Four moons later, Laenor soared high above Driftmark on Seasmoke's back, relishing the crisp morning air against his face. The sun had just crested the horizon, casting long golden rays across the island that transformed High Tide's silver rooftops into dazzling beacons. From this height, the entire island spread beneath him like a living map, more detailed than any parchment could capture.
The wind rushed past Laenor's face as Seasmoke banked sharply over the eastern cliffs of Driftmark, his silver-gray wings catching the afternoon sunlight.
"Let's get closer," he murmured to Seasmoke, patting the dragon's neck.
The dragon dipped his wing obligingly, spiraling down in a lazy corkscrew that made Laenor's stomach flutter pleasantly. As they descended, the features of Driftmark sharpened into focus, the craggy northern coastline with its protective natural harbors, the gentler southern shores where most of the island's population clustered, and the central spine of low mountains that divided the two sides.
Seasmoke leveled out at a few hundred feet, his massive wings catching an updraft that carried them effortlessly over the landscape. Laenor leaned over to get a better view, marveling at how different everything looked from above.
"Father was right," he said aloud, though the wind whipped his words away. "You really do need to see it from dragonback to understand."
Just yesterday, Lord Corlys had summoned Laenor to his solar and unrolled an ancient map of Driftmark across his massive oak desk. "A lord must know every inch of his lands," he'd declared, tapping the parchment with one bejeweled finger. "Not just the castles and towns, but every cove, every stream, every forest path. Knowledge is power, especially when that knowledge is of your home ground."
Laenor had nodded solemnly, though his eyes had already begun to gleam with the plan forming in his mind. Why study a musty old map when he could see the real thing from the best vantage point possible?
Now, as Seasmoke carried him on a sweeping circuit around the island's perimeter, Laenor understood what his father meant. The map, detailed though it was, couldn't capture the way the morning mist clung to the valleys between the hills, or how the sunlight dappled the dense woods on the eastern slopes, or the precise shade of turquoise where the shallow waters met the deeper blue of the Gullet.
"Let's start at the north and work our way around," Laenor decided, guiding Seasmoke with gentle pressure from his knees.
The dragon banked obediently, setting course for the northern tip of the island. Below them, Castle Driftmark came into view, its dark walls rising from a rocky promontory like some ancient sea creature hauling itself onto shore. Even from above, the castle looked gloomy and forbidding, its salt-stained stones almost black with age and constant exposure to sea spray. Narrow windows peered out like suspicious eyes, and the corners of the structure seemed perpetually damp, as if the sea itself was slowly reclaiming the stone.
"No wonder Father built High Tide," Laenor muttered, remembering the few uncomfortable nights he'd spent in the ancestral seat. Castle Driftmark had a way of collecting moisture in every corner, the walls weeping with condensation even on dry days, the floors perpetually slick, and the air heavy with the smell of brine and mildew.
Beneath the castle's walls, the town of Hull sprawled outward in concentric half-circles, following the natural curve of the bay. True to its name, the shoreline was dotted with the skeletal frames of ships in various stages of construction, their wooden ribs reaching upward like the remains of beached leviathans. Shipwrights swarmed over these frames like ants, tiny figures from this height but clearly engaged in the business that had made House Velaryon wealthy long before his father's legendary voyages.
Laenor urged Seasmoke lower, curious to see more details of the shipbuilding process. The dragon complied, descending until they were just a few hundred feet above the largest of the shipyards. Workers paused in their labors, shading their eyes to look up at the now-familiar sight of the young lord and his dragon. Some waved cheerfully; others simply returned to their tasks, the presence of dragons having become commonplace on Driftmark since Laenor's bonding with Seasmoke.
"That must be the new war galleys Father commissioned," Laenor said, pointing to an enormous frame that dwarfed the merchant vessels around it. The ship's keel stretched longer than two of the standard trading carracks placed end to end, and its half-completed hull suggested a vessel of unusual design, sleeker than typical war galleys but more substantial than the swift skiffs favored by smugglers.
Seasmoke rumbled, his attention caught by something in the waters of the bay. Laenor followed the dragon's gaze and spotted a school of silver fish breaking the surface, their scales flashing in the morning light as they fled from some unseen predator below.
"Later," Laenor promised, patting the dragon's neck. "We have exploring to do first."
With reluctance, Seasmoke turned away from the tempting sight and continued their aerial survey. They followed the coastline southward, passing over small fishing villages tucked into protective coves where colorful boats bobbed at anchor. Children ran along the beaches, pointing upward and shouting as the dragon's shadow passed over them.
