, or to order Rhaenyra to take him there atop young Syrax. But reason and duty kept him bound to the Red Keep. He could summon Daemon and Laenor to King’s Landing—both possessed dragons and would reach the capital swiftly. But doing so would halt the discoveries they were making in magic. And how would he even provide them with the human sacrifices required to continue their pursuit of higher mysteries?

It left a bitter taste in his mouth, the notion that blood sacrifices were needed to perform magic and cast spells. Yet Viserys knew his history well—Valyria was not built on honor and chivalry. The fire and blood mages of old had sacrificed many, and more, to further their mastery of magic. Even dragon-taming itself stemmed from a blood ritual of the highest order. That was well known among his kin, though no one truly remembered who performed the original ritual, or how it might be replicated. What was clear was that if their blood became too diluted—too mixed with those without magic—they would lose their greatest power. The blood of the dragon calls for another of its kind to mate with.

Viserys was proof of that. He had never loved Alicent the way he had loved his sweet Aemma, even though Lady Hightower had given him the sons he once so desperately desired. He should not have wished for that. His obsession with a male heir had cost him the one woman he truly loved. Fool that he was, he thought himself a dreamer. He believed his fancies were dragon dreams. But Viserys had learned from his mistakes—and that was why he named his daughter his heir, in accordance with Valyrian custom, and in the hope of lessening the weight of the regret buried deep in some corner of his heart.

He shook himself free of those thoughts, knowing they would only lead him into grief and despair. Instead, Viserys took up a blank parchment and began to write a letter to his brother, promising that he would receive as much silver as he wants and more—if that was what it took to forge the most coveted steel in the known world.

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Chapter Text

Seahorse's Tail, Stepstones

Perched atop the jagged crown of the tallest hill on the island, now known as Seahorse's Tail, is a black tower that rises like a blackened fang toward the sky. Forged from fused stone, that is impossibly smooth and seamless, making the Valyrian were known for, the structure seems less built than carved from stone.

The tower is cyclopean in scale, narrow and cruelly elegant, rising higher than any watchtower in Westeros except Hightower, its height commanding a wide, unbroken view of the Stepstones' treacherous currents and pirate routes.

Carved along the base of the tower, its foundations etched with unnatural precision, are massive sculptures of Valyrian seahorses—serpentine and armored, with crested heads and fins like blades. They rear from the stone like guardians, mouths open in a voiceless scream, as though eternally shrieking warnings to the sea.

Twisting around the middle ring of the tower are interlocked dragon and seahorse reliefs, coiled in endless struggle or dance. The dragons are unmistakably Valyrian, their wings flared, but the seahorses are not gentle creatures of coral reefs—they are water dragons, long and scaled, eyes made of polished opals that glint even in stormlight. Some spout trickles of water from their mouths that vanish down unseen channels, making the tower feel faintly alive.

High above, at the upper parapets and windows, perch gargoyles—fierce and ancient things, molded into poses of agony or wrath. Some resemble half-dragon, half-man forms, while others are aquatic monstrosities with webbed claws and barnacle-crusted maws. During storms, the howling wind gives these stone figures voice, moaning like drowned men or screeching like wyverns lost at sea.

Inside, the interior is dark and vaulted, the walls warm to the touch from some deep-seated Valyrian magic. At least that is what the men of the Velaryon army think. Spiral staircases without visible supports climb upward through echoing chambers.

At the very top lies the Seawatch Hall, a high chamber of glassy obsidian windows overlooking every direction. Here stands a single massive throne of fused stone, its back shaped like a breaking wave flanked by dragons, where the Lord of the Seahorse's Tail may sit and look out across the Narrow Sea.

Laenor Velaryon, Poseidon Tower

Laenor stood at the base of the Poseidon Tower—aye, he had named it himself. At first, everyone looked at him with curiosity and furrowed brows, but once he spoke the name a few times, they approved. Thus, it became known as the Poseidon Tower of the Seahorse's Tail. Strange, perhaps, but fitting in its own way. The tower was still under construction, with the rooms unfinished. That part wasn't Laenor's responsibility—it had been entrusted to his cousins, the sons of his uncle, Vaemond Velaryon, since this tower was to become their father's seat.

They had the help of Embaryx, of course. A dragon was needed to melt the stone so it could be reworked and shaped. Valyrian fused black stone—the method of crafting it had proven surprisingly easy to rediscover. It was said the Valyrians used dragonfire to melt stone and mold it to their will. And truly, that part was simple enough. Add some blood, runes, and dragonglass—Laenor's additions—and they could shape the stone with intent, rather than relying on songs as he and Daemon first did.

Aye, after the bombs worked so splendidly on Bloodstone, Laenor began teaching runes to his family and to Daemon as well. It was Daemion who first suggested crafting other elemental bombs, believing the originals used fire magic. So Laenor created ice, wind, and water bombs and stunning bombs, to stun enemies and capture them, as they have much use to them being alive. Earth and thunder were set aside as they turned their attention to rediscovering the secrets behind Valyrian fused stone.

They knew that melting the stone with dragonfire was the first step, and Daemon confessed he had done it before. Yet the result remained ordinary magma. The challenge was turning it into that seamless, glossy black stone like the walls of Dragonstone. Laenor and Daemon tried blood sacrifices, as that seemed to solve most magical issues—and they were both successful and disappointed. The magma did turn black as night, ready to be shaped, but any attempt to work it failed. The stone broke when cooled, and lacked the smoothness of true Valyrian work.

It was during one such experiment that Daeron, Laenor's cousin, cut his hand on nearby dragonglass. His blood dripped into the molten stone forged by Caraxes's fire. In the next instant, a curse from Daemon echoed across Grey Gallows—the stone had suddenly surged upward, nearly taking the Prince's head off. Daemon was both elated and shaken. He cursed Daeron for two moons, glaring at him as if the boy had nearly murdered him. Daeron, poor soul, couldn't even claim the credit for the breakthrough.

It turned out that it wasn't just Daeron's magical blood, but the combination of the blood with intense emotion from him that allowed the shaping of the stone. Pain, shock—anything raw and powerful. Daemon even suggested sex as a method to trigger the effect, and annoyingly, his wild theories seemed to work. Though both of his cousins were eagerly waiting to have their turn at moulding the stones while using Daemon's discovered method, their father and Laenor's father put a stop to it. So they have to find another method. Laenor then suggested they try using Old Valyrian—not as a spell, but as a song. And it worked wonderfully.

So they sang. In Old Valyrian, directing their will at the stone. It was arduous and slow, but it worked—and more importantly, it was the first method that didn't require full blood sacrifice. A small amount of magical blood sufficed to turn magma to black stone, and singing shaped it.

After three moons of effort, Laenor created a runic array that could be used in place of song. By then, he and Daemon had grown quite bored and used to rediscovering one of Valyria's lost secrets. So they passed on the task of building to Daeron and Daemion.

The Poseidon Tower now stood as proof of their brilliant work.

Over the last two years, Laenor hadn't abandoned his quest to find a way to use magic without blood sacrifices—but he hadn't succeeded. Nor could he devote himself fully to it. His father had made him second-in-command of the Velaryon fleet. Laenor now led battles from the decks of ships rather than the skies atop Embaryx.

Once most of the Stepstones were under control, Daemon brought forth an idea that had also been swirling in Laenor's mind for some time: to recreate Valyrian steel—or "Dragonsteel," as they liked to call it.

Laenor knew it would cost lives. A hundred, maybe more. Unlike black stone, Valyrian steel could not be made with just their blood. But by then, even his father and Vaemond—once fervent follower of the Seven—had come to accept sacrificing Triarchy men for the wonders magic could offer. And there were many wonders, all right, their ships sailed faster. Their bombs stunned enemies into surrender. Destructive bombs had ended the war before it truly began. Four years stationed far from home hardened even the most devout.

So Laenor joined Daemon in earnest.

They began with steel and dragonglass, melded with dragonfire and blood. The result? Slag—too smooth, incapable of holding a sharp edge. They adjusted the ratio. No success. Laenor concluded they needed a third component. So they experimented—each trial fed by more Triarchy lives. Daemon didn't hesitate. Laenor, numb to the mounting deaths, pressed forward.

It was bronze that showed promise. Laenor replaced steel with bronze, and they finally forged a magical alloy. It wasn't true Valyrian steel—anyone could tell that at a glance. But it was something new. The blade was dark as night, laced with blood-red veins. It looked more appealing than dragonsteel, and it far outperformed even the finest castle-forged steel. But it couldn't match the sharpness of Dragonsteel. It couldn't slice through stone or armor as cleanly as the blades of old.

Still, it was magical. Of that, there was no doubt.

"Nightsteel, that was what this metal would be called," Laenor named their first magical alloy. Though there was no steel, none questioned it. Used to his weird naming habit.

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Chapter Text

Seahorse's Tail, Stepstones

109 AC

Daemon laughed for hours after their breakthrough with bronze, even going so far as to send one of the three swords they forged—made from what they now called Nightsteel—to his wife. "To my bronze bitch," he said with a grin, clearly amused by the irony.

But the very next day, their little triumph was darkened by grave news.

Desmond, the blacksmith who had labored alongside them since the beginning, died in the night, coughing blood. He had been House Velaryon's blacksmith for years, and Laenor suspected his death came from the intense heat their forge reached when blood sacrifice and dragonfire combined. Desmond had to fold steel hundreds, if not thousands, of times. The smoke, the fumes, the heat—it was all too much for a man without the heritage that grants tolerance to these things.

Daemon suggested bringing in a dragonseed—someone whose blood might grant them greater tolerance to the extreme conditions. But Laenor had another idea: one of the bastards from House Baratheon. And so, a moon later, Robb Storm arrived. 

His parentage was uncertain, even to himself, but he bore all the traits of the Storm Lords—raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and arms like tree trunks that swung hammers as if they were feathers, with the speed and force of a lightning strike.

Since Nightsteel was not true dragonsteel, Laenor and Daemon resumed their experiments—this time replacing bronze with steel once again. Nightsteel lacked the sharpness that true dragonsteel ought to possess. They concluded that steel was indeed one of the base materials in its forging. That left them with two confirmed ingredients: steel and dragonglass.

The third, they reasoned, had to be a powerful magical conductor. Bronze had been their starting point, but it had proven inadequate. As Laenor mulled over other magical materials, one name rose to his lips: silver.

It had been more than a year since they began their quest to rediscover the lost craft of dragonsteel. Then, on the seventh day of the fourth moon of 109 AC, Laenor, Daemon, and Robb Storm finally succeeded. Together, they forged a sheet of dragonsteel—a feat not accomplished in over two centuries. 

All three were jubilant. Pride was etched into their faces as they strode through the camp, the crude slab of dragonsteel held high in Laenor's hands for all to see. Their destination: the tent of their investor, Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Inside, Laenor's father was deep in conversation with several lords—men who had sent their second sons to fight and now gathered to stake their claims, for the Stepstones had been won. The war was over.

But all that became irrelevant when Laenor laid the dark, rippled plate of dragonsteel atop the map of the Stepstones. At first, confusion filled the tent—then disbelief. Eyes widened, and brows rose into hairlines as the reality of what they saw settled in: dragonsteel, dark as the ash of Dragonmont, forged anew.

It had now been a week since that day.

Daemon had already sent word to his brother, requesting an enormous quantity of silver. Laenor wasn't sure what Daemon planned to do with so much of it—dragonsteel only required a small portion of silver, no more than an eighth of the full mix. But he didn't ask. Daemon had proven himself both imaginative and indispensable when it came to magic.

Now, Laenor waited at the base of Poseidon Tower, near the entrance to the forge. Though they had discovered how to make dragonsteel, they had yet to craft anything beyond that crude plate. That sheet, however, had been gifted to Robb Storm as a reward—for his service, and more importantly, for his silence.

Initially, the plan had been to kill Robb once they succeeded. He was not a man they could afford to trust fully, no matter how loyal he seemed. But that plan had been abandoned the moment they discovered the one thing Robb Storm loved more than anything—his wife and children.

And wasn't that a gift from the gods? Daemon and Laenor could use that. Daemon made sure Robb understood exactly what would happen should any word of their secret escape his lips. The moment that threat was spoken, the Storm bastard's blue eyes filled with fury—but he didn't act on it. Laenor's cold glare, combined with Daemon's cutting stare, was enough to make him understand: one wrong word, and his wife would be widowed, his children orphaned.

What followed was the binding of a magical contract.

Robb had just enough magic in his blood to make it work. The contract stated that no word of dragonsteel—or anything related to the past year and a half—would ever pass his lips. In return, his family would be safe, and both House Targaryen and House Velaryon would offer their protection.

Though he was not a literate man, Robb signed the contract in his own blood, only after the Maester read its contents aloud and confirmed its terms

Laenor came out of his thoughts at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Soon, the burly figure of Robb Storm entered his vision, wearing his usual broad smile.

"Lord Laenor, you're early. And here I thought I'd be the first, seeing as there's still half an hour before the time we agreed upon," Robb's jovial voice echoed through the nearly empty tower.

"Can you blame me?" Laenor replied, returning a soft smile.

"Not saying I do. Owning a Valyrian steel sword is enough to make any man restless. Prince Daemon said that even I—a bastard—might earn the hand of a noble maiden, should I keep my mouth shut or reveal the make of it." Robb chuckled, but Laenor only raised an amused eyebrow.

"I wouldn't accept, of course. They could tempt me with the fairest whore or courtsen from Lys, and still I'd say no. Even without that contract we signed—I love Elly and my children. You wouldn't believe the shite I had to go through—"

"To win Elly and convince her merchant father to grant you her hand. You nearly bashed his head in but stopped yourself because he was the father of your beloved," Laenor finished with a sigh. "You've told that tale so many times, I wager there's no one in our camp who hasn't heard it."

"Aye, but you could hear it once more. You've reminded me of my wife—and since the prince isn't here yet…" Robb's face lit up as he prepared to dive into his tale once again.

Thankfully, Daemon arrived just in time.

Robb's smile soured the moment he saw him, and Daemon caught it, naturally.

"Ah, Storm. I see you haven't forgotten my warning. Good. It serves you well to remember what will happen if something were to leak." Daemon's smirk was cutting, and Robb's scowl turned savage.

Laenor placed a calming hand on the Baratheon bastard's shoulder.

"Must you provoke him every time?" he asked Daemon. "You and I both know the contract binds him. He even forgave you for that... incident. It was only your unfortunate timing—interrupting his love tale—that soured his face. Isn't that right, Robb?"

Robb nodded, still scowling, but calmer now.

"Well," Daemon shrugged, "no harm in reminding him anyway. Now, let's begin before Caraxes decides to nap."

With that, he moved past them and pushed open the forge doors.

"Arrogant cunt," Robb muttered under his breath, fists clenched.

"You're lucky you're only getting the short end of the stick, Robb. You don't want to know how Daemon treats those who don't bear the name Targaryen or the blood." Robb grunted in reluctant agreement.

"I do have a request," Laenor added as they followed Daemon. "I know you always give your all in the forge, but today—I need more than that. The sword we're making will mean more to House Velaryon than a hundred or a thousand that may follow. And it won't be without price. But give it everything you have, and I swear on my name, you'll find both House Velaryon—and me—at your back when your time of need comes."

Robb, his face grim and determined, nodded. Then he smiled.

"You have my word. I'll pour everything I've got into this sword—for you, for House Velaryon. I swear it on my wife and children. Now let's get started. A long day awaits."

He entered the forge with purpose in every stride.

And the man kept his word.

His hammer was lightning, and the metal was its prey. With each strike, he forged not just steel but soul. The clang of his hammer echoed with effort and resolve, bringing a smile to Laenor's face.

Laenor's task was to enchant the slag pulled from the forge with his runes, binding magic into metal. Daemon controlled the flames by commanding Caraxes, whip in hand. Finally, Laenor offered his own blood to the mix—the blood of kings and gods—hoping it would make this sword unlike any other in the world.

Laenor didn't know whether it was Robb's strength, Daemon's fire, or his own blood that brought the change—but it came.

The sword in his hand looked different. Dragonsteel was typically dark, until tempered—but this blade was a pale grey, streaked with bluish-white ripples that shimmered like thunderclouds before a storm.

Robb slumped against a wall, too exhausted to stand. Daemon had already led Caraxes away, the great dragon wearied from the effort.

Laenor gave Storm a firm pat on the shoulder in gratitude before turning toward the tent of the current Lord Velaryon.

This sword was not his to name.

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Chapter Text

Seahorse's tail, Stepstones

Corlys sat in the chamber below the Seawatch Hall of Poseidon Tower—his brother Vaemond's seat. He considered Vaemond lucky to have his seat made of Black fused stone, just like the Targaryens on Dragonstone. In hindsight, if anyone deserved such an honor, it was his brother. His loyalty to House Velaryon was as questionable as snow in Dorne—said to be none at all.

House Velaryon's "bomber," as Laenor jokingly called him. Corlys smiled faintly at the thought. Vaemond wore the title proudly, saying that with magic in his blood, his line would gladly accept the role. And truth be told, Vaemond excelled at hurling those magical dragonglass bricks. Corlys had tried his hand at it too, but his timing and aim fell short of his brother's uncanny precision. Vaemond instinctively knew when to throw and where. With Laenor tasking him regularly, his skill only grew sharper. It was Vaemond who captured most of the Triarchy's men once the stunner bombs were invented. Daemon and Vaemond's relationship, once bristling with hostility, had become surprisingly functional—perhaps even cordial.

Corlys's gaze drifted to the sword resting beside him—the dragonsteel sword of House Velaryon. When Laenor first placed it in his hands and declared it the finest dragonsteel sword in the world, Corlys was left speechless. He had known Laenor and Daemon had already rediscovered the ancient craft of forging dragonsteel, but Laenor's claim of the finest dragonsteel sword in the world was another matter entirely. Unlike the dark, smoky blades typically seen in old Valyrian steel, this one shimmered a light grey, with rippling streaks of blue like flashes of storm-lit sea. He had half-suspected his son of dyeing it, but Laenor swore he had not.

Corlys had a name in mind for the blade—a name he truly wanted—but he couldn't claim that right. Because neither had he paid for it, nor did he help to make it, like Daemon, who had helped his son unearth the secret lost to time. For nearly an hour, father and son argued until Laenor finally relented, offering suggestions of his own. Riptide and Sea Serpent were names Corlys liked well enough, but when Laenor said another, both agreed at once.

Redwave. That was the name—Redwave, the dragonsteel sword of House Velaryon.

Corlys often wondered how far House Velaryon and House Targaryen would go, with both Laenor and Daemon now obsessed with magic. He had already received a torrent of ravens from across the Seven Kingdoms and even from Dorne, each letter thick with flowery flattery than the last, all veiled requests to commission a dragonsteel sword. And it had only been a moon and a half since Laenor laid the first dragonsteel plate before him.

The secret had spread—quickly, and wide. Just yesterday, an emissary from Volantis had arrived at Seahorse's Tail, congratulating House Velaryon on its victory over the Triarchy. Corlys hosted them in the fused-stone tower he now occupied, taking particular delight in the look of awe that washed over their faces. No doubt they had heard of Valyrian stonework being done here, but seeing it was something else entirely. After all, Volantis and the Old blood of Volantis still clings to pride in its Black Walls. And rightly so, because after the Doom, there are precious few places in the world where black fused stone still stands. That, too, might change—with Daemon and Laenor's plans unfolding.

Corlys also considered something else the Volantenes might come to realize soon: with fused stone, dragons, and dragonsteel, House Velaryon and House Targaryen might be seen as true heirs of Old Valyria. Not that it mattered. Neither house sought to reclaim Essos. Their eyes were fixed firmly on Westeros.

