Bloodstone, Stepstones
Laenor stood inside his tent, beside a table cluttered with parchments. The script etched onto them resembled High Valyrian—but not quite. This dialect, which Laenor had been studying for the past three years, diverged from the fluid tongue spoken in Essos. Why? Because it's better than High Valyrian to express his intent to magic. His mastery of High Valyrian allowed him to decipher it, but what he found was a bastardized form—not one spoken, but stumbled upon through countless failed experiments.
When spoken aloud, it sounded more primal, harsher than the smooth cadence of High Valyrian. That primal quality led Laenor to call it Old Valyrian. And yet, not even this Old Valyrian could fully tame the chaotic magic of this world.
Laenor had come to understand that the magic here was inherently destructive—chaotic at its core. His attempts to use runes beyond simple magic transfer and blood sacrifice had all failed. After much thought, he realized something strange: why had transferring magic to dragon eggs or using blood rituals worked so well, while all else failed?
The answer, he concluded, lay in the vessel.
Dragon eggs, it seemed, were among the few things capable of containing this world's chaotic magic. When Laenor carved runes onto steel and activated them with his blood, the runes lit up, drew in ambient magic—only for the steel to melt before releasing any intended effect. The melted metal showed no signs of enchantment; it was just ordinary slag.
Next, he tried dragonglass. It held the magic for four to five seconds—then shattered violently, injuring his hand. Undeterred, he tested wood, bronze, copper—anything he could get his hands on. The results were always the same: wood exploded like dragonglass, and the metals melted or failed entirely.
It was only when he repeated a magic transfer to a dragon egg—Laena's egg—that he confirmed he was carving the runes correctly. The issue wasn't the script, it was the container. Only certain vessels could endure this volatile power.
Laenor began to suspect that blood sacrifice could enable even mundane materials to hold chaotic magic—just as Valyrian steel had done. After all, wasn't that what Valyrian steel was? Steel folded, enchanted, and empowered through blood sacrifice and runic inscription until it became a vessel worthy of true magic.
And so, with no mentor to guide him, Laenor did the only thing he could: he began developing new runic arrays on his own. Every failure was a lesson. Dragonglass, he'd discovered, could hold magic briefly—four or five seconds. The runes worked during that window, but ended in explosion. He began ordering dragonglass in bulk, shielding himself in armor as he tested and refined his arrays.
That is how Laenor came to uncover Old Valyrian—letters of High Valyrian that resonated unnaturally well with magic.
The parchments before him now were filled with runic arrays—many of them likely useless unless empowered by blood sacrifice. Still, he hadn't stopped creating them. One in particular held his focus: a runic mimicry of Bombarda, a spell from the world of Harry Potter. It functioned as a magical explosive, but it required Laenor's blood to activate, and the blast occurred within five seconds. The problem wasn't the detonation—it was the power. The runes simply didn't store enough magic in that short time to collapse caves or bring down walls. The debris wasn't lethal enough.
Laenor considered seeking out Prince Daemon. The man would no doubt be pleased to provide a few captured soldiers for blood magic experiments—perhaps turning dragonglass into a true magical missile. But Corlys, his father, had forbidden it. Laenor's command over water had already unsettled the Faith of the Seven. If he were caught practicing blood magic, House Velaryon might face serious consequences—and they were already embroiled in one war.
Just then, Laenor heard movement outside his tent. Moments later, Prince Daemon barged in, followed closely by Lord Corlys. His father's eyes scanned the room, landing on the scattered parchments—and widened in alarm.
A heartbeat later, Laenor understood what his father must be thinking.
But he did not panic.
Why would he? Daemon would likely assume Laenor was simply studying High Valyrian. After all, Old Valyrian looked remarkably similar.
And then Daemon spoke—and Laenor realized, with a chill, that he'd been wrong.
"Are these Valyrian glyphs?" asked Prince Daemon, though the question wasn't directed at Laenor or his father. He picked up the parchment, and his face twisted into a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, apprehension, anger—before settling into a mask so unreadable that even Laenor couldn't decipher it.
"Who taught you this?" Daemon asked, his voice cold and devoid of emotion—so unlike the Rogue Prince.
"What is the matter, Da—" Laenor's father began, but Daemon cut him off with a raised hand.
"I asked: who taught you this?"
"No one. I learned it myself," Laenor answered truthfully.