As they rounded the eastern headland, the terrain changed dramatically. The gentle slopes gave way to sheer cliffs that plunged straight into the churning sea below. Here, no settlements clung to the inhospitable shore, only seabirds that nested in the craggy rock face, their white droppings streaking the dark stone.
"I bet there are caves down there," Laenor mused, peering over Seasmoke's side at the base of the cliffs where waves crashed in explosive plumes of white spray. "Perfect for smugglers... or for hiding treasure." The thought sparked his imagination, and he felt a childish urge for exploration despite his older soul
They continued southward until the cliffs gradually softened into a more welcoming coastline. Here, the southern half of Driftmark revealed itself in stark contrast to the north.
Between these two seats of power stretched the rolling hills and fertile valleys that made Driftmark the jewel of Blackwater Bay. Fields of golden grain rippled in the sea breeze, while orchards dotted the gentler slopes with splashes of green. Herds of sheep looked like puffs of cloud scattered across the meadows.
Where the northern shore was rugged and sparsely populated, the south teemed with activity and color.
Spicetown appeared first, a bustling port that had grown from a humble fishing village into a thriving commercial center under Corlys Velaryon's ambitious expansion. Ships from a dozen different nations crowded its harbor, the distinctive purple vessels of Braavos, the gilded galleys of Lys, broad-beamed cogs and Carracks from the Free Cities, and even a few Summer Islander swan ships with their colorful silk sails billowing in the morning breeze.
Among them Laenor spotted five massive ships bearing the seahorse banner of House Velaryon. Their hulls were deep and their masts tall, built for the long journey to the Free Cities and beyond. Smaller vessels darted between them like minnows around leviathans, ferrying goods and people to and from the shore.
Laenor guided Seasmoke in a wide circle above the town, drinking in the details. Markets spread outward from the wharves, canvas awnings creating a patchwork of colors as merchants displayed their exotic wares. The scent of spices, cinnamon, cloves, pepper, and a hundred others Laenor couldn't name, wafted upward even at this height, explaining the town's apt name.
"I wonder if the Lyseni silk merchant is back," Laenor said to Seasmoke. "The one with the talking mynah bird that cursed in High Valyrian."
The dragon rumbled noncommittally, more interested in the fishing boats putting out from the harbor than in human commerce.
Beyond Spicetown, connected by a well-maintained road that gleamed like a pale ribbon across the landscape, High Tide rose majestically from its promontory. Unlike the dark, brooding presence of Castle Driftmark, High Tide embodied everything his father valued, beauty, innovation, and a bold statement of House Velaryon's ascendance. Built from the same pale stone as the Eyrie, its walls seemed to capture and amplify the morning light, giving the entire structure an ethereal glow.
Slender towers reached skyward, their roofs plated with beaten silver catching the sun's rays and throwing them back with blinding brilliance. When the tide was high, as it was now, the causeway connecting the castle to the mainland disappeared beneath the waves, creating the illusion that High Tide floated upon the water like some magical dwelling from the songs of Old Valyria.
Laenor felt a surge of pride at the sight of his home. High Tide was his father's crowning achievement, a declaration in stone and silver that House Velaryon was second to none in both wealth and status.
But his eyes couldn't help but drift back to the ships in the harbour. The vesseles and the sea called to him, their promise of adventure and discovery stirring a restlessness that had been building for months. It wasn't just childish fancy, it was something deeper embedded in the memories of his past life.
"Damn," he whispered, the word carried away by the wind. "As much as I love Driftmark, I need to get off this rock."
He pressed his forehead against Seasmoke's scales, the familiar texture grounding him as the memories surged. In his previous life, he'd never stayed in one place for long. Always moving, always working, always pushing his limits. The discipline and drive that had made him an elite warrior hadn't disappeared when he was reborn into this privileged body.
Seasmoke banked slightly, sensing his rider's shift in mood. The dragon's amber eyes glanced back questioningly.
"I know we fly," Laenor said, as if answering the unspoken thought. "But it's not the same."
His father's trading fleet represented more than just commerce, they were freedom, purpose, the chance to test himself against the world rather than just practicing in the safety of Driftmark. The water dancing lessons, the magical training, the endless studies with Maester Gerion, all valuable, but increasingly boring for his adult mind.
"Time to make a detour," Laenor murmured, giving Seasmoke's neck an affectionate pat. "Hull's calling our name."