Shaking himself from those thoughts, Corlys turned back to the matter at hand. He began drafting letters to the lords he had chosen to rule parts of the Stepstones: House Redwyne, House Celtigar, House Estermont, and two minor houses. Many others had come with hopeful smiles and second sons in tow, but Corlys had dismissed them outright. As if sending a hundred green boys would entitle them to land. They had left scowling and frothing, but there was little they could do against House Velaryon's growing might.

The houses he selected had enough naval strength to hold the islands long enough for Corlys to profit. He had initially planned only to win the war, humiliate the Triarchy, and depart. But once the fortifications rose and tolls were collected at sea, the gold flowed like a current. When he counted the coins, he no longer saw barren rocks—he saw opportunity. He would hold these stones until his vaults overflow with gold.

Though he doubts that Triarchy will just sit back forever. But any attacks from them might prove futile, for within two or three years, these houses he had assigned would begin to see the profits—and once they did, they would be more than willing to fight if the Triarchy dared to send ships again. And that was just the first part of the plan. The second? Simply wait. At the rate his son's power and dragon were growing, Laenor might not even need Daemon's help to drive the Three Daughters of Valyria back to their cities.

Corlys was just finishing his first letter—to Lord Celtigar—and sealing it with the sigil of House Velaryon when someone knocked at the door. He bid them enter, and in came his guard, Gared, his face alight with excitement and awe. Though the man tried to compose himself, he failed spectacularly.

"My Lord, Lord Laenor has been spotted. He will be here any moment now," Gared said breathlessly.

"Hmm," Corlys murmured, hiding his amusement behind a calm facade. "And by the look on your face, I presume my son has chosen to travel by sea?"

"Aye, my Lord! Lord Laenor has ropes tied to a herd of great black-and-white sea beasts! He rides atop a wooden plank, gripping the ropes—by the gods, the speed at which he's moving, it's out of this world! I've heard those beasts can eat a man in one bi—"

"Gared," Corlys cut in smoothly. "I've seen the beasts. They are dangerous, true. Deadly predators, capable of killing a man with ease—but they are not large enough to swallow one whole. Now, off you go. Back to your post."

"But my Lord, I—"

"Gared," Corlys said more firmly, and the guard quickly bowed and scurried off, closing the door quietly behind him.

Corlys sighed, shaking his head. He suspected he might have been too lenient with his men if this was their standard of decorum. He reached for a fresh parchment to begin his next letter, but before he could finish a single line, another knock came. With another sigh, he set the quill aside.

"Enter," he called.

Laenor stepped inside, his gait light, his presence calm. Corlys noted with some satisfaction that his son had nearly reached Daemon's height—and he wasn't even ten-and-six yet. It was a relief. Laenor, though more comely than even Laena, had been a small and delicate child until his tenth year.

Now, though, the scent of sea salt and wet wood clung to him—faint but unmistakable. Corlys would never admit it aloud, but he loved that smell.

After greeting his father, Laenor took his seat. They spoke for a while about his time on Bloodstone, where he'd been assisting Daemon for the past month. The Prince, ever prideful, disliked that his keep looked simpler and duller than Vaemond's seat of Seawatch. So, together with Laenor and that Baratheon bastard, Robb Storm, he returned to Bloodstone to rebuild his keep in fused black stone.

Daemon also planned to construct a massive forge—large enough for two dragons the size of Caraxes to aid in the crafting of dragonsteel. Even the silver sent by King Viserys had arrived there.

After half an hour of talk, Corlys finally broached the matter that had prompted his summons.

"Laenor, I trust you've spoken to Prince Daemon about the request I mentioned in my letter?" Corlys asked, eyes fixed on his son.

Laenor showed no surprise; he had clearly anticipated this conversation.

"I have," he said evenly. "And though it took us half a day to forge a single decent dragonsteel weapon, Daemon and I agreed—we are amenable to selling such weapons… provided we are paid well for wasting our precious time."

Corlys nodded, pleased. His son and Daemon had wisely decided to make their labor expensive. As it should be.

"Excellent," Corlys said, smiling now. "I'm sure many will be eager to pay whatever sum you demand. To own a dragonsteel weapon is an honor."

And oh, how Corlys could already feel the gold pouring in—gold from the Lannisters, from the wealthy magisters of Essos, from any who dared to dream of dragonsteel in their hands.

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone, Stepstones

Laenor was surfing through the waters of the Narrow Sea, gripping the ropes tightly as the orcas pulled him with happy, eager whistles. The thought crossed his mind—traveling between the Stepstones like this—something he or anyone had never done, but now he can say that he thoroughly enjoyed traveling between the islands like this.. Surfing across the sea, led by marine life, at a speed even Embaryx couldn't match? That was something special.

Sure, riding his dragon didn't tire him as much, but this was fun. And it allowed him to practice his control over water—something he felt he'd been neglecting in his pursuit of magic. If he ever needed to get somewhere fast across the sea, Laenor was confident he'd rather swim there himself than choose any other form of travel—even by dragon or with his pod of orcas.

Soon, he spotted Bloodstone and mentally commanded the orcas to speed up. With a burst of acceleration that would make any sailor—or even dragonrider—envious, Laenor surged toward the island Daemon now called his seat: the seat of the King of the Stepstones.

As the pod neared the coast, Laenor gave another silent command, and with grace that defied their massive size, the orcas turned in full, facing him for a single heartbeat. In that moment, Laenor let go of the ropes, launching himself into the air. His makeshift surfboard crashed into the shore as he landed with a thud. His legs were briefly numb, but within moments, he was moving again, all too ready to go.

It took Laenor around ten minutes to reach the tall gates of Daemon's keep—massive slabs of dark ebony wood reinforced with nightsteel bands and jagged spikes. The gates stood open, and Laenor passed through, making his way to the great hall, half-expecting Daemon to be lounging on his throne. A suspicion quickly proven right.

The Prince—no, King—was indeed seated comfortably on his black throne. But as usual, it wasn't the throne that caught Laenor's eye. It was what rose behind it: a striking sculpture of Caraxes carved in black stone. It was a near-perfect likeness of the Blood Wyrm, with wings flared and jaws open in a perpetual roar. It towered behind the throne, as though Daemon's dragon itself guarded the seat. Laenor had to admit—it was impressive. Daemon had clearly put thought into every inch of his keep.

Dragon's Forge—that was what Daemon named it.

"What took you so long?" Daemon's voice pulled Laenor from his thoughts.

"Well, Father had me meet with the Volantene envoy. Said they'd come to congratulate him on our victory over the Triarchy. But once I met them, it was clear—they couldn't resist revealing their true purpose: they came on behalf of one of the Triarchs. They want a dragonsteel sword," Laenor said, stepping toward the open balcony. The sea churned below, violent waves crashing against the cliffs. He could hear footsteps behind him as Daemon joined him at the railing.

Together, they looked out at the ocean. Laenor's gaze shifted left, spotting Caraxes lazily curled beside an open structure where fire blazed. Fumes rose into the sky, and the rhythmic sound of hammer striking metal rang faintly through the air. Laenor squinted and listened carefully.

"What's Robb working on right now?" he asked.

"Nothing. He's teaching, not forging," Daemon replied. "With you gone, I had nothing better to do. The Baratheon bastard holed himself up in the forge to hone his craft, so I flew to Dragonstone and brought back some dragonseeds—burly ones, strong enough to apprentice under Storm. Better safe than sorry. Dragonseed or not, anyone from Dragonstone I can trust somewhat. They've been raised to worship us—Targaryens. To them, we're gods who command fire made flesh."

"You know the clause," Laenor said as they descended a narrow stairway leading to the forge. "If he even thinks about writing or speaking about how to make dragonsteel swords, he'll die a painful death."

"Oh, I know it well," Daemon replied as they reached the black stone pathway. "But if he does, and dies for it, we'll have a shortage of skilled blacksmith like him. Finding someone as skilled as him would cost us precious time. That's why I want him to train those lads from Dragonstone. If anything happens to Storm, we'll need apprentices ready."

He glanced toward Caraxes, who stirred slightly—one eye opening and a low grunt escaping his throat, acknowledging his rider's presence.

"You plan to kill him?" Laenor asked, raising a brow.

"Of course not," Daemon said, feigning offense. "Do you take me for heartless?"

Laenor only snorted in reply.

They entered the forge—a wide, spacious chamber equipped with every tool Robb might need. The man in question was currently instructing two silver-haired youths around Laenor's age, his face split in a wide smile. Hearing the loud, jubilant tone in his voice and the thoughtful way he explained his craft made Laenor briefly wonder if it had been Robb who asked for apprentices, and not Daemon who had simply dropped the two onto him.

Angor and Orys—the names of the two dragonseeds Daemon brought from Dragonstone.

Judging from the reverent expressions on their faces when they looked at Daemon, Laenor realized Daemon was right. The people of Dragonstone truly did worship the Targaryens. Laenor noted that the two boys didn't look at him with the same admiration and awe that they gave Daemon. Only Targaryens, indeed..

Soon, Daemon and Laenor left the trio to their work and made their way outside toward Caraxes.

"So, what's next? What new project are we taking on now?" Daemon asked, his eagerness plain in his voice and gait.

"Well, I'll have to disappoint you," Laenor replied. "There are things that demand my full attention. You'll either have to do whatever you want yourself, alone, or stay put for a while until I finish."

"Such as?" Daemon prompted.

Laenor paused, then glanced sideways at him. Daemon already wore the look of someone who knew the answer—and didn't like it.

"You already know," Laenor sighed.

"Aye, I know," Daemon said, his voice rising with frustration. "And I think it's a bloody waste of time if ever there was one. Gods, I'd rather see you wasting time on whores, wine, and every debauchery a boy your age should be indulging in—rather than chasing a path that doesn't exist. Our ancestors weren't fools, Laenor. If there was a way to wield magic without sacrifice, don't you think they would've found it?"

"I have to try, Daemon," Laenor replied calmly. "Just give it time. I'm certain there is a way. I don't think I'm smarter than those who came before us—but magic is a realm of endless possibilities. Nothing is truly impossible where it is concerned. Difficult, unlikely, time-consuming—yes. But never impossible. I thought I'd made that clear."

Daemon frowned. "Aye, aye. I remember. Stop acting like I've forgotten," he grumbled. "My learning period under you is over."

Laenor chuckled at that.

"We've both spent time on this, remember?" Daemon pressed. "We gathered all the woods from across the world, even plucked scales from our dragons. You told me yourself how chaotic and unruly magic is in our world. There's no changing that. What are we even supposed to do—change magic with magic?" He scoffed and scowled.

"I'll find a way. You'll see," Laenor said, stubborn as ever.

"Go on then. Waste your time," Daemon snapped. "But don't expect my help this time. I've tried and failed. Now I'll turn to other ventures."

Caraxes stirred at the rising tension, growling low and deep. Daemon turned to glare at the Blood Wyrm and sharply commanded him to calm down. The dragon obeyed with a snort.

Laenor sighed, weary. He knew they had exhausted many paths—some hopeful, most fruitless—but deep within, he felt they had missed something crucial. The answer was out there. They just hadn't seen it yet.

But he set those thoughts aside for the moment and glanced at Daemon, who brooded beside him.

"When are we forging your armor?" Laenor asked, trying to ease the mood.

Daemon looked at him hesitantly, but it didn't last. He grunted and replied, "Three days from now. I had other plans, but since you intend to chase your impossible fancy, I'll see them through myself."

"What plans? Let's hear them."

Daemon gave him a long, scrutinizing look, as if weighing whether to share. Then, with a grudging sigh, he spoke.

"I plan to make armor."

Laenor blinked, unimpressed. "That's your great plan?"

"Not for me, you fool," Daemon glowered. "For our dragons. With dragonsteel shielding their weak points—and us in matching armor—there'll be no stopping us. And maybe then I can finally convince my peace-loving brother to do something not even Aegon the Conqueror could accomplish."

Daemon's eyes gleamed with fire as he looked straight at Laenor.

"We could bend the Unbowed. For real this time. Break them. Bring Dorne into the fold. Imagine the glory, Laenor."

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Chapter Text

Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone

Laenor was making a list of every known piece of Old Magic in the world, as much as he could remember: dragon eggs and dragons themselves; the black-barked tree—Nightshade Tree—used by the warlocks of Qarth; the dragonglass candles of Valyria; the weirwood trees; the oily black stone of unknown origin; and Nagga's bones on the Iron Islands.

This was all Laenor could recall for now. He would admit, somewhat grimly, that his memory of this world had begun to fade with time—like a creeping fog, slow but sure. The same kind of fog that clouded his past, obscuring who he truly was and the family he once belonged to in his former world. So, he had resolved to write everything down. Even if his memories were to be swallowed by the mist, these records would remain, anchoring him to what he once knew.

But that wasn't the only reason for the list.

In the two years he and Daemon had spent waging war against the Triarchy, they had confirmed Laenor's speculations: magic in this world could only be accessed through three means—magical creatures, blood magic, or ancient objects saturated with magic for centuries. That's when Laenor decided to use this list to forge magical foci—items that could either draw magic from the caster's body or help them control ambient magic.

Aye, the caster's body. After the creation of Bloodstone, Laenor began to wonder: if blood carried magic, then surely the body must carry some of it too. If so, couldn't that magic be trained and grown like muscle?

To test his theory, he created slabs of dragonglass, similar to Bloodstone, designed to absorb magic from any who touched them. He dubbed these slabs Magic Sponges. Two remained on the Stepstones, one was sent to Driftmark, and another to King's Landing, all thoroughly tested before use.

And they worked.

When Daemon pressed his hand against one of the slabs for two minutes, he grew dizzy and nearly collapsed—Laenor's father had to catch him. Laenor himself lasted fifteen minutes before feeling drained and lightheaded, like how one feels after a long day in the training yard. That confirmed it: magic wasn't just in the blood—it coursed through the flesh.

With that knowledge, Daemon had agreed to help him find a method to cast magic without sacrifice. But their search had led only to failure. No wooden staff, no silver, bronze, or dragonglass etched with runes, could absorb magic, be it from outside or inside of them. The few that could, magic cast by them with intent, only got absorbed by the chaotic magic of the world, scattering it into the wind as if it had never been conjured at all.

Laenor was writing down notes on how to proceed when someone knocked repeatedly on his chamber door. He tucked the parchments away and called for entry.

"Our armor is ready," Daemon said, stepping in with eyes sweeping the room, as if searching for something.

"Very well, let's go," Laenor stood at once and gestured for Daemon to lead the way.

"Did you finish the armor designs for the dragons?" Laenor asked curiously.

"No, not yet. But I'll have it done before the moon's end," Daemon replied, confident. "Are you sure dragonsteel can hold one more enchantment without needing more than a single sacrifice?"

"With ease," Laenor replied.

"Dragonbones are rare. Even my House hesitates to use them too freely. I hope you're right this time too." Daemon's tone carried a touch of warning.

As they reached the armory, they found a small crowd had gathered, staring in awe at the newly forged suits of armor.

"If we're counting finite things," Laenor said with a smirk, "sacrifices aren't infinite either."

"We'd have more," Daemon shot back with a frown, "if you stopped drowning them with that blasted sea power of yours."

"I thought the wood Triarchy used for their ships was sturdier… or the men were better swimmers," Laenor said with mock disappointment. "Alas, I overestimated both."

Daemon shook his head. And Laenor said, "You don't have to sulk and be angry all the time. Your family isn't the only one with access to dragonbone. Valyria still has it in abundance. If it comes to it, we could always go there."

"I've no wish to follow in the footsteps of an aunt I never met. I've heard what became of her, and I'd rather not share her fate," Daemon muttered with a shiver.

"Our fate won't be the same," Laenor said. "Not if I succeed in finding a way to cast magic freely."

"I doubt I'll live long enough to see that."

"Oh, how you'll beg for a foci when I do," Laenor said with a grin.

"I don't beg," Daemon growled, his voice thick with offense.

"Oh, you will, Your Grace, you will," Laenor teased. "When you see how much power we can wield with a single foci in our hands, you'll beg and grovel for one. Power is a wondrous thing, Daemon. All men dance to its tune. In a way, you could say power is the Maiden of the Seven gods the Andals worship—every man wants a piece of the maiden, few like her so much they are willing to get her at any cost. Even stealing her or coaxing her away slowly. Especially the ambitious ones. Like you."

Laenor tilted his head with a knowing, serene smile.

Daemon sneered at him, but unlike before, he didn't lash out. "Like how your House—House Velaryon—'coaxed' the power of my House? The dragons?" he said, voice sharp and cold.

"Aye. And the Targaryens were fools to allow it," Laenor replied calmly. "Let it be a lesson to the House of the Dragon—bonding your maidens to dragons and then marrying them outside your bloodline is a recipe for creating rival dragonlord houses."

Daemon ground his jaw so hard that Laenor could hear it clearly, thanks to his enhanced hearing. Laenor knew full well that this time, the Velaryon dragon was no gift from House Targaryen—but he let it slide. After all, it was the blood of Daemon's house that gave him the right to control Embaryx.

"And let me remind you, Daemon, that the reason I'm even teaching you and the rest of the Targaryens magic is precisely because your House did not raise a fuss about Velaryons riding dragons. And I swear to you, your descendants will thank King Viserys for that choice."

"You've sprouted this nonsense before," Daemon snapped. "What makes you think wielding magic through foci will make us more powerful than dragons at our side? Dragons grow with age. Older ones are nearly impossible to bring down. That alone is the unshakable might of my House—and the might your House was gifted."

"I've heard of the fire mages of Valyria. But they didn't rule. The dragonlords did. With their unstoppable mounts." His voice rose, and by now, the crowd of soldiers nearby had turned to listen.

Laenor raised his hand and motioned for them to leave. All of them were Velaryon men, and they obeyed without hesitation.

"Near impossible, aye," Laenor said after the last had gone. "But not impossible. Dorne proved it."

"And you ask me what we give in return?" Laenor stepped closer. "Then hear this, Daemon Targaryen. When I succeed in creating true foci, House Velaryon will give House Targaryen the key to something far greater than dragonfire."

"I don't care why Valyrian mages used fire magic exclusively. Maybe, like you, they believed dragons were their only true might—not the magic that created them. But dragons are not power. Magic is power. Dragons can die."

He stepped even closer, voice sharper now, colder. "Everyone knows how to kill a dragon. Pierce its eye. Or pit it against another dragon. When the old ones die, and only hatchlings and adolescents remain, they become easy prey. And Targaryens? Without dragons, you're just another noble House with a glorified history."

"And who could pit dragon against dragon?" Daemon fired back. "Only your House has a dragon—and until Velaryon chooses to turn on Targaryen, there will be no such war."

"You still haven't explained how magic is better than dragons," Daemon added.

"Oh, don't pretend ignorance," Laenor said, eyes narrowing. "You know what Otto Hightower is playing at. Alicent's children may bear the name Targaryen. They may ride dragons. But they're not Valyrian. And they certainly bear no love to you—or your niece."

His voice turned grim.

"It's only a matter of time. As Otto once said, 'The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power.' The Hightowers are biding their time. Waiting. Preparing. Until their Aegon grows strong enough to claim the same power that Aegon the Conqueror once wielded."

Daemon's lips curled in disdain. "Otto and his brood may be treacherous, but how many sons could that Hightower whore possibly give him? Rhaenyra's line will always be stronger. Especially with House Velaryon at her back."

"And why would House Velaryon back Rhaenyra?" Laenor asked, amusement dancing in his tone.

"Because I will marry your sister. And you will marry Rhaenyra. Our children will inherit the Iron Throne and marry each other. We will end my brother's tainted line with Hightower blood—together."

"If my sister and Rhaenyra agree," Laenor said lightly. "But we're straying from the point. You've asked me time and again how foci could make us more powerful than dragons. Let me answer now."

He paused, gaze intense.

"Our magical reserves—they grow with time, endlessly. You know this. The Valyrian mages might've only used fire. But why limit ourselves to just one element? Magic can control all of them."

