Balerion Tower, Valyria
Laenor turned to Lady Melisa, who appeared timid and fully under the control of Lord Maelor. Though it mattered little to Laenor, as he assumed Lord Maelor intended to marry Melisa to him and, in doing so, grant him control over a dragonlord house that had once stood among the top twenty, with the option to rename it should Laenor wish. But there is one little problem.
"Before I show any of my capabilities," Laenor said calmly, "I would like to admit that I am already betrothed—not to one, but to two lovely women." He made his intentions clear, leaving no room for misunderstanding about adding another marriage to his future.
Lord Maelor looked confused. The same expression mirrored itself across the faces of the other Drakonars and Melisa as well—until Lady Hael's eyes widened slightly in realization.
"Lord Laenor," Lady Hael said gently, "polygamy may be uncommon in the lands you and your family call home, but here, in Valyria, it is commonplace. Nearly all heads of dragonlord families take multiple wives; some even keep an outrageous number. You need not worry that little Melisa here would mind becoming your third wife."
"It is not the custom that troubles me," Laenor replied evenly, "but my own disposition. I am not inclined toward polygamy."
It was true. While Laenor was still a man—one whose pride might be flattered by such an arrangement—he knew better than to indulge it. In time, it would lead only to chaos, and with fragments of his power inevitably passed down to his children, the consequences could become catastrophic.
"Then we are at an impasse, Lord Laenor," Lord Maelor said, his face darkening, outrage flashing across his features at the rejection of what he clearly saw as a golden opportunity. "Without marrying Lady Melisa, you cannot become head of her house."
The woman in question looked stricken, her shoulders sagging as though her final hope had slipped through her fingers.
"My Lord Maelor," Laenor's father said, measured but silky tone, "there are two sons of my brother, Vaemond Velaryon—"
"Lord Corlys," Maelor interrupted sharply, turning toward Laenor's father. "Lady Melisa may be the last of her bloodline, but she is still one of the Forty—a proud dragonlord. While I do not doubt your nephews may be fine young men, her status demands no less than a dragonlord of great power."
"My cousins may not be dragonlords," Laenor interjected calmly, "but they are mages of considerable strength. I assure you, in a few years' time, they will be powerful enough to defeat even a dragonlord and his mount."
If Lady Melisa agreed, Laenor would even go so far as to hatch dragons and see whether his Velaryon cousin could form a bond. Now that he knew their house had once been dragonlords—and that magic still sang faintly in their blood—there was a chance. A slim one, perhaps, but a chance nonetheless. More dragons for House Velaryon would strengthen his family immeasurably.
Not Embaryx's or Veltharys's lineage, of course—that legacy would belong solely to his own children. Laenor trusted his cousins with his life, but what of their descendants? Loyalty thinned with generations. He had already given Driftmark's Velaryons far more than most second and third sons, and their sons would ever receive—knowledge of magic itself. Few could advance far without his guidance, and Laenor was content to let it remain that way.
"Surely you jest, Lord Laenor," Maelor said, confidence thick in his voice. "History proves that only luck or sacrifices of unimaginable scale—such as that Rhoynish prince who dared to face a dragon atop his mount—allow mages to triumph. Dragons are superior. They always have been." His lip curled. "That foolish son of Lady Rhaenys—the former Lord Belaerys—sought to prove otherwise. And look where that led him."
"Then why," Laenor asked calmly, "do I keep hearing that the Drakonars have cursed numerous dragonlord families in the past? That such curses stripped them of their dragons entirely? Would you not call that power? A force that did not slay one dragonrider, but erased many that are even yet to be born—across generations?"
The question had gnawed at Laenor for some time. And now was the moment to ask it.
Lady Rhaenys denied the existence of such curses and that Drakonars are blamed for no reason. Lord Velaryon believed that Drakonars's library held such a curse, with steadfast resolve and ever-strong hate.
So Laenor watched Lord Maelor closely, waiting for his answer.
"I assure you that my family has cast no curse upon these recent houses that have lost their dragons. Their blood simply grew too impure to bond with dragons, and with no one to blame, they joined Velaryons and the Sehlaeros and chose to blame my family for their own failings," Lord Maelor explained evenly. "And since their loud whining earned House Drakonar a fearsome reputation, I neither denied nor confirmed their accusations."
Laenor had suspected as much. If the Drakonars truly possessed the power to strip any family of their dragon-riding abilities, why had they not wielded it more freely—eliminating rivals outright, or at the very least weakening them by purging newer bloodlines to their faction added over the millennia?
"You said recent families," Laena noted. Laenor turned toward his sister at the sound of her voice. Laena was staring at Lord Maelor pointedly. "But not those of the Old Blood."
Lord Maelor held her gaze for a few moments before replying. "Aye. There was a curse. A powerful one—costly, but effective beyond doubt. But fret not. Some fool forefather of mine, a millennium ago, either destroyed it or hid it so well that we have never been able to recover it." Anger colored his voice, along with a trace of lingering horror.
"Your family must have been well-versed in curses—and might have a very deep understanding of the bond between dragon and rider—to create something like that," Laenor said thoughtfully. "Knowledge I would dearly wish to learn, though alas, it seems the curse is lost." He lamented the fact convincingly—or at least played the part well enough.
Lord Maelor merely shrugged and said nothing, though Lady Elaena and her mother exchanged a glance that was quickly broken.
"Anyhow," Laenor continued smoothly, "we have strayed from the matter at hand. What I meant to convey, Lord Maelor, is this: the magic my family wields is capable of killing both dragons and their riders. At present, only House Targaryen and my own house possess such magic in the world—and the Targaryens would need centuries before reaching the same finesse my cousins already command."
Instead of calling upon his divine power, Laenor raised his hand and summoned his magic alone. Willing it to conjure an element. An electric current flickered between his fingers, visible to the naked eye. It took intense focus and considerable will, and several heartbeats passed before the current stabilized, dancing across his fingertips.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Laenor deepened the current, thickening it until the strands resembled writhing earthworms—lethal enough to kill a full-grown man with proper aim, especially near the head.
"I could have shown you a grander display," Laenor said calmly, his gaze never leaving Lord Maelor, whose eyes were locked onto the lightning in Laenor's palm. "A bolt as thick as a tree trunk. Or perhaps as thick as your dragon's leg." The current crackled softly. "Imagine countless such bolts raining down upon a dragon and its rider. One might escape a strike or two by luck—but the rest?" He tilted his head slightly. "One hit is all it takes. The beast would fall screaming from the sky."
He let the words sink in before continuing. "And lightning is only one element. My cousins will wield fire, earth, wind, water, ice—and more."
Laenor avoided mentioning lava or molten stone deliberately. Dragons were Valyria's pride; revealing too much too soon could push these lords from ambition into fear. And fear, among dragonlords, bred unity against a common threat.
For now, he counted on Maelor's greed.
He counted on his ambition.
"The next head of your house," Lord Maelor said slowly, clearly still shaken by the display, "must marry the child born of Lady Melisa's womb."
"That," Laenor replied with an easy smile, "I can agree to, Lord Maelor."
One child to rule the Seven Kingdoms.
One to become head of the Velaryon branch in Valyria.
And one to rule a land Laenor had yet to visit—but had already decided would one day be his.
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