Balerion Tower
Maelor was seated with his wife, Hael, and their daughter, Elaena. The girl—whom he had expected would not return to Balerion Tower for several days at least—now sat before him with her head bowed, her face streaked with dried tears. Elaena rarely lifted her eyes today. The once-proud daughter of the Drakonar, one of the finest prodigy scholars Valyria had produced in generations, looked like a creature crushed beneath an unbearable weight. She was a picture of quiet despair, her shoulders drawn inward, her usual bright and untamed fire extinguished.
And the reason for her current state was Laenor Velaryon.
An anomaly by every measure of the word.
An anomaly that, by all rights, should have been born in an age long past—before the Freehold ever rose, before the foundations of Valyria were laid stone by stone, before even Maelor Drakonar's ancestors were little more than shepherds wandering the volcanic plains. His kind were not meant for this era, and yet one now walked beneath the same sky as them, bending it to his will.
The Drakonar library was vast—vast beyond reason—and ancient. Endless halls of black stone and red-veined marble housed shelves upon shelves of scrolls, tablets, and bound tomes, chronicling knowledge about nearly everything the world had ever known. Maelor's ancestors had been hoarders of knowledge as much as they were hoarders of power; it was a blood trait, and every Drakonar knew it well. Secrets were wealth, and information was a weapon.
So, naturally, after witnessing Laenor's power firsthand, Maelor had commanded Aelor to find everything—everything—that could be uncovered about men like this Velaryon. His nephew did not disappoint. Aelor had always been a creature of ink and parchment, more comfortable with quills than blades, and Maelor had trusted that by the evening—before he himself was required to go to Blackfyre Tower—there would be something, anything, that might help him judge just how far he must stretch his offers to secure the Velaryons.
Maelor already knew the Aetharyons had moved. He knew they had laid tempting offers before Laenor, heavy with promises of prestige and power. He also knew that none of those offers surpassed his own. Yet after the midday fiasco, Maelor was no longer confident that sufficiency would be enough. Laenor Velaryon had pride—dangerous pride—and after being threatened, even indirectly, such a man would demand more, not less.
And once Maelor learned that Laenor's kind had been rare even during the age of the Dawn Empire, his course was set. This was a golden egg—one he had been fortunate enough to recognize before the others. He would not lose it.
The Aetharyons would learn the truth soon enough, Maelor was certain of that. But by then, it would already be too late. He had acted first. A dragon legion had already been dispatched to Bloodstone—or rather, to the scattered, worthless rocks near Tyrosh, as Valyria calls them. Their task was simple: bring Vaemond Velaryon and his sons to Valyria. The sooner they arrived, the better it would be for both Maelor and House Drakonar. Once the blood contract was signed, Maelor would finally be free of the gnawing fear that Laenor's wrath might one day turn upon his house.
"It is all right, Elaena," Hael said softly, her voice breaking Maelor from his thoughts. She sat close to their daughter, one hand resting gently on Elaena's shoulder, her expression that of a mother aching for her child. "The fault does not lie with you, but with him. Do not forget—you are the most beautiful woman in the Freehold."
"It does not matter where the fault lies," Elaena replied, her voice hollow and defeated. She glanced briefly at Maelor before her gaze dropped once more to the floor. "I still failed Father. I failed him. I failed our clan."
"Yes," Maelor said sharply. "You did."
Both Hael and Elaena stiffened.
"You failed the Drakonar name when you played at Laenor Velaryon without understanding what he truly was," Maelor continued, his tone firm, unyielding. "You failed us then. But this time…" He paused, his gaze hardening. "This time it was not entirely upon you. And I did not raise you to accept defeat after trying only once."
Disappointment colored his voice, but beneath it lay something else—expectation. Elaena had always been his pride, even when she was his greatest headache. She possessed everything he had ever wanted in an heir: brilliance, ambition, hunger. Her tendency to invite trouble had never concerned him overly, not while House Drakonar stood unchallenged atop Valyria's hierarchy.
But now the sky itself had changed. Larger, more powerful dragons flew above Valyria, and House Drakonar had narrowly avoided catastrophe at the hands of one such power.
Elaena shared his thirst for power. From childhood, she had sought to excel in everything, even in choosing her dragon. She had selected the most intelligent and powerful hatchling of her generation. Only Aegor Belaerys had ever rivaled her—and that boy was whispered to possess unholy talent and a disturbing fascination with blood magic. So naturally, Maelor still has high expectations of her, that she could still make all this right in the end. A fool's hope, perhaps, but the only hope they have right now.
"What am I to do, Father?" Elaena asked quietly, her voice subdued. "I do not think Laenor will change his mind. And I cannot force him. Not in any way."