"You've seen my bombs. Once we craft a true foci, we'll be able to conjure fire or unleash explosions greater than any wildfire or dragonfire by far within a heartbeat—without a single drop of blood or sacrifice, and most importantly, it would be us who will wield that fire and can unleash wherever we want. We will not have to rely on our dragons to make us special or powerful."

Laenor's tone deepened, more serious.

"An ice spell, with enough power, could bring down a dragon from the sky. And a dragon grounded is a dragon killed. I could drown Vhagar herself—bring her down, just for a minute. And she would die. Dragons can be slain. But do you know what can't be, Daemon?"

Daemon's gaze flicked to him, no longer angry, just listening.

Laenor jabbed a finger into Daemon's chest. "Something inside of you they can't see. Something real. Something stronger than any beast, with endless ways to wield it. We could paint the world with our imagination, that is what the power we will wield. A power that doesn't require you to ride beside a great behemoth to survive every moment."

"And against that power, the lords of the realm can plot and scheme, all they want. But when they stand against men who wield magic as it was meant to be—pure, full, unrestrained—they'll be the same as children. Children thinking by outwitting a dragon, they could kill it. One that doesn't need wings or flame to end their existence. One thought from us and all their schemes and plots of outwitting us would be ash in the winds."

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Chapter Text

Braavos, Essos

Braavos, one of the Nine Free Cities, is often called the bastard daughter of Valyria. Built on a thousand islands, its lifeblood flows through trade and mercantile enterprise. The escaped slaves of Valyria had chosen this mist-shrouded refuge in desperation, praying their former masters wouldn't find it—or that the ever-present fog would shield them from the dragonlords who ruled the skies.

But the fear of dragons soon receded as time passed. The shipwrights who had fled Valyria knew their craft well—Valyria accepted nothing less than perfection. And so, with those ships, their natural harbor, and the unbreakable resolve of a people who swore to live free and never again wear chains, Braavos rose. Their efforts, unified in purpose, made the city one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the world after the Doom. Braavos even paid reparations for the destruction caused during their escape and returned the ships they had stolen from the Freehold.

Like any city or settlement, Braavos needed a leader—one to bring order and speak with other cities and kingdoms for the sake of trade and alliances. But unlike Westeros, which clung to feudalism, Braavos embraced a more egalitarian system, choosing their leader not through blood but through merit and tradition. They did not name their ruler Archon, like others in Essos, but Sealord—for the sea and its bounty had birthed Braavos as surely as any mother. That, and the power of the Iron Bank and the House of Black and White, made the city what it is.

Today was a day like any other in Braavos. The city bustled with life. Its harbors were crowded with ships, arriving and departing in a rhythm as old as the tides. The sun hovered overhead as the palace of the Sealord held council.

"Laenor Velaryon… if only his power had emerged a decade later. We could have gained a formidable ally," the Sealord of Braavos murmured. Varrego Sanorlan had once arranged to betroth his son to the daughter of a Westerosi lord—Corlys Velaryon, a man known throughout the world as the Sea Snake. Corlys was infamous, his name spoken even in distant Yi Ti. And his house, with its seafaring legacy, had ties to royalty—he was wed to a Targaryen princess. One marriage could have led to another, and a deep alliance might have bloomed. Braavos had traded with Westeros since its founding. That opportunity, Varrego knew now, had slipped through his fingers.

At the time, he had scoffed at Corlys's ambition, thinking it foolish for the old lord to offer his daughter to a king only slightly younger than himself. He laughed when the offer was rejected and the king wed another. Now he sighed—a long breath of quiet defeat. That ship had left the harbor long ago. The past could not be changed.

"What are we to do, my lord?" one of his counselors asked.

"I maintain my stance," said another. "House Velaryon or Westerosi control over the Stepstones changes nothing for us. In fact, I say it's better this way. Our captains need not fear pirates or slavers bleeding us of coin and kidnapping our men for the slave markets."

He spat the last word with visible disgust.

But Varrego no longer paid attention to their familiar bickering—it had begun the moment Daemon and Corlys seized control of the Stepstones, and had continued ever since. Instead, the Sealord fixed his gaze on the silent figures seated at the end of the council table: a representative of the Iron Bank, and a figure from the House of Black and White. Their presence today was no coincidence. Varrego had asked them for their thoughts on the recent rumors—on Laenor Velaryon's powers, on the rediscovery of Valyrian magic.

Fused stone. Valyrian steel. If the rumors were true, and they are, Westeros—and more importantly, House Velaryon with House Targaryen—would soon be swimming in gold.

"What are your thoughts on the matter?" he asked the two.

Both stared at him—unblinking, unreadable. After a long pause, the Iron Bank's representative finally answered:

"The Keyholders have concluded that Laenor Velaryon, House Velaryon, and Westeros have made no hostile moves toward Tyrosh or any neighboring Free City. House Targaryen still opposes slavery. There is no cause for action. Let the Westerosi squabble among themselves. As always."

With that, the woman stood and departed, offering neither bow nor courtesy.

"How rude. You should mention her lack of manners to the Keyholders, my lord," one counselor muttered indignantly.

Varrego, however, turned his gaze toward the still-seated man from the House of Black and White. The man's expression did not change. His eyes were hollow, his smile faint and chilling.

"Laenor Velaryon will live… for now," the man said in a voice that held no emotion. It was the for now that sent a chill down the Sealord's spine.

"Valar Morghulis," the man concluded.

"Valar Dohaeris," Varrego replied, bowing his head slightly.

The man did not leave. He merely fell silent, still watching with that same empty stare and ghostly smile.

The message was clear. The council knew it, and Varrego knew it. The Iron Bank had spoken. The Faceless Men had spoken. The Sealord may wear the crown of Braavos, but true power resided elsewhere. And should any Sealord defy that silent authority, he would find not only his position—but his life—cut short.

Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone

Laenor was staring at the piece of wood in his hand with a mix of happiness and pride. Ten and a half inches long, carved from heart tree weirwood—white as the clouds in the sky—with a core of dragonbone. The bone of dragon is of blue-colored hatchling died on Dragonstone, if Daemon was to be believed. But this wand was more than just wood and core. The dragonbone had been dipped in melted silver and bronze, layered so finely that it gleamed faintly through the white wood. At its tip, embedded deep into the core, sat a shard of blood-magic-empowered dragonglass. And etched across its length were painstakingly carved runes, each one designed by Laenor to channel magic with the highest efficiency while preventing the wand from breaking under pressure.

He had already tested it—again and again—until he was left huffing and puffing from sheer magical exhaustion. Laenor hadn't told anyone yet about his success. Not even Daemon. He wanted to be sure it truly worked. To run every possible test. He feared, perhaps, that this wand would end up like his previous prototypes—turning to dust after two or three uses. But now, three days had passed. Three days of spellcasting, and the wand had yet to show the faintest crack or splinter in the wood.

His joy and pride were well-earned.

Laenor closed the heavy tome he had filled with notes from a year's worth of failed experiments. Every failure. Every breakthrough. Every hurdle. All of it was there—now concluded with success.

He had even crafted his first spell in the process. And that, he decided, would be his next pursuit: spell creation.

Laenor let out a long sigh of weariness. Perhaps it was time to return to Driftmark. It had been too long since he'd seen his mother and sister, and Laena had sent raven after raven insisting he come home for a visit. He nodded to himself. No one else was present in his room, and the decision had been made. He would return to Driftmark, take a breath, and enjoy the life he had been given. He had trained and toiled too long—it was time for a well-earned rest.

As for the spell itself—Laenor had faced many difficulties. None of the spells from Harry Potter's world worked here. Not a single one. But he wasn't starting from nothing. He had wand movements, incantations, and a crucial understanding: emotion and intent shaped the spell. So Laenor worked with what he had, crafting new incantations in High Valyrian, tracing runes in the air with wand motions, and pouring his intent into the casting.

He chose water for his first spell. It didn't take a genius to know that Laenor, with his absurdly high affinity for water, would have an easier time crafting a spell of that element. After trial and error, testing different words and movements, he had succeeded.

Laenor stepped toward the open window, wand in hand. The breeze from the sea brushed against his face. He raised the wand, traced the shape of the water rune midair, and let the power rise from within him, coursing down his arm and into the wand.

"Vysagon," he whispered.

The moment the word left his lips, water burst into existence at the tip of the wand, forming in a blink. It shot forward with such speed that the human eye would have struggled to follow it. A heartbeat later, Laenor heard a distant splash. He smiled.

The spell had struck the sea.

His first spell. His only spell, for now.

Water Blast.

That, he supposed, was the closest translation in the common tongue.

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Chapter Text

Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone

"A power that could far eclipse our dragon," Daemon said sarcastically, imitating Laenor's voice when he'd first uttered those words. Laenor sighed at the older man's childishness.

After over a week of testing, Laenor had finally decided it was time to reveal what he had spent the last gods-damned year working on. And since Daemon was currently the closest to him—Laenor being at Dragon's Forge—it made sense to craft the first wand for the King of the Narrow Sea. A chance to see how the wand functioned in someone else's hands.

Daemon, skeptical at first, folded almost immediately after witnessing a demonstration. Still, he followed Laenor back to his room with a doubtful expression. "You can manipulate water even without that wooden stick," he'd muttered, which Laenor didn't bother arguing with. Instead, he simply offered, "No one's forcing you. You're free to go if you don't trust me." Grumbling, Daemon had stayed—brow furrowed, frustration rising.

Now they stood on the sandy shores of Bloodstone. Daemon jabbed his wand—a ten-inch length of wood with a core made from Caraxes's scales—into the air. When asked how he had obtained the scale, Daemon had only grunted and shivered, refusing to elaborate. Laenor, unfazed, had made the wand with the same process as his own: bronze, silver, and gold layers, a sliver of dragonglass fused inside.

Daemon's first reaction to the wand was underwhelming—a faint thrumming in his hand. He had promptly dragged Laenor out to the beach, demanding assistance in producing magic that would prove Laenor's grand claims. "It sure is eclipsing everything in doing absolutely nothing, I suppose."

Laenor shot him a dry look. "Spells are not like runes," he explained. "With runes, you write your intention and simplify the magic of the world to achieve the effect—at a steep cost. Spells don't work that way. Tracing runes in the air doesn't count as actual carving. You have to channel emotion and intent—so powerfully that they bend reality through your incantation."

Daemon scowled. "What do you think I'm doing? I've done everything you told me. I moved the stick like you did, channeled my emotions, focused my thoughts, pronounced the incantation perfectly. If I've made a mistake, point it out. Since you haven't, the problem isn't with me. The problem is with your damn invention."

Laenor inhaled, then exhaled slowly, keeping calm. "I understand your frustration, Daemon, truly. But I did not just manipulate water. I conjured it. From nothing. I didn't bend existing water—I created it. That's a level of magic that goes beyond what we were doing before. Conjuration is not some beginner's parlor trick. It takes time. It takes patience. And even with my affinity—an unnatural, obscene affinity with water—it still took me nearly half an hour to create the spell."

Daemon gave him a long glare, but Laenor pressed on, his voice sharpening with sincerity.

"Your fire affinity is strong, I'll grant you that. But it is not my water affinity. Not even close. And fire is volatile—wilder, more emotional. You won't tame it by treating it like a rebellious servant."

Daemon's lips pressed into a hard line.

"Here's what I suggest," Laenor said, kneeling to sit on a flat rock and folding his arms. "Forget the incantation I gave you. Forget about the Fireball I told you to make, for now, even. But do not forget the wand movements I taught you. They remain valid for fire until you decide to invent your own spellcasting forms. Now—close your eyes. Find a singular, burning emotion. Not just any feeling—your strongest. Rage, hunger, pride, fear. Channel it. Wrap your intent around it. Then speak an incantation in High Valyrian that matches precisely what you want. If the spell fails again, it won't be for lack of effort. That, I can promise you."

Laenor leaned back on his elbows, watching. Daemon stood unmoving for a long moment, his breath coming hard and fast, face twitching as if torn between spitting insults or setting himself ablaze.

Then, without a word, he lifted the wand.

He traced the fire rune again, this time more deliberately. His lips moved, whispering the incantation under his breath again and again. Finally, aloud, he said, "Dracarys."

Nothing happened.

Laenor raised an eyebrow at Daemon's choice of incantation but said nothing.

Again Daemon tried, then again, teeth gritted, face red with frustration. Hour passed like grains in an hourglass. Laenor watched with growing concern. Daemon's face was a mask of fury, fists clenched, sweat dripping.

"You're not channeling it," Laenor said softly, finally. "Your rage is pouring outward. You're venting it. You need to bottle it, let it burn within, and then release it through the wand. Shape it. Think of your anger as a forge—don't scatter the heat, direct it."

Daemon glared, but his breathing slowed. He nodded once.

He closed his eyes again. This time, he breathed deeply—once, twice. His face, once a twisted portrait of rage, smoothed out into eerie calm. Laenor tilted his head. Was that serenity? No—focus. A predator's stillness before the pounce.

Then Daemon opened his mouth.

"Dracarys."

And the world burned.

Flames burst forth like a living creature, bright crimson like blood, roaring from the wand's tip like a newborn dragon set loose. The fire surged in a single, monstrous jet—longer than a war galley—blasting forward with terrible hunger. It hissed as it touched the sea, boiling the water instantly. Steam rose like a great white wall, shrouding everything in a thick, sulfuric fog.

Where fire kissed sand, molten glass was left behind—twinkling, bubbling pools that hardened into rippling black obsidian.

Laenor stood up, wide-eyed. The spell had worked.

And it had answered Daemon's fury with fire of its own.

Laenor tore his gaze from the vicious flames to the man who had conjured them, only to find Daemon standing there with a savage glint in his eyes and an excited smile stretched across his face. It had been a minute or two since the fire had erupted, but Laenor could already see the signs—Daemon was pouring out too much magic, too quickly. If he continued, magical exhaustion would soon follow.

Laenor decided to intervene, which wasn't difficult for him, especially here—so close to his domain. Without lifting a finger, he commanded the sea with a mere thought. Water obeyed. Rising from the ocean and surging through the dense fog that had veiled the coastline, a colossal wave—longer and higher than Daemon's jet of fire—formed and rushed toward the beach. It crashed down with roaring force, slamming into the flames and dousing Daemon in a cold, soaking sheet.

Laenor watched in amusement as the fire hissed into steam and the rage vanished momentarily from Daemon's face—only to return with a vengeance.

Still, the wave had done its job. Daemon blinked as if waking from a fever dream. The euphoric intoxication of raw magic faded, and with it, his balance wavered. He stumbled as he turned toward Laenor, his legs faltering slightly.

"This is why I did what I did," Laenor said with a snort.

Daemon glared, furious. "You could have called out to me, and I would've stopped! And don't lie—you didn't do that to help me. That was a show of power. I'm not a child, Laenor."

The venom in Daemon's tone caught Laenor off guard. That glare—it wasn't irritation. It was hate. A deep, simmering fury burned in Daemon's eyes, the kind Laenor hadn't expected from someone he considered a friend. Not his best friend, perhaps—but a friend nonetheless. And he had always believed Daemon felt the same. So why such rage over something so minor?

If Daemon had been able to stand firm, Laenor had little doubt the man would have lunged at him.

"I won't deny it," Laenor said calmly. "Yes, it was a show of power. A reminder—that we are still learning, still growing. You've seen only the tip of the iceberg, Daemon. And the look on your face—like you were drunk on your own might—led me to that decision."

His expression hardened as he took a step closer. "But all that can come later. Right now, I need you to calm down. Take a breath and look at yourself. You're acting like someone just stole Caraxes from you."

Laenor narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Calm yourself," he said, voice sharp with command. "Or I'll have to do it for you."

"And what if I don't? Huh? What will you do now? Bath me again? The maids of King's Landing could do a better job than you," Daemon grunted, his voice still thick with fury. He staggered forward like a drunkard in the street, muttering to himself, "Fucking cunt, why can't I stand properly?"

Then he looked at Laenor with eyes full of barely contained rage. "It's you. Aye, it's you. You're doing this. Stop it, Laenor. Let me stand straight—or I swear by the Fourteen, I'll aim the flames at you this time," he threatened, his wand hand twitching.

Laenor tried to hold it in—he truly did—but one more stumble from Daemon was all it took. He burst into laughter. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed more. The sight was too much: the Rogue Prince, the King of the Narrow Sea, staggering like a halfwit drunk and tossing around empty threats for something Laenor hadn't even done.

Oh, he didn't miss the murderous glare Daemon was shooting his way, no. But that only made it funnier.

Once Laenor finally caught his breath, he raised an eyebrow—only to see Daemon lifting his wand with clear intent to cast the one spell he had succeeded at, the fire spell.

Laenor sighed. He may be immune to flame, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being set ablaze. More than that, he pitied Daemon in this moment. So, with barely a thought, Laenor summoned the sea behind his friend and shaped it into a blunt hammer of water.

Then—with no more ceremony—he brought it down on Daemon's head.

The splash was loud. The fall louder.

Daemon crumpled like a sack of flour, knocked out cold.

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Chapter Text

Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone

110 AC

Laenor was making his way to the dining hall of Dragon's Forge to break his fast. The day before had been hectic—and a day of revelations, to say the least. Daemon's erratic and temperamental behavior after casting his first spell had been a surprise; even Laenor hadn't anticipated such a reaction. And to make matters more peculiar, Daemon hadn't woken up until morning—not since Laenor had knocked him out cold.

Truth be told, Laenor hoped Daemon could explain what had provoked that furious outburst. He feared this would become another hurdle—Daemon's personal struggle to wield magic. Because it might compromise Daemon's ability to cast magic if such uncontrollable behavior erupted every time he cast a spell. It would have no hurdle for Laenor if not for a darker thought that lurked in the corners of Laenor's mind the whole night: what if it wasn't just Daemon? What if this reaction were common to all Targaryens?

Not that Laenor particularly cared for the entire House Targaryen—but his mother, father, and sister all had dragonlord blood. Their magical potential likely stemmed from it. And if this same madness manifested in them as well, it would be a devastating blow. He'd been excited—eager, even—to craft wands for his sister and mother and teach them magic when he returned to Driftmark, which would be soon.

Pushing open the doors to the dining chamber, Laenor stepped into a dark room adorned with deep red tapestries and white weirwood furniture. The scent of warm bread and roasted meat drifted in the air.

He spotted Daemon already breaking his fast, his face grim—an expression Laenor had come to recognize often on those who had overindulged in wine the night before. Daemon looked up, and when his eyes met Laenor's, he shivered. A rare thing. Daemon didn't shiver—certainly not at the sight of Laenor.

Laenor shrugged the moment off. He moved to sit beside him, nodding briefly to the maid who served him, and began to eat.

Nearly ten minutes passed in silence, broken only by the soft clinks of utensils and shifting plates, before Laenor finally spoke.

"So," he said, wiping his mouth with a cloth, "I quote: 'I'll aim my flames toward you next.' End quote. Are we not going to talk about that?"

Daemon groaned and dropped his head against the table, his brow nearly touching the surface of the table. The food in front of him lay forgotten. After a long pause, he finally answered.

"I wasn't in control," he said quietly. "Even now, my head feels like someone is driving a hot nail through it. The sheer rage I felt after your little show… I can't describe it in words. My body—gods, it was weak. So weak I couldn't even walk properly, as you saw. Maybe it was magical exhaustion, I don't know. I wasn't fully in control of myself to tell."

He raised his head to meet Laenor's gaze, eyes solemn and unnerved.

"If I had to describe what happened, as close as I can," he said slowly, "then my answer would be this…"

Daemon's lips curled slightly, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"…the dragon in me was woken up."

"Are you serious?"

