Blackfyre Tower
Embaryx and Tessarion landed atop the Blackfyre Tower in a rush of wind and beating wings. Lady Melisa was the first to reach the ground due to Tessarion's smaller size; the pink-and-white dragon of hers was barely large enough to carry her comfortably through the skies. Even so, Melisa had not liked it when Laenor pointed that out earlier and offered her a place behind him on Embaryx. She was fiercely protective of her mount, no matter its size, and had refused with quiet but firm dignity.
Laenor soon dismounted as well, patting Embaryx once along the scaled neck before turning toward Melisa. Together they made their way toward the floors below. The guest wings of the Blackfyre Tower were only two levels beneath the summit, so it did not take them long to descend. A servant, bowing low, informed them that his entire family was gathered within.
Melisa's nervousness was evident to Laenor, though she tried valiantly to keep it from her face. Her posture was rigid, her fingers clasped a little too tightly before her. "Do not worry," Laenor placated her gently, offering a reassuring smile. "You would only need to introduce yourself. After that, you and Daemion may go somewhere private and speak for a few moments."
Her shoulders sagged slightly in relief at his words. Just as Laenor reached for the door, however, Melisa caught the sleeve of his tunic. He turned his head toward her, confused.
"Your cousin…?" she began, struggling to shape the rest of her thought.
Laenor understood all too well.
"Daemion is a good man," he said steadily. "A loyal cousin and an ideal elder brother to Daeron. He will treat you well—that much I can promise. Though," he added softly, "I hope you show some courage of your own. Daemion would like that, no doubt."
She nodded, drawing herself up straighter. Satisfied, Laenor pushed open the door.
He was immediately met with the sound of laughter ringing across the chamber.
Smiling faintly, he entered first, Melisa following close behind him. It appeared that Daeron and Laenor's father had joined forces in teasing poor Daemion, whose face was flushed red in embarrassment. The laughter died the moment Melisa stepped fully into view from behind Laenor's shoulder, and composure returned swiftly to the room.
Laenor snorted at the sudden shift.
"Everyone—well, not everyone," he amended lightly, glancing at his father, mother, and Laena, "as they have already met Lady Melisa once. Uncle, cousins—allow me to introduce this beautiful lady beside me. Her name is Melisa Zaldri."
He gestured toward Vaemond. "This is my uncle, Vaemond Velaryon."
Vaemond inclined his head gravely, doing his best to appear entirely serious. Laenor moved on quickly.
"And this," he pointed toward the younger, "is Daeron." Daeron flourished and bowed his head, then gave Melisa an easygoing smile. "Beside him stands Daemion Velaryon."
The eye contact between Melisa and Daemion lasted only a heartbeat before both of them looked away, cheeks tinged red.
"Daemion," Laenor's father spoke next, rising slightly in his seat, "take Lady Melisa to your chambers—or wherever she feels comfortable. There is no need for haste. Take your time to know one another."
Daemion obeyed at once, offering a respectful nod before escorting Melisa out.
Laenor took his seat beside Laena and leaned back into the couch with a quiet exhale. He was certain he still carried the scent of dragon upon him, but no one seemed to mind. In fact, since coming to Valyria, even his family no longer frowned at him entering chambers fresh from flight—something that had once earned him looks of disapproval at High Tide in Westeros.
"Lord Maelor has received word of the Gontaris clan stirring," Laenor said at last, directing his gaze toward his father. "As allies to the Aetharyons, they appear to have called upon their support. Though Lord Maelor is uncertain whether it is the news of this marriage that has roused them, or some other grievance."
He relayed the remainder of his conversation with Maelor in measured detail.
"Why did you choose to deal with it personally," Vaemond asked, frowning slightly, "instead of allowing the Drakonars to handle it for us, nephew?"
"Because if the Drakonars handle them on our behalf," Laenor replied calmly, "the Gontaris and other clans will see us as no different from the Zaldri once were—dependent and loyal to the Drakonar for their power. And that is a thought I do not wish to take root in their minds."
