Braavos, Essos
Braavos, one of the Nine Free Cities, is often called the bastard daughter of Valyria. Built on a thousand islands, its lifeblood flows through trade and mercantile enterprise. The escaped slaves of Valyria had chosen this mist-shrouded refuge in desperation, praying their former masters wouldn't find it—or that the ever-present fog would shield them from the dragonlords who ruled the skies.
But the fear of dragons soon receded as time passed. The shipwrights who had fled Valyria knew their craft well—Valyria accepted nothing less than perfection. And so, with those ships, their natural harbor, and the unbreakable resolve of a people who swore to live free and never again wear chains, Braavos rose. Their efforts, unified in purpose, made the city one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the world after the Doom. Braavos even paid reparations for the destruction caused during their escape and returned the ships they had stolen from the Freehold.
Like any city or settlement, Braavos needed a leader—one to bring order and speak with other cities and kingdoms for the sake of trade and alliances. But unlike Westeros, which clung to feudalism, Braavos embraced a more egalitarian system, choosing their leader not through blood but through merit and tradition. They did not name their ruler Archon, like others in Essos, but Sealord—for the sea and its bounty had birthed Braavos as surely as any mother. That, and the power of the Iron Bank and the House of Black and White, made the city what it is.
Today was a day like any other in Braavos. The city bustled with life. Its harbors were crowded with ships, arriving and departing in a rhythm as old as the tides. The sun hovered overhead as the palace of the Sealord held council.
"Laenor Velaryon… if only his power had emerged a decade later. We could have gained a formidable ally," the Sealord of Braavos murmured. Varrego Sanorlan had once arranged to betroth his son to the daughter of a Westerosi lord—Corlys Velaryon, a man known throughout the world as the Sea Snake. Corlys was infamous, his name spoken even in distant Yi Ti. And his house, with its seafaring legacy, had ties to royalty—he was wed to a Targaryen princess. One marriage could have led to another, and a deep alliance might have bloomed. Braavos had traded with Westeros since its founding. That opportunity, Varrego knew now, had slipped through his fingers.
At the time, he had scoffed at Corlys's ambition, thinking it foolish for the old lord to offer his daughter to a king only slightly younger than himself. He laughed when the offer was rejected and the king wed another. Now he sighed—a long breath of quiet defeat. That ship had left the harbor long ago. The past could not be changed.
"What are we to do, my lord?" one of his counselors asked.
"I maintain my stance," said another. "House Velaryon or Westerosi control over the Stepstones changes nothing for us. In fact, I say it's better this way. Our captains need not fear pirates or slavers bleeding us of coin and kidnapping our men for the slave markets."
He spat the last word with visible disgust.
But Varrego no longer paid attention to their familiar bickering—it had begun the moment Daemon and Corlys seized control of the Stepstones, and had continued ever since. Instead, the Sealord fixed his gaze on the silent figures seated at the end of the council table: a representative of the Iron Bank, and a figure from the House of Black and White. Their presence today was no coincidence. Varrego had asked them for their thoughts on the recent rumors—on Laenor Velaryon's powers, on the rediscovery of Valyrian magic.
Fused stone. Valyrian steel. If the rumors were true, and they are, Westeros—and more importantly, House Velaryon with House Targaryen—would soon be swimming in gold.
"What are your thoughts on the matter?" he asked the two.
Both stared at him—unblinking, unreadable. After a long pause, the Iron Bank's representative finally answered:
"The Keyholders have concluded that Laenor Velaryon, House Velaryon, and Westeros have made no hostile moves toward Tyrosh or any neighboring Free City. House Targaryen still opposes slavery. There is no cause for action. Let the Westerosi squabble among themselves. As always."
With that, the woman stood and departed, offering neither bow nor courtesy.
"How rude. You should mention her lack of manners to the Keyholders, my lord," one counselor muttered indignantly.
Varrego, however, turned his gaze toward the still-seated man from the House of Black and White. The man's expression did not change. His eyes were hollow, his smile faint and chilling.
"Laenor Velaryon will live… for now," the man said in a voice that held no emotion. It was the for now that sent a chill down the Sealord's spine.
"Valar Morghulis," the man concluded.
"Valar Dohaeris," Varrego replied, bowing his head slightly.
The man did not leave. He merely fell silent, still watching with that same empty stare and ghostly smile.
The message was clear. The council knew it, and Varrego knew it. The Iron Bank had spoken. The Faceless Men had spoken. The Sealord may wear the crown of Braavos, but true power resided elsewhere. And should any Sealord defy that silent authority, he would find not only his position—but his life—cut short.
Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone
Laenor was staring at the piece of wood in his hand with a mix of happiness and pride. Ten and a half inches long, carved from heart tree weirwood—white as the clouds in the sky—with a core of dragonbone. The bone of dragon is of blue-colored hatchling died on Dragonstone, if Daemon was to be believed. But this wand was more than just wood and core. The dragonbone had been dipped in melted silver and bronze, layered so finely that it gleamed faintly through the white wood. At its tip, embedded deep into the core, sat a shard of blood-magic-empowered dragonglass. And etched across its length were painstakingly carved runes, each one designed by Laenor to channel magic with the highest efficiency while preventing the wand from breaking under pressure.
He had already tested it—again and again—until he was left huffing and puffing from sheer magical exhaustion. Laenor hadn't told anyone yet about his success. Not even Daemon. He wanted to be sure it truly worked. To run every possible test. He feared, perhaps, that this wand would end up like his previous prototypes—turning to dust after two or three uses. But now, three days had passed. Three days of spellcasting, and the wand had yet to show the faintest crack or splinter in the wood.
His joy and pride were well-earned.
Laenor closed the heavy tome he had filled with notes from a year's worth of failed experiments. Every failure. Every breakthrough. Every hurdle. All of it was there—now concluded with success.
He had even crafted his first spell in the process. And that, he decided, would be his next pursuit: spell creation.
Laenor let out a long sigh of weariness. Perhaps it was time to return to Driftmark. It had been too long since he'd seen his mother and sister, and Laena had sent raven after raven insisting he come home for a visit. He nodded to himself. No one else was present in his room, and the decision had been made. He would return to Driftmark, take a breath, and enjoy the life he had been given. He had trained and toiled too long—it was time for a well-earned rest.
As for the spell itself—Laenor had faced many difficulties. None of the spells from Harry Potter's world worked here. Not a single one. But he wasn't starting from nothing. He had wand movements, incantations, and a crucial understanding: emotion and intent shaped the spell. So Laenor worked with what he had, crafting new incantations in High Valyrian, tracing runes in the air with wand motions, and pouring his intent into the casting.
He chose water for his first spell. It didn't take a genius to know that Laenor, with his absurdly high affinity for water, would have an easier time crafting a spell of that element. After trial and error, testing different words and movements, he had succeeded.
Laenor stepped toward the open window, wand in hand. The breeze from the sea brushed against his face. He raised the wand, traced the shape of the water rune midair, and let the power rise from within him, coursing down his arm and into the wand.
"Vysagon," he whispered.
The moment the word left his lips, water burst into existence at the tip of the wand, forming in a blink. It shot forward with such speed that the human eye would have struggled to follow it. A heartbeat later, Laenor heard a distant splash. He smiled.
The spell had struck the sea.
His first spell. His only spell, for now.
Water Blast.
That, he supposed, was the closest translation in the common tongue.
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