Near the base of one of the fourteen flames, Valyria
The Third-person POV
Laenor stood ready as Maelor and Rhaegon undertook the task of speaking and agreeing on the terms of the duel before the flames that had been conjured when Laenor's blood touched the firepit. There was no doubt in Laenor's mind that it was, in truth, a divine flame. He even suspected that some divine being might be watching them through it as a medium in this world. Yet he had long since ceased worrying about the gaze of gods breaching his privacy—at least when he was not alone with his family.
The two most powerful faction leaders of Valyria agreed upon the terms and swore upon their honor to uphold whatever outcome followed. The terms were numerous. No one was to interfere in the fight between Laenor and Maegor; if either side did, the duel would be forfeited, and the opposing side would be declared the victor, with full authority to decide the loser's fate. There was also a clause reaffirming what Maegor had demanded earlier—that the Zaldri clan's holdings, along with all possessions ever belonging to them, would be transferred to the Gontaris should Maegor prevail. There were many additional stipulations, but Laenor only gave them half his attention—enough to ensure he would not unknowingly break any.
Rhaegon attempted to add one more condition: that no magic be used in the duel. Maelor flatly rejected it, reminding all present that throughout history, Valyrian dragonlords had not only permitted magic in duels but often encouraged it.
Pushing further would have made him appear cowardly, so Rhaegon accepted with a strained smile. Now, both Laenor and Maegor prepared themselves for the duel between themselves. In truth, only Maegor was making visible preparations—donning Valyrian full plate armor and adjusting straps—while Laenor merely stood watching.
Maegor encased himself in rippling plate armor from head to toe, and he was also handed a Valyrian sword. Once finished, he strode toward his dragon—a massive beast with a savage look in its eyes. Its scales were dark green, almost black in certain angles, with wings of deep shadowed hue stretching wide behind it.
Laenor noticed with faint amusement that the dragon stared at him with bloodlust burning in its gaze. He chuckled softly. Both rider and dragon stiffened at the sound, their anger rising.
"I would like to see you laugh when you face the dragonfire of Vyraxes," Maegor declared arrogantly. "He was my grandfather's mount and has fought and slain many dragons. Yours will be another to fall beneath him. Even your sorcery will not save you from Vyraxes' flames. Come—meet your death by the fire of the greatest dragon of the Gontaris clan."
The newly introduced Vyraxes stepped forward, smoke curling from its nostrils. Both dragon and rider waited eagerly for bloodshed.
"If you are waiting for me to summon Embaryx, do not," Laenor replied calmly, though his voice carried clearly across the clearing. "I will fight you and your dragon alone. It would be too easy for Embaryx to slaughter the greatest dragon of your clan. I would rather show you—and all of Valyria—what my family and I are capable of."
Rhaegon smirked mockingly. "It seems your new ally will meet his end through arrogance. Facing a dragon alone—who does he think he is?" He snorted. "Yes, he may be a sorcerer capable of defending himself once or twice from the dragonfire by bending water as Valyrian sorcerers bend fire, but that will not protect him long when Vyraxes bathes him in flame again and again. How long can he truly endure dragonfire? I expected more of him. All Essos knows dragons are mage-killers. To think I once sent an offer for him to wed Vanor." He shook his head. "Alas. I only hope her sister proves wiser and accepts my proposal once he is ash."
Maelor stood silent as his rival continued his increasingly outrageous claims. Inwardly, he was smiling like a satisfied fool. The look on this brute's face when he witnessed Laenor's true power would be worth every concession he had made in alliance with the Velaryons. Oh, how Maelor wished there existed some device capable of capturing that moment forever. Since none did, he resolved to etch it into memory so vividly that he could later commission a painting worthy of it. That would be the first thing he would do upon returning to his tower.
"Why are you so silent?" Rhaegon asked, unsettled by Maelor's composure.
"Patience, Lord Rhaegon," Maelor replied after a measured pause. "Waiting and watching are the only things left to us. Who knows? Fate may favor Laenor."
Rhaegon burst into loud laughter. "Have you forgotten the saying of Valyrian dragonlords, Lord Maelor? Or have you grown delusional alongside that Velaryon boy? Fate is always on the dragonlord's side, at least the one who is sitting on their dragons. It has always chosen us over the lesser. Our return from the doom solidified this more than ever. In crude words of lesser, 'Fate is our bitch'." Rhaegon said with all the arrogance of the dragonlords.
