Chapter I: Golden Dream
The world of Daemyr Lhaerys was made of fire and gold.
He was not in his room in the cold Carpathian Mountains, but soaring through a sky of vivid blue. The wind was a roar in his ears, hot as the breath of a forge. Beneath him, there was no soft bed or blankets to keep his body warm, but the powerful movement of colossal muscles, covered in scales that gleamed like molten gold under the sun.
He was the dragon.
He felt power rippling through him—the wild joy of freedom in every beat of his immense golden wings. He opened his jaws, and a torrent of golden fire burst forth—not in anger, but in exultation—painting the heavens with his glory. He was Sunfyre the Golden. The name echoed in his dreamer's mind, a memory that was not his own but flowed within his Valyrian blood. He felt the dragon's pride, its loyalty to a silver-haired rider, and a phantom pain in a wounded wing. They were fragments, echoes of a life long past, carried through the abyss of time.
The dream dissolved as swiftly as it had begun.
Daemyr opened his eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs. The dark stone ceiling of his room replaced the open sky. The heat of dragonfire gave way to the cold morning air creeping through the window. He blinked, and the image of golden scales faded into the sight of his own pale arms. He sat up, breath still unsteady.
At eight years old, he already understood what those dreams were. They were the heritage—and the burden—of his House. Dragon dreams, his grandfather called them. Visions that came as premonitions, memories, or echoes of the great bond their bloodline shared with those magnificent beasts. But this one… this had been different. More vivid. More real.
He pushed the blanket aside, discipline overcoming the dizziness of the dream. He dressed in silence, his mind still swirling with the sensation of flight.
As he tied back his silver hair, he looked at himself in the polished silver mirror. His violet eyes seemed deeper, as if they had glimpsed an ancient secret.
Sunfyre.
Why would he dream of a dragon from an age long past?
Leaving the question to linger in his mind, he descended to the training yard. The biting cold of morning was a welcome shock, clearing the last embers of the fiery dream. He took up his practice sword, the weight of wood a grounding contrast to the airy lightness of the skies.
He began his drills, but his mind was divided. Stance one, advance… the beat of a wing. Stance two, retreat… the roar in his chest. Stance three, parry… the gleam of gold under sunlight.
"You look like a willow branch trying to fight the wind."
The voice was not mocking, but sharp and critical.
Vaenyra was not leaning against the doorway; she was already in the yard, her own practice sword in hand, having watched him in silence for some time. At only eight years old, she already held a stance many grown warriors would envy. Her silver hair was bound in a tight, practical braid, and her violet eyes lacked her brother's dreamlike glow—they burned instead with the focused intensity of a hawk.
Daemyr straightened, irritation flickering across his face. "I was just getting started."
"You were distracted," she corrected, her tone flat. "Dreams again?" It wasn't a curious question, but a statement—almost an accusation of weakness. "Grandfather says they're a gift. I say they're a distraction on the battlefield. And here," she gestured to the yard, "this is a battlefield."
Without waiting for an answer, she advanced. It wasn't a playful attack, but a calculated assault. Her first strike aimed at Daemyr's wrist, forcing a clumsy retreat. The clack of wood was sharp and hard.
"You rely too much on form, Daemyr. On the dance the books teach," she said, pressing her attack. Her movements lacked his ethereal grace; they were efficient, powerful, brutally precise. Every step had purpose. Every strike sought an opening. "The dance is not for a real blade."
Forced on the defensive, Daemyr felt frustration rise. He was the elder, heir to his House's main gift. Yet in the training yard, Vaenyra was his superior. She had no dreams, but possessed a visceral connection to steel, an instinct for combat that could not be taught. She had been born a warrior.
"Fight me!" she demanded, her voice a whip in the cold air. "Not the shadows in your head!"
The taunt struck home. Channeling his frustration, Daemyr stopped merely parrying and counterattacked, putting more force into his blows. The dance became a duel. The yard rang with the furious rhythm of clashing wood. He was Valyrian tradition—the elegance of a lost age. She was survival—the pragmatic blade forged for a new world.
For a brief moment, they were equals, locked in a deadlock of crossed blades, their breath mingling in clouds of mist.
