112 AC, Dragonstone
Daemon's head was full of questions until he read further into the scroll, and by the dragons, he hadn't believed he could be more shocked than before—yet here he was, surprised at how utterly shocked he truly was. If this is right—no, fuck that—if there is even the smallest chance that what is written in this scroll is true (which it is, however much Daemon likes to deny it), then fool indeed was the Targaryen who lost this piece of knowledge. Daena was right: his family had lost something of immeasurable value, for there was no way in the Seven Hells that any Dragonlord family would not spare some time—years even—to write down such knowledge.
"Since you have not come here on dragonback, I presume your family suffered the same fate as these…" Daemon gestured at the scroll, "…families," he said, raising a brow. He tried to hold Daena's eyes, searching for truth in her expression as she recalled how her family had lost dragons. Yet his attention kept drifting back to the scroll, to the names of those once-great houses who had lost the magical blood and with it the dragon-taming ability.
"Well, we haven't tested it per se, since, like your family, there aren't many houses that still possess dragon eggs or hatchlings after the Doom. Up until the doom, Valarrs had dragons. But after the doom without dragons, there is nothing to test—nothing to prove whether the bond remains," Daena replied with a shrug.
"A good thing, I say," Daemon scoffed, though his eyes lingered on the name Velaryon etched into the parchment. Were the Velaryons aware of this? He thought not. Corlys, with his endless arrogance, would have boasted of such a thing long ago had he known.
"Well, it will not remain so for long," Daena said with a faint smirk. "Another family has already gained dragons. And if Valyrian history teaches us anything, it is that no family can ever hold dragon-taming magic alone and inside their house forever. Blood passes, power flows, and sometimes it flows elsewhere completely. And let us not forget—the Velaryons are not new blood. They were of the old. One of the twenty families said to have first tamed dragons and bound them to their line."
"History will not repeat itself," Daemon said firmly. "House Targaryen and House Velaryon will see to that. I am certain Laenor and Corlys both would agree: we shall not wed with any house that harbors ambitions of becoming Dragonlords anew. And with magic at our side, we shall succeed where many Valyrian lords of old failed."
"The same magic you gave your word to teach me," Daena pressed, squinting at him, testing whether he would deny her.
Her expression made Daemon smirk.
"I gave my word, did I?" he asked lightly. Daena's large purple eyes widened, protest rising to her lips before Daemon cut her off. "Ah, yes, I remember. I did. And it would be a shame if a prince of royal blood were to turn from his word, would it not, Lady Daena?"
"Yes," Daena said with a scoff, "it would be shameful indeed. And something you, Prince Daemon, would never do."
"But while I recall giving my word," Daemon leaned forward over the desk, voice low and edged, "I also recall saying I would share some of my findings in magic. Not all. Do you remember that, Lady Daena?"
Daena's lips tightened, but Daemon pressed on.
"Before I decide what I shall share, I need answers—from you, the keeper of this scroll. Let us start with this: why has no family risen again to their dragonlord status?"
Daena hesitated, then sighed. "The Sehlaeros were the first to lose their dragons, followed by the Velaryons. Both houses had quarreled with the Drakonars—the most powerful of all Valyrian families, who wielded both mighty dragons and the darkest arts. It is said the Drakonars had curses—curses that could strip dragon-blood of its bond with our dragons, forever. There are those who whisper they were the first tamers of dragons, and only they knew the power to unmake another's claim. But they are only rumors, or so what my family and I believe. Because later, other families lost their dragon-magic too, families who never crossed the Drakonars. That is all my family knows."
"Which is not much," Daemon remarked dryly. "Drakonars… aye, I have read of them. The greatest of the dragonlords. But Sehlaeros…" He frowned, trying to recall. His grandsire had spoken their name once over supper, though the details eluded him.
"They live still," Daena said smoothly. "Behind the Black Wall of Volantis. Your aunt, Saera Targaryen, was once their guest."