Maelor merely smiled and watched as a Gontaris retainer called for the duel to begin.
At once, Vyraxes beat his massive wings and soared into the sky. The ground trembled beneath the force of his ascent. Maelor felt a surge of curiosity and anticipation. What would Laenor do now? When he had subdued Morghul, that dragon had been grounded. But Vyraxes will remain in the air if that dog of Aetharyon had any brain, and every dragonlord knew that the sky was a dragon's true domain.
Maelor had no doubt about the victor of this duel. His anticipation lay only in witnessing Laenor's next move.
Eleana paid little attention to the brutish Aetharyon daughter who had positioned herself beside her. Her focus was entirely on the battlefield. Since Laenor's declaration that he would fight without Embaryx, her eyes had not left him. She would miss nothing.
"So," Vanor muttered beside her, voice edged with disdain, "did your father force you to ensnare the sorcerer into your faction—or some other woman of your clan did it?"
Eleana tried to recall the girl's name and failed. That alone was telling. Unimportant, she concluded—and likely lacking magic, if Eleana could not even be bothered to remember her.
Eleana turned toward her at last and sneered openly at her physique. "Well, at least I possess a body capable of 'bewitching' any man I desire. Not like you, who looks like half a man with all those muscles. Tell me truthfully—are you even a woman?" Her lip curled faintly. "As for your question, no. Neither I nor any member of my clan bewitched Laenor into our faction. We do not stoop to such tricks. I did hear your father sent him a betrothal offer—with you attached to it. Now that I see you properly, Laenor must be relieved to have escaped the fraud Aetharyon clan attempted by offering him someone half-man, half-woman." Eleana said with a demure smile, lifting her hand as though to hide the curve of her lips while she observed the apocalyptic rage twisting Vanor Aetharyon's face.
Before the furious woman could respond, Eleana turned her attention back to the battlefield. Maegor's dragon had taken to the skies. She dismissed Vanor entirely, refusing to grant her another moment of acknowledgment. It would be a cold day in the Hells before Eleana Drakonar wasted further thought on someone she deemed beneath her, someone weaker than her. The weak were unworthy of her attention and time; that privilege belonged only to the strong. And she had already been generous enough with the half-man beside her in replying to her.
Her earlier irritation vanished the instant she felt it—the subtle, electric tingle of Laenor's power permeating the air. Elaena has always been sensitive to mystical energies, and Laenor's energy is so dense that it always makes shivers go down her body whenever she comes in contact with it. A delighted smile broke across her face, radiant and unrestrained, the smile combined with her extraordinary beauty among the valyrian transformed her into something almost otherworldly. Men from the Gontaris clan stared openly. Even Daeron Velaryon and Daemion found their eyes drawn to her, momentarily breathless. The image of her joy etched itself into their minds as one of the most beautiful things they had seen in their lives.
Eleana noticed none of it. Her focus remained fixed on Laenor.
Water began to gather before him, appearing out of thin air. Soon, it gathered in large amounts that it was surging as torrents in the air. A deep rumble rolled across the sky. The next instant, thunder cracked so violently that several guards of her clan stumbled, clutching their ears. Lightning, thick as the neck of Balerion himself, tore down from the heavens toward the airborne Gontaris dragon.
Vyraxes twisted midair, barely avoiding direct annihilation. The bolt instead struck the earth before the gathered clans, blasting a crater into the volcanic ground and sending shards of stone outward like shrapnel. Cries rang out as debris flew.
Eleana shut her eyes instinctively.
When she opened them moments later, she became shocked that no one was dead; then her gaze shifted from her sides to the front, and she saw why none had been crushed to death by debris.
A colossal shield of water stood before them—arched and shimmering, nearly half the height of the volcanic slope at their backs. It absorbed stone and dust alike, the debris hissing and bouncing back against its surface before falling harmlessly to the ground. Steam rose where fragments met the barrier, but not a single shard passed through.
Before awe could fully settle, the shield shifted.
Water surged upward, condensing, shaping itself under Laenor's will. It formed a torso—broad-shouldered, immensely muscular, larger than any man present. A crown of liquid crested its head, flowing yet distinct. Even its beard and hair were defined in fine detail, strands sculpted from streaming currents.
