Dragonstone, 114 AC
"Now that you have confirmed it, I would like to know what you intend to do next?" Laenor asked, looking at Rhaenyra and Daemon in turn. The cat was already out of the bag—he had promised his sister that he would not reveal it by his own mouth, and he had kept that promise. But since they had figured it out on their own, there was no point in hiding or denying it anymore.
"What do we intend to do next?" Daemon asked, outraged and looking betrayed. "What can we do about it? We can do nothing to the great Laenor Velaryon, Lord of the Sea, can we?" Daemon mocked through gritted teeth, his tone dripping with venom as his furious eyes fixed on Laenor.
Laenor wondered if he should unleash the anger inside him—the anger that had been building up over recent moons. The world hadn't been fair to him either, so why shouldn't he rage like this prince before him?
First, he had learned that he could be beaten too, breaking his little worldview where he thought himself invincible—and just after that, he learn that he could do nothing to the gods who did that, not being able to take his revenge, was somehow making him more bitter as time went by. Fuck that. He had to consider traveling by land and not by sea—his domain—out of fear of being attacked again, because there was a possibility that he might not survive the attack again. Forces beyond his reach had invaded his mind once, though the Old Gods—or the Nature—had at least apologized.
He had thought that reuniting with his family would grant him peace from the stress of knowing that literal gods existed—and that three of them had ganged up on him. Not to mention the death god watching him and his loved ones, ready to appear out of nowhere to drag him to his next journey—or eternal slumber—if it ever discovered that Laenor and his powers were not of this world. All these damn things were weighing on him, driving him to the edge. And now, when he thought he would be at little peace and think on matters of gods at a later date, his parents surprised him by deciding he couldn't court or marry his sister because of the damned Faith and its zealots, who would hound his family to ruin.
Letting it all out—destroying everything in his path—would be a satisfying release. But instead, here he sat, composed, listening to a mere mortal with so little magic that he couldn't even touch Laenor before being drowned along with his ancestral house.
Laenor took a deep breath. Suppressing the anger inside him. He really needed to go to the Sea. His parents' denial had been the last straw. On another note, He was half-minded to leave for the Stormlands—to seek answers about the gods and learn how to deal with them if any others of their kind tried to strike or frighten him again. He needed to leave this supper as early as possible, dive into the depths, and let the waters wash away his rage.
With those thoughts swirling in his mind, Laenor steeled himself to face the raging Daemon and the silent, observant Rhaenyra—whom, by the way, he preferred far less than the Rhaenyra he had come to like at Winterfell.
"I know you're angry, Daemon—and you too, Rhaenyra. But we'll get nowhere if we just unleash our rage on what's already done," Laenor said calmly. "As I said before, I would prefer it if we discussed what you and House Targaryen intend to do next."
He neatly placed his spoon and fork beside his plate, feeling unexpectedly full.
Daemon only glared, grinding his teeth in silence before looking toward Viserys, who had been quiet until now.
"It is not we who will decide what happens next, Lord Laenor," said Viserys, his voice cold and regal. "It is you—and House Velaryon. You and your house have had enough time to decide whether to accept the betrothal. That time ends now. Knowing that you have feelings for your sister, I will still give you a few moments to decide before we end the ties of family and friendship that bind our two houses. Know this—if you refuse, I will at most give you a week before I and my council leave the Faith to their own accord, in honor of what your house has given mine. That will be the last aid House Velaryon receives from House Targaryen."
His words hung heavy in the air, broken only by a distant roar—Vhagar's.
Laenor did not know what that roar meant, but his father's face said enough—it wasn't good.
"Your Grace, let us not be hasty—" Corlys began.
"Very well, King Viserys," Laenor cut in sharply. His father turned toward him, and Laenor tried to convey reassurance with his eyes, hoping his lord father would understand. Begging, pleading—those were not in Laenor's nature, not to mortals. Call it arrogance, but that was who he was. Dragons—three, four, or even ten—did not frighten him. Not now. Not when his dragon was somewhere on this island, far larger than any of theirs. And they were very close to his domain.
"I accept this betrothal. I will marry Rhaenyra Targaryen," Laenor announced.
As he spoke, he let loose a sliver of his power—both as a show of dominance and to vent a bit of the rage bubbling inside him. The sea surrounding Dragonstone churned violently, and waves that could drown ships started to crash against the shore of Dragonstone. With force and intent of dragging the farthest outpost of Valyria to its watery doom. Thunder cracked so loud that one of the serving girls gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Moments later, a powerful roar—not Vhagar's, but younger, deeper, and far more ferocious—echoed across the skies. Emabaryx had taken flight, his massive wings slicing through the storm clouds as he joined Vhagar in the dark, thunder-lit heavens.