Daemon's lip curled at the memory of his grandsire raging over Saera's whoring ways in Volantis. "Are they the same Sehlaeros of old Valyria? Or some Essosi bastards stealing the names of Dragonlords long perished, as so many mongrels of the Free Cities do?"
"They are a side branch," Daena answered. "The main line perished in the Doom, but their kin in Volantis still lives to this day."
Daemon was taken aback. Another of the Old Blood, mixing with what he considered mongrels, trading their name and their blood among half-breeds barely above Andals.
"So you mean to say there are still families in the Free Cities with dragonlord blood," Daemon mused. "Though the chance of any dragon-blood remaining in them is as likely as finding a desert in the North." He hummed, weighing whether this knowledge was of any use to him or his House.
Daena, however, leaned forward, her voice gaining edge. "As I said, my prince, people of Dragonstone assume too much. Who said there are only two families? You would be surprised how many lineages in the Free Cities claim descent from dragonlords, with records and relics to prove it. Yet cursed we are, bereft of the mounts that bore our ancestors into the skies. Bereft—while one house is blessed still. One house that has forgotten the gods of fire and wing. And we—who remain true, who pray to them still—can only wonder why."
Her jaw tightened, and her gaze fixed on Daemon, as though he might hold the answers. Answers that lay tangled in gods and magic, Daemon himself had yet to uncover.
Winterfell, some days later, 112 AC
Rhaenyra walked gracefully through the long, drafty, cold corridors of Winterfell. The bitter cold, which she had come to despise, did little to dampen her excitement today. Because today was the day—Laenor Velaryon was set to arrive at any moment. The whole of Winterfell buzzed with anticipation at the coming of the Lord of the Sea, and Rhaenyra was no exception. Nearly a decade had passed since she had last seen him, and in that time, much had changed.
As she moved through the hall, she caught sight of Sara, the handmaiden of Lady Alarra Stark, running so hastily she nearly crashed headlong into the stone wall. Rhaenyra caught the girl by the arm just in time and, with a faint smile, asked, "What was your intention? Were you planning to bring down this wall to make a new way for Laenor to enter?"
Sara flushed scarlet, stammering, and even managed to mutter an apology to the wall itself before finding her breath. Rhaenyra calmed her gently, and the girl managed to deliver her news. "Lord Laenor, with his retinue and the Manderlys, has been spotted. They could arrive at any moment, my princess. I have just come from Lady Alarra—she and Lord Bennard are hurrying to stand with Lord Stark to greet Lord Laenor."
Still breathless, Sara nearly stumbled again, but Rhaenyra gave a quick command to a nearby servant to fetch her a cup of water before leaving her behind. With long, purposeful strides, she made her way to the courtyard, where Lord Stark had already gathered, his family assembled at his side.
It was not custom for the Lord Paramount of the North to greet the Lord of the Narrow Sea with his whole household, not even for House Velaryon, bound though it was to her own House Targaryen. Such an honor was reserved for royalty. Yet all the Seven Kingdoms knew the truth: Laenor Velaryon was no ordinary lord. His power was legend, whispered of in both port taverns and lordly halls. Even recent events of Laenor's ship coming to White Harbor battered and damaged had done nothing to diminish his reputation. The image of the sorcerer who commanded the sea remained untarnished, and it was that power which demanded such honor today.
Rhaenyra stepped into the courtyard, inclining her head politely to Lord Stark before taking her place at a respectful distance from his family. She had not long to wait. Moments later, the heavy gates of the keep creaked open, and through them rode the party beneath banners of seahorse and merman, silver and sea-green rippling against the northern sky.
At their head was a man who could not be mistaken. Silver hair caught the cold sunlight, his features sharp and flawless in the way only Valyrian blood could bestow. But it was the eyes—piercing blue, deep as the sea itself—that marked him. Paired with his striking beauty, which some even claimed surpassed that of his sister, there was no doubt who he was.
Laenor Velaryon. The man whom his uncle said wielded unimaginable power—a power to control the Sea and the power of magic.
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