The Realm of Dream
As soon as he regained some semblance of consciousness, Laenor's eyes flew open. He looked around, alert for any threat, only to find the same people he had been with when last awake at Dragonstone. The second thing he noticed was… unsettling. They were all floating—or were they standing? Laenor couldn't say for sure. They seemed suspended in a space awash with shifting colors; vibrant hues surrounded them on all sides, blending and swirling together, creating a breathtaking sight—if not for the fact that they had been dragged here against their will. Perhaps, under different circumstances, they might have appreciated it.
"What is this, Laenor? And why were you late in arriving here, too?" Daemon demanded, still glaring at him with clear dissatisfaction.
Laenor shook his head at this display of anger.
"I admit, I am as confused and at a loss as you all are. As for my delay… it was because I resisted. But it seems that whoever—or whatever—brought us here is stronger than me. Still, I sense no malice. And before you all ask, how do I know? All my instincts tell me so. And you would be surprised by what my magic is telling me," Laenor said, his gaze sweeping across the strange space, both with his eyes and his senses, searching for the one responsible for bringing them here. There was no doubt in his mind—only gods could do such a thing, so bold and so uncaring of mortal will.
"Pray tell, what is your magic saying, Lord Laenor?" asked Viserys, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. He did not look nearly as regal and fearless as he had earlier during their conversation. Laenor could see fear and confusion in all of them—at the space that surrounded them, and the ease with which they had been brought here.
"It tells me that I'm to meet my parent—or someone very familiar. Too familiar, I might add. My magic is singing in my veins, even now," Laenor replied.
Everyone turned their gaze toward him in disbelief.
"Forgive me, but what does that mean? Is it a good thing or a bad one? Because as far as magic is concerned, you are the only one who understands its intricacies," Rhaenyra asked, glancing nervously about.
"It is a good thing for me… and for you all too. Probably," Laenor said.
Rhaenyra shot him an annoyed look at his last word.
"Ah, come now. How am I to know what you all feel—or how your magic reacts to any of this?" Laenor frowned, happy that the Princess wasn't looking at him with that silent and observant gaze as she did at Dragonstone. The realization hit him suddenly—his rage, his stress, every storm of emotion he had felt before was gone. Completely gone. In their place, only calm remained… deep, serene calm, the kind he had always wanted—needed. Yet that peace itself made him anxious. How is this possible? And who is the cause of it?
"Look—there," came his father's voice.
Laenor turned to where his father was pointing, and his brows rose sharply. Lava, fire, and the dark, towering architecture—if that wasn't enough, the sight of the topless towers confirmed it beyond doubt.
"Valyria," His father gasped in awe..
"By the gods… how is that possible?" his mother whispered in awe.
Laenor had no answer. Like everyone else, he stood transfixed, gazing upon the ruin of Valyria. Then—he felt it. A gaze. Someone watching him.
Laenor turned sharply to his right. Far away, a lone figure floated among the swirling colors—clad in strange garments, his face half-shrouded, impossible to discern. Yet there was no mistaking the gleam of silver-gold hair.
"What? It's changing!" Rhaenyra exclaimed.
Laenor tore his eyes from the man—reluctantly—and looked. His breath caught. The ruin of Valyria was transforming before their eyes. Stone rose, molten rivers cooled, and shattered towers mended themselves as if time itself were reversing. The broken lands, torn apart by the Doom, knit back together again.
They all stood silent, awestruck, as Valyria—ancient and magnificent—was reborn before their very eyes.
"It is magnificent," Viserys said, his voice trembling with wonder. "Better than what I saw in my dreams. Valyria—ha!" He laughed, half in disbelief, half in joy. "Would you believe it, Daemon? It was our dream—to see Valyria once in our lives. And now we have. What say you, brother?"
"Truly a place for dragonlords," Daemon murmured, his voice low with reverence. But then his eyes widened—and so did everyone else's, even Laenor's—as they saw a skeleton lying upon the blackened streets of Valyria begin to stir. Flesh and blood wove over bone, reforming what once was.
