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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