112 AC, Winterfell
Laenor sat at the High Table with Rhaenyra at his side and Cregan Stark at the other. He wondered, not for the first time, why four-year-old Cregan was seated beside him instead of with his family or his mother's kin. The Old Man of the North was still but a child, and even an heir was supposed to sit by father or mother, not next to a guest. Not that Laenor minded. Even at four, Cregan was quieter than most children of his age—noble or otherwise. Laenor had no issue with the heir of the North sharing his side, especially when the boy's cold, impassive mask only made him look all the more adorable to the ladies of the hall, whom are eying both him and Cregan before giggling demurely. Which was a surprise to him, as it is North and not the South. Though if Cregan would remain as quiet as he is now, if he knew his cold mask is being considered adorable and not unapproachable as he intended.
Cregan was quiet, aye, but the same could not be said for the Princess beside him. Even now, she gave no rest to her tongue, while Laenor, half listening, offered the occasional nod to feign attention. His eyes roamed across the Great Hall instead, watching northern lords devour food and ale with gusto. The hall was vast, larger by far than High Tide at Driftmark. In truth, Winterfell itself dwarfed any keep he had known. Brandon the Builder, Laenor mused, only knew how to build big: the Wall, Winterfell, the Hightower, Storm's End.
"Laenor, are you listening?" Rhaenyra's voice—and the shake of her hand against his arm—pulled him from his thoughts.
Laenor let out a breath and looked to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms. "Aye, I'm listening, Rhaenyra. And no—I cannot help you with air magic, for I've not yet dabbled in it."
A lie, but one he was unwilling to undo here in the North, in the domain of the Old Gods. Gods he neither prayed to nor truly understood, save that they were said to be spirits of nature. At least they were not petty enough to bar his entry into the realm. Anyway, since his fight at the Bite, Laenor has become guarded in wielding his power in any god's domain lest they find it offensive. Even magic, too.
Rhaenyra's face fell. She stabbed her fork into the meat and ribs on her platter, again and again, before chewing fiercely. Laenor smirked at her frown, yet he was surprised that she would come all the way to Winterfell. He heard about her arrival while he was at Castle Crewyn. On their journey to Winterfell, Laenor pondered many reasons why Rhaenyra would have traveled there, and he fully intended to keep his distance from the princess until he understood the purpose of her visit. However, since his arrival, she had hardly left his side for more than a few moments. From their conversations, it seemed that either Daemon or Viserys had sent her.
"Why are you so frustrated?" he asked, eyes narrowing with amusement. "I recall mentioning in my letters, multiple times, that I have not yet started with air magic."
Her indigo eyes—so unlike but no less striking than Laena's violet—fixed on him with dissatisfaction. "Well, I didn't believe it. And nuncle's constant praises of you made it harder to. I thought you'd at least provide some much-needed help to me. But I suppose nuncle Daemon exaggerated your talents like he exaggerates everything else."
She had not meant to offend—Laenor could see that in the set of her face—but her words stung nonetheless against his already bruised pride.
"Let us believe I could help you with air magic. Supposedly, of course. Why would I do that?" Laenor asked.
Her confusion shifted into realization, and he knew at once she was no spoiled brat, unlike what he had read of her character back in his old world.
"Well… apart from aiding a beautiful princess in need, we're soon to be betrothed. I assumed you'd be more helpful, not a merchant demanding something in return," she replied, petulant lips pursed as she scoffed and turned back to her plate.
"What do you mean by soon?" Laenor asked, alarm creeping into his tone.
Rhaenyra side-eyed him. "A raven arrived before the feast. Kepa and nuncle are travelling to Driftmark to speak with Lord Corlys about our betrothal."
Laenor exhaled in relief. For a moment, he had thought his father had already bound him without so much as a word.
"Anyway, will you help me now?" she pressed.
"Nye. I don't have the time. Perhaps when I make my way to Dragonstone," Laenor said absently, focusing on his food. He had not yet eaten his fill.
