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.
If you're interested in reading up to fifteen chapters ahead of this one, you can find them on my Patreon:
Patreon.com/Daeranyx_Drakonar
Your support on Patreon helps me continue writing, but rest assured, I won't be locking chapters behind a paywall. They will be available for free over time. If you enjoy the story and would like to support my work, your contribution would be greatly appreciated!