Driftmark, 112 AC
Corlys stood alone on the balcony just beside the corridor that led to his solar, his gaze lifted skyward to watch the two dragons circling above High Tide. He could easily assume why Daemon and King Viserys had not yet landed their mounts. Below lay a grove of rare trees, grown from seeds brought from across the seas and lovingly cultivated over some years, which is another feat of magic to add to many. Even now, those same trees are being nourished by magic as he thinks, by none other than two behemoths sprawled amidst the shade—Laenor's dragon and Laena's—lounging in the midst of the forest, basking in the warmth of the sun as though the gardens were their rightful lair. When dragons usually prefer rock caves most likely than a forest.
Corlys tore his gaze from the sky when he heard the sound of boots upon stone. Turning, he saw the figure of his wife, Rhaenys, approaching. Every time he looked upon her, he felt a peculiar pang of age press upon him. The wild beauty for which Rhaenys had been famed in her youth had not dimmed in the least; if anything, her dark hair, her proud carriage, and the unyielding light of her violet eyes made her seem no older than their daughter. Time had not withered her, nor dulled the sharpness of her presence. Even after giving him two children—children both strong and remarkable—she retained that same allure that had once set courtly tongues aflame.
Rhaenys strode forward until she stood beside him, her gaze lifting toward the skies where the dragons wheeled. A flicker of weariness touched her features. "Well," she said at last, "have you prepared yourself for how you will handle this matter?" Her purple eyes shifted from the sky to her husband. "The words in the letter may not have carried a desperate or urgent tone, but their arrival the very next day, at this hour, speaks more than parchment ever could. And you, of all men, know well that when a Targaryen sets their heart upon something, they will have it—whatever the cost."
Corlys gave a knowing smile, one touched by grimness. "Oh, I know that very well," he said softly. "And I am prepared. But still, I would ask you to be there at my side." His voice was steady, but his eyes lingered upon hers with a flicker of reassurance.
She studied him a heartbeat longer, then inclined her head faintly. Without another word, Rhaenys turned, her silken gown brushing against the balcony's stone balustrade, and began to make her way back toward the hall. Corlys cast one last look toward the sky, where the dragons were beginning to dive, before he followed.
A Few Hours Later
Corlys sat with Rhaenys, Viserys, and Daemon in his solar, the air thick with the rich, sweet aroma of Arbor gold. They had passed some hours in polite talk—of courts, of minor lords, of the realm's trivial happenings—during their midday meal. But now, with the meal past and goblets in hand, Corlys felt the true purpose of their visit pressing ever closer. He could almost feel the words trembling upon Viserys's lips.
Both he and Rhaenys had known from the moment the raven arrived, carrying word of Viserys and Daemon's impending visit, what the purpose must be. The talk of a marriage between Laenor and the Princess Rhaenyra was hardly new; such whispers had circled since the War of the Stepstones. Yet since then, much had changed.
Corlys's ambition—the fire that once drove him to see his blood upon the Iron Throne—had softened, tempered by something stronger than hunger for crowns. He had seen the truth of his son's power. Laenor Velaryon was no ordinary heir. His gifts, both martial and magical, marked him for more than merely sitting the Iron Throne as consort or king. Corlys believed, with a fervor that surprised even himself, that Laenor could forge something greater—an empire of his own, a kingdom and conquest that might surpass even the renown of Aegon the Conqueror.
"Cousin, Corlys," Viserys said suddenly, his face lit with eager excitement. "Shall we disclose the reason why Daemon and I have come?" He leaned forward as if preparing to spring a surprise.
Corlys and Rhaenys exchanged a look, then schooled their features into polite curiosity, for Viserys's naivety deserved at least the courtesy of a feigned reaction.
But Daemon, as ever, had little patience for his brother's theatrics. "They already know why we are here, brother," he said flatly, his words puncturing Viserys's suspense with deliberate cruelty.