The dragon rumbled in agreement, banking sharply toward the northern shipyards. Wind whipped through Laenor's silver-gold hair as they descended, the scents of salt, tar, and sawdust growing stronger with every wingbeat. His heart quickened with anticipation.
Seasmoke landed with surprising delicacy on a wide stretch of beach just beyond the shipyard's boundaries. Workers paused in their labors, waving and calling greetings, the shipwrights of Hull had grown comfortable with Seasmoke's regular visits.
Laenor slid down Seasmoke's shoulder with practiced ease. His boots hit the sand with a soft thud, and he breathed deeply, savoring the familiar shipyard smells that no amount of castle living could wash from his memory.
This was real. This was life. Not the endless etiquette lessons and history recitations that filled his days at High Tide.
Seasmoke settled onto the sand, curling his tail around himself like an enormous cat. "I won't be long," Laenor promised, scratching the sensitive spot beneath the dragon's jaw. Seasmoke rumbled contentedly, steam rising from his nostrils.
Laenor strode into the bustling shipyard, dodging between stacks of lumber and barrels of pitch. Workers nodded respectfully as he passed, but there was an easy familiarity to their greetings. Here, he wasn't just Lord Corlys's son or the dragon rider, he was the curious boy who asked intelligent questions and occasionally lent a hand with the work.
"Young lord!" a gruff voice called out. Marston, the head shipwright at Hull, strode toward him with a broad smile splitting his weathered face. He was a burly man with arms like tree trunks, and was missing three fingers on his left hand, his leather apron was spattered with pitch.
"Wouldn't miss it," Laenor replied, clasping the man's calloused hand. "How's the war galley coming along?"
"See for yourself," Marston gestured toward the massive skeleton taking shape nearby. "She'll be the fastest of her size in the Narrow Sea, mark my words."
Laenor ducked under a beam being carried by two straining apprentices and jogged toward the partially built ship. Its keel stretched nearly a hundred feet, the ribs rising from it like the bones of some great beast.
In his previous life, he'd studied naval architecture as part of his trainin, understood the principles of hydrodynamics and propulsion that wouldn't be formally discovered in this world for centuries. The design of this ship was akin to a galleon which was revolutionary for durability and allowed for faster, more agile warships that could sail closer to the wind.
"When will she be finished?" he asked, unable to hide his excitement. He ran his hand along the smooth curve of oak, feeling the grain beneath his fingers. In his mind's eye, he could already see it cutting through waves, sails full, deck swarming with sailors. And he wanted, no, needed, to be on it
"When does she sail?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
Marston scratched his beard. "First voyage? Four months, give or take. Your lord father wants her ready for the summer trading season.
Four months. Laenor's heart raced with excitement. He had some time to convince his parents to allow him to go on more voyages. He was itching to explore, staying on Driftmark all year was getting boring. His father himself had begun sailing consistently by the age of six. By those standards, Laenor was well overdue.
"Fancy giving us a hand, young lord?" called a familiar voice. Laenor turned to see Darro, a ship's carpenter who'd once let him help seal planking with pitch. "These braces won't set themselves!"
Without waiting for permission, Laenor shed his fine cloak, tossing it over a nearby barrel. "Coming!"
For the next hour, he lost himself in the work, holding braces steady while Darro hammered them into place, fetching tools, even helping to carry a load of oakum for caulking. His muscles burned pleasantly with the effort, and sweat soaked through his tunic despite the cool morning air.
"You've got a knack for this," Darro observed as Laenor expertly twisted rope into a complex knot he'd learned from a Braavosi sailor. "Most highborn lads wouldn't know a sheet bend from their own arseholes."
Laenor snorted with laughter. No one at High Tide would dare speak to him that way—which was precisely why he loved coming here.
"My father says a Velaryon should know ships like a knight knows horses," he replied, tossing the finished knot to Darro.
"Wise man, your father." Darro nodded approvingly. "Though I hear he didn't start sailing properly until he was six. You're already behind schedule at eight, aren't you?"
The casual observation hit closer to home than Darro could possibly know. Laenor's smile faltered momentarily.
"That's what I keep telling him," he said, trying to keep his tone light.
A commotion at the edge of the shipyard caught his attention. A group of sailors had just arrived, their sea chests slung over their shoulders. New crew for one of the vessels in the harbor, by the look of them. What caught Laenor's eye, however, was their captain—a tall woman with skin the color of polished mahogany and a shock of white hair cropped close to her scalp.
"Is that...?" he began.