"I wouldn't jape about something like this, Laenor. I've been angry before—countless times. Even when Viserys disowned me as heir and married that cunt Otto's whore of a daughter, I didn't feel the kind of rage I felt yesterday. What I felt then was something primal. It saw no reason—only a desire to lash out. And your display of power didn't help," Daemon said grimly.

But then his eyes narrowed, turning accusatory, suspicious.

"There was one detail I can't shake. In that rageful state, I felt less a man than I've ever been. And when I looked at you, all my instincts screamed: run… or take my last stand and try to take you down with me. Cripple you for life."

Laenor, initially shocked at Daemon describing himself as nearly animalistic, furrowed his brows in confusion. "It must've been your baser instincts warning you, then. Or do you think I have some plan to betray you? Backstab you?" he asked, visibly aghast that Daemon would even entertain such a thought.

"Oh, I know you'd never betray me," Daemon said with complete certainty. "That's not what troubles me. What does is how powerful you've grown… in so little time."

Laenor blinked, his thoughts spiraling, but Daemon wasn't finished. After a long moment, he sighed and continued.

"For a time, I saw something. When you doused me in seawater, the magic was still flowing through me. I could feel it—this steady current running from my heart to my hand, into the wand. And when I turned my eyes to glare at you, to cow you… the magic shifted. It flowed into my eyes. That's when I saw it. And that is what shocked me."

Daemon paused, as if to test whether he'd imagined it all.

"I clearly saw your body, but it wasn't your form that startled me—it was the sea-green liquid energy surrounding you, with the golden spark shining like nothing I have ever seen before. I dare say it look divine. The spark… it caught my attention. My blood sang. It demanded I steal it from you, rip open your chest, mangle your body, and take it—to sate something inside me I didn't even know was hungry."

He went quiet for a heartbeat, then added, almost reverently, "And then it appeared."

Laenor's eyes narrowed. "It?"

"It was colossal," Daemon whispered. "Took the shape of a bare-chested man, but even maddened as I was, I knew it was no man. A warrior of the Seven, like those the Andals worship, built of fury and divine muscle, each movement brimming with overwhelming strength. He carried a three-pronged spear—like those the neck barbarians use—and his presence made me fall. That… that's why I stumbled. Do you know anything about that, Laenor?"

Daemon's stare was hard, as if daring him to lie.

"You sure have no shame or hesitance in admitting to my face about your thoughts of mutilating me, do you?" Laenor asked dryly.

Daemon scoffed. "Of all the things I said, that's what you focus on? And what if I did think that? I couldn't do anything against you anyway. I've always known you were powerful. But seeing you move water is one thing. Sensing what lies inside you… that's something else entirely. Now, my answers?"

Laenor smirked. "I have to say, I'm flattered. The Rogue Prince himself thinks I'm so powerful."

Daemon glowered in response.

"And to answer your question—how would I know what you saw? I didn't see it. And the idea of tearing open my own chest to look for a spark never once crossed my mind. This is all new to me, as it is to you, Daemon," Laenor lied smoothly, shrugging.

In truth, he had a very good idea what the spark and the figure represented. The spark of divinity. And the colossal man Daemon described—there was little doubt in Laenor's mind: it was Poseidon, Sea God and Lord of Storms.

Though Laenor did wonder how Daemon was able to see Poseidon—it shouldn't have been possible. Not that he could entirely rule out the idea that it might be because of Daemon now possessing some kind of "mage's sight" or "wizard eyes" or whatever else people liked to call it back in his world. Laenor himself had never tried channeling magic into his eyes, but even he doubted such an act would be simple—or safe. That said, the possibilities were too tempting to ignore. To be able to see magic with his eyes? The utility alone made it worth the risk, at least once. Besides, he could always rely on his water healing, and hope it could restore his vision if things went wrong.

Daemon sighed and shook his head, his gaze fixed blankly on the chamber doors. He was deep in thought, Laenor presumed.

"If I were you," Laenor said, leaning in and placing a hand on Daemon's shoulder with a firm squeeze, "I wouldn't dwell on it too much. Like I said yesterday, we're just taking baby steps into the realm of magic. The answers we seek will come with time—as we progress."

He let go and nodded toward him. "Now, I think your next task should be trying to cast magic again. This time, aim for something a bit less… explosive. Not that I can blame you—the inferno was partly my fault, considering I encouraged it. But now, see if you can cast in smaller amounts, without relying on rage or overwhelming emotion. Perhaps try a water spell instead. It doesn't draw from anger or hate—it requires calm, serenity. Control."

Daemon waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about me losing control like that again. I've gone over the whole thing in my head more times than I can count. It was a mistake, and I know that now. I bit off more than I could chew. That flame… it wasn't just ordinary magic. Not the kind you'd find in a basic spell."

"Hmm. So you're saying it was some kind of cursed flame?"

Daemon frowned, considering. After a moment, he shook his head. "No, not cursed. But… flames that require dark emotions to manifest. And when you extinguish them—especially without satisfying their hunger—they feed back on you. They amplify those dark feelings tenfold."

Laenor raised an eyebrow. "Oh? For someone who cast only once, you've deduced quite a lot."

Daemon scoffed. "I had the whole gods-damned night to relive it again and again. I didn't sleep a wink." The scowl on his face was equal parts frustration and exhaustion.

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Chapter Text

Bloodstone

"So you're saying that willpower plays as much a role as intent and wand movements?" Laenor asked, intrigued.

"Aye," Daemon nodded, the gesture firm, like a man certain of his words. "I don't know if it's the same with water spells, but in fire, willpower is just as crucial as every other part you taught me. Both for conjuring and controlling the flames—something I've come to learn well over the past week."

And wasn't that interesting? It had been a week since Daemon had thrown himself wholeheartedly into fire magic, declaring himself a Fire Mage with his usual flare for dramatics. Though he hadn't yet created a dozen spells, Daemon had succeeded in crafting one—the fireball spell Laenor had first suggested after giving him his wand. That, in itself, was impressive. It proved Daemon had a high affinity for fire. After all, creating even a single working spell within a week wasn't something just anyone could manage.

"So," Daemon said, swirling the wine in his goblet, "how fares your water magic?"

Laenor scoffed, "I've already created twelve spells. My affinity for water is so absurdly high, it's almost laughable. The only reason I'm still bothering to create more is because of my family."

Laenor had planned to return to Driftmark days ago, but his father had gotten wind of his success in crafting magical foci and had arrived at Dragon's Forge before Laenor could leave. After receiving his wand, his father had been attempting to cast Water Blast ever since—and requested that Laenor stay until he succeeded, so they could return to Driftmark together.

Laenor had asked why, but his father merely gave him a blank look, offering no answer. And while Laenor could have ignored the command (veiled thinly as a request), he hadn't. And now, he was stuck here.

Then Daemon had decided he would return to Westeros with them, at least whenever they make their way back home, claiming Viserys might just make his way here if he did not return with them. Laenor had been shocked to learn that Viserys had sent over a hundred summons demanding Daemon return to King's Landing. Daemon, in typical fashion, had ignored them all. It might not have happened in any other timeline other than theirs. But here, the growing popularity of both Daemon has changed him over time—Laenor could already see Daemon's arrogance inflating by the day. 

"I truly envy House Velaryon," Daemon muttered, voice low and rough. He shook his head and downed the wine in one long gulp.

Before Laenor could respond, the chamber doors opened, and in walked his father—Lord Corlys Velaryon—with a look of self-satisfaction that barely stopped short of a smirk. He strode in confidently, took the seat across from Daemon, and said with clear amusement in his voice, "Did I hear that correctly, or has my son created a sound illusion spell? Because the Daemon Targaryen I know would never admit envy of another house, even one as noble as our own."

Daemon growled, though his face soon went blank. "I won't deny it. I said it. Though that envy doesn't come from your family's magical talent—Laenor being the lone exception. Tell me, do you think you'll manage to cast a spell this year, or should we send word to Driftmark that Laenor's return might take several?"

Laenor watched the light fade from his father's eyes, replaced by that carefully crafted mask he wore in court and council. "Be that as it may," Corlys replied calmly, "I pray to the Fourteen Flames that I don't turn into a mindless beast raging at everything in sight when I do cast my first spell. We wouldn't want a repeat of such a shameful display, would we?" He then turned to Laenor, his tone unreadable. "What say you, son?"

Laenor sighed and shook his head. "Why must you two always try to one-up each other?" he muttered, cutting off what was surely a biting retort from Daemon. "Now, Father, would you mind telling me why you're here and not training to cast your spell?"

His father, instead of answering Laenor's question directly, drew his wand and began performing the wand movements Laenor knew all too well. "Vysagon," Corlys said firmly.

A powerful blast of water erupted from the wand and struck the black wall of Daemon's keep. The stone, said to be harder than diamond, now bore minor cracks where the water blast had collided.

"Corlys, you old snake," Daemon muttered, glaring at Laenor's father. "You could've just simply said you can cast a spell now. Did you really need to show off in my room?"

"Where's the fun in that, Daemon? Where's the fun in that?" Corlys replied with an amused glint in his eye.

Laenor raised an eyebrow, amused himself, though he could see Daemon didn't appreciate the remark—especially since he stood up, likely ready to respond.

"I'll show you fun—"

"For the love of the dragons, the two of you behave like children," Laenor cut in, rolling his eyes. "But I won't be disturbing your duel of egos any longer. Father, you asked me to wait until you could cast a spell. You've done that now, so tomorrow morning, first thing—I'm leaving for Driftmark."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," Corlys said, smiling. "I gave instructions to Vaemond on my way here. He's preparing the Sea Snake for our departure tomorrow."

Laenor nodded, visibly pleased, even as his father continued, "I apologize for the selfish request, son. I thank you for indulging it. I know how badly you wanted to return home, how much you miss your mother and sister. That's why the first thing I did after succeeding with the spell was to find Vaemond and ready our departure."

"I'm glad you did," Laenor said. "But I'm not sailing with you—I'll be swimming to Driftmark."

That drew a blink from both men.

"Why not fly on the back of your dragon?" Daemon asked. "Caraxes and I could even accompany you. I intend to stop by Dragonstone before returning to King's Landing."

"There are a few reasons," Laenor replied. "Chief among them is speed. I can reach Driftmark much faster by swimming than by riding Embaryx. And, to be honest, I've had the idea of swimming back home in my head since I first sailed here aboard Father's ship."

He loved his dragon dearly—they flew together every day. But if there was a large body of water between him and his destination, he preferred the sea. Swimming wasn't just faster; it felt natural, effortless… and fun. Meeting new marine life and making his way there while swimming and racing with them is fun and something Laenor enjoys. Not to mention, the water was his domain. Ever since his powers had evolved past a certain threshold, he found another home there; a vast sea was his home. A home that could cause untold destruction if he wills it so.

"Very well," Corlys said with a nod. "I hope you travel there safely."

Laenor smirked, "You should get back to your practice—try to make that blast larger and more potent. That way, you can really shock and awe Mother and Laena."

A flicker of embarrassment passed over his father's face, quickly hidden behind a practiced mask. Before Daemon could seize on it and mock him in return, Corlys muttered a farewell and made a swift exit.

"Well," Laenor said, stretching slightly, "I'm off to work on a new spell to pass the time. I'm sure we'll see each other soon, Daemon. After all, I'm sure King Viserys will want to meet me soon enough. I'll bet my dragonsteel sword that a raven will arrive on the same day—or the day after—I return to Driftmark, demanding I present myself in King's Landing."

Laenor chuckled as he turned to leave the chamber, and a single snort from Daemon followed him out. He made his way toward the Forge. If he truly meant to leave before sunrise, he'd best speak to Robb Storm now. The man was an excellent blacksmith—but not an early riser. And Laenor would rather not slip away without saying goodbye.

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

Laenor emerged from the sea as dry as he had entered it. The sun had already dipped beneath the horizon, and darkness crept across the waters. High Tide—the seat his father had built for him and his descendants, with its pale stone and silver roofs—gleamed like a beacon in the gloom.

He had departed Bloodstone before sunrise and now, by nightfall, he had reached Driftmark. That was fast—very fast. Had he chosen to ride Embaryx, he would have arrived around or after the hour of the nightingale, not this early.

Pulling himself from his wandering thoughts—and forcing himself to stop gawking at the seat that would one day be his—Laenor strode toward the painted doors of the keep. The pale red doors opened the moment a guard on duty noticed a massive hand of water rise from the sea and wave toward the gate, pointing at Laenor.

The guard didn't even bother checking. Only one man in the known world can control water like that from their point of view. Technically, Laenor's father could now do so too—thanks to the wand—but none of the guards knew that. Not yet. Maybe in four or five days, when his father arrived by ship, they would.

"Where are my mother and sister?" Laenor asked the man stationed at the entrance to the Hall of High Tide.

"They're taking supper in the family quarters, Lord Laenor," the man answered, bowing his head with a respectful look of near-reverence.

Laenor smiled and clapped him on the shoulder before heading toward the family wing. He stopped the guard from running to his mother and announcing his return—he wanted to see the look on their faces when they saw him after more than three years.

Soon, he arrived at the private dining quarters of House Velaryon. The guards at the door gawked at him the same way as all the others—wide-eyed, stunned. Laenor had expected at least a little fear or wariness, considering his powers, but it seemed he'd underestimated both his mother's administrative skill and the loyalty of their retainers. With no further hesitation, he pushed open the doors and stepped inside with a broad grin, calling out, "Surprise!"

He barely had time to take in the room before Laena's eyes lit up with shock and joy, previous anticipation and impatience gone. She stood at once and flung herself into his arms.

"I missed you. I missed you. I missed you… so much!" she babbled, her words rushing out so fast Laenor struggled to understand them.

He laughed and lifted her off the ground, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He'd missed her too—more than he could say. Even amid his magical experiments and discoveries, not a day passed when he didn't think of her and their mother, especially whenever he reached a breakthrough. What would they think? Would they be proud?

He inhaled the familiar scent of lavender and sea breeze that clung to Laena's hair before gently setting her down. Her smile warmed his heart more than he knew was possible. Instead of returning to her seat, Laena laced her fingers with his and stayed by his side as their mother approached.

"Were you surprised?" Laenor asked with a cheeky grin.

"We got informed of your arrival just a few minutes before you entered," his mother said with a teasing smile as she pulled him into a warm embrace. "I even ordered the servants to set your plate."

Laenor groaned softly, disappointed that his surprise had been ruined, but he returned the hug nonetheless. After a moment, she stepped back and gestured toward the table. "Come. Eat first. We'll talk afterward—I imagine you're hungry."

Laenor made his way to the table, Laena still clinging to his hand. Instead of taking the seat to their mother's left, she pulled out the chair beside Laenor and sat there, refusing to let go. He chuckled as he tried to free his hand to eat, but Laena's grip only tightened.

"Laena," he said, half amused, half confused, "how am I supposed to eat with only one hand?"

"Not my problem," she muttered smugly.

"Laena, let your brother eat in peace," their mother chided gently. "And he's not going anywhere. He's staying with us—indefinitely. Aren't you, Laenor?"

He smiled awkwardly and nodded at once. The subtle edge in her voice wasn't lost on him. And with their father away, there'd be no one to take the brunt of her fury—and Laenor has no wish to end up beneath Meleys' claws.

Laena hesitated, but one sharp look from their mother made her release Laenor's hand—albeit reluctantly. As a final act of protest, she jabbed him in the ribs hard enough to make him wince.

Laenor gritted his teeth and endured the bullying of his eldest sibling, choosing instead to focus on the steaming food in front of him. After all, he'd missed more than just family. He'd missed Driftmark's food too.

"Where is your father, Laenor? Does he have no intention of leaving the Stepstones?" his mother asked, a displeased frown on her face.

"He's already sailed from Bloodstone. Should be here in a few days."

"Good. Did you come here on your dragon, then?"

"Nay. Embaryx must be on his way as well. I swam my way here," Laenor said before she could ask further. "And yes, Mother, it was safe—and faster. That's why I chose it." He put another spoonful of honeyed meat into his mouth, savoring the taste. Dragon's Forge had many things, but its cooks couldn't hold a candle to those at High Tide.

His mother only huffed in response. "Did you two at least practice your Valyrian glyphs? And please tell me you're using the second dragonglass device I sent you," Laenor asked, raising an eyebrow in question.

Laenor narrowed his eyes slightly, seeing his mother's eyes avoid his for a moment. "I did hope you hadn't ignored the device. It's crucial to empty your reserves daily so your body saturates better with magic."

"I did learn all the Valyrian glyphs you call Old Valyrian," she replied, her tone softening. "It wasn't difficult. I had some knowledge from my years on Dragonstone with my father," she added with a fond smile. "Laenor, even though I've written this before in my letters, I'll say it again—your grandfather would've been proud. You're bringing back knowledge we thought was lost."

Laenor smiled. "That means a lot, Mother. And the dragonglass practice?"

Her eyes flicked away.

"I did use it. For six moons," she replied a bit too quickly. "But as Lady of Driftmark, my duties consume most of my time. I also have to manage the Faith and the Sept here, so they do not start to tarnish your name. I couldn't afford to sit around for hours, doing that. Time was not something I could waste, my son."

Laenor only shook his head with a sigh. "Mandia?" he asked, turning to his sister. "Did you also neglect it?"

"Of course not!" Laena said fiercely. "I did everything you instructed—and more. I've learned all the Valyrian glyphs, and with Mother's help, I even created some clusters—or arrays, as you call them. As for channeling magic into dragonglass, I do it during my lessons with Septa and right before bed. It takes about five hours before I feel drained and drowsy enough to sleep."

Laenor beamed. "Excellent! Even Prince Daemon couldn't manage more than four and a half hours before tiring. Very good, Laena. It might seem like a waste of time, but I assure you it's not. You'll understand once Father returns."

"You mean I have to wait until Father returns?" Laena asked with a pout.

"Yes. Forgive me, but I promise the wait will be worth it," Laenor said gently. "And we'll get to see Mother's regretful face too."

"As if," their mother scoffed. "I don't fancy throwing magical bombs like Vaemond. Meleys can cause more destruction than any carvings or glyphs you make. There's a reason dragonlords ruled Valyria—not sorcerers."

Laenor only smiled. It was almost word-for-word what Daemon had once said… and now the Rogue Prince spent his days immersed in crafting spells.

"I can't wait to see your face when you witness what Father can do," Laenor said mysteriously, letting the intrigue linger.

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

Laenor stared at Veltharys in mild shock. Laena's dragon had always been the bulkier one of the two that hatched more than seven years ago—but he hadn't expected Veltharys to look so intimidating. She hadn't outgrown Embaryx, not yet, but her massive frame made her appear larger and more dangerous. Still, Laenor was sure her size came at the cost of speed. Compared to Embaryx's sleek and agile form, Veltharys would be slower in flight.

But it wasn't only Veltharys's growth that astonished him—it was Meleys that truly left his jaw slack. His mother's dragon had grown to rival, no, not rival but surpass, Dreamfyre in size.

And how did Laenor know Dreamfyre's size despite never having laid eyes on Rhaena Targaryen's blue dragon? Courtesy of Daemon Targaryen.

Daemon had seen all the dragons of House Targaryen, and during Embaryx's rapid growth, he would grumble often—comparing Embaryx's size to that of the Targaryen dragons. When Embaryx reached the size Dreamfyre had been for decades, Daemon had remarked that Laenor's dragon had already outpaced her. That comment alone told Laenor all he needed to gauge Meleys' current size.

Though that did not make Meleys larger than Veltharys and Embaryx—dragons decades her junior—even though she had grown mighty. Because both of the siblings' dragons had reached a size comparable to Silverwing, the she-dragon of Good Queen Alysanne. Daemon and Laenor's mother had both confirmed it. In another year or two, they'd likely match Vhagar or may surpass and reach the size of the Black Dread.

