Near the base of one of the fourteen flames, Valyria
The Third-person POV
Laenor and everyone present lifted their gazes as eight dragons of varying sizes circled above them, their shadows sweeping across the ground like dark omens. Lord Maelor's teeth ground so hard that even his wife heard it, her attention snapping toward him at the harsh sound.
"That brute Aetharyon is here as well," Maelor muttered under his breath, anger lacing every word. "And he has brought his mannish daughter with him, no less. He has surely come to measure Laenor's power with his own eyes before deciding whether to throw his daughter at him."
Hael's expression tightened with concern, and her gaze shifted—almost involuntarily—to her own daughter. Elaena stood watching the dragons and Laenor with unmistakable excitement lighting her features. Hael sighed quietly. Why must Lord Caraxes test her so? She had always been devout, offering prayers without end for her daughter's violent, thrill-seeking, and power-hungry inclinations to be tempered. Yet looking at Elaena now, it seemed her pleas had not reached the Valyrian God of the Sea at all.
Daemion and Melisa stood hand in hand, both staring up at the darkening sky of Valyria. Then a thought struck Daemion. Had not the sky been clear and bright when the ceremony began? Confusion flickered across his mind before realization dawned. It was his cousin's doing. Laenor had already prepared for what was about to unfold.
Daemion had been warned there might be interference—during or after the ceremony. Not that he had worried. He knew what his cousin and lord was capable of. But it seemed his new wife did not. Melisa's fingers trembled in his grasp, her gaze fixed on the circling dragons with open fear and mounting panic.
"It seems you have not yet seen what my cousin can do," Daemion said softly. He tightened his grip to ease her mounting panic.
Melisa turned toward him, her cheeks flushing instantly. She was married now—the voice beside her was her husband's. As her thoughts settled, she processed his words and looked at him in disbelief.
"But there are so many," she whispered. "Lord Laenor is powerful, I know that—but he cannot face them alone, can he?" Worry and dread warred in her voice.
Daemion chuckled, low and confident.
"It matters not how many there are. I know what my cousin is capable of. I witnessed his power years ago, and from all I have heard, it has only grown since then." Admiration rang clearly in his tone. "It would be an honor—for me, and for everyone here—to witness that sight again."
He paused, eyes gleaming faintly. "Do let me know what you think of my lord's power afterward. To me, seeing him use his power has always felt as though a god dealing with lifeforms below him with his great power."
Melisa stared at him, startled by the reverence in his voice. She had not realized Daemion held his cousin in such esteem. Earlier, when she had asked about his family, he had simply described Lord Laenor as a great blessing to House Velaryon—nothing more. Yet now, seeing the anticipation in his eyes, hearing the thrill beneath his calm, her own fear began to ebb. In its place rose a strange, growing eagerness for what was to come.
Elaena, meanwhile, observed Laenor's family and the Targaryens. None of them regarded the eight dragons as a threat—only as an event to be observed. Not one of them, not even the child among them, appeared unsettled by the presence of so many beasts overhead.
And wasn't that a beautiful thing to behold? Such absolute trust and belief in the strength of one man.
And it was not misplaced trust.
Elaena had seen and felt that power herself. She had stood beneath it and survived, spared might be an apt word. She was about to witness it again. It was almost humiliating to admit, even to herself, but the mere anticipation sent a shiver down her spine.
Power and authority had always been her weakness.
And in the broad back of Laenor Velaryon, standing unbothered beneath eight circling dragons, she saw both in overwhelming abundance.
She would go to any length to stand beside him as his partner.
Any length at all.
Maelor watched as the dragons landed one by one, each impact of claw upon earth sending tremors through the vast clearing at the foot of one of the Fourteen Flames. The ground shook beneath him with every heavy thud. The space was wide—deliberately chosen—and even with eight dragons now occupying it, half the field still lay open. That was precisely why Maelor had selected this place for the wedding ceremony.
The reason became clearer still as more roars filled the air—this time not from the enemy, but from behind them.
The Drakonar dragon legion.
Seven dragons descended in formation, each larger than those of their rivals—save for the mounts of Aetharyon and Maegor. Their wings beat against the heated air, stirring ash and dust as they landed in disciplined unison.
Soon, all the dragon riders dismounted and approached the blazing crimson fire lit in honor of Meleys. Maelor anticipated the widening of his rival's eyes—and his daughter's as well—when they beheld the sheer height and intensity of the sacred flame burning in the firpit. He took no small satisfaction in it. Father and daughter bowed to the fire and began murmuring their rites to Meleys.
Maelor, however, kept his gaze fixed upon the flames.
Truly, it was the quality of blood that pleased the gods—not the quantity, as they had long believed. Maelor had learned another great thing from Laenor this day.
In Valyria, the height and ferocity of a flame spoke of divine favor. And Maelor had never seen—nor read of—a fire burning so bright and so tall. He doubted such a thing had ever been witnessed in the history of the Freehold. After all, no man or woman of Lord Laenor's kind had been recorded in Valyria since its founding. His own family had come close—but shamefully, Maelor admitted, even within the secrecy of his own thoughts, that the blood of the gods had thinned too greatly, even among the Drakonars, who were still considered the purest in the Freehold.
He released a quiet sigh and pulled himself from his musings—only to find Maegor Gontaris glaring openly at Daemion Velaryon.
Maelor's gaze shifted to Lord Laenor.
The young man stood with effortless indifference, observing the gathered forces as though none of them posed even the faintest threat. Yet Maelor noticed his attention linger briefly on the bright gem-studded necklace worn by the head of Aetharyon—an heirloom known for its magical potency. Though what it does, even Maelor does not know; he only knows that every head of Aetharyon wears that necklace from dawn to dusk as is the custom in that brutish clan.