"Captain Xhala, aye," Darro confirmed, following his gaze. "Just back from Volantis with the Dawn Chaser. Your father's most trusted captain, that one."
Laenor had heard stories of the Summer Islander who'd joined his father's service during the ninth voyage, after saving his life in a tavern brawl in Qarth. She was said to be the finest navigator in the Velaryon fleet, able to find her way on the darkest nights with nothing but the stars to guide her.
Before he could stop himself, Laenor was jogging across the yard toward her, dodging around workers and piles of lumber. He reached her just as she finished giving instructions to her first mate.
"Captain Xhala!" he called out, suddenly aware of how childish his voice sounded.
The tall woman turned, her dark eyes widening slightly in recognition. Gold hoops gleamed in her ears, and intricate patterns were tattooed along her muscular forearms, navigation charts, his father had once explained, inked permanently into her skin so she could never be lost.
"Young Lord Velaryon," she said, her voice deep and melodious, with the lilting accent of the Summer Islands. "This is an unexpected honor."
Laenor drew himself up to his full height, which barely brought him level with her chest. "Welcome back to Driftmark. Was your voyage successful?"
A smile tugged at her lips. "Very. The silks and spices we brought from Volantis will fetch twice what we paid. Your father will be pleased."
"When do you sail again?" Laenor asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperate.
Xhala studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Three days. Quick turnaround. We're bound for Pentos with a hold full of Arbor gold and Vale steel."
Three days. Excitement bubbled up in Laenor's chest.
"I heard you once sailed with my father," he said, choosing his words carefully. "On his last voyage to Qarth."
"I did." She nodded. "The most profitable journey of my life. Your father is a remarkable man."
Laenor took a deep breath. "I want to sail too. Like he did."
Xhala's eyebrows rose. "That is a matter for Lord Corlys to decide, not me."
"But you could take me just to Pentos," Laenor pressed, lowering his voice. "It's barely a week's journey. I'd learn everything I could. I wouldn't be in the way. And I could help, I know more about sailing than most of your new crew, I'd wager."
The captain's expression shifted from surprise to amusement. "Are you suggesting I smuggle the heir to Driftmark aboard my ship against your father's wishes?"
Put that way, it did sound rather absurd. But Laenor was desperate.
"Not against his wishes, exactly," he hedged. "He's always says I need practical experience."
Xhala laughed again, the sound warming something in Laenor's chest. Up close, he could see the fine lines around her eyes that spoke of years squinting against the glare of sun on water. Her skin glowed like polished wood in the morning light, and the intricate tattoos on her arms seemed to shift and move with the flex of her muscles. She was magnificent, not beautiful in the delicate way of court ladies, but striking and powerful. Had he been in his adult body rather than this child's form, he might have pursued her with the same determination he was now using to beg passage on her ship.
I would have loved to try and woo her were I older, Laenor thought, momentarily distracted by the way her white hair caught the sunlight, creating a halo effect that emphasized her strong features.
"We would need your father's assent, young lord," Xhala said firmly, though her eyes remained kind. "Lord Corlys is not a man whose will I would cross, especially regarding his heir."
Before Laenor could argue further, a voice called from the docks. "Captain! The harbormaster needs your mark on the manifests!"
Xhala turned her head slightly, acknowledging the call with a raised hand. She looked back at Laenor, her lips curving into a small smile. "Till another time, young dragon rider. Perhaps speak with your lord father first."
Xhala turned her head slightly, acknowledging the call with a raised hand. She looked back at Laenor, her lips curving into a small smile. "Till another time, young dragon rider. Perhaps speak with your lord father first."
Laenor watched her go, admiring the confident swagger in her walk, the way sailors and dockworkers stepped aside respectfully as she passed. There was something about her that commanded attention—a presence that went beyond physical appearance. She moved like someone completely comfortable in her own skin, like she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.
With a sigh, he turned back toward where Darro was still working on the war galley. His hopes of stowing away to Pentos dashed for now, but not his determination. If Captain Xhala wouldn't take him without permission, he would simply have to convince his father to grant that permission.
"No luck with the Summer Islander, eh?" Darro asked, hammering a wooden peg into place as Laenor approached.
"Not yet," Laenor replied, picking up a mallet to help. "But I'm not giving up."
Darro chuckled, his weathered face crinkling with amusement. "Stubborn like your father. That's good. Need stubbornness to survive at sea." He paused, studying Laenor for a moment. "You know, your father didn't actually start with voyages to Essos. Began closer to home, sailing the Gullet and Blackwater Bay."