Viserys turned toward Corlys and Rhaenys, doubt flickering in his eyes. Both of them offered apologetic smiles and slight nods, confirming Daemon's words.
The king, ever guileless, merely laughed and waved a hand. "Even so, I will speak it plain," he said merrily, as though nothing could sour his good cheer. "I wish for our two great houses to be bound as one again. The lines of Velaryon and Targaryen united anew, through marriage—between your son and my daughter, the Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms." He beamed, the words spilling out as if they were a gift too precious to hold back.
Corlys exhaled slowly, his thoughts turning, his tongue weighing words. Before he could speak, however, Rhaenys leaned forward. "And their children?" she asked, her tone sharp with interest. "What name would they bear?"
Daemon and Viserys exchanged a glance. Daemon, as quick as ever, answered before his brother could open his mouth. "Come now, cousin. We all know they would bear the Velaryon name, save for the one who would sit on the Iron Throne. That child, and their descendants, would carry the name Targaryen. On that, there will be no change."
Rhaenys gave a single, deliberate nod, then leaned back, her expression unreadable. She had gained what she wished to know. But Corlys had not yet spoken, and there were matters weighing heavily upon him. He cleared his throat and spoke with firm gravity.
"Before we can go further, I must make one thing plain. I gave my word to my son that no betrothal would be arranged without his consent. Laenor has been the greatest blessing the gods have ever bestowed upon my house, and I will not break faith with him."
Viserys shifted uncomfortably, but Daemon leaned forward, his voice confident. "You need not worry. Laenor and I have already spoken on this matter. He agreed, provided Rhaenyra herself had no objection. And my niece," he added with absolute certainty, "harbors none."
Corlys masked a scoff with a cough, his eyes flicking toward Rhaenys. His wife's lips curved into a small, mysterious smile, one that drew a curious look from her cousins. If only Daemon knew the truth. Laenor was adept at hiding his secrets, but Laena, their daughter, was not. Her radiant smile, worn for moons without pause, had given her away. Under gentle questioning from her parents—assured that they bore no disapproval—Laena had confessed what was going on between her and Laenor.
"Even so," Rhaenys added smoothly, "Laenor will have the final say. As will Rhaenyra."
Daemon's lips curled into a smirk—not his usual arrogant sneer, but something sharper, more calculating. "Aye. Laenor will have the final say," he conceded. "But I assume the two of you can be… persuaded to guide him toward the choice that is best for him, and for House Velaryon. Am I right?"
Corlys tilted his head, feigning thought. "That depends," he said in a measured tone, "on what you are offering." His voice carried the weight of negotiation, for this was where his true skill lay.
In truth, he did not know whether Laenor would accept or reject such a match. Most likely, his son would not accept. But there was little harm in securing favorable terms from the royal house, should fate shift Laenor's mind. And with the old ways of Valyria reinstated by both houses, there is one which could help them in this situation. In the Freehold, it was not uncommon for a man to take more than one wife. Why should his son not do the same, especially when both bore the fiery blood of the dragonlords? How Laenor might manage such a union—with two women of Targaryen passion, in both life and bed—that, Corlys decided, was his son's burden to bear. Not his own.
A Third-person POV
While the mortal realm knows peace for now—however brief that peace may be—the same cannot be said of what lies beyond the Veil, where the Gods have stirred and now sit in judgment over the Three Gods of the Three Sisters with anger and annoyance, because these fools folly have disturbed their slumber. It is not yet time for them to awaken, for the Song of Ice and Fire has not been sung, nor have their eternal foes risen. And waking up them with their little stunt would result in punishment for which the three are here.
Before punishment could be cast upon the three frail godlings, whose one leg is already in the grave with no worshipper to pray to them, they revealed a truth that made the divine turn their gaze upon the mortal realm beyond the Veil. And there, the wrath and vexation of the Gods faded, giving way instead to curiosity and suspicion, as their eyes turned toward the Old Gods and the Many-Faced One, demanding answers.
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