A silence followed.
"You are prepared," his father asked gravely, "for whatever attention such a display may draw, Laenor?"
Laenor met his father's eyes without wavering.
He had already considered the consequences—both the admiration and the envy it might awaken. Whatever storm followed, he would weather it himself.
He simply nodded.
Some Hours Later,
Laenor and his family, along with the Drakonars, the Targaryens, and Lady Rhaenys Velaryon, stood gathered at the foot of one of the Fourteen Flames alongside the bride and groom themselves. The volcano loomed above them like a slumbering god, smoke curling lazily from its mouth, the air around it thick with heat and the scent of brimstone. The ground itself felt warm beneath their boots, and waves of heat shimmered through the air.
For the guards and servants, the heat was nearly unbearable. None dared to show weakness in the presence of so many dragonlords, yet their glistening skin and uneven breathing betrayed their discomfort. Sweat trickled down brows and necks, and a few shifted their weight subtly, as if hoping to ease the burning sting against their flesh.
Laenor, however, felt no such discomfort. Nor did his father, nor even the other Velaryons. They stood composed, as though the heat were no more than a summer breeze. There was no deception in their expressions; if there had been, Laenor would have noticed it at once. The only explanation he could think of was magic—years of wielding it, perhaps altering their bodies, awakening the dragon blood that the Velaryon bloodline possessed once. The thought lingered briefly in his mind before his attention shifted to the bride and groom of the day.
As expected, the wedding was to follow Valyrian custom.
Daemion and Melisa were dressed in martial attire befitting ancient dragonlords. The dominant colors of their garments were red and white—white for purity of union, and red for blood, lineage, and sacrifice. The red was deep, almost the shade of fresh-spilled blood under torchlight.
Daemion wore a toga-like garment, though more structured and fitted than anything Laenor had seen in Westeros. It draped across one shoulder and was clasped with a dragon-headed brooch of dark metal. His arms were bare, save for bands of carved dragonbone around his wrists. A gift given to him by the Drakonars. Melisa's gown, in contrast, flowed elegantly around her frame, tailored to fit her perfectly without excess. Upon her head rested a delicate crown fashioned of dragonbone, carved into curling shapes that mimicked rising flames. If Laenor's senses did not deceive him, the crown carried faint enchantments woven into it.
It was not the only magical piece she wore. The fine hairnet laced through her pale locks shimmered subtly with embedded dragonglass stones, each one faintly resonating with restrained power. A thin, white, translucent veil covered her face, softening her features without fully hiding them.
The two walked slowly toward one another, measured steps taken upon black volcanic stone. Daemion had already been instructed thoroughly on the rites and words he was to speak. Though nervous, he held himself steady.
Laenor's attention was soon drawn to Lord Maelor.
The Drakonar lord made a brief hand motion toward his guards. Moments later, two men dragged forward a figure between them. The man was scarcely more than skin stretched over bone, a slave by the look of him, his eyes hollow and unfocused. He looked more corpse than living man, and the sight of him felt jarringly out of place amid what was meant to be a joyous ceremony.
Laenor's brows furrowed faintly.
His answer came in the next heartbeat.
Lord Maelor produced a blade of vivid crimson. It gleamed strangely in the volcanic light. It took Laenor a moment to recognize it for what it truly was—a dragonglass blade, polished and treated so finely that it resembled red crystal. Its hilt was carved from dragonbone, etched with sigils that hummed faintly with dormant magic.
It required little imagination to guess what would follow.
The slave was dragged toward a blazing fire pit some distance away, a massive brazier carved directly into the volcanic stone. The flames within it burned hot but ordinary—at least for now.
"You do not need to sacrifice that man, Lord Maelor," Laenor said, his tone firm yet controlled. Curiosity laced his voice more than outrage. "May I know how you intend to use his lifeblood?"