"So you're saying I should start smaller?" he asked, trying not to sound disappointed.
"I'm saying there's plenty of adventure to be had without crossing the Narrow Sea," Darro replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "The Gullet's got its share of dangers, shifting sandbars, treacherous currents, even pirates from time to time."
A plan began to form in Laenor's mind. Perhaps he'd been too ambitious, asking to sail all the way to Pentos. His father might be more amenable to shorter journeys around Blackwater Bay, journeys that would still give him valuable experience without taking him too far from Driftmark.
"You've given me something to think about, Darro," Laenor said, a new determination hardening within him.
The shipwright grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "That's what I'm here for, young lord. That and building the finest ships in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Laenor! You're back!" A high-pitched voice cut through the shipyard din.
Laenor turned to see a small figure darting between workers and supply crates, nimble as a cat. Marilda, the shipwright Orano's daughter, raced toward him with reckless abandon, nearly colliding with a man carrying a bundle of rope.
"Watch it, little menace!" the sailor called after her, but there was no real heat in his voice. Everyone in Hull knew Marilda.
She skidded to a stop before Laenor, her dark hair escaping from two messy braids, face smudged with what looked like a combination of pitch and sawdust. Despite being only seven, she carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew every inch of the shipyard and considered it her personal domain.
"You promised to show me how to tie a proper sailor's knot last time," she accused, hands on hips. "But then you flew off on Seasmoke and didn't come back for ages."
"It's been three days, Marilda," Laenor said, fighting a smile.
"Exactly! Ages!" She threw her hands up dramatically. "I've been practicing with regular rope, but Father says it's not the same as working with proper rigging."
Darro chuckled. "This little sea urchin's been pestering every sailor in port for lessons. Says she's going to captain her own ship someday."
"Not just captain," Marilda corrected seriously. "I'm going to be Lord of the Tides, like him." She pointed at Laenor.
Laenor burst out laughing. "That's quite an ambition."
"Why not?" she challenged, eyes flashing. "Father says girls can't inherit titles, but that's stupid. I know more about ships than most boys twice my age."
"That's true enough," Darro agreed. "Found her hanging from the mainmast of the Queen Cod yesterday, checking the rigging tension. Nearly gave her father an apoplexy."
"It was loose," Marilda said defensively. "Someone had to fix it."
"And that someone had to be you?" Laenor asked, eyebrows raised.
"Obviously." She grabbed his hand, tugging insistently. "Now come on, you promised about the knots. And I want to show you something I found in one of the old ships they're breaking down."
Laenor glanced apologetically at Master Symon. "The galleon plans—"
"Will still be here later," the old shipwright finished with a knowing smile. "Best humor her, my lord. She's been talking about your return since sunrise."
Marilda was already pulling Laenor away, her small hand surprisingly strong. "It's this way! And I haven't even told you about the Pentoshi merchant who tried to cheat Father on a lumber shipment. I caught him using a false measure and called him out in front of everyone!"
"You did what?" Laenor allowed himself to be led through the maze of construction, ducking under scaffolding and stepping over coils of rope.
"He was using a rigged scale! I noticed because the weights looked different from ours. So I switched them when he wasn't looking and showed everyone how the measurement changed." She beamed proudly. "Father says I saved him fifty gold dragons."
"Impressive," Laenor admitted.
"It's a sextant!" Laenor exclaimed, recognizing the navigational tool immediately.
"I know that," Marilda rolled her eyes. "But look at the markings. They're different from the ones Father uses."
Laenor took the instrument, turning it over carefully. She was right, the gradations and symbols etched into the brass were unlike any he'd seen before. Some appeared to be in a script he didn't recognize.
"Where did you find this exactly?"
"I told you, under the floorboards," she said impatiently. "I was hiding from Mother, she wants me to practice needlework, ugh—and I felt a draft coming up between the planks."
Laenor examined the sextant more closely. "This is Yi Tish," he realized, recognizing some of the characters from books his father had brought back from his voyages. "It must be from one of Father's earlier expeditions."
"Can you teach me how to use it?" Marilda asked, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Father won't let me touch his navigation tools. Says I'll break them."
"This one's pretty delicate," Laenor hedged, seeing her face fall. "But I could show you the basics with one of the training sextants from High Tide."
Her expression brightened instantly. "Really? You'd bring one next time?"
"If you promise not to take it apart," he stipulated, knowing her curious nature.
"I promise!" she said quickly, too quickly. At his skeptical look, she amended, "I promise not to take it apart unless it's absolutely necessary for learning purposes."
