The great hall of Dragonstone was alive with light, laughter, and the low murmur of noble voices. The welcome banquet had begun.
Long tables stretched across the hall, heavy with roasted meats, fresh bread, spiced wine, and delicacies brought from distant shores. The air carried a mix of salt, smoke, and celebration. Lords and ladies sat in clusters, speaking in hushed tones or laughing openly, their silks and velvets shimmering in the torchlight.
At the high table sat Jaehaerys I Targaryen beside Alysanne Targaryen, surrounded by members of the royal family.
The sharp knock of a staff echoed through the chamber.
"Lord Benjen Stark, Lady Lysa Locke, and Rickon Stark," the guards announced.
The great doors opened, and the Northerners entered as one.
At their head was Benjen Stark, tall and broad, wrapped in layered furs over dark leathers. His beard, thick and touched with early grey, framed a stern, weathered face. His grey eyes moved across the hall with quiet caution, as though weighing every soul present.
Beside him walked Lysa Locke, slender and composed. Her pale complexion and dark braided hair gave her a quiet northern grace. Her gown of muted grey-blue was simple but finely made, her calm, observant gaze missing little.
Behind them came Rickon Stark, no more than four-and-ten, tall for his age with a lean build and the unmistakable Stark features long face, steady grey eyes, and dark hair falling untamed across his brow. There was a stillness to him, something patient and enduring.
They approached the high table, offered their respects, and took their seats.
Rickon settled beside Saera, the two exchanging a brief, familiar glance,no longer strangers, but not yet friends.
Across the hall, Corlys Velaryon stood among a circle of attentive lords.
He cut a striking figure,tall and proud, his posture as straight as a mast in calm waters. His skin was dark, his hair silver-white like seafoam under moonlight, worn long and tied back neatly. He was dressed in deep sea-green and black, his doublet embroidered with subtle patterns of waves and seahorses in silver thread. Rings gleamed on his fingers, each likely carrying a story of distant lands and earned fortune.
When he spoke, others listened.
"I've seen waters so still," Corlys was saying, his voice rich with experience, "that a man might think the world had ended… until the depths beneath him moved."
A few lords leaned closer.
"East of Qarth," he continued, a faint smile touching his lips, "the sea turns a shade of blue you won't find on any map. Beautiful… and deadly. We lost two ships there,not to storm, but to something that never showed itself."
A murmur passed through the group.
Corlys only shrugged lightly.
"The sea keeps its secrets. A wise man learns to profit from what it gives… and not question what it takes."
Laughter followed, though some of it was uneasy.
At the high table, Princess Alyssa leaned toward Viserra.
"Where is Daemon?" she asked quietly.
As if summoned, the great doors opened once more.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen," the guard announced.
The hall shifted. Conversations faded. Eyes turned.
Rumors had long traveled ahead of him whispers of brilliance, of strangeness, of something not easily defined. No one knew the truth, but rumors did not grow without root.
Daemon entered without haste.
He wore black entirely black. A fitted velvet doublet traced with fine silver threading that caught the torchlight only in motion. A high-collared cloak fell from his shoulders, clasped with a dark steel dragon brooch. His pale silver hair was drawn back loosely, framing a sharp, composed face. His violet eyes moved once across the hall, calm, distant, observing.
He did not acknowledge the stares.
Reaching the high table, he bowed with precise courtesy before taking his seat beside his brother at the far end.
For a moment, silence lingered.
Then Jaehaerys I Targaryen rose.
"My lords and ladies," he began, his voice steady and carrying, "it brings me great pleasure to welcome you all here."
His gaze swept across the hall.
"You have come from near and far, across land and sea, to stand with us on the eve of this union. For that, you have my thanks."
He paused, the faintest smile forming.
"Tonight, let us set aside the burdens of duty. Let us eat, drink, and remember that the strength of the realm lies not only in its crown, but in the bonds we share."
He raised his cup.
"To the union to come… and to the peace we have built together."
The hall erupted in a chorus of "To the King!" and the clatter of silver against stone, but at the far end of the table, Daemon did not drink immediately. He watched the steam rise from his plate.
The music resumed, softer now strings and pipes weaving through the great hall like a gentle tide. Servants moved between tables, refilling cups and clearing platters, keeping the illusion of ease intact while the air grew heavy with the weight of unseen things.
The hall had shifted. Not in noise, but in intent.
The lords had begun to gather, drawn together by that primal instinct that precedes a storm. Small circles formed across the chamber, each one a quiet center of power, but the largest had formed beneath the banner of sea-green silk where Ser Corlys Velaryon stood. This time, the laughter was thinner. The men around him leaned closer, their silks rustling as they vied for the truth.
A Hightower spoke first, his voice a low rasp. "You mentioned the east, Ser Corlys. Trouble beyond Qarth?"
Corlys swirled the wine in his cup, watching the dark liquid climb the silver walls of the chalice. "Trouble is a simple word," he said, his gaze fixed on the wine. "The east does not trouble. It changes."
A Lannister frowned, his fingers twitching near the gold embroidery of his sleeve. "Changes how?"