Then, to Maelor's surprise, Laenor's gaze drifted toward Aetharyon's daughter—the towering, broad-shouldered woman standing beside her father. There was clear intrigue in his eyes that both surprised and unnerved Maelor.
Does he prefer strength and brute force over refined femininity? Maelor wondered, a flicker of unease touching him.
Laenor studied the enemy lineup calmly. When his eyes landed on the muscular woman, he paused. She wore a revealing garment that left little to the imagination—her arms corded with muscle, her abdomen defined even more sharply than his own. Looking back at who Laenor thinks is Aetharyon's head and his physique, it was not difficult to associate the clan Aetharyon with raw strength and martial pride—much as beauty was synonymous with the Drakonars.
The intrigue faded as quickly as it had come.
His thoughts turned instead to the impending confrontation.
Should he end it in a single decisive stroke? Or should he make an example of Maegor—draw it out, humiliate him before finishing him?
The latter would earn him the lasting enmity of entirely of clan Gontaris, perhaps for generations. But when had he ever desired their love in the first place? If anything, a display of overwhelming superiority and showing them a chasm between an ordinary dragonrider and himself would make them fear and retreat rather than march blindly to their deaths in defiance.
Laenor stifled a loud yawn.
Perhaps something in between, he decided. No needless cruelty—but no swift mercy either.
And here he was, having summoned a great storm overhead in preparation to end it one strike. He should have settled this in his mind long before the moment of battle.
"It seems," came a deep, mocking voice, "that we have not brought enough dragons to relieve Lord Laenor Velaryon of his boredom. Should we summon more?"
Laenor turned toward the speaker.
It was the head of House Aetharyon—recognizable by the aura of magic radiating from the gem-laden necklace at his throat and by the immense size of his dragon looming behind him.
There had been no need for introductions.
"Matters not how many you bring. To me, it is always dull and tiresome to deal with them—and the fools riding them," Laenor replied with effortless indifference. "And who are you, anyway?" he added a heartbeat later.
For the briefest instant, the confidence on Aetharyon's face faltered, frustration flashing across his features before the mask returned.
"Show some respect, outsider. He is the head of the Aetharyon clan—Rhaegon Aetharyon. You would do well to remember your courtesy before speaking to him." The muscular woman spoke sharply, anger simmering beneath her words. If Laenor judged correctly, she was offended more for her lord than the lord himself.
"And who are you?" Laenor asked lazily. "His herald?"
The response was immediate—a dragon's furious roar split the air as the woman's mount reacted to her rising temper. She glared at Laenor with the same heat that burned in her dragon's molten eyes.
Rhaegon Aetharyon placed a steadying hand upon her shoulder and regarded Laenor coolly.
"She is my daughter and heir—Vanor Aetharyon. Have you learned no courtesies in the lands you hail from, Lord Laenor? Is this how nobles speak in the barbaric west?"
"He comes from the savage lands beyond the Narrow Sea, father. What could we expect from a man raised in that land?" Vanor added with a derisive snort.
Both father and daughter shared a quiet laugh at their own wit.
Laenor merely raised an eyebrow, faint amusement touching his features, and remained silent.
"Shall we proceed to why we came?" another voice cut in.
The man standing beside Rhaegon stepped forward—the same one who had been glaring at the bride and groom from the moment of arrival. Melisa's visible fear and her shrinking behind Daemion were enough for Laenor to put a name to him.
Maegor Gontaris.
"Indeed, Maegor," Rhaegon replied smoothly. "We should not waste time. We also have to be prepared for the council that will be held today."
He turned his gaze to Maelor Drakonar.
"I believe my ally, Lord Maegor of Clan Gontaris, has grounds for grievance. As you are aware, a blood contract was signed between Gontaris and Zaldri. It stipulated that Melisa Zaldri would wed Maegor Gontaris. So why, Lord Maelor, has the head of Zaldri defied that contract—marrying elsewhere and diluting the noble bloodline of her house?"
Laenor's eyebrow twitched at that word.
Diluting?
He was about to speak when Maelor answered first.
"There was a clause you conveniently overlook, Lord Rhaegon—that Lady Melisa retains the right to choose her husband—"
"She must defeat me first," Maegor interrupted sharply, his voice laced with open hostility. "The contract clearly mentions a dragon duel."
He glared at Maelor with naked contempt.
"Control your dog before I decide to relieve our motherland of him and his clan entirely, Lord Rhaegon." Maelor's tone turned cold. Were it not for Laenor's prior wish to handle this matter himself, Maelor might already have seen Maegor plummeting from the sky with his dragon dead under one of the Drakonar clan's dragons.
Rhaegon cast Maegor a warning look. The Gontaris lord lowered his gaze immediately.
Satisfied, Maelor continued.
"As I was saying, Lady Melisa chose Daemion Velaryon of her own will. We were prepared to honor the clause regarding the duel—but deemed it proper to complete the wedding rites first. What is done is done. If it is a duel you seek, then know that Lady Melisa has already named her champion. Her lord now is Lord Laenor Velaryon—the head of her husband's house."
Rhaegon's lips curved faintly.
"If you are indeed prepared, then let us proceed. Lord Maegor stands ready to face Lady Melisa's champion. Though I would add—should Lord Maegor emerge victorious—he will consider the insult unforgivable. He intends to punish Zaldri's bloodline by extinguishing its line entirely and merging its holdings into Gontaris Clan, in recompense for the stain upon his honor."
His eyes gleamed with cold amusement, as though this were all an elaborate spectacle staged for his entertainment.
"If he wins," Laenor replied evenly, cutting through the air like steel. "Let's start the duel."
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