Laenor laughed. "You're impossible."
"That's what Mother says too." She grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Now about those knots you promised to teach me..."
For the next hour, Laenor found himself giving an impromptu lesson on advanced nautical knots, with Marilda proving to be an exceptionally quick study. Her small fingers were remarkably dexterous, and she approached each new knot with intense concentration.
"The monkey's fist is particularly useful for throwing lines between ships," he explained, demonstrating the complex knot. "The weight makes it carry farther."
Marilda's tongue poked out between her teeth as she carefully replicated his movements. "Like this?"
"Almost. Loop it through once more... there, perfect!" Laenor nodded approvingly. "You're better at this than most of the deckhands on Father's ships."
She beamed at the praise, then immediately attempted a more complicated variation. When the rope tangled hopelessly, she let out a string of curses that would have made a Lyseni pirate blush.
"Seven hells, Marilda!" Laenor stared at her in shock. "Where did you learn those words?"
"The sailors, obviously," she replied, unfazed. "The Tyroshi ones have the best curses. Did you know there are fourteen different ways to insult someone's mother in Tyroshi?"
"I did not need to know that," Laenor said, struggling to keep a straight face. "And neither did you, apparently."
"Knowledge is power," she quoted solemnly, then ruined the effect by giggling. "That's what your father always says."
"Somehow I don't think he meant that kind of knowledge."
A bell rang in the distance, signaling the midday meal break. Marilda jumped up, suddenly alarmed.
"Oh no, I'm late! Mother's going to skin me alive!" She gathered up her practice ropes with frantic haste. "I was supposed to be home for my lessons with her an hour ago."
"You mean you've been skipping your lessons this whole time?" Laenor asked, helping her collect the scattered coils.
"Not skipping," she corrected primly. "Prioritizing my practical education over theoretical nonsense. Who needs to know which fork to use when there's ship-building to learn?"
"I'm not saying you have to love needlework," Laenor said with a laugh, "but knowing which fork to use might save you from embarrassment at a captain's table someday."
Marilda scrunched her nose. "Fine. But I'm still not wearing those stupid dresses Mother keeps trying to force on me."
"Fair enough." Laenor ruffled her hair, making the already messy braids even wilder. "Now go before your mother sends the town guard after you."
"You'll come back soon?" She clutched the knots she'd practiced, looking suddenly younger than her seven years. "With the sextant?"
"Promise." He made a crossing motion over his heart. "Now run!"
She darted away, weaving between workers with practiced ease, disappearing into the shipyard's organized chaos within seconds. Laenor watched her go, smiling to himself. The girl had spirit—reminded him a bit of his sister Laena at that age, though with considerably more dirt.
His stomach growled, reminding him he'd skipped breakfast in his eagerness to explore the island. The aroma of fresh seafood wafted from the direction of the wharf, making his mouth water. Following his nose, he wandered toward a weathered stall where a red-faced man was shucking clams with practiced efficiency.
"Best clams in Hull, young lord!" the vendor called, noticing Laenor's approach. "Fresh this morning! Still tasting of the sea!"
Laenor's stomach rumbled again. The clams did look tempting—plump and glistening in their half-shells, dressed with butter and herbs.
"How much?" he asked, reaching for the pouch at his belt.
The clam seller's eyes widened in recognition. "For you, m'lord? Nothing! Nothing at all! It's an honor to serve the Sea Snake's son, the dragon rider himself!" He hastily arranged a dozen clams on a wooden plate, pushing it toward Laenor. "Please, take them with my compliments!"
Laenor shook his head, placing two silver stags on the counter. "Your family needs to eat too."
"But m'lord—"
"I insist." Laenor pushed the coins firmly toward the man. "My father taught me a fair price for fair work builds stronger loyalty than charity ever could."
The vendor looked momentarily taken aback, then broke into a broad grin. "Wise like Lord Corlys, you are!" He added two extra clams to the plate. "These are for the wisdom, then."
Laenor accepted the compromise with a laugh, taking the wooden plate to a nearby barrel that served as a makeshift table. The first bite was exquisite, briny, buttery, with a hint of some herb he couldn't quite identify. He ate quickly, watching the bustling activity of the shipyard around him.
As he finished the last clam, a strange sensation washed over him. It started as a gentle tug at the edge of his consciousness, like a whisper just below hearing range. The feeling grew stronger with each passing moment, a rhythmic pull that matched the waves lapping against the nearby shore.