He did not turn when Rhaenyra rose from her seat. Yet the Great Hall fell silent as she departed, every eye following the princess's retreat. When at last her enticing figure vanished from sight, Laenor found himself frowning, a question gnawing at him.
Had he judged her too quickly in thinking she was not spoiled? Or had he simply been too blunt, too honest in return?
Across the Narrow Sea, 214 ATD {After the Doom}
In the very heart of the Old Quarter stood a mansion of dark stone and pale marble, its façade marked by tall, narrow windows carved in the likeness of dragon wings. No banners flew outside its walls—none were needed. Every citizen of the Old Quarter knew this place as the gathering hall of the Old Blood, where families who could trace their origins back to the founders of the Freehold convened to guard what little remained of their ancient pride.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense, a faint tang of dragonbone ash clinging to the chamber. The meeting hall was long and low-ceilinged, built to keep sound close, every whispered word echoing like a secret. At its center rested a massive table of polished black oak, its surface etched faintly with Valyrian runes that shimmered whenever candlelight flickered across them. Yet the Old Blood had long forgotten the knowledge and power to awaken such carvings—the runes remained nothing but decoration of a past glory.
The chairs were tall-backed and iron-framed, lined with velvet cushions dyed in deep shades of crimson, green, and midnight blue. Each bore the sigil of the family it belonged to, arranged in a circle—none raised higher than the other—at least in appearance.
Today, every chair was filled, unlike other times when one or another lord or lady neglected the gathering in pursuit of business or pleasure. Prior councils had already been held, but today's would bring those debates to an end. For this day, the Old Blood would decide what to do about the two Valyrian families regaining power—families who might yet return what was lost with the Doom of their homeland.
"What have you all decided?" asked the head of House Sehlaeros in prefect High Valyrian, his voice ancient and commanding. His was a bloodline said to be among the oldest in the world.
"What is there to decide? We all know the benefits of involving ourselves with those two families," said Saeryth Morrogar, the cold-eyed matriarch of House Morrogar, infamous for her unholy obsession with blood rituals. Were she not bound by her family's duties, many whispered she would have sailed to Driftmark long ago.
"After much thought, I too believe it is past time we laid our grudges to rest and reached out to them," said another voice, grave and weathered. "Lord Arrax has always shown benevolence toward House Targaryen. And now Lord Caraxes has returned his blessing to House Velaryon, as in days past. It would be wise for us all to stand together, as those of Old Valyrian blood should. There are not many of us left in this world…" The old man gestured to the circle of chairs, a dwindling number compared to what once was. "…with the blessing of our gods and the power we have built, we could yet lay the foundation of something to rival the Freehold."
The speaker, Maelor Velyrarion, was head of the most pious of the Old Blood families who dwelled behind the Black Wall.
"I second that," said one of the two other matriarchs present—not Morrogar, but Daenytha Pyranthys. Her family's wealth was vast, much of it drawn from hoarded fortunes entrusted to them by greater branches in ages past. From that wealth, they had built more through ruthless trade.
All four who had spoken turned their eyes to the last two who remained silent. In matters such as this, consent was required from all. More than that—if all six aligned themselves with the Targaryens and Velaryons, the other Old Blood behind the Black Walls would soon follow. And with them, the whole of Volantis. Thus, the decision reached tonight could shape the fate of both Volantis and Westeros alike.
The two men exchanged a glance, then a nod. Vaerys Tharonyx, his violent eyes glimmering with cruelty, and Cerys Vaelithar, his scheming gaze sharp as a blade. Tharonyx, known for his taste in exotic beasts, merely shrugged. Vaelithar, master of spies, let a thin smile curl his lips before speaking in silken tones:
"Why in icy hell would we have any problem with that?"
A silence fell after Cerys's words, heavy with the weight of what they had decided. At last, the head of Sehlaeros spoke again:
"Then it is decided. We shall reach out and see how they respond. But I suggest we begin with the Velaryons—for their blood is as old as mine. And from what I have heard, it is from Laenor Velaryon that the Targaryens have begun to learn magic."
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