Corlys looked up then, his dark eyes sharp and unyielding beneath the torchlight. "The Jade Gate grows… crowded. The Summer Isles ships avoid it now, and even the Qartheen are less eager to sail those waters alone."
"Pirates?" another lord asked, seeking a mundane enemy he could understand.
Corlys gave a small, humorless smile. "If it were pirates, I would have named them and be done with it. I have sailed those waters since I was younger than most men here. I know the moods of the sea. I know the tricks of wind and current."
He set his cup aside with a finality that made the surrounding lords go still. "This is neither."
"Then what is it?" the Hightower pressed.
Corlys's fingers tapped lightly against the table once, twice ,the sound like the drumming of a carpenter measuring a hull. "At night," he said finally, his voice dropping an octave, "the water does not rest. It moves, even when the wind dies. Not in waves… but beneath them."
A faint shift of unease passed through the group. The Lannister scoffed, though the sound lacked its usual bite. "The sea is always moving."
"Yes," Corlys said quietly. "But not like that." He leaned in, his voice a cold whisper that seemed to chill the wine in their hands. "We lost two ships east of Qarth. No storm. No wreckage. No survivors. They did not sink. They were… taken."
The word lingered, heavy and cold.
"Taken by what?" a Tyrell lord asked, shifting uncomfortably.
Corlys's gaze drifted toward the high, dark windows of the hall toward the unseen sea beyond the black cliffs of Dragonstone. "If I knew," he said, "I would not be warning you."
He straightened then, the tension easing from his posture as he donned the mask of the merchant prince once more. "But trade remains," he added, his voice lighter. "And where trade remains, so does profit."
That broke the tension barely. The conversation shifted back to safer shores ,routes, tariffs, and port levies but the unease remained, an unspoken ghost at the feast.
Across the hall, cocooned in the shadow of a basalt pillar, Daemon watched.
He did not stand among them. He did not speak. He did not intrude. By his ability of Aura Reading, Daemon could see the steady, unwavering resonance surrounding the Sea Snake. There was no flicker of deceit, no distortion of fabrication; Corlys was telling the truth. The man's aura held the deep, rhythmic weight of genuine conviction, colored by a dark stain of legitimate dread.
"The Jade Gate…" Daemon murmured, the words barely a breath.
Not wind. Not storm. Something beneath.
Patterns began to align in the grey-violet depths of his eyes. Sea routes shifting. Eastern fear rising. The Red Priestess in the village. The bone-white weirwood bow that hummed with a heartbeat. And now, something in the deep that moved against the tide.
"Something is changing," he concluded quietly.
Daemon did not return to the high table.
Instead, he drifted along the periphery of the hall, unseen in presence if not in form. He moved with intent, his gaze never settling aimlessly but rather scanning the room for the subtle fractures in the evening's facade. He listened, his ears catching the threads of power woven through the idle chatter.
Near one of the great basalt pillars, Prince Viserys stood in quiet conversation with Lord Otto Hightower and Rickon Stark. Viserys spoke first, his tone unfailingly courteous and measured.
"The journey from the North is no small undertaking, Lord Rickon. I trust the roads were kind to you?"
Rickon Stark inclined his head slightly, his expression as unyielding as the stone behind him. "As kind as they ever are, Your Grace. The cold is honest, at least. It does not pretend to be otherwise."
Otto allowed a faint, polite smile to touch his lips a gesture that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. "A quality not often found in courts," he said smoothly.
Rickon's gaze shifted to him. It wasn't hostile, but it was heavy with the weight of Northern skepticism. "No," he agreed. "Not often."
Viserys exhaled softly, as though smoothing over an edge neither man had quite crossed yet. "The realm prospers in peace," he said, almost as if to remind himself. "That is what matters."
Otto inclined his head. "For now," he added. The words were gentle, but they lacked the comfort of reassurance. They sounded more like a countdown.
Daemon's eyes lingered on the trio for a moment longer before he moved on. Across the hall, another circle had formed this one lighter in tone and brighter in presence. Corlys Velaryon stood before Saera Targaryen, a small object resting in his open palm.
"For you, Princess," he said, his voice carrying the warmth and ease of a man who had mastered both the tides and the courts.
He offered it forward: an amethyst bracelet. It was delicate, yet unmistakably foreign. The gems were a deep, vibrant violet that seemed to pulse with a life of its own in the torchlight, set in pale gold that curled like flowing script rather than hammered metal.
Saera's eyes brightened as she took it. "It is beautiful," she murmured, turning her wrist so the stones caught the golden light. "I have never seen its like."
"Nor would you, here," Corlys replied with a faint, knowing smile. "It was fashioned in the courts of the far east. Beyond Qarth… in the lands men call Yi Ti."
Nearby listeners leaned closer, drawn in by the allure of the exotic.
"The artisans there shape gold as if it were mere thread," Corlys continued. "And their stones… they choose them not only for their beauty, but for what lies beneath it."
Saera looked up, her curiosity finally piqued. "What lies beneath it?"
Corlys held her gaze for a heartbeat just long enough to suggest a mystery he had no intention of fully solving. "Stories," he answered lightly.
The answer satisfied the hall, drawing appreciative nods, but it did not satisfy everyone. Princess Rhaenys sat nearby, her posture relaxed, though her eyes missed nothing.