Laenor closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation. Through the Nereid Kyrie, he could feel every eddy and flow within half a mile of shore—the cold undercurrent running beneath the warmer surface waters, the swirl of tides around the harbor pylons, the subtle shift as the tide began its slow retreat from high water.
The connection was getting stronger each day. What had started as vague impressions now felt like an extension of his own senses, as natural as seeing or hearing. Sometimes, like now, it caught him by surprise, the sudden awareness of so much water around him momentarily overwhelming.
He returned the wooden plate to the vendor with murmured thanks, then walked slowly through the shipyard, letting his feet carry him while his mind mapped the invisible currents. Workers nodded respectfully as he passed, but he barely noticed, too absorbed in the ebb and flow of the water that seemed to pulse in time with his own heartbeat
A particularly strong eddy caught his attention, something unusual in the water near one of the half-built ships. Laenor changed direction, drawn to investigate. As he approached the vessel, he realized what had caused the disturbance: someone had dropped a heavy anchor chain into the harbor, and its descent was creating a complex pattern of ripples that spread outward in fascinating spirals.
"Beautiful," he murmured, though no one around him would understand what he meant.
A brief look at the sun showed him that that he was also running the risk of being late for his lessons. Master Qarro would have him running extra drills if he missed another session. With a sigh, Laenor turned away from the hypnotic patterns in the water and headed back toward where he'd left Seasmoke.
The dragon was exactly where he'd left him, though now surrounded by a cautious half-circle of admiring children who were being kept at a respectful distance by a nervous-looking shipyard guard.
"That's far enough, little ones," the guard was saying. "Dragons aren't pets. They're dangerous creatures, even when they seem calm."
"But he's not doing anything," protested a bold boy of about five. "He's just sleeping!"
"Seasmoke doesn't sleep when I'm not with him," Laenor called as he approached. "He's just pretending."
As if to confirm this, Seasmoke opened one amber eye, fixing it on Laenor with what could only be described as draconic amusement.
The children scattered at Laenor's approach, half-afraid and half-excited by the dragon rider's return. The guard looked relieved.
"Thank you for watching him," Laenor told the man. "Though he's quite capable of watching himself."
"Of course, m'lord," the guard replied, though he didn't look entirely convinced. "Just doing my duty."
Laenor approached his dragon, placing a hand on the warm scales of his neck. "Come on, bud," he said with a grin. "I've got sword lessons to catch. Master Qarro will have my hide if I'm late again."
Seasmoke rumbled deep in his chest, uncoiling from his resting position with sinuous grace. The children, watching from what they considered a safe distance (though it wasn't nearly far enough if Seasmoke had been truly aggressive), gasped in unison as the dragon stretched his wings to their full span.
The sight never failed to impress Laenor either. From nose to tail-tip, Seasmoke now measured over eighty feet, and his wingspan was nearly as great. His scales caught the midday sun, the usual ashen color taking on an almost metallic sheen in the bright light.
"Show-off," Laenor muttered fondly as the dragon preened.
With practiced ease, Laenor vaulted onto Seasmoke's foreleg, using it as a step to reach the ridge behind his neck where the minimal saddle was secured. He settled into place, checking the single safety strap more out of habit than necessity—the bond between them made conventional safety measures almost redundant.
"To High Tide," he said, patting Seasmoke's neck.
With a powerful thrust of his hind legs, Seasmoke launched them skyward, great wings displacing enough air to send nearby barrels rolling and loose canvas flapping wildly.
They climbed rapidly, the shipyard shrinking beneath them until Hull was just a collection of toy-sized buildings hugging the coastline.
___________________
The dragon banked gracefully, circling once around the gleaming silver towers of High Tide before descending toward a secluded cove on the eastern side of the castle grounds. It was their special place, a small inlet sheltered by towering cliffs where they could land away from prying eyes.
As they touched down on the narrow strip of black sand, Laenor felt something stir along his bond with Seasmoke—an image, sharp and clear, of another dragon. Much larger than Seasmoke, bronze scales gleaming in the sunlight.
"Vhagar was here?" he asked aloud, sliding down from the saddle.
Seasmoke rumbled in confirmation, his amber eyes tracking across the sky as if the ancient dragon might still be visible. Through their connection, Laenor sensed more—Vhagar had circled the area several times before flying northeast, toward Dragonstone. The encounter had left Seasmoke unsettled, a mixture of wariness and curiosity rippling through their bond.
"I'll come back for you soon," Laenor promised, patting the warm scales of Seasmoke's neck. "Wait for me here."
