Past the Fingers, Near the pebble, 112 AC
Laenor and his crew were on their merry way to White Harbor. He was meditating—or in the words of his crew, their young lord sat in silence with his eyes closed. To them, he is sitting, sleeping. It was their eighth day at sea, and if fortune held, they would reach White Harbor in two days' time—provided they did not run into a snowstorm in the Bite. Winter had already begun, and while such storms were rare in these waters, the possibility remained.
Since leaving Gulltown, the Sea Wrath had made no other stops. There had been nothing worth seeing. The Fingers offered no bustling markets, no mighty keeps, no great harbors—and with three ships laden with supplies, there was no need to replenish provisions. With little to occupy him beyond the occasional command, Laenor allowed his cousin Aurane to handle much of the ship's business. The boy needed the experience, and Laenor had already earned his own in the War of the Stepstones.
That thought brought to mind a conversation he'd had with his father just before departure. A member of House Valarr— a lady, no less—had made her stay on Dragonstone, of all places. And where else should she go but to Daemon, who was nesting there now? By all accounts, the Rogue Prince would never willingly invite a half-blood mongrel to tread upon his ancestral seat, yet here she was. Valarr. The name rang faint in Laenor's memory—one of the many families of Lys who claimed descent from Valyrian stock. At least the Lyseni had the sense not to proclaim themselves seed and descendants of Dragonlord families. Like Volantis.
In any case, Laenor had deployed marine spies near Dragonstone's waters, ready to send word the moment this Lady Valarr departed. His father was digging for some information as well, but Daemon was adept at rooting out spies in any place he made his den. Laenor doubted his father would uncover much; the Rogue had held Dragonstone for nearly three years now and seemed to be making the keep and island both his stronghold, from where no one could get word about what he was doing there. It was baffling—how easily Daemon won loyal men to his side.
Talking about Daemon making Dragonstone his stronghold, Laenor suspected that the man scarcely remembered his keep on Bloodstone at all. The Dragon's Forge was managed now by Daeron Velaryon as castellan, with a Celtigar third son serving as steward. Anyhow, to get to know why Valarr is doing there, Laenor has decided to visit Dragonstone on his return from the North. Not to mention, Laenor had yet to ask Daemon how he had mastered the dragonglass candle. That had been a shock indeed—the sudden flare of Daemon's magical presence when Laenor was certain the Rogue was still on Dragonstone.
Laenor had scoured Velaryon's hoarded treasures for dragonglass, rummaging through relics like a niffler in those old Harry Potter tales hunting for shiny things. Yet instead of finding anything, he learnt about what they lost and Velaryons have lost much and more over the centuries. He might have never known how high Velaryons once stood, had he not uncovered a tome chronicling the family's prime—their place among Valyria's top twenty dragonlord houses during the Ghiscari wars—and how swiftly their downfall had come. A single foolish woman, mad with love, had been all it took to bring them crashing down, reduced to wealthy Freehold vassals instead of dragonlords in their own right.
{AN: Too much AU, I know, but you'll see the reason in 115 AC. Everything so far is just a build-up. The true plot begins when some long-forgotten civilizations came crawling back, and the gods of Planetos—dormant far too long—are forced to wake and act as gods should.}
Once, a wise man said that the follies of the past are like dry ink on parchment, left for the next generation to study from. And study them, Laenor did. He was determined to raise his family back to what it once was—and higher still. If only he could show arrogant dragonlords of Valyria what heights he will take House Velaryon.
"Fuck me upside down, what is this?"
The scream from one of his crew jolted Laenor from his thoughts. He rose swiftly and stepped out onto the deck. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. But when his gaze shifted from ship to sea, he understood the panic.
The waters themselves were writhing, waves rising in violent surges that sought to capsize their ships. The Sea Wrath bucked and swayed, but fared better than the two vessels trailing behind.
Laenor acted at once. He seized command of the waters, willing them to stillness, to calm. Yet even as he exerted his will, he felt resistance—another presence, vast and ancient, intent on dragging them beneath the waves. His teeth clenched. This was both a rude and arrogant thing to do. This was an insult and provocation of war. His ship had passed peacefully, provoking nothing. Was she so petty as to deny him passage?
He could feel her will pressing down—demanding submission from him, seeking to drown him and his men. Fury welled in his chest, boiling past the calm mask he wore for his crew. His lips curved into a dangerous smirk.
Laenor sprinted to the bow of the ship, releasing the restraint he'd held on his power. His divine energy mixed with a monstrous amount of magic flared for all to see, manifesting in the waking world.