"Isn't Veltharys the prettiest?" Laena gushed, stroking her dragon's amethyst-scaled side lovingly. "And with Embaryx beside her, she shines even more—especially with his bleak, boring color." Laena laughed, and Veltharys joined her, releasing hot puffs of smoke and making odd, chuffing noises that—Laenor was quite sure—amounted to dragon laughter.

He didn't take offense. She was right. Veltharys was radiant with her shimmering, violet scales and the various hues that danced across her wing membranes. A magnificent dragon.

Embaryx, however, did take offense. The proud drake growled at Veltharys, then jabbed his snout toward Laena and turned his eyes on Laenor—clearly demanding, "You tell her I'm handsome too."

Laenor sighed and reached up to scratch under Embaryx's jaw. "No need to get worked up, Embaryx. So what if Veltharys has pretty scales? Dragons aren't meant to be pretty—they're meant to be ferocious. And you, my boy, are the most dangerous dragon alive. I'm sure of it."

Embaryx preened at that, spreading his forelimbs and puffing up as if showing off. Laenor chuckled and continued stroking his side.

Veltharys snorted dismissively and nuzzled against Laena, demanding more affection. Meanwhile, Meleys watched the whole interaction with a quiet stillness. Unlike the keen, expressive eyes of Veltharys and Embaryx, Laenor didn't see that same spark of intellect in the Red Queen's gaze. It wasn't that Meleys was dull—not at all—but these two… they were something else. Sharper. Brighter. More aware and intelligent than Meleys or any Targaryen dragons could ever be.

And Laenor intended to keep it that way. No dragon of House Targaryen—or any other—would surpass them in mind or might.

"So," Laenor said, eyes still on Meleys, "do you know what caused her sudden growth? I think only our dragons are special."

Laena, brushing her fingers over the ridged fins near Veltharys's spine—fins that reminded Laenor of Drogon's design in the Game of Thrones show—answered without looking up. In fact, Laenor could even say Veltharys looks quite the same like Drogon in the show, with horns larger and curved than the Black Dread reborn had in the show.

"She's been around Veltharys."

"What?" Laenor blinked.

"Mother and I think that Meleys's proximity to Veltharys is accelerating her growth. Not at the same rate, of course, but faster than before."

Laenor's mind reeled at the possibility. If Meleys had been influenced just by Veltharys… what would happen now that Embaryx was here too? That was the first thought came to his mind after hearing Laena.

But soon his mind calmed down from all the possible ways that these abilities of their dragon could benefit them, and Laenor decided that it was both a problem and a blessing for them.

A great blessing.

If true, which it should be because Laenor's mother is the smartest woman he has known in his life, which meant House Velaryon would soon possess the largest dragons in the known world. Three in number, few compare to Targaryen, yes—but each a titanic force. And Laenor, who understood all too well what a dragon the size of Vhagar could do, couldn't help but feel a jolt of pure, almost childish elation.

They were becoming unstoppable.

Now, it could also become problematic for House Velaryon. How so?

If Laena agreed to marry Daemon, House Targaryen would inevitably find out—and they would exploit Velaryon's unique dragon-related abilities to their fullest, especially given their superior numbers in dragons. Not to mention, a union between Laena and Daemon would also give the Targaryens access to dragon eggs from Veltharys's clutch. That was a dangerous prospect.

Should I tell Father? Laenor debated internally.

But after a moment's thought, he decided against it. If he told Corlys, his father would most certainly act, and Laena would be married off to one of their Velaryon cousins—perhaps a prudent choice, but likely one chosen to ensure that the dragons with such rare gifts remained solely within their bloodline.

Laenor wouldn't mind if Laena married within the family, but what he wanted more was for his sister to choose her own husband.

He glanced toward Laena, who was softly humming to herself as she lovingly stroked Veltharys's scaled hide. The great she-dragon rumbled in contentment beneath her rider's touch.

Laenor hadn't noticed the day before, having been tired from his journey, but now, in the light of day, it was impossible not to see—his sister had grown into a truly beautiful woman. Laena caught him staring, their eyes met briefly, and she smirked before turning away.

Laenor cleared his throat and shook himself out of his wandering thoughts.

"What about our dragon's other ability—to make plants grow and lands fertile?" he asked, shifting topics. "Did you and Mother put it to good use?"

"Aye, we did," Laena replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Mother's garden is filled with flowers and plants she had bought from merchants from every corner of the known world. Didn't you see the forest growing behind the keep? That was Veltharys's doing. And guess what kind of trees we planted?" She grinned mischievously.

"I haven't gone to that part since arriving," Laenor admitted with a shrug. "Coming in from the sea, I didn't get an aerial view either. So I've no idea."

"Goldenheart and weirwood trees," Laena beamed proudly. "All of them."

"What?" Laenor blinked in disbelief. "Goldenheart—as in, the same tree the Summer Islanders use for their famed bows?"

Laena nodded eagerly.

"But the Summer Islanders stopped exporting Goldenheart long ago! And how did you even get the seeds?"

"We didn't. The Sealord of Braavos did," Laena said with a smirk. "He's still corresponding with Mother, trying to revive the betrothal deal." She rolled her eyes. "As if I'd ever marry his witless, arrogant son. Anyway, Mother asked if he had any seeds from the black-barked tree the warlocks of Qarth are rumored to use for their magic. He didn't—but he did send many others from his private collection. One of them turned out to be Goldenheart."

Laenor snorted. He remembered the Sealord's son well. When Laenor was younger, the boy had arrived here on Driftmark to visit Laena and Laenor's parents; he had seemed shy and reserved at first, but it hadn't taken long for his arrogant, pompous nature to surface. Laenor had reported everything to Corlys shortly after.

"And the weirwood trees?" Laenor asked. "Did they grow without… blood sacrifice?"

"Aye. It seems Veltharys's magic alone was enough," Laena replied cheerfully. "Soon, we'll have a grove of weirwood and goldenheart trees circling High Tide."

Laenor made a mental note to fly over and see this forest himself. It was remarkable—and concerning.

Even then, he could not wait to see them. Laena had practically dragged him out here after breakfast, demanding they fly together. And now, with Embaryx rested and eager, Laenor had agreed.

He could see his dragon was excited too—snorting and shifting restlessly beside Veltharys, clearly happy to spread his wings together with his clutch mate in the skies.

"Laena," Laenor said with a grin, "shall we see this wondrous grove from above?"

Laena returned his grin with a blinding smile.

And without another word, the unspoken race to see who would mount their saddle first began.

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

Laenor hummed a tune as he made his way toward the beach behind High Tide. His father had arrived the day before and hugged him joyfully—for not revealing wand magic (as he liked to call it) to his mother and sister. Now, after a full day of rest, his father's first action after breakfast was to go to the beach and show his prowess to the two women of their family.

Not only his father—his uncle Vaemond had also seemingly joined the ranks of wizards, casting a water blast spell on his way to Driftmark. However, Vaemond's sons, Laenor's cousins, were still struggling to replicate their father's feat. The reason? They had not made proper use of the dragonglass device designed for magic absorption—not that they wasted their time on other things. What they did was that they had given themselves fully to mastering the art of molding fused stone. And Laenor had to admit, with a proud smile, that in the craft of shaping black stone, even he couldn't match the sheer experience of Vaemond's sons.

If they were to market their skills—using magical fire in place of dragonfire, which is necessary for creating fused black stone—they could amass enough wealth to place their branch of Velaryon among one of the richest in the realm. House Velaryon of Poseidon Tower—that's what they were called now. And while his father may be cautious, Laenor was no fool. He wasn't giving this knowledge away blindly.

His uncle Vaemond and his sons were loyal to a fault. Even his father acknowledged that. The man he did not trust was Daemon—and with good reason.

No matter how deep Daemon's friendship with Laenor ran, if the day came when he had to choose between House Targaryen and Laenor, Daemon would not hesitate to choose the dragons. So why did Laenor share so much with him? Why give Daemon spells, rituals, and secrets?

Because Laenor did not fear House Targaryen. Not now. Not in the future—no matter how many dragonriders they boasted. And, more importantly, Laenor hated being in anyone's debt. House Targaryen had allowed another dragonlord family to flourish under their reign without treachery or sabotage. In fact, the egg that might've hatched Seasmoke in another timeline still sat untouched in the vaults of High Tide, alongside the egg given to Laena. Both remained dormant—suggesting they could have hatched but did not, for reasons even Laenor didn't know.

Thus, by sharing the secrets of wand-making with dragonglass steel and fused black stone, Laenor had repaid that silent debt. From now on, House Targaryen would receive no more from him—not a spell, not a rune, not a chant. Teaching Daemon how to create spells had been his final gift.

Now, his purpose was clear—strengthen House Velaryon and perhaps, if his father agreed, find a place for them beyond the Seven Kingdoms.

Laenor's thoughts came to an abrupt halt, as did his feet, when he spotted his father, mother, and sister waiting at the beach, deep in conversation. He picked up his pace just in time to hear Laena's impatient complaints.

"Would you get on with it already, Father? Don't you think you've tortured me enough? I didn't sleep at all last night, thinking about what you're going to show me. I can't wait anymore! Is it magic?"

"Calm down, Laena. Now you're torturing me with your blabbering," their father groaned, rubbing his forehead. He gave Laenor a curt nod. His mother smiled at him briefly before her expression reverted to one of practiced boredom as she watched father and daughter bicker.

"Enough from both of you," Laenor said, voice firm. "Father, make it quick. And Laena, as soon as you close your mouth, Father can begin and you can start learning. You're wasting each other's time."

Laena huffed but obeyed. Their father chuckled. "Do not scold my daughter, Laenor. It may seem a waste of time to you, but it's how I make up for the years I missed, watching her grow. Still, you're right. Let's get on with it—so Laena and Rhaenys can finally have their own wands."

Their mother scoffed, while Laena smiled faintly and turned her head aside to hide it.

"So, Rhaenys, Laena—you already know most of Laenor's discoveries. I won't bore you by repeating them. But I dare say: knowing everything he's done thus far doesn't compare to what he accomplished this moon. Oh, he shared his intentions with me and Daemon long ago—but we thought it foolish, the arrogance of youth, to believe he could do something that not even ancient Valyrian sorcerers were able to. A year he toiled—and we told him he would fail. But he persisted… and created this."

He lifted the wand for them to see. Their mother's bored look turned curious. Laena stared at it like it was a jewel that could buy kingdoms.

"He called it a foci. A wand. And those who wield it—wizards. Now, instead of explaining what it does, allow me to show you," he added with childlike excitement.

Laenor watched as his father stepped forward, raising the wand. With practiced movements and a firm incantation, he cast a water blast far more powerful than what he'd performed at Bloodstone.

The spell rocketed toward the sea, crashing into the waves with such force that a towering spray of seawater burst upward, glimmering in the morning sun.

Laenor turned to his mother. She looked genuinely intrigued now. And Laena? She looked thrilled, like she couldn't wait to get her hands on the wand and unleash a blast of her own.

"So now we don't need to smear our blood to activate the runes to do magic? That's so good! Laenor, you're really great!" As usual, it was his sister who couldn't keep her mouth shut. Though Laenor puffed his chest out at the praise, a skeptical look crept onto both his and his father's faces. Did Laena—who was usually an airhead—really figure that out so quickly?

"I don't understand," his mother said, frowning. "Sure, we don't need to use blood to activate the runes and can fire a blast, but how does that make this wand—the stick—the most powerful of Laenor's creations? Doesn't it feel like a one-time thing, like a bomb? Or would it fire two or three more blasts before becoming useless?"

"Huh," was all his father managed to mutter, the proud expression he'd worn after showing off his spell now dimming. He had clearly hoped for awe and wonder, not confusion. Laenor thought he had only himself to blame—he should've explained more before showing off.

"Mother, Sister," Laenor said, "you seem to be forgetting that Father introduced it as a foci, a wand, not some explosive or disposable thing."

"Oh, so it can be used to fire water blasts countless times?" his mother exclaimed, her tone shifting, now looking at the wand in a new light. It was clear that the idea of performing magic without sacrifices was still alien to this world. Laenor still remembered Daemon's reaction—even after all the proof he provided.

"A wand is a focus," Laenor explained. "What Father did wasn't runic magic. He cast a spell. When you channel your magic into the wand, and guide that magic with clear intent and strong will—to defy and mold reality—that's spellcasting. At the moment, Father can only cast water blast, as you saw. Let me show you…"

Laenor wordlessly raised his wand and cast a water blast identical in size to the one his father had performed.

"That was a water blast," he said calmly. "You both already know I can manipulate water, but I can't conjure it from nothing—at least not without the wand. Now, do you understand how powerful this is?"

His mother and sister stared at him, mouths agape, eyes wide.

"Are you telling me," his mother said slowly, "that even we can control water like you—without any blood sacrifice—just with the magic inside us?"

Laenor glanced at his sister, still frozen in open-mouthed shock, and chuckled. If he had a camera, he'd have captured her expression. Then he looked back to his mother, who was still waiting for an answer.

"Not just water, Mother. We can control all elements—and more," Laenor said.

He took a deep breath. "Step back. I haven't fully mastered this yet, but it should work." Over the past four days, Laenor hadn't just been relaxing. While his time at Bloodstone had been spent entirely on studying magic and demigod powers, here he split his time in two—half with his mother and sister, the other half working on expanding his magical repertoire. And now he had created a spell from an element second only to water in his affinity: lightning.

He had succeeded in creating it within a day. Controlling it, however, was another matter—not because it was dangerous, but because it was hard and never struck true. As lightning is a destructive element, Laenor had no experience with it, unlike his experience with water. But Laenor has enough control that the spell will not even come close to damaging them, so why did he tell them to step back? Well, because that's what he wanted them to believe. It helped build mystique.

Now, all three of them were watching him, eyes wide with anticipation.

Laenor closed his eyes, traced the rune of thunder in the air, and spoke the incantation that darkened the sky above:

"Rūklon perzyssagon."

Laenor jabbed his wand downward like he was tearing the fabric of reality with the tip of his wand. From the blackened clouds, a thunderbolt slithered like a serpent from the heavens with a rumble so loud it could be heard from miles away, striking the sea with a roar. The impact raised a wave large enough to drown them—had Laenor not immediately taken control of the seawater.

He turned to look at his family—and chuckled.

Their jaws hung open, their eyes practically popping from their sockets.

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Drifmark

"And he hasn't sent another summons?" Laenor's father asked, raising a brow.

The family had returned to the Keep once Laenor had explained the wonders of wand magic and how he had crafted them. His mother and sister were now eagerly awaiting the day they would receive their own. And, as Laenor had predicted, his mother's expression had soured when he mentioned that they would only be able to perform more powerful spells once their magical reserves were high enough—something she could have achieved by using the dragonglass device regularly, which she had neglected.

"Nye," his mother replied, adjusting her dress as she took her seat. "I sent a raven back, stating that once you arrived, we would visit King's Landing. But no word came today, so I assume he's content with Daemon for now. Perhaps Daemon gave him the answers he sought."

"I told Daemon that a raven from King's Landing would arrive within a day or two of my return to Driftmark," Laenor said with a wry smile. "And I stand corrected." But his amusement didn't last long. His face grew grim. "Though, for once, I'd have preferred to be not. That would have meant the King—or his Hand, or the Master of Whisperers—was less informed about the happenings here at Driftmark."

"It seems that in my absence, the crippled son of Strong has spun his web even here," his father muttered darkly, anger creeping into his voice at the mention of Larys Strong.

"Impossible," his mother said firmly. "I won't claim I command the same loyalty from our men as you do, my lord husband, but even so, I ensured with all my ability that no spy or traitor remains in the halls of High Tide."

"I can vouch for that," Laena added, supporting her mother with certainty. "Mother has done an excellent job maintaining the Keep and the household."

Laenor saw a brief smile appear on his mother's lips at her daughter's praise.

"I don't doubt your capability, Rhaenys," his father said in a softer tone. "But there are always greedy men—those who'll betray the very hand that feeds them. Even under my command, there were a few. And not even I could always tell where their loyalties truly lay."

Laenor noted the calculating look already forming on his father's face. No doubt, a plan to ferret out potential traitors was already taking shape.

"But what if Mother is right?" Laenor asked suddenly.

His father raised an eyebrow at him. "Then how do you explain Viserys knowing of your presence here by the very next morning, son?"

"Well, the answer lies in your question itself," Laenor replied, leaning forward slightly. "How could word travel that fast to the King's ears? No spy network is that efficient—not even the Whisperers."

"Ravens," his mother said thoughtfully. "It doesn't take long for one to reach King's Landing."

Realization dawned across all three of their faces.

"But our Maester wouldn't betray us like that," his father said after a moment, sounding almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

Laenor nearly sighed. It was as he had suspected. Maesters, once installed in a keep, became fixtures—trusted advisors believed to act solely in the interest of the House they served. But that trust was often misplaced.

Laenor didn't know whether the Maesters were inherently untrustworthy or if his suspicions were born from the writings and reddit posts he'd read in his past life. Still, he knew one truth: he would never trust anyone not of his blood—or bound to his House through oath and consequence, like his family under the care of House Velaryon—with letters that could start or stop a war.

"That's the illusion, isn't it?" Laenor said calmly. "Where do you think their true loyalty lies, Father? He might sit at our table, share our food, and offer counsel, but most of them come from smallfolk or second sons elevated by the Citadel. That's where their allegiance remains. And the Citadel is closely tied to the Faith, more than most know."

He leaned back slightly, watching their expressions shift. "So, I believe the Citadel wanted to know the moment I stepped foot on Westerosi soil. And they informed the King because if Viserys ever found out that the Faith possessed information before him, as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, that would make him look like a weak ruler, and the Faith and the Citadel would lose the hidden power they use from the shadows. They acted to preserve the illusion of royal control."

Sometimes, Laenor wondered if he should be grateful for his imagination or curse it. It had helped him in magic, certainly, but when it came to politics and trust, his mind could conjure betrayals even where none existed—yet.

"Are you certain, Laenor?" his father asked, now grim-faced.

"I won't claim certainty. But I don't need to be. You can start by investigating how the word of my presence reached King's Landing so fast. Start with our resident Maester," Laenor said with a shrug.

His father didn't look amused.

"Well… there's no harm in checking," he said finally. "If you're right, then not just us—but every lord in the realm—has likely given away more than they know. Every Maester sees all, hears all. They know what happens in their lord's halls and on their lands."

"I'll assist you," his mother said, placing a hand gently on her husband's arm. He nodded in thanks.

"If your talks are done," Laena broke in, speaking for the first time since the conversation began, "shouldn't we be discussing when Mother and I are getting our wands? Shouldn't you be making them, Laenor, instead of sitting here spinning grand theories?"

Her sharp tone and pout drew laughter from Laenor, his father, and their mother, instantly brightening the room and lifting the somber mood.

Oldtown, The Reach

Otto Hightower—the man who had served as Hand of the King and risen from the second son of Lord Hightower to one of the most powerful men in Westeros through sheer ability and unmatched courtly finesse—stood silently on his balcony overlooking Oldtown before him. But instead of peaceful expression, he was frowning heavily. Lord Hightower dismissed him like some common servant. His brother had even dismissed the actual servants before speaking to him, as if their conversation required secrecy Otto was not already entitled to.

If not for the ties of blood, Otto would never have tolerated such disrespect. And he would not forget it, nor would he forgive it.

Soon, he would reclaim his rightful place at court. Sooner than they all expected. Viserys would realize the folly of his sentimental decisions—of replacing strength and stability with flattery and hollow loyalty. He would dismiss Lyonel Strong in a year, perhaps two, and beg Otto to return. Lyonel Strong, for all his knowledge of the law, had none of the subtlety required to wield real power. Just and loyal, yes, in theory. But court politics required not just good intentions, but a particular finesse—a talent for anticipation, for quiet manipulation, of giving wise counsel to a king. These were skills Strong lacked, and Otto possessed in abundance.