The dragon huffed a plume of steam in acknowledgment, settling onto the sand and curling his tail around himself.
Laenor turned toward the narrow path that wound up the cliff face. He'd climbed it so many times he could navigate it blindfolded, finding handholds and footholds by memory alone. As he crested the top, the wind hit him full force, tugging at his clothes and whipping his silver-gold hair across his face.
That's when he spotted her—a solitary figure sitting at the edge of the cliff, arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the endless expanse of the Narrow Sea.
"Laena?" he called, picking his way carefully across the rocky ground.
His sister didn't turn, but her shoulders stiffened slightly, acknowledging his presence. As he drew closer, Laenor was struck by how much she'd changed in the past two years. At twelve, she was all long limbs and grace, her silver-gold hair streaming behind her in the wind like a banner. She would be beautiful someday, he realized with a start. Not just pretty, but the kind of beautiful that started wars and inspired songs.
"Go away, Laenor," she said, her voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite place.
He ignored the command, settling onto the rock beside her. Up close, he could see the fresh scratches on her knees, angry red marks from yesterday's climb along the western cliffs. Her eyes were rimmed with red, though she was too proud to let him see her cry.
"You saw Vhagar," he said. Not a question.
Laena nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of her chin. "She was beautiful," she whispered. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Like living bronze, catching the sunlight as she flew."
"Did she see you?"
"Yes." A bitter smile twisted her lips. "She flew right over me, so close I could feel the heat from her body. I called to her, Laenor. I called until my throat was raw."
The pain in her voice made his chest tighten. "Laena—"
"She ignored me," his sister continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "Just kept circling, then flew away toward Dragonstone. She has riderless right now, but she didn't even acknowledge me."
Laenor reached out, hesitating before placing his hand on her shoulder. "Dragons choose their riders in their own time. You can't force it."
"That's easy for you to say." She shrugged his hand away, turning to face him for the first time. Her violet eyes flashed with hurt and anger. "You have Seasmoke. Mother has Meleys. Even cousin Rhaenyra has Syrax now. But me? Nothing. I'm the only one in our family without a dragon."
The longing in her voice was palpable, and Laenor felt a stab of guilt. He remembered the exhilaration of his first flight with Seasmoke, the indescribable feeling of connection. His sister had been denied that experience, forced to watch from the ground while he soared through the clouds.
"You'll claim one," he said with more confidence than he felt. "If that's what you want, you'll find a way. You always do."
"It's not fair," Laena whispered, hugging her knees tighter to her chest. "You're younger than me, but you have a dragon and magic. Mother has a dragon. I have nothing but dreams and disappointments."
Laenor struggled to find the right words. "Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me," Laena continued, her voice barely audible above the wind. "Some flaw in my blood that makes me unworthy."
"That's nonsense," Laenor said firmly. "Your blood is as pure as mine, as pure as Mother's. The dragons will recognize that."
She turned to look at him again, studying his face as if searching for a lie. "Do you really believe that?"
"I do." He reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away this time. "And when you do claim a dragon, you'll be the most magnificent dragonrider the realm has ever seen."
For a moment, something like hope flickered in her eyes. Then it died, replaced by the same bitter resignation he'd seen when he first approached.
"You don't understand," she said, pulling her hand from his grasp and standing abruptly. "You can't understand what it's like to be overlooked, to be the one left behind." She looked down at him, tears finally spilling onto her cheeks. "It's not fair that both you and Mother have dragons and I don't. It's just not fair!"
Before he could respond, she turned and ran, her slender form disappearing among the rocky outcroppings that dotted the clifftop. Laenor started to follow, then stopped. She needed time alone, space to process her sadness.
He sighed, turning back to the edge of the cliff where she had been sitting. From this vantage point, he could see for miles across the Narrow Sea, all the way to the hazy outline of the mainland on the horizon. Somewhere out there, Vhagar was flying, unaware of the heartbreak she'd left in her wake.
The bond between dragon and rider was mysterious, unpredictable. No one, not even the Targaryens with their centuries of dragon-lore, fully understood how or why a dragon chose one person over another. But Laenor knew his sister, her determination, her fierce will. If anyone could claim a dragon through sheer force of personality, it would be Laena.
"She'll find a way," he murmured to the wind. "She always does."
He would help his sister claim her dragon, he decided. Whatever it took, whatever secrets he had to bend or break, he would see Laena soar as he did. She deserved nothing less.
x__________X
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