They rose to their feet, confused and alarmed. Targaryens and Velaryons watched in silence as not only men—but dragons—were reborn from ash and bone.
And then the vision ended.
Laenor and the others were left standing still, hollow-eyed, struggling to grasp the weight of what they had seen.
Laenor remembered the man in strange clothes and looked to his right, only to find nothing but swirling colors. He let out a breath in defeat and stood vigilantly, for there was nothing else he could do. Laenor had already tried to mobilize his magic and tried to form any type of attack or anything, but he did not succeed; he did with other powers as well—but to no avail. None had succeeded in waking him from wherever he was trapped. Not to mention, his connection with Embaryx was faint, too.
"What was that? What did we just see…" His father's words trailed off as a dragon with four limbs and wings sprouting from the joint of its front limb materialized before them. Laenor, who knew that dragons could also have six limbs, was just as surprised by the dragon's limbs and its enormous size.
Laenor didn't know if others could feel it, but the sheer power and presence it exuded were otherworldly—overwhelming to his senses. He had to stop spreading his awareness before his head began to ache terribly.
"We apologize for that, my child. But we cannot suppress our power any more than this."
Laenor looked upward and saw the same regal dragon of purple and black speaking to him. Majestic—kingly, even—was the word Laenor would use to describe it. And for some reason, warmth bloomed within him when the dragon called him child.
The fuck is happening to him?
Laenor shook his head, forcing himself to regain some control over his emotions. "Don't worry. I'm fine now," he said, noticing the dragon hadn't taken its eyes off him.
"Good. Then we must make haste, for we do not have much time. First, we would introduce ourselves, as we are sure you all have no knowledge of our identity. We are Arrax, the King of the Fourteen Fires. We are a dragon. Your ancestors, the Valyrians, worshiped us as gods. It was we who brought you all here, to grant you a vision of what will happen in Moonturn."
Fucking fantastic, was the only thought that crossed Laenor's mind after hearing the dragon or dragon god.
Now he had to deal with Valyrians too, who had too much power in their hands.
"What do you mean—a vision of what will happen in Moonturn?" Daemon asked, the prince looking shocked to his core. The others fared no better.
"It seems you did not understand the dream we showed you. Child, Valyria will live again—including most of the men and dragons who perished in the Doom. It is the divine will. Now, our time ends. We have given you a warning—or a blessing—depending on how you take it. Though we hope there will be no infighting between our children, we cannot blame you, for it is in your nature. Farewell, children."
With that, the dragon vanished, and Laenor's world spun again. Darkness eagerly came to embrace his vision.
The Dining Hall of Dragonstone, Hour of the Wolf
The Maester of Dragonstone was doing everything he could to wake the King and royal family, yet he found nothing wrong with them—other than the fact they were asleep. Even so, his duty demanded he try to wake his grace from whatever had ensnared him. But Maester Luke believed it was not any injury or ailment—it was the work of magic. And sadly, he knew little of the higher mysteries.
"What is it, Maester Luke? Does his grace show any signs of waking up?" Ser Harrold asked. Worry and distress were plain on his face. The white cloak was as helpless as the Maester, for the foe that gripped his grace was not a man of flesh and steel whom he could fight or kill.
"Sadly, no. I think you must allow me to send a raven to the Citadel—and to the Grand Maester—before it is too late. This sleep that has taken the whole royal family and the Velaryons is unlike anything I've seen before. Not to mention, it reeks of magic…" Maester Luke stopped abruptly when he saw movement from Lord Laenor's hand. He immediately crossed the room to his side, chains clinking heavily as he nearly ran to the heir of House Velaryon.
"Lord Laenor, can you hear me, my lord? Open your eyes!" the Maester called. "Ser Harrold, give me some water."
Ser Harrold obeyed and passed the cup to him. But before the Maester could splash water onto Laenor's face, a hand gripped his wrist tightly.
Laenor groaned, opening his eyes a little. "No need to do that. I'm fine," he murmured. "Do not worry about the others, either—they will be waking up soon, too."
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