The letters had already begun to reflect the consequences. Many ravens had graced the rookery of the Maester of Oldtown, carrying with them news from all corners of the realm—accounts of sloppiness, indecision, and the general faltering of governance ever since Otto's removal. The Hand's seat was no longer respected as it once was. The court, in his absence, had begun to rot from within.

But Otto's mind wandered—back to the words in his daughter's latest letter. It was the true reason he had stormed into his brother's solar, demanding to know why such vital information reached him from Alicent and not from his brother, who surely had known before Viserys could hope to know. He prided himself on knowing everything of importance before others did. And yet, his daughter had been the one to report it first. 

Still, now was not the time to dwell on such wounds of pride. There were outer threats that required his attention—threats to the realm itself.

Laenor Velaryon.

The son of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen. The boy had become the talk of the realm in recent years, ever since word spread of his sorcerous ability to command the seas—to shape water like it was clay in his hands. An evil power, born of Valyria's corruption and proof enough, if ever proof was needed, that the Citadel and House Hightower were right to back Viserys at the Great Council. Westeros must never have a queen as monarch, nor tolerate the rise of Valyrian customs once more. This was the land of the Andals, not of dragonlords. Their twisted practices—their incest, their magical abominations—should never have found root in the Seven Kingdoms in the first place.

Let the dragonlords keep their inbreeding if they must—but the dark arts of magic were an affront to gods and men alike. And Otto would not rest until the realm was purged of that evil.

Magic took. That was its nature. It consumed and destroyed. It had brought the Doom upon Valyria, and it would do the same to Westeros if unchecked. That was why Otto had worked so hard to turn Viserys against such unnatural practices. He had guided the King wisely, warning him that magic would bring nothing but ruin, that it was a force no mortal should wield. 

Otto had also made it clear that now, with two sons—an heir and a spare—Viserys must announce Aegon as Crown Prince. The longer Rhaenyra held onto the position of heir, the more bitter and dangerous it would become to take it from her. The realm would not follow a queen, no matter how fiercely she proclaimed herself one. Better to name Aegon now, before the division widened.

But Viserys—foolish, soft-hearted, weak-willed Viserys—refused to listen. He turned a deaf ear to wise counsel and instead named that old fool Strong his Hand. Why couldn't the Targaryens ever learn? Was Jaehaerys the only good king they would ever produce?

Before Jaehaerys came Maegor and Aenys—one a tyrant, the other a feeble disappointment. And now, after Jaehaerys' long reign of peace and prosperity, came Viserys—a man who governed with sentiment, not strength. Who cared more for feasts and tapestries than politics and power.

No matter.

Soon, Aegon would come into his own. He bore the blood of the Hightowers—pious, wise, steady. And with that blood guiding him, with Otto at his side once again, he would restore balance and order to the realm. Targaryens needed strong counsel—trueborn Hightower counsel—to survive the storms ahead.

The magic that Laenor Velaryon wields would be stamped out, along with the arrogance of the Velaryons and the unchecked ambitions of Corlys and the Second son, Daemon. The Faith would not allow such heresy to thrive, and neither would he.

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Chapter Text

Dragonstone

Daemon took deep breaths and steadied himself before he could fall from the chair he was sitting on. The very next moment, after managing to ground himself, his eyes turned toward the Myrish glass mirror positioned before him, its back supported by the black stone wall of his House's ancestral seat—Dragonstone.

Good. There was no blood coming from his eyes, ears, or nose. And more importantly, he had glimpsed the happenings of King's Landing exactly as he had intended. With this, Daemon considered—no, declared—that he had finally mastered the glass candle now tightly gripped in his hand. Nearly a year had passed since he had begun this daily ritual: clutching the treacherous relic, forcing upon it both his will and his magic, attempting to peer into places far beyond his mortal frame.

And for a year, Daemon had danced with death. Every attempt to dominate the glass candle was a battle. The cursed thing would often rebel, refusing his will, flooding his mind with visions—thousands at once. It was like being flayed open by knowledge he hadn't asked for, as though the candle took a sick pleasure in force-feeding him sights and memories not his own. Like dead souls taking their revenge on Daemon. Not to mention the pain, the pain that followed felt like someone was driving molten knives into his skull, stuffing information into his brain with no regard for space or sanity. As a result, more often than not, Daemon had been found lying unconscious on the cold stone floor, blood leaking from his nose, ears, and eyes.

Daemon was certain that the healer from Essos—who had replaced the Maester in all but name—was the only reason he still lived. The man's healing skills were the stuff of Essosi whispers, and though Daemon would never admit it aloud, the foreigner had saved his life more times than he could count. Not that Daemon feared death. If he feared dying, he would've stopped long ago. No—what Daemon feared was being forgotten, remembered only as another prince who had the good fortune to be born to the House of the Dragon. A second son. A footnote. A brother to the king. Nothing more.

And so, with the unyielding determination that had fueled him all his life, Daemon threw himself into the task of mastering the glass candle. So what if the attempt left him barely clinging to life? He wasn't the Rogue Prince for nothing. He didn't live for safety. He lived for the thrill of defiance, for doing what others whispered was madness. To him, this was what a true dragonlord of Valyria's Freehold should embody: mastery of fire, the soul-deep bond with a dragon, the ability to bend magic to one's will—and the refusal to give a damn about the opinions of lesser men.

Being able to wield the glass candle was not just a mark of status. It was a statement: I am more. More than bloodlines. More than crowns. More than history.

Daemon rose from his chair, leaving the glass candle behind on the stone table. The chamber's door remained closed. He had given strict orders—no one was to enter while he worked. And unlike most noble houses, the servants on Dragonstone obeyed such commands to the letter. That, too, was one of the many changes Daemon had made in the two years since he left Bloodstone.

Dragon's Forge on Bloodstone—his seat of power, carved with his own hands and claimed with fire and blood—had been where Daemon had thought he'd settle. Truth be told, he had believed he would leave the Seven Kingdoms behind after imparting what he had learned to Viserys and Rhaenyra; what they do with that would have been no concern of his. It would've been so easy to cling to his claim and remain a king, ruling in defiance. Daemon knew his brother, much reliant on his traitorous advisors Viseyrs might be, he would never attack his younger brother. But something—someone—had held him back. It wasn't love for the throne or for the trappings of kingship. It was the understanding that a divided House of the Dragon would fall to carrion birds. Viserys needed strength at his back, not a dagger aimed at it.

And yet, of late, Daemon had come to understand something deeper. Those ambitions that once burned in his heart—sitting the Iron Throne, wearing the Conqueror's crown—had faded to ash. Because he'd seen something greater. Something real. The illusion of power that came with the throne paled in comparison to the truth: true power was in shaping the world around you through sheer force of will.

That truth struck him like dragonfire when he saw Laenor.

Laenor Velaryon, wielding water like a song, like breath—shaping it to his desires, forging it with elegance and savagery both. Laenor, growing stronger by the day, with a power that no one in the realm, not even a dragonrider, could replicate. Watching Laenor made Daemon wonder—not fear, wonder—what would happen when that boy reached his full potential. Would he become something dragons feared? When surrounded by the sea, his domain, would even Balerion's fire be enough to stop him?

And if that day came… how would Viserys command such a man? How would even Rhaenyra, should she marry Laenor, rule beside someone who bent the very elements to his will? Would anyone be able to bend Laenor's knee but the gods themselves?

Daemon did not know. But what he did know was that the age of swords and crowns was beginning to wane. The age of magic—the age of true dragonlords—was coming.

And he intended to stand at its center. Or die trying.

Daemon knew Laenor had no issue calling Viserys his king—but that, Daemon thought, was where Laenor's courtesy ended. In fact, Daemon would have wagered the entirety of the Stepstones and handed it all over to three whores of Valyria before believing Laenor would ever bend the knee to Viserys. Hell, the boy never even bent the knee to him—not once—even when his own father had knelt before Daemon.

Laenor had called him "king" during their campaign, had obeyed his orders, or at least pretended to. But never had Daemon seen him lower himself in submission. Not even once.

And now that Daemon, with his wand in hand, can summon fire with his will and a few words—Daemon understood why.

It was simple.

The strong do not grovel before the weak.

Magic made them stronger—both in a physical and metaphorical sense.

Daemon shook his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts. He'd been drifting into these internal monologues more and more lately—hesitating, reflecting—something he never used to do. Perhaps it was magic's influence. He made a mental note of that. Something to observe in himself, lest he fall prey to it.

Pushing open the carved doors, Daemon stepped into the chamber—walls littered with parchments, shelves crammed with ancient tomes, and a large darkwood bookshelf containing everything the Targaryens had ever gathered or recorded about magic. Every spell they had created in the past two years was here, etched in ink and time.

Rhaenyra was already inside, seated cross-legged on a low divan, reading through a worn book that Daemon himself had penned. She looked up at him, and he caught the flicker of reluctance in her eyes—how much effort it took to tear her gaze from the page. But irritation quickly gave way to surprised delight, her features brightening with joy.

"Nuncle! I didn't expect you here. I thought you'd be with the healer—as usual," she said, a grin tugging at her lips.

Daemon snorted. Gods, she reminded him too much of himself. He pulled back a chair and sat with a grunt, cracking his knuckles.

"Unlike you, dear niece, I do succeed in what I pursue." His smirk was infuriating.

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes in mock frustration. "Then I would be most heartened if you pursued air magic next and succeeded in that, my brilliant nuncle," she retorted.

Daemon barked a laugh, unfazed. "I'll have to disappoint you, little dragon. Fire suits me more than air. You'll have to walk that windy path alone, I fear." He offered a casual shrug.

She rolled her eyes and leaned back against a pillow. "So… did you really master the glass candle?" she asked slyly, peering at him from the corner of her eye.

"Aye," Daemon replied, his tone shifting into something deeper, darker—serious. "And you'd be surprised at what I saw… and heard… through it. Especially in King's Landing."

Her curiosity sharpened. "What is it?"

Daemon let the silence stretch for a beat. "Your father has set sail."

Rhaenyra blinked. "That is a surprise. His last letter said he wouldn't leave the capital until the moon's end. Why the sudden change? Did something happen?"

Daemon's grin widened. "Ah, little dragon… I said your father set sail. I never said he was coming here."

Rhaenyra straightened in her seat, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to full alertness.

"He's not?"

"No," Daemon said, drawing out the moment, "Viserys has set sail for the last known location of Vhagar—my father's and Queen Visenya's ancient beast."

For a moment, silence.

Then came the look Daemon had been waiting for—the widening of the eyes, the subtle stiffening of posture, the mix of awe and concern. Shock, yes—but also calculation.

He chuckled under his breath.

Rhaenyra had no idea what kind of storm was coming.

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

112 AC

"Oh, did he now? That was very surprising indeed," said Corlys Velaryon, twirling his new wand—carved from goldenheart wood—in his hand. It looked far more appealing than his old white wand. This new one, with a core of a tan sea snake's heartstring and a shard of sea crystal, pulsed softly with sea magic that Laenor had personally imbued into it over three moons. It was an excellent wand—no, more than excellent—for sea magic and life magic, particularly in healing and manipulating the fauna of both land and sea.

"Indeed, it's surprising. I never thought I'd hear that Viserys, of all Targaryens, had claimed another dragon. From what I've deduced of the man, when he loves, he loves fiercely. Balerion was his dream, and he adored the Conqueror's dragon—only for Balerion to die a few years later," Laenor said with a hint of surprise. He was lounging on a large couch while Laena popped grapes into his mouth, nibbling on them herself in between.

"Well, I once aimed to claim Vhagar too, but not anymore," Laena added, shrugging. "Veltharys is better."

"It seems magic is changing us over time," said their mother thoughtfully. "And the effects are so subtle we didn't notice. Viserys is shifting—from a man who always deferred to his council to one who tames dragons and takes more direct control over the realm."

It was she who had brought the news of Viserys' success in taming Vhagar.

"Well, we should be thankful that the change hasn't been drastic. Real power tends to bring more than subtle shifts," Laenor said, opening his mouth for another grape.

"Well, I'd wager it wasn't just power that pushed Viserys to claim Vhagar. Likely a healthy mix of fear and caution too—especially with House Velaryon's power growing by the day," Corlys remarked.

Laenor silently agreed. His father wasn't wrong.

"You can't blame him," Rhaenys said. "Not just Viserys, but all the lords of the realm are holding their breath, praying that Veltharys and Embaryx stop growing. None of them wants to see a behemoth larger than Balerion the Black Dread. Perhaps Embaryx will earn that title now—he's already big enough to deserve it. I have a feeling that soon he will receive a title that will be more ominous than the Conqueror's dragon."

Yes, Embaryx and Veltharys had grown to the size Balerion was when he died. But unlike the aging Black Dread, the two clutchmates could still fly with ease—slightly slower than before, perhaps, but still agile. Not to forget, Meleys, our resident Red Queen, who will soon contend with Silverwing about who is larger.

"Well, Laenor did say they'd stop growing this quickly once they reach ten years of age," Corlys said, a note of disappointment in his tone.

"Is it disappointment in your tone, Corlys?" Rhaenys scoffed. "Do you have any idea where we'd keep them if they didn't stop growing? And what would you do if those two decided they didn't want to hunt for their own food anymore? They might not harm their riders—or their riders' families—but to the smallfolk and merchants of Spicetown or Driftmark, they'd be nothing but death with wings."

"Mother, I don't think Embaryx or Veltharys are stupid or lazy enough to hunt men," Laenor said calmly. "They haven't just grown in size—they've grown more intelligent too. I'd even say Embaryx is wiser than most men and understands more than we give him credit for. So your fears, while understandable, are unfounded. And as I said, their growth will slow down after they turn ten."

"You said it would slow, not stop," Laena pointed out.

"Aye. Their growth rate will match that of adult Targaryen dragons. Incredibly slow, but yes, they'll continue to grow," Laenor replied.

"How do you know that for certain, Laenor?" his mother asked, raising an eyebrow, curiosity etched on her face.

"I just know," Laenor said simply, his voice firm. "Take it as fact."

In truth, it was Embaryx who had conveyed that to him. No, the dragon couldn't speak—but their bond was deep. Deeper than words. And dragons… dragons knew themselves better than any man ever could. Even Laenor.

"I wonder how large Veltharys will be able to grow?" Laena mused aloud. "Maybe one day she'll be the size of an island?"

"That would be one terrifying dragon," their father said slowly, the image clearly forming in his mind.

"But wouldn't that make them unable to fly?" their mother asked, glancing toward Laenor with raised brows.

"How do you think Balerion managed to fly despite his weight?" Laenor responded, straightening in his seat. "Even at their current size, Embaryx and Veltharys should not logically be capable of flight. But they are—and that is because it's not the rules of 'the Seven and Maesters' that govern them, but magic. It is magic that lets them soar, and I'd wager Velaryon dragons are more deeply suffused with magic than any other dragon to have ever lived—or will live—in this world."

He let that thought settle over the room like a stormcloud touched by fire, then leaned forward.

"Now, before this meeting strays from magic into dragon-talk," he continued pointedly, "I implore you all to begin your reports. I'm dead tired from mentoring our Velaryon cousins and uncles all day, and I need to return to sleep before I collapse here."

His father chuckled softly but nodded. "Very well. I'll begin. My water magic is coming along nicely. Healing magic is progressing too, although at a slower pace—but that's to be expected. Now, as for ship-controlling charms…" he paused, grimacing slightly. "Those are proving very difficult. Vaemond and I are still experimenting, using the advice you gave us. We've managed to craft a few rudimentary spells, but in that field, I'd say we're crawling at a snail's pace."

Laenor gave a nod of approval. "You're doing very well, Father. Truly. And believe me, ship-controlling charms were never meant to be easy. Unlike elemental magic or simpler charms, this kind requires deep understanding—complex calculations, navigation principles, tides, and a tremendous amount of willpower. Especially if the goal is to use them in war. But your foundation is solid."

He paused for a moment before adding thoughtfully, "I considered adding that raw magical power plays a part too—but given how fast your reserves are expanding, I doubt you'll run into that wall anytime soon." Laenor's tone hinted at his lingering amazement. Even at his father's age, his magical reserves continued to grow—a phenomenon that contradicted everything he had once read in fiction in his previous life on Earth. It seemed, in this world, age did not stifle magical growth.

His mother was next to speak. "My fire and thunder magic remain steady, progressing as expected. But where I'm truly seeing gains is in household charms and mind magic—thanks, of course, to your help, my son." Her voice was calm and assured, with a proud gleam in her eyes. "Now, that new branch of magic you introduced… Transfiguration," she said, the word rolling off her tongue like something exotic and rare, "that has utterly captivated me. I've been working hard. While I still haven't managed to turn a wooden needle into that of a glass one, I can now transmute that wooden needle into steel with increasing ease."

Laenor smiled. "Hmm, it seems your affinity leans toward magic that demands immense willpower and clarity of vision. Transfiguration isn't an easy field by any means. But your background in mind magic will serve you well—it sharpens your mental discipline. Though," he added with a thoughtful frown, "I still find it odd that your elemental magic isn't developing as quickly. Perhaps one day, we'll uncover why."

He turned next to his elder sibling, his expression expectant, eyes shining faintly with both curiosity and pride.

"Well, you already know my fire magic is growing stronger than ever. Though I must admit, casting silently and without significant wand movement isn't progressing as quickly as I hoped. Still, I've managed to reduce the wand movements for many spells in my arsenal, and soon I'll be able to cast them both silently and with barely a flick. But if there's anything I can already cast silently and with almost no wand movement, it's the levitation charm, the banishing charm, and the summoning charm. My progress with battle charms is also going well. Still no breakthrough with thunder or storm magic, though. Water magic is progressing at the same pace as fire. Now, I'm trying to create a spell that shields both me and Veltharys from physical and magical attacks. And yes, I know—don't make that face, Laenor. I understand it'll be difficult, but I will make it work. You'll see."

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

"Well then, I can do no more than wish you luck in your endeavors, my sister," Laenor nodded, wondering if he would be surprised this time too. He couldn't see why not. His older sister might act immature more often than not, but she was a persistent woman—and willpower combined with intent were the two strongest pillars of magic. So, Laena might just be able to do it.

Laenor came out of his thoughts and saw three pairs of eyes—all different shades of purple—gazing at him with expectation.

"Very well," he began, "I admit I may not have made much progress this moon compared to the previous ones, as I've been rather busy advising many Velaryons who needed… small help."

He righteously ignored the scoff and muttered, "Small, he says," from his mother.

"But in between helping them," Laenor continued, "I did manage to improve my control over storms—both natural and conjured. Though I needed to go to Storm's End to further refine my grip on naturally occurring ones. As for water, I remain unchallenged. I'm pleased to say that marine life—all of it—can no longer resist my control and refuse my commands. They will obey every command I give them."

"Every, you say?" his father interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, every. Though I'd admit Krakens are… very reluctant. Still, they will have no choice. My trident only strengthens my authority. With it in my hands, I could even summon them all to the surface and compel them to do my bidding—whatever lies within their power."

That surprised them—clearly. Wielding magic, a power that demands imagination, had already begun to broaden their walls of reason they had built around them. Laenor could see it in their eyes: each one now imagining the ways his power could be used—for destruction, for glory, for ambition.

"Now, as for magic," Laenor said, "I haven't devoted much time to it this moon. But I did manage to brew a few magical potions. For now, they can do little more than heal minor bruises. That field doesn't operate on imagination or willpower—it demands experimentation. Also, it'll take several moons before Veltharys and Embaryx can make the new plants magical enough to be truly effective. So expect slow progress in that particular domain." With that, Laenor finished his report.

He did not mention one of his more ambitious projects: creating sea creatures as powerful as dragons in the sky, to be bound to his blood and House Velaryon.

