Chapter 9: Vaenyra Lhaerys
Vaenyra's Birthday, December 23, 1891
Winter had claimed the Carpathians with a silent ferocity. Outside, the world was a blur of white and gray, where thick snow suffocated the landscape and biting winds howled like ghostly wolves through the peaks. Inside the Lhaerys family's fortress, however, the cold was kept at bay. Heat radiated from the fireplaces and the very black stone of the structure, which seemed to retain a memory of the dragonfire and magic that had shaped it.
Vaenyra Lhaerys awoke before dawn, as she always did. The morning chill was her personal alarm clock, a discipline she imposed upon herself. But today, there was something different in the air. A stillness, a sense of weight and expectation that mingled with the approaching winter solstice. It was her eleventh birthday.
She rose from her bed, her movements precise and unhesitating. In her room, spartan compared to her brother's, there was no space for clutter. A bed, a wardrobe, a small table, and a bookshelf for the few books that interested her. It was the room of a determined warrior, not a princess lost in a world of innocent, purposeless dreams.
As she tied her silver hair into a tight, functional braid, she faced herself in the mirror. Eleven years old. The age when the wizarding world began to pay attention. The age when destiny ceased to be a story told by her grandfather and became a path to be trodden. Her violet eyes, usually focused and analytical, seemed deeper today, laden with a seriousness and determination that belied her young age.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where snow fell in a dense, relentless veil. Daemyr, her brother, already had his dragon. He had his dreams, his visions of a castle in the mountains. He had a destiny that seemed to whisper to him in his sleep. And she? She had her blade, her discipline, and the strange, dark fire that had danced in her hand months ago—a latent power, ready to be tamed, she felt, but still a power she did not understand, yet felt pulsing beneath her skin, awaiting its claim.
A determination as cold as the winter outside settled in her heart. She would not be defined by her brother's dreams or her family's expectations. She would forge her own destiny. With steel, if necessary. Or with fire.
Vaenyra's birthday celebration was an event of contained formality, a reflection of the Lhaerys family's very nature. The grand dining hall, with its tapestries narrating the flight from Valyria, was lit not by extravagant chandeliers, but by the dancing light of dozens of candles and the constant glow of the enormous fireplace. The long, polished black oak table was set with ceremonial precision, adorned with special dishes that rarely appeared outside of important occasions.
The nuclear family was gathered. Aelarion, the patriarch, sat at the head, the smoke from his pipe rising in slow spirals, his violet eyes observing his granddaughter with silent wisdom. Beside him, Maeric and Serena sat together, an alliance of pragmatism and power, their rigid postures contrasting with Lyra's softer, more maternal expression across the table. Daemyr sat beside Vaenyra, a calm presence that balanced his sister's contained intensity.
It was Aelarion who broke the respectful silence, raising his silver goblet.
"By blood and by fire," he began, his voice resonating with the gravity of tradition. "For the future of our House. At eleven years old, a new journey begins. May your instincts be sharp and your will, unyielding. To you, Vaenyra.
"All raised their goblets. Maeric, after a sip, set his down with a soft click. "Your skill with the blade is undeniable," he said, his tone pragmatic, a compliment devoid of warmth, expected yet unexpected, given his true feelings on the matter. "Discipline is a valuable tool. Continue to hone it."
Serena, on the other hand, looked at her daughter with a fierce pride that shone in her eyes. "Discipline is the foundation," she agreed, her voice firm. "But it is will that builds empires. And your will, my daughter, is forged in Valyrian steel and tempered in dragonfire."
It was a rare moment of family unity, a unanimous recognition of Vaenyra's worth. However, beneath the surface, the usual tensions remained—the differing visions of what it meant to be a Lhaerys in this new world, the eternal dispute between tradition and adaptation, between dreams and practical power.
Vaenyra, seated at the center of that complex web of expectations, felt the weight of each one.
After the meal, the air in the dining hall grew even denser with anticipation. Aelarion gestured, and a servant brought a long, dark wooden box. The patriarch rose, took the box, and placed it on the table in front of Vaenyra with a solemnity that silenced all conversation.
"A blade is not merely steel, my granddaughter," Aelarion said, his voice soft, yet resonating with the wisdom of ages. "It is an extension of a warrior's soul. It is a companion for life." He opened the box.
Inside, on a lining of black velvet, lay a sword. Forged by Corlys Qorynys, it was a masterpiece of Valyrian steel. The blade, about ninety centimeters long, was perfectly sized for her, and its surface displayed the undulating, hypnotic patterns characteristic of the metal, like dark water frozen in time. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, and the pommel was adorned with a single ruby that glowed like a living ember. At the base of the blade, engraved in High Valyrian, was:
𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔷𝔶𝔰 ī𝔩𝔳𝔞 𝔡𝔞𝔬𝔯 𝔰ȳ𝔷 ī𝔞
May your flame never extinguish.
With an almost imperceptible bow, Vaenyra took the sword. The weight was perfect, the balance, the aesthetics—everything suited her taste. She drew it, and the sound of steel sliding from the scabbard was a deadly whisper. For an instant, a genuine smile, a sight as rare as a comet, touched her lips. "Thank you, grandfather," she said, her voice firm, yet laden with an emotion she rarely allowed to show.
Daemyr smiled, feeling genuine pride for his sister. Serena nodded, her eyes gleaming with fierce approval. Lyra, on the other hand, could not hide a pang of concern at seeing such a lethal weapon in her niece's hands. Maeric remained impassive, but a slight frown betrayed his disapproval of the emphasis on "old tradition."
