Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone
Laenor was making a list of every known piece of Old Magic in the world, as much as he could remember: dragon eggs and dragons themselves; the black-barked tree—Nightshade Tree—used by the warlocks of Qarth; the dragonglass candles of Valyria; the weirwood trees; the oily black stone of unknown origin; and Nagga's bones on the Iron Islands.
This was all Laenor could recall for now. He would admit, somewhat grimly, that his memory of this world had begun to fade with time—like a creeping fog, slow but sure. The same kind of fog that clouded his past, obscuring who he truly was and the family he once belonged to in his former world. So, he had resolved to write everything down. Even if his memories were to be swallowed by the mist, these records would remain, anchoring him to what he once knew.
But that wasn't the only reason for the list.
In the two years he and Daemon had spent waging war against the Triarchy, they had confirmed Laenor's speculations: magic in this world could only be accessed through three means—magical creatures, blood magic, or ancient objects saturated with magic for centuries. That's when Laenor decided to use this list to forge magical foci—items that could either draw magic from the caster's body or help them control ambient magic.
Aye, the caster's body. After the creation of Bloodstone, Laenor began to wonder: if blood carried magic, then surely the body must carry some of it too. If so, couldn't that magic be trained and grown like muscle?
To test his theory, he created slabs of dragonglass, similar to Bloodstone, designed to absorb magic from any who touched them. He dubbed these slabs Magic Sponges. Two remained on the Stepstones, one was sent to Driftmark, and another to King's Landing, all thoroughly tested before use.
And they worked.
When Daemon pressed his hand against one of the slabs for two minutes, he grew dizzy and nearly collapsed—Laenor's father had to catch him. Laenor himself lasted fifteen minutes before feeling drained and lightheaded, like how one feels after a long day in the training yard. That confirmed it: magic wasn't just in the blood—it coursed through the flesh.
With that knowledge, Daemon had agreed to help him find a method to cast magic without sacrifice. But their search had led only to failure. No wooden staff, no silver, bronze, or dragonglass etched with runes, could absorb magic, be it from outside or inside of them. The few that could, magic cast by them with intent, only got absorbed by the chaotic magic of the world, scattering it into the wind as if it had never been conjured at all.
Laenor was writing down notes on how to proceed when someone knocked repeatedly on his chamber door. He tucked the parchments away and called for entry.
"Our armor is ready," Daemon said, stepping in with eyes sweeping the room, as if searching for something.
"Very well, let's go," Laenor stood at once and gestured for Daemon to lead the way.
"Did you finish the armor designs for the dragons?" Laenor asked curiously.
"No, not yet. But I'll have it done before the moon's end," Daemon replied, confident. "Are you sure dragonsteel can hold one more enchantment without needing more than a single sacrifice?"
"With ease," Laenor replied.
"Dragonbones are rare. Even my House hesitates to use them too freely. I hope you're right this time too." Daemon's tone carried a touch of warning.
As they reached the armory, they found a small crowd had gathered, staring in awe at the newly forged suits of armor.
"If we're counting finite things," Laenor said with a smirk, "sacrifices aren't infinite either."
"We'd have more," Daemon shot back with a frown, "if you stopped drowning them with that blasted sea power of yours."
"I thought the wood Triarchy used for their ships was sturdier… or the men were better swimmers," Laenor said with mock disappointment. "Alas, I overestimated both."
Daemon shook his head. And Laenor said, "You don't have to sulk and be angry all the time. Your family isn't the only one with access to dragonbone. Valyria still has it in abundance. If it comes to it, we could always go there."
"I've no wish to follow in the footsteps of an aunt I never met. I've heard what became of her, and I'd rather not share her fate," Daemon muttered with a shiver.
"Our fate won't be the same," Laenor said. "Not if I succeed in finding a way to cast magic freely."
"I doubt I'll live long enough to see that."
"Oh, how you'll beg for a foci when I do," Laenor said with a grin.
"I don't beg," Daemon growled, his voice thick with offense.
"Oh, you will, Your Grace, you will," Laenor teased. "When you see how much power we can wield with a single foci in our hands, you'll beg and grovel for one. Power is a wondrous thing, Daemon. All men dance to its tune. In a way, you could say power is the Maiden of the Seven gods the Andals worship—every man wants a piece of the maiden, few like her so much they are willing to get her at any cost. Even stealing her or coaxing her away slowly. Especially the ambitious ones. Like you."
Laenor tilted his head with a knowing, serene smile.
Daemon sneered at him, but unlike before, he didn't lash out. "Like how your House—House Velaryon—'coaxed' the power of my House? The dragons?" he said, voice sharp and cold.