Maelor turned toward him, defensive but composed. "It is part of our custom, Lord Laenor," he replied evenly. "The lifeblood of this slave will transform this ordinary fire into a sacred one—blessed by Goddess Meleys herself. Only before such fire may Daemion and Melisa speak their vows."
He gestured toward the roaring flames, pride mingling with solemnity in his expression.
"The fire must witness blood before it witnesses union," Maelor added quietly. "Such is the way of Valyria."
"I know enough of magic and the ways of pleasing gods to understand that my blood would satisfy them more than any nameless slave of mine who himself does not even know the worth of the blood in his veins," Laenor said calmly. He stepped forward without hesitation, closing the distance between himself and Lord Maelor. Extending his open palm, he silently asked for the blade.
For a moment, Maelor hesitated. Conflict was plain upon his face—pride in tradition warring with the realization of what Laenor was offering. Yet, slowly and with visible reluctance, he placed the dragonglass knife into Laenor's waiting hand.
Laenor examined it closely. The blade was sharp—unnaturally so—and etched with intricate runes along both its length and its dragonbone hilt. A dense reservoir of magic rested within it, accumulated through countless past sacrifices. As his fingers tightened around the grip, he felt the lingering echoes embedded within—fear, rage, helplessness, despair. The remnants of lives taken for ritual.
He exhaled slowly.
Without ceremony, Laenor released a controlled surge of his own magic, letting it coat the blade in a thin, invisible layer. His power pressed down upon the knife's stored enchantments, suppressing their chaotic residue. The blade seemed to quiet beneath his will.
Then, with little effort and no dramatics, he drew the edge across his own palm.
The cut was clean. Crimson welled instantly, and he let his blood fall freely into the blazing fire pit.
The reaction was immediate.
The moment his blood touched the flames, Lord Maelor began to chant in High Valyrian. His voice rose in a melodic invocation—verses honoring the ancient dragon gods of Valyria, calling upon their favor and witness. The chant lingered especially upon Goddess Meleys, beseeching her to guard the union, to bless it with strength, fertility, and enduring flame.
It took only heartbeats for the fire to change.
The once ordinary blaze flared bright crimson, then deeper, richer—almost alive. It roared with sudden intensity, rising higher and higher until it towered above every person gathered there. The heat intensified, yet it did not scorch Laenor. The flames seemed almost reverent.
Lord Maelor bowed his head deeply toward the red inferno. One by one, the other Drakonars followed suit, murmuring prayers under their breath. Lady Rhaenys Belaerys inclined her head as well, solemn and respectful. Laenor bowed once in acknowledgment, as did his family and the Targaryens, though they remained silent observers afterward.
Soon, the ceremony continued.
Daemion and Melisa stepped toward one another before the blazing red fire. With steady hands, they each cut the other's palm, careful but deliberate. Their blood mingled as they pressed their wounded hands together, letting it drip into a waiting cup below. The act was intimate, binding, unmistakably Valyrian. And one he has seen people do on screen in his previous life.
When enough blood had gathered, Daemion lifted the cup first. Without wavering, he drank from it. Then he passed it to Melisa, who did the same, her movements slower but resolute.
Their vows were spoken clearly, voices echoing against the volcanic stone. Words of loyalty, of blood, of shared flame and destiny.
When the final words were spoken, Daemion gently removed the grail from between them and leaned forward to kiss his bride—this time not shyly, but with a firm, passionate certainty. Polite applause broke out among those gathered, respectful and restrained.
Then the sky answered.
Dragon roars thundered across the clearing.
One, then another—deep, powerful, unfamiliar.
Laenor's gaze lifted immediately. None of those roars belonged to Embaryx or any dragon present. These roars does not sound happy but proud and aggressive.
So the Gontaris and the Aetharyons had arrived.
A faint smile touched Laenor's lips.
Good.
The marriage was complete. The blood had been offered, the vows spoken. They had not dared disrupt the sacred fire.
For that, at least, he was mildly grateful.
It seemed Goddess Meleys had indeed heard his silent prayer.
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