"No," Maelor agreed. "You cannot force him. But who said anything about force?" His gaze sharpened. "Use a gentler approach. As your mother said, you are the most beautiful woman in the Freehold. Weaponize it, daughter. I would never speak such words if not for what it will bring our house in return." His voice lowered. "You understand now what he is, do you not?"
Elaena's downcast face lifted. The carefully trained mask—the one that had been drilled into her since childhood—slid back into place, smooth and emotionless. She nodded once.
"I know," she said, her voice steady now, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "A god's child."
The words still rang with shock, even now. And perhaps that was why, moments ago, Elaena had looked so utterly broken—because she had failed where the stakes were unbearably high.
"To think that such a man would exist in our time as well," Maelor said slowly, almost to himself. "It is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing to those who stand beside Laenor Velaryon… and a curse to those foolish and unfortunate enough to stand against him."
While Elaena had been at Blackfyre Tower, Maelor had gone to the library himself. Not merely to skim, but to search. He had read the old scrolls sealed in lacquered stone cases, texts written in archaic High Valyrian. Aelor had thankfully put them apart for him to read at Maelor's leisure. They spoke of God's Children—Divine Princes, as they were named in the elder days—figures half-myth, half-history, whose existence predated even the rise of Valyria.
Hael turned toward him, her brows knit together, surprise and doubt mingling on her face. "Will Laenor Velaryon grow more powerful still, Maelor?" she asked quietly.
Maelor did not hesitate. "Without question. I would go so far as to say his name will be etched so deeply into the annals of this world that even millennia will struggle to erase it." His voice grew more animated as he spoke, the scholar in him overtaking the lord. "From what I have read, most of the Divine Princes were bound to a single aspect—one element, one gift. Some were not even granted that much, instead receiving only an enhanced physique or a singular blessing that, while impressive, was far from world-shaking."
He leaned forward, fingers gripping the arm of his chair. "But Laenor… Laenor bends more than one. Water is obvious. Thunder is undeniable. But did either of you notice the wind?"
Hael and Elaena exchanged glances, both visibly startled.
"It may not have been obvious," Maelor continued, eyes bright now, "but he dispersed the storm clouds with sheer force of air. Winds so violent that the dark clouds thinned and fled within moments. I watched it myself—the clouds torn apart, scattered beyond my sight. That was not a coincidence."
Elaena's lips parted slightly, her composure cracking just a fraction.
"What we saw today, Father," she asked carefully, "was that the full extent of Laenor's power?"
Maelor shook his head. "No. I am certain it was not. When I threatened his family, he summoned a storm vast enough to engulf half the Freehold. Half of Valyria lay beneath the shadow of the storm that was summoned by one man. Which was growing large as rage of Laenor increased." His voice lowered. "And the texts are clear on this matter. There was a reason the Divine Princes had their own temples. Their own rites. Their own offerings."
He paused, then added with grave emphasis, "As they age, they grow stronger. Stronger beyond measure. Alone, they could raze cities with little effort. There are records—fragmented, but clear—of conflicts between such beings. I suggest you both read them yourselves. The destruction they wrought makes dragonfire seem… nothing more than a child comparing its strength with that of a trained adult."
There was awe in his voice now, and Maelor truly hopes to witness such power in action, though this time not against him or his clan.
The Hightower, Battle Isle — The Reach
Otto Hightower sat beside the head of the long oaken table in the Lord's Solar, the tall windows behind him thrown open to the evening breeze drifting in from the Whispering Sound. The setting sun bathed the chamber in hues of gold and amber.
At the head of the table sat his brother, Hobert Hightower—broad-shouldered, stern, his fingers tapping lightly against the arm of his chair in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Across from him, robed in muted grey, was the Seneschal of the Citadel, the many links of his chain resting heavily upon his chest. Beside the Seneschal sat the Father of the Faithful, clad in white and crystal, his hands folded calmly, eyes sharp and assessing despite his advanced age.
No servants were present. No guards lingered near the doors, too close. This was not a gathering meant for ears other than those present here.
Otto was the first to break the silence.
"It is confirmed," he said gravely. "Valyria has returned. There is no other explanation for dragons of such size appearing out of the sky like any bird roaming the sky." His gaze moved from face to face. "The Targaryens and Velaryons have been gone for more than a week. That absence is no coincidence. They may already suspect—if not know—the truth."
Hobert's fingers stilled.
"If one dragonlord family was not enough," Otto continued, his voice tightening, "the Seven alone know how we are meant to contend with forty more. They are quiet now, yes—but Valyria has never remained silent for long. Already, new and large dragons are making themselves known to Westerosi skies."
He straightened, resolve hardening in his eyes. "We must let the lords of the realm hear this at once. Let us see how they react to this."
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