It was then that he pushed a heavy object across the table, without Aelarion's ceremony. It was a thick tome, bound in black dragonhide, with the title engraved in silver in Gothic script: Kampfzauber: Die Kunst des Duells. Combat Spells: The Art of Dueling.
"The sword is tradition," Maeric declared, his pragmatic voice cutting through the reverent atmosphere. "But in the world you are going to, the true power is here." He looked directly at Vaenyra. "This is one of the many pieces of knowledge you will find at Durmstrang, far too advanced for your age. Start studying now. When you arrive at school, whichever it may be, you will already be ahead."
Vaenyra took the book in her hands. The weight of magical knowledge was different from the weight of steel. She leafed through it carefully, observing the diagrams of wand movements and the enchantments recorded in Latin, an ancient language whose power seemed to emanate silently from the pages. She immediately recognized the practical value of that gift. It was a different weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. "Thank you, father."
The other gifts followed, each a reflection of the giver. Serena handed her a Valyrian silver dagger. "A warrior always has a second blade," she said. Lyra gave her a heavy travel cloak, enchanted to protect her from the cold and minor spells, a gift born of maternal concern.
And then Daemyr did something unexpected. Instead of words or jewels, he handed her a drawing.
It was a precise, careful stroke, too deliberate to be casual. On the paper, she herself appeared portrayed—standing, firm, holding the sword she had just received. Her expression was deadly, resolute, as if nothing in the world could stop her. The blade shone with a supernatural intensity, enveloped by deep black flames that did not consume, only obeyed. The Valyrian steel seemed alive in her hands.
She held her breath.
There was strength there. Truth. Admiration. And something harder to name.
Her eyes scanned every detail, still surprised to see herself that way, not as she was, but as she could be. Then she looked up.
Daemyr watched her in silence, his head slightly tilted. There was something soft, almost shy, in his eyes, contrasting with the small, sympathetic smile that formed at the corner of his mouth.
"Did you like it, my sister?"
The question came simply, yet laden with meaning.
Still composing herself, more timid than she would have liked to admit, she merely nodded.
The gesture was simple, almost imperceptible, but sufficient.
Everyone at the table noticed the incident, the brief silence, the gaze that lasted a second longer than it should have. Yet, no one commented. It was as if everyone instinctively understood that it did not belong to them.
It was not a public moment.
It was intimate.
Something thought, created, and offered only to her.
She liked the gift so much that she even forgot to ask how. How Daemyr knew about her sword before she had received it, even though if she thought about it for just a moment, the answer would be obvious.
Vaenyra accepted each gift with contained gratitude, but her eyes alternated between three. The sword, the book, and the drawing. Tradition and pragmatism. The past and the future. All, now, belonged to her.
That night, snow fell outside in a thick silence, covering the world in a pristine white blanket. In Vaenyra's room, the only light came from a single candle, its flame dancing, casting long, trembling shadows on the stone walls. She was alone, surrounded by the gifts of her eleventh birthday.
The sword, still unnamed, leaned against the wall, its Valyrian steel blade absorbing the light and seeming to contain a darkness of its own. On the table, the heavy Durmstrang grimoire rested, its black leather promising a power of a different nature. Her mother's dagger, her aunt's cloak, and her brother's drawing on the bed were arranged, but it was the sword, the book, and the drawing that held her attention.
She looked from one to the other. The sword was her grandfather's gift, a symbol of tradition, honor, the glorious past of Valyria. It was a recognition of who she was by instinct: a warrior. The book was her father's gift, a tool of pragmatism, a weapon for the future, a map to power in the modern wizarding world. It was a command to become something more.
And then there was the drawing.
It carried no political weight or veiled expectations. It was something different. Intimate. On the paper, she appeared wielding the sword, enveloped by deep black flames that did not consume, only obeyed, her gaze firm and deadly. It was not the past that defined her there, nor the future demanded of her; it was a vision. A reflection of her potential, drawn by someone who saw her not as a symbol or strategy, but as a living force.
For many, that would be a choice.
One path or another.
Steel or spell.
But as Vaenyra looked at the objects before her, she did not see a fork in the road. She saw an arsenal.
The sword was her grandfather's legacy, the vision of a Valyrian warrior, shaped by fire and tradition.
The book was her father's gaze, the demand of a powerful witch, prepared to dominate the future with knowledge and strategy.
And there was also the drawing.
In it, both things coexisted. She wielded the sword, but the flames that enveloped her were not just fire; they were will, power, they were magic, something that transcended labels. It was neither past nor promise: it was synthesis. Someone had seen her whole, not divided between what was and what should be.
Her grandfather saw her as a Valyrian warrior.
Her father saw her as a future powerful witch to increase her house's influence.
They were both right.
And both wrong.
Because they saw only a part of her.
She stood up, the silence of the room broken only by the soft crackle of the candle. She took the sword, the cold, solid leather hilt in her hand. The balance was perfect—not like a strange weapon, but like an extension of herself. In her mind, the image from the drawing emerged with clarity: her wielding that blade, enveloped by black flames, her gaze firm, unyielding. It was not imagination. It was recognition.
With her other hand, she opened the heavy grimoire on the table. The pages rustled softly, revealing dark arts. Her fingers touched the parchment, and for an instant, she saw herself again in Daemyr's sketch,not just a warrior, but focus, intent, disciplined power.
Vaenyra Lhaerys held the sword in one hand and placed the fingers of the other on the grimoire. The drawing had not offered her a choice; it had offered a truth.
She would be both.
In that world, to survive and to conquer, there was no other way.
The world did not yet know, but Vaenyra Lhaerys was a conqueror.