"Aye. And the Targaryens were fools to allow it," Laenor replied calmly. "Let it be a lesson to the House of the Dragon—bonding your maidens to dragons and then marrying them outside your bloodline is a recipe for creating rival dragonlord houses."
Daemon ground his jaw so hard that Laenor could hear it clearly, thanks to his enhanced hearing. Laenor knew full well that this time, the Velaryon dragon was no gift from House Targaryen—but he let it slide. After all, it was the blood of Daemon's house that gave him the right to control Embaryx.
"And let me remind you, Daemon, that the reason I'm even teaching you and the rest of the Targaryens magic is precisely because your House did not raise a fuss about Velaryons riding dragons. And I swear to you, your descendants will thank King Viserys for that choice."
"You've sprouted this nonsense before," Daemon snapped. "What makes you think wielding magic through foci will make us more powerful than dragons at our side? Dragons grow with age. Older ones are nearly impossible to bring down. That alone is the unshakable might of my House—and the might your House was gifted."
"I've heard of the fire mages of Valyria. But they didn't rule. The dragonlords did. With their unstoppable mounts." His voice rose, and by now, the crowd of soldiers nearby had turned to listen.
Laenor raised his hand and motioned for them to leave. All of them were Velaryon men, and they obeyed without hesitation.
"Near impossible, aye," Laenor said after the last had gone. "But not impossible. Dorne proved it."
"And you ask me what we give in return?" Laenor stepped closer. "Then hear this, Daemon Targaryen. When I succeed in creating true foci, House Velaryon will give House Targaryen the key to something far greater than dragonfire."
"I don't care why Valyrian mages used fire magic exclusively. Maybe, like you, they believed dragons were their only true might—not the magic that created them. But dragons are not power. Magic is power. Dragons can die."
He stepped even closer, voice sharper now, colder. "Everyone knows how to kill a dragon. Pierce its eye. Or pit it against another dragon. When the old ones die, and only hatchlings and adolescents remain, they become easy prey. And Targaryens? Without dragons, you're just another noble House with a glorified history."
"And who could pit dragon against dragon?" Daemon fired back. "Only your House has a dragon—and until Velaryon chooses to turn on Targaryen, there will be no such war."
"You still haven't explained how magic is better than dragons," Daemon added.
"Oh, don't pretend ignorance," Laenor said, eyes narrowing. "You know what Otto Hightower is playing at. Alicent's children may bear the name Targaryen. They may ride dragons. But they're not Valyrian. And they certainly bear no love to you—or your niece."
His voice turned grim.
"It's only a matter of time. As Otto once said, 'The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power.' The Hightowers are biding their time. Waiting. Preparing. Until their Aegon grows strong enough to claim the same power that Aegon the Conqueror once wielded."
Daemon's lips curled in disdain. "Otto and his brood may be treacherous, but how many sons could that Hightower whore possibly give him? Rhaenyra's line will always be stronger. Especially with House Velaryon at her back."
"And why would House Velaryon back Rhaenyra?" Laenor asked, amusement dancing in his tone.
"Because I will marry your sister. And you will marry Rhaenyra. Our children will inherit the Iron Throne and marry each other. We will end my brother's tainted line with Hightower blood—together."
"If my sister and Rhaenyra agree," Laenor said lightly. "But we're straying from the point. You've asked me time and again how foci could make us more powerful than dragons. Let me answer now."
He paused, gaze intense.
"Our magical reserves—they grow with time, endlessly. You know this. The Valyrian mages might've only used fire. But why limit ourselves to just one element? Magic can control all of them."
"You've seen my bombs. Once we craft a true foci, we'll be able to conjure fire or unleash explosions greater than any wildfire or dragonfire by far within a heartbeat—without a single drop of blood or sacrifice, and most importantly, it would be us who will wield that fire and can unleash wherever we want. We will not have to rely on our dragons to make us special or powerful."
Laenor's tone deepened, more serious.
"An ice spell, with enough power, could bring down a dragon from the sky. And a dragon grounded is a dragon killed. I could drown Vhagar herself—bring her down, just for a minute. And she would die. Dragons can be slain. But do you know what can't be, Daemon?"
Daemon's gaze flicked to him, no longer angry, just listening.
Laenor jabbed a finger into Daemon's chest. "Something inside of you they can't see. Something real. Something stronger than any beast, with endless ways to wield it. We could paint the world with our imagination, that is what the power we will wield. A power that doesn't require you to ride beside a great behemoth to survive every moment."
"And against that power, the lords of the realm can plot and scheme, all they want. But when they stand against men who wield magic as it was meant to be—pure, full, unrestrained—they'll be the same as children. Children thinking by outwitting a dragon, they could kill it. One that doesn't need wings or flame to end their existence. One thought from us and all their schemes and plots of outwitting us would be ash in the winds."
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