"Yi Ti," she repeated, her voice thoughtful. "You speak of it often, Ser Corlys. Yet you never stay long in any one place."
Corlys chuckled softly. "The sea does not favor those who linger, Princess."
"And where does it carry you next?" she asked.
There was a brief pause. It was small, but deliberate the silence of a man checking his bearings.
"South," Corlys said at last. "Further than before."
Rhaenys tilted her head slightly. "Further than Yi Ti?"
His smile returned, but it had sharpened. "To a place older than most charts care to remember. An island of jungles and ruins. The people of the east speak of it with respect… and caution."
Saera leaned forward, the amethyst bracelet forgotten for a moment. "What is it called?"
Corlys's gaze flicked between the two princesses, measuring the impact of his words.
"Leng."
The name settled differently than the others. It was heavier, as though the word itself carried the humidity of a jungle and the weight of forgotten stone.
"Few who go there speak of what they find," Corlys added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "And fewer still return unchanged."
Rhaenys's eyes narrowed slightly not in fear, but with the sharp interest of a dragon sensing a new horizon. "And yet you intend to go."
Corlys met her gaze without a flicker of hesitation. "I intend to see what lies at the very edge of the known world," he said, his voice ringing with quiet iron. "And I intend to bring something back from it."
Daemon's gaze remained fixed upon the amethyst.
He moved toward it, drawn not by curiosity alone, but by a faint distortion in the local mana that he could not yet name.
And then a soft impact broke his path.
He halted. A girl stood before him, no more than ten or eleven years of age. She had stepped back instinctively, steadying herself with a surprising, grounded composure for one so young.
"My apologies," Daemon said at once, his voice perfectly even.
"And mine, my prince," she replied without a flicker of hesitation.
His eyes settled on her, and for a moment, the Great Hall of Dragonstone seemed to fall away. She wore a gown of deep bronze-touched blue, modest yet finely made. Along her neck and across her chest ran a band of gold embroidery precise, deliberate, and far too structured to be mere decoration. Her dark hair, neatly braided, framed a pale face untouched by the vapid pretense of the court.
And then a recognition.
It was not a memory of the present, but a flash of a shadowed future. Rhea Royce. His first wife. The woman history said he would despise, and eventually, the one he would kill.
The thought did not shake him. The Arcano-Architect did not deal in sentiment, only in cause and effect. Yet the thought did not pass cleanly, either. For the briefest moment, his stillness deepened not outwardly, but within, like a blade held at the apex of a strike.
He inclined his head slightly. "…Forgive me," he said again, his voice dropping an octave.
Rhea studied him with a steady, inquisitive gaze, though she could not possibly understand the weight behind his stare. "There is nothing to forgive, my prince."
Daemon's gaze shifted not to her face, but to the gold-work upon her bodice. The pattern. Lines curved and intersected with a lethal intent. This was not art. It was Structure.
"What is this?" he asked.
She glanced down briefly before answering, her voice possessing a sturdy, tectonic quality. "Runes," she said. "In the Vale, it is believed they guard the bearer. That they turn aside harm."
"Guard…" he repeated softly.
His eyes traced each marking, measuring the angles and comparing the stroke-weights to the scripts in his mental archives. And then it aligned. It was the same runes he had seen etched within the ancient basalt of Nyrax's lair.
His pupils narrowed to needlepoints. "…Where did these markings come from?" he asked, his tone unchanged, though his internal focus sharpened to a razor's edge.
"They have always been with us," Rhea replied. "Passed down through our house. From our ancestors. The Bronze Kings of old."
Ancestors. Daemon's gaze lingered on the runes a moment longer.
For a fleeting instant, something stirred at the edge of his awareness. A presence. Faint. Not active yet not inert. His arcane sight brushed against the gold thread..
...and withdrew. Incomplete.
A pause. Then, a flickering line of text manifested in his mind's eye:
Status: Deciphering
Deciphering Duration: 24 Hours Remaining
Daemon said nothing, but a corner of his mind tightened around the message.
"…I see," he murmured.
Rhea tilted her head slightly, her grey eyes searching his. "Do you?" she asked. It was a simple question, but it carried the weight of the mountains she called home.
Daemon's expression remained a mask of cool obsidian. "They are well made," he said.
Rhea inclined her head. "They are old," she replied. "In the North and the Vale, that is enough."
For a moment, neither moved. The Prince of Fire and the Lady of Bronze stood as two opposing poles in a hall of silk. Then, she stepped aside with a graceful, measured movement.
"My prince."
"Lady Rhea."
Daemon continued forward toward the high table, but the amethyst in Corlys's hand no longer held his full attention.
His thoughts moved with the quiet, terrifying precision of a clockwork engine.
"...Tomorrow," he murmured under his breath.Tomorrow, he would have his answer.
The system would decipher the runes,
unraveling their structure and deepening his understanding of their magic.
A path that did not belong to Valyrian.
The runes bore the mark of the First Men.
And through them… the faint echo of the Children.
=============
If you are interested in reading 4 extra chapters ahead, read here
patreon.com/Abyssvoid