"You lie. How could you learn a language no one speaks or teaches? Did Rhaenys tell you about it?" Daemon pressed, eyebrows furrowed.
"Why would I lie? My mother doesn't even know I know Old Valyrian. Until now, I thought I invented these symbols, and only I knew this language," Laenor replied, curious how Daemon recognized it. But the prince spoke before he could ask.
"You didn't invent this. It's called Valyrian Glyphs," Daemon stated. "They were meant to be magical. My family has a few scrolls written in them. From what I know, these glyphs were used as spells by Valyrian sorcerers in the days of Old Valyria."
Daemon's words stunned and excited Laenor. If he could study those scrolls, perhaps he'd learn whether Valyrians had once wielded magic without sacrificing slaves. "If what you say is true, Prince Daemon, then I would like to see those scrolls when we return," Laenor said eagerly.
"You'll have to ask Viserys, but I doubt my brother would deny you. Now, answer me—how did you learn these glyphs without Rhaenys teaching you?" Daemon asked again, his eyes sharp with curiosity, almost expectant.
Laenor glanced at his father, who wore a resigned look. That was answer enough.
"I don't know about spells, but these glyphs—this language—are magical, yes. Runes, to be precise. You carve them into surfaces and activate them through magic. At first, I used High Valyrian for runes, and after a lot of trial and error, I discovered that some letters resonated more with magic than others. That's how I stumbled upon these. I named it 'Old Valyrian.'"
"Runes, you say." Daemon mused. "I've heard of them. My lady wife's house—House Royce—is obsessed with their so-called 'Runestone' heritage. I thought nothing of it; their armor's just bronze, and they've all but forgotten what the runes on it even mean. But now… tell me, Laenor. Tell me everything. How do these runes work? How do you activate them? And can I learn it?"
Laenor, who shared Daemon's love for magic, understood his enthusiasm. He began explaining the fundamentals of runes, drawing a simple array for demonstration. Daemon listened with wonder, absorbing every detail. When Laenor mentioned that to activate the runes, one had to smear them with blood—specifically, blood from a Dragonlord—Daemon went still.
"You're saying my blood… has magic in it?" he asked, visibly shaken.
Laenor nodded, and Daemon immediately asked him to draw a Runic array. He wanted to see for himself.
But then came the hard part. Laenor had to explain the hurdle he'd encountered—the failure to fully activate or channel the runes—and when he did, Daemon looked visibly disappointed. Laenor then told him about a possible solution, which made Daemon frown in confusion.
"Then what the fuck are you waiting for? For the sacrifice to offer itself?" Daemon snapped.
Laenor only glanced pointedly at his father. Daemon looked between father and son a few times before realization struck.
"Corlys, you stupid cunt… are you the one stopping your son from rekindling the already dying fire of magic?" Daemon asked, utterly baffled.
"I don't wish to do that, but my son's safety—"
Daemon cut him off sharply. "Your son has a fucking dragon to protect him—and not to mention the others we command! What were you afraid of? Pigs breathing fire on you?"
"The Faith—" Corlys began again, but Daemon wasn't having it.
"Fuck the Faith," he snarled. "We're not Andals. We never were. We are the blood of Old Valyria. Do you know what made Valyria great? Dragons, Valyrian steel, the Black Wall—all of it born of magic. Magic, Corlys. Magic. And your son might just bring it back to us. And you're suppressing him over what? Fear of zealots who call magic evil because they weren't blessed with it? They fear it because it makes us better than them. They fear a world where they are no longer the measure of man, because they fall short of it."
Daemon's voice had risen to a thunderous pitch now.
"That's why they tried to bind us with the same chains they wear. But Maegor reminded them why we're not the same. We're better. And by the Fourteen Flames, if these Poor Fellows rise again, Caraxes and I will make them poorer—by taking their lives."
He turned back to Corlys, breathing heavily. "You have my support. And wait until I tell Viserys. I'll make sure Laenor has the full backing of House Targaryen. Now—do you have anything else to fear?"
Prince Daemon was practically shouting by the end. Laenor slipped out of the tent and glanced around—thankfully, there was no gathered crowd.
"Very well, Daemon," Corlys said at last, quiet but firm. "I hope I don't come to regret trusting you—because my son's life is worth more to me than you could possibly imagine."
His words made Laenor smile. Daemon gave Corlys a solemn nod.
"You can trust me with this, Corlys. I give you my word."
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