The reason for withholding it was simple—it would take time, and even Laenor couldn't predict how much. To raise hope in his House and then fail to meet it—even briefly—didn't sit well with him. He had come to realize that, unlike before, he cared about more than just the three people sitting before him. That little circle of love and loyalty had grown. 

Laenor believed this was the clearest sign he had truly assimilated into this world.

At first, when he'd arrived—when he'd spent seven long years buried in experiments and research of magic—he did so to escape the impossible fact of his own existence. He had read about this world back in his life in a book written by a man, but back then, he never ever imagined he would live it. Though he remembered little of his former identity, the feeling of being misplaced haunted him. The people around him were strangers in a story, not family to love or protect. And that distance had numbed the guilt—the grief—of the atrocities he committed when he first started on Bloodstone. Not that many in this world would call them atrocities. Sacrifices of life here were not unusual; wars and blood rituals claimed more souls than illness and age ever could in this world, so unlike the world where he came from.

Even so, Laenor had stopped himself—and his family—from delving into that art. Aye, he stopped the, not forbidden them, why? Because he feared doing that often would strip them of their humanity before death ever could. The blood arts were powerful—undeniably so. And while Laenor had become someone capable of destroying empires and leveling cities on a whim, he knew there would always be one of him… and many enemies.

Some would come in shadows, and their aim would be his House, his blood. So if one day the Velaryons turned to blood magic for survival—he would not object.

Anyway, where was he? Ah, yes—the creation of a magical animal tied to his Velaryon blood.

Laenor jerked his head, pulled from his internal monologue by the scoff that came from his mother.

"Are we to ignore that you're rendezvous at Storm's End? Into the domain of a being you claim is a god? One we neither pray to nor know much about, I might add," she said, her voice sharp with disapproval.

"Worry not, Mother. I feel no threat there, only a warm and proud embrace of father when I go there, and I believe that place to be God's domain. Not to mention, he's so weakened now that he can barely do anything. I could feel his waning strength as he tried to reach out to me," Laenor replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Though I wonder… is he the Storm God? Or the father of Elenei, whom Durrandon descended from?"

Inside, he was reliving the memory of his first encounter with the divine in this world. It had been a great surprise—and Laenor might've looked like a gaping fish, overwhelmed and nervous as he felt their presence.

"Still, you should avoid them. They are gods, Laenor," his father warned with concern. "Powerful. We may wield magic, yes—but what can mere mortals compare to their power?"

Laenor smirked. "Indeed… what are mere mortals to the divine?" he said mysteriously, as if privy to a truth his family couldn't grasp. The idea of telling them about his semi-divine nature had crossed his mind more than once. Not that he had acted on it. No, the time would come when they stumbled onto that truth themselves—without him saying a word.

Then there was the matter of being deceived, or tricked.

Laenor had long wondered what his limits were. When he first arrived in this world, he knew—somehow—that he wouldn't be able to grow too powerful. That had been a rule etched into his mind, as if placed there by something… or someone. But that rule no longer held sway. He had long since surpassed it—achieving far more than he should've.

Something had changed.

He could feel it. The world's magic was no longer so much chaotic; it was shifting—settling into a state of anticipation. As if waiting.

Waiting for something.

And every instinct Laenor had—instincts he trusted fully—screamed that something was coming. Something that would explain why the limiters placed on him had been removed. Some event. He didn't know what, or how, or where. But it was approaching.

And every night, Laenor wondered.

He often amused himself with the thought that life might've been simple back on Earth. But here? Here he leapt from one mystery to another. One task completed only to birth another.

Not that he disliked it. But if he had to do this for so long, it would become a problem. A big one at that.

Perhaps one day he would tire of it—become annoyed, worn down, bitter even.

But that was a problem for future him.

For now, he dove into these mysteries with the excitement of a child discovering new toys. And while some of them were unwanted, Laenor would not cry. He was persistent. And he would uncover every thread of the unknown… until he could do no more.

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Chapter Text

Dragonstone, 

"How does it feel to be a dragonlord again, brother?" Daemon asked Viserys Targaryen.

"As exciting, free, and powerful as when I first claimed Balerion," Viserys replied. He was both happy and a little disappointed that he hadn't attempted this sooner. The emptiness Balerion's death had left behind was finally filled—though Viserys knew he would never forget the Black Dread. Balerion had been both his pride and his family's. And now, so was Vhagar, his father's former dragon.

All in all, Viserys was grateful Daemon had pushed him toward claiming another dragon. It was the growing talk of House Velaryon's rising power that had ultimately convinced him to accept Daemon's suggestion. Viserys knew full well that the smallfolk and lords of the realm were always gossiping about this or that, and any wise ruler would do best not to dwell too much on it—unless there was a kernel of truth.

In this case, there was.

The Velaryons had three dragons, two of which rivaled the greatest and biggest dragon House Targaryen had ever possessed. And Meleys—his mother's dragon, now ridden by his cousin—had seen unprecedented growth in recent years, nearly matching Silverwing, the dragon of the Good Queen herself.

Viserys and Daemon had surmised this growth might be tied to the immense, almost otherworldly dragons Laenor had somehow managed to hatch. Gods only knew how the Sea Snake had come into possession of those eggs. The Shadow Lands, he claimed—but Viserys doubted that. If the Shadow Lands had dragon eggs, Essos would be in chaos. Then again, peace never lasted long in that cursed continent. Only the Valyrian Freehold could hold that continent with the power of the dragons. Now, the merchant princes fight and quabble for littlest bit of fertile land.

"You chose well, brother. In both your dragon, and in taking my advice," Daemon said, clapping Viserys on the shoulder before sliding a piece of parchment toward him.

As Viserys read it, his eyes widened with each line. The growth it described was staggering.

The parchment outlined the Velaryons' magical progress—spell incantations, and what their new spells do, and glimpses Daemon had caught while spying on Driftmark through a glass candle. Daemon had boasted about it last night during supper, pestering Viserys with talk of his findings. But now, reading it in black and white, Viserys had to admit it was more useful than he'd imagined.

Still, something stood out.

"There's no mention of Laenor or his family in this report of yours," Viserys noted, looking up.

"I tried to peer in on their practice too," Daemon admitted. "But Laenor caught me. I don't know how, but he could feel my presence—maybe even identify me. That infuriating smirk on his face the first time I tried was all the proof I needed. He knew exactly who was spying on him."

Daemon leaned back, arms crossed with a smug grin.

"He never let me see inside High Tide. I couldn't glimpse the keep, or how he trains his own little family. But when the other Velaryons practiced beyond the walls, in the woods they now call the Sea Dragon's Wood, I managed to observe how far along they've come in magic. And when those same Velaryons gossiped to their trusted friends outside the keep… I gathered this."

Viserys doubted Laenor was unaware of Daemon's spying. In fact, the boy's silence likely meant one of two things—either he couldn't repel Daemon's attempts certain distance from where he is present and High Tide is the limit, or he simply didn't care. And if it was the latter… then perhaps the boy had grown arrogant, despite Daemon's insistence that he was humble and not a hoarder of knowledge.

"Now is not the time to look smug, Daemon. Don't you see how far the Velaryons have come?" Viserys asked, his tone grave.

It was troubling. And he couldn't turn to his council for advice—not truly. They viewed magic as a corrupting force, and those who wielded it as evil. Loyal subjects, yes. But fools.

The Faith, and the High Septon in particular, grovelled at Viserys' feet almost daily, demanding that the "abomination" Laenor be dealt with—exterminated. Viserys had been sorely tempted to tell them: Go do it yourself. At the very least, the fools could have given him some idea of how far the boy had come.

But it was Laenor's favor to him, his gifts to House Targaryen, and his ties to cousin Rhaenys that quelled those thoughts.

Once Viserys grew tired of hearing Septon, Most Devout, and the Faith dumped them on his Hand, from there it became Lyonel Strong's problem. And the man looked like he had aged decades in just two years.

Lyonel Strong was loyal and just—a good Hand—but if someone had to listen to the Septon's mad ramblings, better it be his loyal Hand than Viserys himself.

"Well, brother, you can safely say I've seen it with my own eyes—or mind, whatever method the glass candle uses to show its user what they wish to see. Unlike you, who have only heard of Laenor's brilliance and power that defies reality, I have seen it. And that much, I did expect. If only his parents hadn't convinced him to be treacherous as well," Daemon lamented. "Anyway, we're making progress. With Rhaenyra being creative, we've crafted some powerful spells. Soon, I'll go to Driftmark to see if I can learn a thing or two about the charms the Velaryons have picked up from Laenor."

"You do that. And try to see what Corlys has in mind. Why has he built so many ships? Have his ambitions reared their head again?" Viserys muttered.

"Corlys may have mighty ambitions, but without his son's backing, he wouldn't act on them. At the Grand Council, he needed Rhaenys and Meleys to support him; now, he needs Laenor. And however powerful Laenor might become, he has no ambition for the Iron Throne," Daemon said with a grunt. "In fact, he doesn't even think much of it. In his own words, 'It is the seat of power with too many loose ends, and I don't fancy myself tying those loose ends.' So you have nothing to worry about, brother. But I'll do as you ask. I, too, would like to know where Laenor intends to sail with that many ships."

Daemon's face grew contemplative. Viserys, sensing his brother had sunk into his own thoughts, let him be and took a sip from the wine cup filled with the finest vintage in the Seven Kingdoms.

His brother was indeed spending the gold earned from selling Valyrian—dragonsteel—weapons wisely, and the wine was damn good. Viserys had been surprised when Daemon said he had his own funds and didn't need gold from the crown. As it turned out, his brother was amassing quite a fortune: from selling dragonsteel weapons to the Essosi, and from tolls and taxes levied at Bloodstone. Viserys figured the Warden of the Narrow Sea must be collecting a handsome sum from the passing ships, judging by Daemon's spending.

A great number of smallfolk and merchants had flocked to Bloodstone from across the Seven Kingdoms in recent years. A city—and a rather large market—had sprung up some miles from the Dragon's Forge of Bloodstone. Even Viserys's Master of Coin was in high spirits from the coin flowing in from the barren islands of the past.

Viserys was pulled from his musings by the door opening—and young Aegon stepping inside. Once the boy spotted him, he walked toward them with short strides, trying to mask his nervousness behind a façade of aloofness. As Aegon approached, Daemon stiffened, and a cold, unapproachable mask settled over his face.

Viserys sighed and shook his head at the sight.

"Kepa, good morrow. I was told you asked for me?" Aegon said.

Viserys could see right through his son's attempt to show off the lessons he had learned in words and courtly manners. Still, he offered Aegon a proud smile and ruffled his hair.

"Aye, Aegon. I wanted to share something with you—and ask your opinion as well. You're five namedays old now. Still too young to begin sword training, but old enough to start your lessons with the maester—reading, writing, history. I'd like you to begin those here, on Dragonstone, our ancestral home."

He paused, watching Aegon closely before continuing.

"And that's not all. If you're willing—and curious—I want you to learn magic too, from your older sister and your nuncle. What say you, Aegon? Would you like that?" Viserys asked, his voice both warm and expectant.

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Chapter Text

Winterfell, The North 

"When did we start involving ourselves in what happens south of the Neck?" scoffed Bennard. "Let those Southeron pompous fools scheme and backstab to gain favor with whoever sits the Iron Throne. We Starks do not concern ourselves with such matters."

His brother's dismissiveness carried an arrogance Rickon had noticed growing ever since Bennard's marriage to the Karstark girl. And more troubling was her brother—the Karstark boy—who now followed Bennard like a shadow, whispering into his ear day and night.

"Since it concerns the whole realm," Rickon replied calmly. "And what happens in the realm does affect the North—only the waves of consequence are gentler here than they are for the Southerners. You might believe that doing nothing, as our ancestors once did, will be tolerated by the Iron Throne, but the successor to the Conciliator may not be as forgiving. The North is strong, and its people are hardy, but I've seen the beasts the Targaryens ride. Believe me, brother, you do not want to stand at the receiving end of their ire."

Rickon's voice was calm and composed, but inside, he was weary. His younger brother was both naïve and arrogant—a dangerous combination. People like Bennard believed themselves invulnerable within the safety of their home until someone powerful intruded and shattered their illusions. Rickon blamed himself—and perhaps even his wife—for fostering this arrogance. They had denied Bennard nothing in his youth. Then again, Bennard had few desires to begin with.

But that was beside the point. The matter at hand was Laenor Velaryon.

Even in the cold North, whispers of the Velaryon boy had begun to take root. At first, few gave them credence, but that changed quickly when even the Septons of the Seven—men who considered the North a land of savages—began traveling northward, preaching fire and brimstone about the blasphemy of magic and the evil embodied by the Velaryon heir. Only then did Rickon begin to believe the rumors were true—that the boy controlled the seas. And that was years ago. Since then, much time has passed, and many words of the growing abilities of Velaryon's heir have reached Rickon's ears.

"Even then," Bennard said, brow furrowed, "I fail to see how that affects us in the immediate future. Let's assume Laenor Velaryon is as powerful as the rumors claim. So what? Life in the North would go on just as before. Perhaps we'd simply know that a powerful sorcerer lives in the South under the Velaryon banner. Even that will be forgotten in time."

"You forget one crucial detail," Rickon said. "One of the rumored abilities of Laenor is the power to make glass. If the Velaryons were to offer it at a reasonable price, it would make us less dependent on the south for food. In turn, we could provide them with wood—strong northern timber for their shipbuilding. A trade that would benefit both sides."

"And I've received a raven from White Harbor," he added, "telling me that Laenor has asked a few northern merchants about the state of the North and about House Stark itself. There may be a chance—however slim—of an alliance. Perhaps only one of trade."

Bennard raised an eyebrow. "And you trust the words of merchants? Why would a Velaryon care about the North, when none from the South ever have?"

"I trust the word of my bannermen until they give me reason not to," Rickon replied firmly. "And I trust Lord Manderly would have confirmed such claims before sending word. I do not yet know what interest Laenor has in our land—but if that interest can be made to serve the good of our house, our people, and our future, then I will welcome it with open arms."

He paused, and something shifted in his voice.

"So many of our people die—not in battle, not for honor or for land—but simply because of the cold. The snow lasts for years, and when the food runs short, it is the elders who offer themselves to the dark so that the young may see spring again. Every Lord of Winterfell has struggled with that reality. Our father used to tell me…"

Rickon's cold mask cracked for a moment.

"When one ascends to Stark lordship, they finally understand why our forebears always wore expressions carved from ice. What is there to smile about, to laugh about, to celebrate, when your people die not because of war or misfortune or passage of time, but because they must—because that is the cost of survival in this land?"

He turned to Bennard, his voice low and steady now.

"They call it the land of snow and frost, but it is truly the land of hardship and sacrifice. Millions have died to keep others alive, and that number will only grow… unless a miracle comes from the Old Gods themselves. And I believe—perhaps madly, but I believe—they've sent that miracle in the form of the Velaryon boy. Now, it is our duty to reach out to him."

He stood and walked to the hearth. "Go to the maester," he ordered. "Tell him I need a raven. It must fly to Driftmark. Tonight."

A week later, 

Driftmak Forge

Rob Storm was meticulously hammering the side of the steel shaft of a trident when he glanced at the three apprentices he had taken under his wing—Angor, Orys, and Hugh. All three bore the silver hair of the Lords and Princes they served. Robb himself, though a blacksmith, knew the weight of bloodlines.

Contrary to what Prince Daemon might have assumed, Robb hadn't taken Angor and Orys as apprentices merely because the prince said so. Both were cousins—dragonseeds, yes—but they shared a genuine passion for forging deadly beauty from crude iron, something Robb deeply respected.

His third and final apprentice, Hugh, was the son of a blacksmith and, in Robb's view, one of the most talented he'd ever seen. More importantly, the boy was hardworking. And that alone was enough for Robb to take him in. Today, Hugh was merely observing, as Robb forged yet another trident. All three had long since learned enough to become renowned blacksmiths in their own right, but Robb had recently noticed small but telling mistakes in their work. Mistakes he wouldn't tolerate—not before he presents them to his lord and prince as full-fledged Blacksmith with his name behind them.

They had learned from him—the Blacksmith of Westeros. The Black Storm. The only Smith who forged dragonsteel. Titles whispered across the Known World. And now, with so many powerful eyes aware of his apprentices' ties to him, their success—or failure—would reflect on his own reputation.

Not that they were going anywhere. The Velaryons and the Targaryens would never simply let them walk. Not even after none of the three had yet been taught the secrets of forging dragonsteel. Still, they were fine smiths, held in place by the bonds of family—families firmly under the control of the two great houses. Hugh's loyalty was to Laenor, who had plucked him from the streets and given him not just work and coin, but a wife—daughter to a knight loyal to House Velaryon. A fair maiden, too, if Robb's eyes didn't deceive him.

The knight and his daughter lived in the servants' quarters at High Tide, devoted to their Velaryon lords. As for Angor and Orys, their kin lived under Prince Daemon's ever-watchful gaze on Dragonstone. Robb might have pitied them—and himself—if not for the truth of his situation: he was treated better than any blacksmith in the realm, even those in service to Lords Paramount. He had gold enough to rival some minor lordlings, and his family lived in safety behind castle walls, eating well and treated well. And all he had to do was stay loyal—which he fully intended to, given the pay and privileges.

"Master Robb, you're daydreaming again," Orys scoffed, pointing at the shaft. A small dent marred one side.

Robb smirked. "I get to daydream and make mistakes," he said, turning back to his work. "Do you know why, my underlings?"

The three looked at each other in confusion, then shook their heads.

Robb didn't answer with words. He showed them. With expert precision, he corrected the dent so flawlessly it was as if the mistake had never happened. Oh, how he loved the Baratheon blood in his veins.

Once, he had made tools for farmers. Now, his skills far outpaced men twice his age. And it was all thanks to the same blood he had once hated for the stigma it brought—bastard. He had been a follower of the Seven once. Not anymore. Magic is too wonderful to be evil—had shown him otherwise. Was it not Baratheon magic in his veins that had made him what he was? Was it not that blood's magic that brought him—and his family—every good fortune they now enjoyed? How could a power that only made his and his family's lives this good be evil? Robb does not believe it; he refused to believe it. Both in magic being evil and in the Seven.

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

Hobb watched as the damned beast—the one that turned his and the stableboys' work into a waking nightmare straight out of the Seven Hells—neighed happily and excitedly, ears perked as it spotted Lord Laenor approaching from a distance. The "nightmare horse," as the stableboys called it, wasn't alone in its glee. Every horse in the stables whinnied in unison, even the ones penned in the back who couldn't possibly have seen Lord Laenor.

To Hobb, Lord Laenor was not just the heir to Driftmark and lord of its people—he was Lord of Horses too. And as if the gods themselves had heard Hobb's thoughts and translated them for the beasts behind him, all the horses bent one front leg and dipped their heads low to the earth. They were bowing—just as Hobb and the stableboys now bowed to their lord.

"Oh, you flatter me," Lord Laenor's amused, ecstatic voice rang out as he entered the clearing. The stableboys exchanged bewildered looks, just as they always did whenever Lord Laenor addressed the horses like people. But Hobb knew better. The way the horses reacted—it was as if they understood him. It was a gift. How Hobb wished the Seven had blessed him with it, too.

From a young age, his father had sent him to serve as a stableboy. His father was a cattle herder, and as the third son of his father with no patience for boredom that was sheep and goats, Hobb was thrown here. Though nervous at first, Hobb had quickly grown to adore the noble beasts gracing the stables of House Velaryon. Thirty years had passed since that day, and he could proudly claim to have witnessed the birth of every single horse here—yet none of them treated him with the same reverence they showed the lord now standing before him.

Laenor bid them rise and turned his eyes to Hobb. "How are you, Hobb? You alright? You look a bit tired. Did Pegasus trouble you too much?" There was amusement in his tone, and Hobb didn't miss it.