Eleana's heart thundered in her chest.
Such precision. Such control.
She knew her mouth had fallen open. Her eyes were wider than they had ever been in her life. And why wouldn't they? In Valyria, mastery over fire was proven by shaping dragons and beasts from flame—every curve and scale a testament to the mastery and talent of an individual. Yet here stood a construct of water, not fire, crafted with such impossible intricacy that even she—arguably the second most talented sorcerer Valyria had produced in her generation—could not have replicated it in her own element, let alone one with colossal size such as this one.
In that moment, she understood: Laenor Velaryon had already surpassed mortal limitation. This was no mere sorcery. The man she coveted is already inside the boundaries of the powers of the gods. Because only gods could create such a feat, no mortal, not even sorcerers of the Empire of Dawn, were so powerful as to perform such feats.
The watery avatar lifted one hand, and a whip formed from spiraling currents of water. Its head turned toward Vyraxes and his rider with the bored expression of a being regarding an irritating insect.
The whip cracked.
The sound split the air.
It lashed upward. Though too short at first glance, it elongated mid-flight, stretching impossibly until it coiled around Vyraxes' hind leg. The gontaris dragon and rider were too shocked, too scared to even react when the whip made of pure water latched onto the flying dragon's leg.
The next moment, the dragon shrieked in fury and fear as it felt something latching on its legs, wings beating wildly. But instead of escaping it, the whip tightened like a living thing.
The avatar pulled.
A simple motion of its arm.
Vyraxes was ripped from the sky.
The dragon crashed into the volcanic ground before Laenor with a catastrophic impact that shook the clearing. Dust and ash billowed outward in a choking cloud. Some staggered backward; others fell to their knees.
Laenor alone did not move.
When the dust thinned, Vyraxes lay broken. One wing was grotesquely torn, membrane ripped from flesh so that only bone held the limb attached. Blood pooled dark against blackened stone. The agonized and pained roar that is tearing out from the dragon's throat was too familiar to the Drakonars and the Velaryons. They sound just like Morghul did when he faced the same man this dragon is unfortunate to stand against.
Eleana's gaze flicked to Laenor. He covered one ear briefly, irritation crossing his features at the shrillness of the dragon's cries.
As though sensing its creator's displeasure, the avatar's free hand started to conjure something made of water. Water condensed into a blade—complete with guard and hilt, edges honed to lethal sharpness.
Without hesitation, and so much as flourish, it swung it moon like arch.
The blade passed cleanly through Vyraxes' neck; no resistance was met, the famed dragon scales not even stopping the blade for a heartbeat. The blade passed through the dragon's neck as if a hot knife passing through butter.
The roar cut off.
The great dragon of House Gontaris collapsed, lifeless, steam rising from both parts of the dragon's body as boiling black blood mingled with lingering arcs of lightning on the scorched earth.
Silence followed—heavy and suffocating.
Laenor looked up at the towering water-being and gave it a small, almost appreciative smile.
To the collective shock of all watching, the avatar bowed its crowned head in reverence—like a loyal servant praised by its master.
The metallic clatter of armor striking stone broke the trance. Maegor Gontaris had been thrown from his saddle during the fall. He lay sprawled in the dirt, groaning, struggling to rise, his once-proud armor cracked and dented.
Laenor approached him calmly.
The dragonlord clans watched in stunned quiet. Their pride—their greatest symbol of supremacy—had been dragged from the heavens and slaughtered in moments. Their eyes were on Maegor, but their mind were rattled too much from what they witnessed for them to think about the Gontaris heir.
Maegor managed to push himself onto one knee, reaching for his weapon. He never drew it.
The water-blade moved again. This time, it was not the avatar but its creator who conjured it and is using it.
In a single, precise motion, it severed Maegor's head from his body.
The corpse fell heavily beside the slain dragon. The red blood of the dragonlord getting mixed with the hot, steaming black blood of his dragon, painting the ground below in red and black.
Thus ended the duel.
And from that day forward, it would be recorded in the annals of Valyrian history that a single man—without mounting his dragon—defeated both dragon and rider, shattering the arrogance of the Valyria and the dragonlords who had long believed themselves untouchable with their dragons since the founding of the old Freehold.
The winner of the dragon duel is a man who fought without his dragon, Laenor Velaryon.
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