Third-person POV
The whole crew of the Sea Wrath, as well as those aboard the two trailing ships, had descended into panic. Men clung to ropes, masts, and railings, desperate to keep their footing and not tumble into the raging waters below. The sea roared like a living beast beneath them, waves striking with murderous intent to drag them below in the dark.
John, the first to spot the disturbance, held on for dear life as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The waves—once chaos, fury incarnate—now seemed to crash against an invisible wall. A dome, circular and shimmering, encompassed all three ships, protecting them from the watery onslaught. It could only be the work of one man.
At first, the crew thought their lord had lost his senses when he sprinted to the bow. Many feared he meant to hurl himself into the raging sea, and cries rang out as they tried to stop him. But their fears proved unfounded. Laenor did not leap—he stood, and the air around him trembled.
Every man on deck turned to him then, because in such moments—when powers beyond mortal capabilities clashed—smallfolk had no role but to witness. Or die.
From his high perch, John saw it first: green-blue power radiating from Laenor, pouring off him in furious waves, brighter and more violent than the ocean itself. The energy gathered, shaped, and then collapsed into form. Before the stunned eyes of the fleet, the surging sea coalesced into a towering figure—muscular, ethereal, godlike. It held a weapon of the deep: a spear with three gleaming tips, a trident that shimmered with the wrath of sky and sea alike.
A hush swept the deck, broken only by gasps and whispered prayers. Men released their grips and dropped to their knees, bowing to both the godly apparition and the man who had conjured it.
"Strong god, save us!"
"Muscle god, protect us!"
"Blue-green god, calm the sea!"
The cries rose like incense in a storm, desperation made worship. Aurane Velaryon stood among them, stunned. He had seen his cousin's trident before—the weapon Laenor insisted on calling such—but now he saw its divine twin reflected in the hands of the towering apparition. And when he looked back to Laenor, his cousin held the very same weapon, though a moment before his hands had been empty.
Aurane's heart pounded as his men bent knee, trembling and praying. He alone forced himself upright, steadying as the ships ceased their violent shuddering.
Then Laenor moved. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the trident high, his face a mask of grim fury. The figure above mirrored him perfectly, god and man as one. Laenor swept the weapon from left to right, a motion sharp as a strike.
The sea god roared with him, and a thunderous voice, louder than any storm, cracked the heavens:
"Begone."
The crashing waves, furious and wild, broke against a wall of rising water summoned by Laenor. His waves soared sky-high, monstrous in scale, dwarfing those that had threatened to devour the ships. When the two met, the clash shook the world. The smaller, frenzied waves shattered like glass, destroyed with contemptuous ease by Laenor's summoned might.
The sea fell silent. Still. The dome vanished. Calm descended so abruptly it was eerie, unnatural. For a heartbeat, all aboard thought it over. Relief teetered on their lips. But not Aurane, not him. He could feel something; their misfortune is yet to end.
Then came the curse, and Aurane cursed loudly.
The sky blackened as if the sun itself had been smothered. Clouds boiled into being, heavy and furious, and thunder cracked so loud men screamed as blood trickled from their ears. The calm sea betrayed them, for in an instant it was girdled by towering walls of storm on all sides, a prison of nature's wrath ready to bury them in the deepest abyss, never to be seen.
Rain began to fall—no, not fall, strike. Each drop lashed skin like a whip, pelting with such force men's flesh reddened and split. Their screams were drowned by the pounding roar of the storm. The crew collapsed one by one, either unconscious or on their knees, sobbing.
Aurane staggered upright, shielding his face with an arm, his teeth clenched against the stinging rain. Around him, his men writhed and cried out, broken by pain. He looked to his cousin—and froze.
Laenor stood tall, unbowed, amidst the storm, his trident glowing with otherworldly light. His expression was not fear, nor strain—it was fury. A wrath so terrible that Aurane flinched and tore his gaze away, lest that burning rage turn upon him.
Aurane blinked through the blood and rain, struggling to hear—but all he could register was the shrill ringing in his ears. Laenor's lips moved, silent to him, until his cousin jabbed a finger at the crew, then toward the cabins. The meaning was clear enough. Aurane dragged one man after another, forcing them into shelter, obeying without hesitation.
Then, through the cacophony, a voice rose above all. A challenge hurled into the storm and sky.
"If you three want to fight—then you got one! I'll show you the gulf between us. You dare call this farce a storm? A wrath of Sky and Sea?"
A mocking chuckle followed, cruel as it was calm.
"Let me show you the true wrath of Sea and Sky, you buffons."
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!