"You know how that temperamental beast is, m'lord," Hobb replied, giving Pegasus a narrowed look. "It only listens to you and no one else. I've had a hard time making him obey since you forbade me from striking him."

Pegasus snorted and stomped his forelegs in challenge, as if daring Hobb to come closer. Hobb scoffed—he wasn't falling for it.

"Oh, I might've made a mistake then, banning you from striking him. If he doesn't listen, should I lift the ban?" Laenor asked, eyebrows raised, lips twitching into a smirk.

Hobb watched as the proud stallion let out a pitiful whine, suddenly slinking toward him with lowered head. "Well, it seems Hobb is lying," Laenor said, eyes twinkling. "Because all I see is an obedient, noble stallion."

It was the wrong thing to say—for Hobb at least. Pegasus immediately dropped the act and tossed his head in triumph.

Hobb sighed in exasperation and watched as his lord showered Pegasus with affection, which the horse clearly relished. It was nearly an hour before Lord Laenor finished inspecting all the stallions, studs, and mares, as he always did during his visits this past year. He asked about behavioral changes, dietary habits, growth patterns—like a maester of horses.

It had been a surprise to Hobb when Lord Corlys's son returned to the stables after so many years. Laenor hadn't said anything, so Hobb assumed he'd forgotten that it was he who had taught the boy to ride. Hobb had once informed Lord and Lady Velaryon that their son was a natural—a born rider. It hadn't even been a year before young Laenor could make any horse dance to his will.

Once that became obvious, his lessons were cut short. The boy had no more to learn, they'd said. Hobb had expected him to return from time to time, not to meet Hobb but to hone the skills the Seven have blessed him with. But then the rumors came—rumors of Lord Laenor drowning. Like a flood that breaks the dam, more rumors poured forth: dragons' eggs brought from Asshai, eggs that hatched on Driftmark, thanks to none other than Laenor himself. As always, some were too outlandish, like Lord Laenor and Lady Laena breathed fire from their mouths to wake the dragons from the stone.

After that, Hobb had assumed the boy had turned his back on horses, consumed instead by dragons and the sky. Hobb, being the stablemaster of Driftmark, had seen those magnificent beasts, dragons, and wasn't surprised much by the young lord's decision, but was just unhappy.

So that first visit in years, that on behalf of their guests was a surprise to say the least, as the horses themselves bowed to him in welcome—that had been new for all of them. For the horses, for Laenor, for the stableboys, and especially for the Volantene host that accompanied the young lord. The looks of shock on those slavers' faces had been priceless. Hobb and his tavern friends laughed about it for moons afterward.

Since then, Lord Laenor's visits had become more frequent. For the first six moons or so, he focused solely on raising Pegasus—the foal that would become the largest, strongest horse in the stable. Rumors swirled. Some said Lord Laenor had blessed the beast, and Hobb found himself agreeing. Pegasus had grown impossibly fast, towering over even the older stallions.

"Master Hobb, thank you for your time, as always," Laenor said, snapping Hobb out of his thoughts. The older man looked up to see the young lord nodding gratefully.

Hobb smiled in pride and nodded back. Too kind, he thought.

"I think Pegasus has waited long enough. I'll take him for a ride."

A common enough occurrence. Lord Laenor always took Pegasus out when he visited, though where they went, Hobb did not know—nor was it his place to ask.

"He's already saddled, m'lord," Hobb said.

Laenor nodded, and with a single effortless motion, leapt onto the saddle. He gave no command, not with hands nor heels, and yet Pegasus took off, swift and sure, as if he already knew what to do.

Every time Hobb saw it, he thought the same thing:

Lord Laenor didn't command horses like the Dothraki savages who called themselves horselords—he ruled them. Not as a rider, but as a true Lord of Horses.

Laenor Velaryon

Laenor chuckled as Pegasus showed his excitement and power, galloping at full speed along the sandy beach. The horse was strong—brimming with potential—and with Laenor's magic and life energy flowing through him, he was growing into something truly unique, something powerful. Laenor had yet to choose the mare he wanted Pegasus to mate with, to breed more steeds just like him. But Pegasus was still too young, and Laenor was still figuring out how and if he could transform or evolve this horse into a true Pegasus—a winged horse—rather than merely naming him one.

The horses, much like the aquatic life, obeyed Laenor's will—something he'd discovered quite unexpectedly, a strange and fascinating development. Not an unwelcome one as well nor too much surprising as well. Considering whose power he has gotten. Regardless, Laenor was already dabbling in the creation of a new magical species. And the more time passed, the more certain he became: this would be his most difficult and time-consuming project yet. Even longer than his focimaking endeavor, which, while it had taken a full year, came with many clues and resources right from the start of the year.

And if that was not enough, Laenor chose not to walk the path of the ancient Valyrian sorcerers, which might have saved him some time, but he does not want to let loose some monstrous chimeras into the world, as no way he is keeping them on Driftmark. Instead of taking that path altogether, he focused on enhancing the species that already existed—observing how his energy, both magical and life energy of the Sea, and the divine spark in his blood, interacted with them.

And so far, the progress was promising. He had begun with horses six moons ago, but aquatic life was another matter entirely. One needed only to dive deep enough around Driftmark to see how hard Laenor was working—and the results were impressive. Large. Intelligent. And utterly devoted.

Even Krakens. That had been a relief, at least. Imagine those behemoths deciding, "Let's not serve the silver-haired man who gave us power." Laenor would've had quite a time hunting them across the seas.

Pegasus came to an abrupt halt, forcing Laenor to steady himself so he wouldn't fall off. He followed Pegasus' gaze as the mount stamped his hooves in displeasure. In the sea, something black and shiny floated—roughly the size of the small fishing boats used by Driftmark's fishermen. To a casual onlooker standing where Laenor was, it might've looked like just a rock. But anyone standing closer would've seen the large blowhole and the eyes of a killer—impossible to miss. Not for Laenor. And certainly not for Pegasus.

It was a springer. An orca.

Laenor had told that one not to poke his head out while waiting for him—but Springer is impatient if nothing else. With a great sigh, he commanded Pegasus to stay behind, then dismounted and made his way to the sea.

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Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Crownslands

Queen Alicent knelt, praying to the Seven before her—begging them to save her Aegon from the evil path her husband and that rogue brother of his were leading him down. Aegon was but an innocent child, doing his duty by obeying his father and king, as any son should. A son must always follow his father. A king must be honored. Therefore, she prayed that her Aegon might be forgiven for walking the evil path of magic.

Alicent had tried all she could to persuade Viserys to bring Aegon back from Dragonstone, but her lord husband had refused to listen—as he had done repeatedly over the past few years.

And that alone proved it—magic was evil. It had changed the King, led him astray from sound counsel—counsel of wise men of the Faith, the Citadel, and lords of the realm. Alicent opened her eyes as the tears she had been holding back finally slipped free.

What was she to do?

Her father was gone, and in his absence, many lords questioned her authority. And her father's constant pressure—his demands that she make Viserys see the folly of dismissing him as Hand—was taking its toll on her. For years now, Alicent had found herself increasingly isolated, trapped in a court so loyal to Viserys that their blind devotion kept them from seeing the light of the Seven.

Viserys's illness also seemed to be fading—strangely—ever since his brother came back, and it is almost gone now after he claimed the dragon again. Maesters had tried to discover the cause, but the King had refused every attempt by the Grand Maester and the delegation from the Citadel to examine him further.

Alicent wiped her tears and stood. After bowing once more to the statues of the Seven, she made her way out of the Sept of King's Landing.

The Sept was still unfinished, but Alicent could already envision it: a grand sanctuary from where the light of the Seven would shine down on lords and smallfolk alike. 

Outside, her wheelhouse awaited, with Ser Criston Cole in his white cloak standing guard, ever alert. He was a good knight—honorable and devout. Danger wouldn't dare come near her with him nearby. Normally, it was Ser Harrold who escorted her, though her father and Ser Harrold had never seen eye to eye. But Ser Harrold was now bedridden with a high fever.

The maesters had yet to determine the cause, but they were confident he would soon rise again to serve the King and the royal family.

"To the Red Keep, Your Grace?" Ser Criston asked, helping her into the wheelhouse.

"Aye, Ser. I have already sent food to the smallfolk with Septa Alicent, so we shall make our way to the Red Keep," she replied.

Ser Criston nodded, closed the door, and Alicent heard the muffled commands he gave to the man in command of the horses of the wheelhouse and to the retinue of the guards who traveled with her. She leaned back into her seat, taking a moment of much-needed respite.

With a thousand thoughts swirling through her mind, Alicent didn't know when her eyes slipped shut. But soon she was flying—soaring through clouds with wings no less. She didn't panic like before, but simply wished to wake and not be here.

And she did. At least she has found a way to wake up from that dream.

With a sharp jolt, she stirred awake inside the wheelhouse. The same dream again—always the same—whenever her mind wandered to thoughts of escape. Must she find no peace, even in sleep?

A knock on the door of the wheelhouse signaled that they had arrived at the Red Keep.

Her wheelhouse came to a stop just beside the stables, and the stench of dung and urine immediately assaulted Alicent's nose, making her wrinkle it in distaste. Without delay, she made her way through the gate beside the Hand's Tower toward the middle bailey. That tower had once belonged to her father, until Viserys, in his folly, dismissed him—for offering wise counsel regarding her lord husband. Rhaenyra had only ever been a temporary heir, a placeholder until Viserys had a trueborn son to squash the overgrown ambitions of Daemon. The moment Aegon was born, he should have been named Crown Prince.

Alicent continued on toward Maegor's Holdfast with Ser Criston close behind. When they reached her chambers, she was surprised to find her brother standing beside the door, leaning against the wall, whistling a tune she remembered from their childhood in Oldtown.

"Gwayne, what are you doing here?" she asked, startling her brother out of his rhythm. For a brief moment, a flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he quickly schooled his expression. Straightening, he nodded politely to Ser Criston and gave her a slight bow of respect, acknowledging her as queen.

"Sister," he said, "Father's words have arrived. Shall we speak inside?" He opened the chamber door and gestured for her to enter. Alicent nodded—she had been expecting a message.

Once inside, with the door firmly closed behind them, Alicent glanced toward the doors where Ser Criston was standing guard just outside. Though she trusted him, her father preferred to keep future plans strictly within the family—or among those few he considered worthy. Ser Criston had not yet earned that trust.

"Did it come by letter?" she asked, trying to suppress the urge to bring her hand to her mouth—a nervous habit her father detested. A queen should not fidget like a common girl. 

Gwayne noticed her restraint but made no comment. He merely raised an eyebrow and answered, "No. One of his men delivered the message personally." He took a seat by the window. "Father asked after you and the children—how you all fare. And," he added with a faint smile, "how long he must wait before being named Hand of the King again."

"I'm working on that," Alicent replied, her tone a mix of irritation and determination. "But Viserys is still stubbornly claiming that Lyonel Strong is doing a fine job—as if that dull brute could ever compare to Father." She shook her head. "Helaena still won't let anyone touch her except me and Viserys. No wet nurse, no maid. But she's healthy. As is Aemond, though he's strong-willed and far more obstinate than his older brother ever was. As for Aegon, I only know that he's in good health and has begun his studies with the maester at Dragonstone. Viserys tells me nothing more."

She paused, then added with a note of concern, "And Rhaenyra, of course, is off dallying with her uncle. You know how she is. Has Father heard nothing about what they're teaching Aegon? Has the maester at Dragonstone not sent any word?"

Gwayne shook his head. "He would, if he could. But the ravens have stopped coming from Dragonstone. And if by the gods they do come, they never carry word of what's actually happening there. Father's words, not mine," he added. "He suspects the reason may lie in the last report we received from the maester stationed there."

"You mean Daemon's obsession with pursuing death?" Alicent asked, incredulous. She still remembered the thrill in her father's letter, the way each word had practically vibrated with satisfaction. Otto had always viewed Daemon as a danger—and perhaps now, at last, a self-destructive one. But alas, the Seven seem to have a task even for that Rogue.

"Aye. What if Daemon killed the maester for failing to heal him?" Gwayne mused darkly.

"He's a rogue, not a mad executioner," Alicent replied with a sigh. "He doesn't kill everything he sees, regardless of what Father has filled your head with."

She waved the thought away, changing the subject. "Anyway, anything else? What about Driftmark? Did Father say what's happening on that forsaken island?"

"Nye. Only rumors. Each more absurd than the last," Gwayne said, crossing his arms. "Though he did say their latest attempt to ferry septons to the island failed. Again."

Alicent's brows knit together. "How many ships this time?"

"Five. All filled with trained men. Vanished overnight. Not a soul knows what happened. That sorcerer must be sacrificing hundreds to fuel his dark magic. Not a single Septon or Septa has landed on Driftmark since his return. It's as if the sea itself swallows them the moment they set sail with the intent to reach the island." He scowled. "That bastard…"

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Chapter Text

High Tide, Driftmark

Laenor walked through the corridors of High Tide, nodding at bowing servants and knights alike. The castle was more active than usual, its stone halls buzzing with life. Servants moved briskly, attending to every little need of their not-so-little lord as he prepared for his first great adventure. Their beloved young lord—Laenor.

Ever since he had declared his intention to travel to the North alone, to strike a deal with the Starks and explore the distant region, his mother and father had spared no effort in ensuring every detail was in order. And that meant the keep had been unusually active for the past three days.

Laenor still found himself wondering what all the fuss was for. It wasn't like he was heading to war with a fleet at his back. Even when he was going to war back then, there was this much preparation.

He soon entered the family quarters and made his way toward the room that had become the informal living chamber of the keep. He pushed open the doors and offered a faint smile to the guards posted outside.

"Mother, I was looking for you," Laenor called with a grin.

His mother sat in a chair beside a table, parchment spread before her as she rubbed her temples. Her dark purple eyes—the same shade Laena had inherited—lifted to meet his. Tiredness, and a touch of concern, lingered in their depths.

"Welcome, Laenor. Did you finish your lesson with the Maester?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, suspicion clear in her tone.

"Aye, I'm not as bad as before in other languages. I know my weaknesses and try to improve upon them," Laenor replied easily. "Now… who is going to war?"

His former inability to comprehend foreign tongues no longer troubled him as it once had.

"No one. And you'll thank me for all I'm doing when you need it most on your journey, you ungrateful son of mine," his mother snapped, though her voice lacked true bite.

"I'm not being ungrateful, Mother. You're just being… too much." Laenor sighed. "I'm not going to wage war with the North; I'm going as a potential ally. And they will treat me as such. Guest right is held sacred in the North. I will be under their protection—and frankly, they couldn't harm me even if they tried."

Her stare sharpened, but Laenor stood his ground. A few minutes passed in tense silence before his mother finally slumped forward, dropping her head to her desk in tired defeat.

Laenor shook his head with a faint smile and walked forward, wrapping one arm around her shoulders in a side embrace. They stayed like that for a moment until she looked up, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"Get away from me, you ungrateful son."

"How rude! I shall never console you again," Laenor huffed and stepped back dramatically, feigning injury. His mother chuckled quietly.

He watched from the corner of his eye as she stood and pulled him into a proper hug. "You feel any better?" she murmured.

"Nye," he replied.

"Now you know why I said that. I didn't feel consoled at all," she teased.

This time, Laenor chuckled for real. "Well then, no more hugs for you. I've got family members who actually appreciate them. Like my dear elder sister, for instance."

"Ah, your sister," his mother mused, stepping back. "She clung to you from the moment you were born. I always wondered if the two of you would end up marrying with how close you were—until you changed and started dreaming. And became too engrossed in magic and did not spend as much time with Laena as you used to before."

Laenor smiled awkwardly and quickly looked away, avoiding her gaze. If only she knew… But now wasn't the time to explain the change in his feelings for Laena over the past two years. Curse his Valyrian blood for that. And curse more to his mandia for never stopping in seducing him. Laenor shook his head to escape these thoughts.

"Anyway, where's Father?"

"Corlys is down at the shipyard, inspecting the ships you'll take with you. And Laena is with her ladies," she replied, retaking her seat and motioning for him to do the same.

Laenor sat opposite her, absentmindedly brushing a stray quill aside.

They spent the next hour discussing the terms of the agreement he would offer the North, the formal contracts to be drawn between House Stark and Driftmark. Once the political matters were out of the way, their conversation drifted.

"How's the garden? Any new plants showing magical potential?" he asked, a spark of curiosity lighting his face.

"There are two," she said thoughtfully, "but I wouldn't say for certain that they'll evolve into magical flora. They show signs—but faint. Embaryx's absence might slow their growth."

Laenor hesitated for a breath, then said carefully, "That's why I've decided not to take Embaryx with me. His presence is much more valuable here than at my side."

His mother's expression shifted—first to confusion, then to cold realization. An emotionless mask slid over her face.

"You're jesting," she said flatly. "You've become so arrogant you think you don't need your dragon? He is our greatest strength beside you."

Laenor sighed. In truth, she wasn't wrong—but it wasn't arrogance that drove his choice. It was confidence. He knew no one could truly harm him now. Besides, he was heading North. Winter had begun, and snow would be in abundance. One powerful fire spell would melt it into a sea of water, rippling for his manipulation.

"I've made my decision, Mother. I won't change it," he said firmly.

Her eyes bore into him, a deadened stare filled with unspoken pain. It cut at him to see it—but he stood by his choice. Embaryx was needed here. With his dragon nearby, both Meleys and the magical plants would thrive.

Still, Laenor was not so prideful as to ignore the pain his decision caused. He softened his voice. "I'm sorry, Mother. But I stand by—"

"I need wine," she cut him off loudly.

Laenor leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh. They sat in silence for several minutes, tension thickening the air like mist. Then the door creaked open, and Laenor turned, expecting to see Laena, or perhaps his father—or even one of their bannermen.

Instead, his eyes widened.

A female servant entered, her movements demure and careful, a wine jug balanced in her hands. At first glance, she seemed like any other servant in the keep.

But Laenor had developed certain skills in the past two years. One of them was sensing magic.

And this girl was wrapped in it.

A faint aura clung to her body, and a concentrated shimmer of it pooled around her head. Worse—he recognized the stench. The same foul magic that surrounded his Valyrian steel sword. Blood magic. Sacrifice-born.

A soft cough snapped his gaze back to his mother. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes wide with a silent question.

"Do you know her?" Laenor asked, his voice low.

"Aye, she's from Spicetown. I selected her myself," his mother replied, eyeing me now with questions of her own.

"Hmm, how daring," Laenor said, amused—but from the way the air shifted in the room, neither of the other occupants missed the dangerous undertone laced beneath his words. "Trespassing in my keep, my domain, uninvited and unannounced—and killing one of my people. I must say, that's either bold arrogance or outright suicide. Then again, considering who you are, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. A Faceless Man. Servant of the Many-Faced God."

To her credit, she didn't flinch. No fear passed over her face, not even a twitch. But the act—the disguise she wore in the form of acting demurly and shy—fell away, like a mask melting in fire.

The jug of wine slipped from her grasp, but not a single drop hit the floor. Every bit of it was caught and shaped mid-air, turned to sharp ribbons of liquid death spinning so fast they could cut stone, and Laenor wielded it to pin the assassin against the wall. One twitch from her—just one—and the wine would slice her jugular before she could whisper Valar Morghulis.

"Tell me," Laenor said coldly, his eyes hard as obsidian, "who sent you? And to whom have you come to offer the gift of your god?"

"To no one—I did not come to offer a gift. None could pay the price to kill one of your blood. The girl whose face I wear was a spy herself; that is why I chose her. I apologize for not revealing my presence sooner, but know this—you and yours need never fear the servants of the Many-Faced God. We do not kill the divine and theirs. Our lord has forbidden it, it is known to every one of us."

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