The Carpathian Mountains, Romania
The fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm glow over shelves lined with ancient tomes and Valyrian artifacts. Daemyr Lhaerys sat on the floor, leafing through an illustrated book about dragons, while his grandfather smoked a pipe, his eyes glassy and lost in old memories. After taking a long drag, he finally spoke.
"It was a place of unmatched beauty, my grandson. Cities with towers that scraped the sky, built not by mere hands but by will and magic. Our homes were made of fused black stone—so smooth and strong it seemed shaped by the gods themselves. There were no crude stone castles like the ones I see in the books of this world, but works of art that danced with light and shadow."
Daemyr listened intently, not wanting to miss a single detail, and asked,
"And the dragons? Were there many?"
Aelarion smiled faintly before answering,
"Many, Daemyr. So many that the sky was a living carpet of wings and scales. Every noble family, every House, had its own dragons. They were more than mounts—they were part of us, bound by blood and magic. We flew above the Fourteen Flames, the volcanic mountains that gave us power and prosperity. Valyria was the heart of the world—the most glorious empire that ever existed, forged in the fire and blood of dragons."
Lysander then asked,
"And why did we leave, Grandfather? Why did we come to such a different place?"
Aelarion's voice grew deeper, more somber.
"Because glory, no matter how bright, can be fleeting. The Doom, my boy. A cataclysm that swallowed Valyria in a single day. The Fourteen Flames that gave us so much turned against us. The sky rained fire and ash, the earth split open, and the sea boiled. No one truly knows what caused it—some say it was the wrath of the gods, others that Valyria's own magic became uncontrollable. We, and a few sworn families, were warned through dreams and omens. We fled, taking with us what we could—our dragons, our secrets, and the hope of a new beginning."
His grandson, awestruck by every word, asked,
"Is that why we came to Romania? To hide?"
Aelarion took another puff from his pipe, this one more bitter than the last, and replied,
"To survive, grandson. To preserve what remained of our bloodline and our magic. This land, with its mountains and forests, offered us refuge. But when we arrived, we knew nothing of this new world. There were no maps, no tales of wands or hidden schools for wizards. We were lost in an unknown ocean, with only our ancient magic and the strength of our dragons to guide us. We had to learn, to watch, and to adapt—remaining in the shadows so as not to reveal ourselves to a people who could never understand our nature. And here, among wizards and Muggles who do not know the true power of a dragon, we rebuilt—in secret. But we never forgot where we came from. Old Valyria lives on in our blood, in our eyes, and in the flame that still burns within our hearts. It is a legacy, my grandson—and a burden. One day, you too shall bear it. Remember always: In flames, we hear beyond death."
Aelarion reached out and gently brushed Daemyr's silver hair, while the boy gazed at the book with a new light in his eyes, imagining the grandeur and tragedy of his past.