Laenor's expression tightened when his sister placed a hand on his. He quietly and gently pulled it away. They had argued before coming here—no, fought. An hour ago, she had wanted to announce their love to the world, no matter the danger. An hour later, she decided that he should accept the betrothal and even went as far as persuading him to accept this betrothal.
Laenor didn't like it. Not one bit.
"Good, now…" Daemon announced cheerfully, though Laenor caught the faint nervousness behind the prince's smile. The way Daemon's eyes darted toward the tall, broad windows every time thunder cracked was enough to confirm that letting his power loose earlier had been the right decision.
"But what do I get in return?" Laenor cut in smoothly, turning his gaze to Viserys instead of Daemon. Credit where it was due—the eldest son of Baelon hadn't flinched once, nor looked toward the storm as his daughter and brother had multiple times out of unease. Viserys held Laenor's gaze steadily, unshaken.
"What do you mean? Has your father not told you what I offered? Or do you want… more? Something for yourself?" Viserys asked. His tone wavered slightly, but there was steel beneath it.
"Aye, my father told me what House Targaryen offered House Velaryon," Laenor said evenly. "But those things were for the heir of Velaryon. Surely you don't think that would be enough for me—Laenor Velaryon, Lord of the Sea—as Daemon so kindly put it." A hint of amusement colored his voice.
"Laenor, mind your—"
"You know of my powers, what I can do," Laenor interrupted Daemon again. "And they grow stronger by the moment. I do not know whether my children—be they daughter or son—will surpass me, but I am certain they will inherit my abilities, just as dragonlords pass down the ability of dragon-taming. Once I marry Rhaenyra, the heir to the Iron Throne, our firstborn will take the Targaryen name when he or she ascends the throne. That would grant your house the abilities born of my blood—powers never before seen in the known world, as mighty as dragons, perhaps more so.
"Not to mention the knowledge and other powers I possess—what I have already shown, and what remains yet unseen to you all. All of it will be bound by honor to protect and aid House Targaryen as long as I live—and for generations beyond. And for what, King Viserys?" Laenor said firmly, "I have no intention of binding myself or my creations to House Targaryen for any mere material possessions or agreements made with my lord father."
If he was to tie himself to the dragons, he would do so on his own terms—and make it worth his while.
Laenor's eyes never left Viserys. He didn't bother looking at the others to gauge their reactions. If Viserys agreed, he had already thought of what he wanted, and he knew the king would agree. Laenor's first demand would be freedom. He wanted no crown, no throne, and certainly not the title of king consort. The second would be an army—to leave Driftmark behind, and carve out his own kingdom upon new lands. Because in no hell he is staying here, tending to the broken realm and piercing them together is not something Laenor finds himself interested in.
"Very well," Viserys said at last, his jaw tightening. "What do you want from House Targaryen?"
"Once I have provided an heir—be it daughter or son—to Rhaenyra," Laenor began, his tone measured, "my only remaining duty in our marriage will be to aid House Targaryen against external threats that your house cannot manage alone. My house and I will take no part in any civil strife among your kin. If such internal conflict grows beyond your control, I will take my child born of this union and leave until your family's affairs are settled. That is my first demand."
He had no intention of ever choosing between "greens" or "blacks," if such factions ever arose.
Daemon and Rhaenyra said nothing, as did his family—a surprise, though not an unwelcome one.
"You and Rhaenyra will have two children or more until there is one daughter and one son," Viserys replied after a long pause, his hand resting on the table as servants began clearing away the dishes. "And both shall take the Targaryen name. Agree to that, and I will accept your first demand."
"No," Laenor snapped, his tone sharp. "I'm not some stallion for House Targaryen to use for breeding purposes as they plea—"
He broke off suddenly, clutching his head as an overwhelming force surged through him. A pull—ancient, powerful, demanding—dragged him down into sleep. His vision blurred, and his body rebelled as his very blood and magic welcomed the intrusion, the way a newborn child would welcome their parent with open arms.
Still, Laenor fought it. He forced his eyes open, scanning the room through the haze.
His parents. Laena. Every Targaryen at the table—all of them had already succumbed to slumber.
From somewhere distant came the screams of servants to his ears. The great doors burst open, and blurry white figures flooded in with drawn steel, shouting words he couldn't make out.
And before Laenor's eyes closed completely, darkness swallowed the chamber, and he fell helplessly into the realm of dreams.
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