In her violet eyes, Daemyr saw not anger, but reluctant approval. She was forcing him to be better—to be stronger.
The stalemate broke. Vaenyra, using her superior strength, shoved Daemyr back, making him stumble for an instant. It was all the opening she needed. She did not hesitate—she spun, and the tip of her wooden sword struck his ribs with a dull thud that knocked the air from his lungs.
He gasped—more from surprise than pain. Her provocation, his own wandering mind, and now the blow… something snapped within him. The elegance of the "dance" vanished. Instinct took over.
Daemyr did not retreat again. He surged forward, his movements shedding grace for a fury he rarely showed. His strikes grew heavier, wilder. The sharp clack of wood became deep, resonant thuds.
Vaenyra, caught off guard by her brother's sudden ferocity, was forced to retreat for the first time.
A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
At last, the dragon was showing its claws.
The duel became a storm. He was the fury of a dream interrupted; she was the relentless precision of steel. Sparks of determination burned in their violet eyes. They were no longer merely siblings training—they were two faces of the Valyrian soul locked in combat: the dreamer and the warrior, each striving to master the other. Daemyr's blade came down in a powerful arc that Vaenyra had to block with both hands, her feet sliding slightly on the smooth stone.
"Enough!"
The voice struck like a hammer on an anvil—deep, powerful, unquestionable. It shattered the tension instantly.
A burly man stepped into the yard, his heavy steps echoing with authority. He was not slender or ethereal like the Lhaerys. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with a blacksmith's muscle, and his hair, though silver, was a darker gray and cut short for practicality. Eyes of stern violet assessed the scene.
He was Baelor of House Qorynys, the master-at-arms of New Valyria.
He was in his forties, his face marked by forge scars and countless training sessions.
With a swift, fluid motion that belied his size, he stepped between them, seizing each of their wrists with a grip so strong they dropped their wooden swords instantly. The weapons hit the ground with a hollow thud.
"This is a training yard, not a street brawl," Baelor said, his voice low but every word heavy with authority. He looked first to Vaenyra. "You provoked him. Victory in training means nothing if you break your partner's discipline."
Then his gaze shifted to Daemyr—and hardened. "And you… you let your anger rule you. A Lhaerys, of all people. Your greatest weapon is not your sword, boy—it's your mind. Lose that, and you lose yourself. An enraged dragon burns itself as easily as its enemies."
He released them both, and they stepped back, the fury of the moment giving way to respect—and a hint of shame.
Baelor picked up their swords, testing their weight in his massive hands. "You both carry the blood of Old Valyria—the passion and the fire. But one is the dream, the other the steel. You must not fight each other." His gaze cut between them, piercing. "You must learn to fight together. A dream without a blade to protect it is but a whisper in the wind. And a blade without a dream to guide it is nothing but cold, purposeless metal. Do you understand?"
Daemyr and Vaenyra nodded in unison, their breaths still heavy, sweat cooling on their brows.
Baelor stepped back, his stern expression softening ever so slightly. He was not only an instructor but a guardian, tasked with forging the next generation. He set their training swords back onto the rack with deliberate care.
"Dismissed for now," he said, his tone formal once more. "Go wash up. Your family awaits you for breakfast."
The formality of the summons was enough to shift the air. Daemyr and Vaenyra exchanged a brief glance—a rare silent truce forming between them. Training under Baelor was demanding, but family meals carried a different kind of weight. They were lessons of another sort.
They bid Baelor farewell and left the yard. Climbing the black stone steps, they passed through silent corridors lined with tapestries depicting the Doom, then made their way toward the great dining hall.
The double doors—crafted of dark oak reinforced with iron—stood slightly ajar. The aroma of warm bread and herbs mingled with the faint scent of Aelarion's pipe smoke.
The dining hall's double doors were not merely an entrance but a silent declaration of power. Forged from black oak—a dense, almost petrified wood from the oldest Carpathian forests—they rose nearly three meters high, wide enough that both panels had to be opened for a comfortable passage. The surface of the oak was polished to a somber gleam, yet not smooth; the grain of the wood ran deep and visible.
Iron bands coiled across the doors in intricate but functional patterns. It was no ordinary iron—its hue was a dark anthracite gray, its texture cold and slightly rough to the touch, as if tempered in dragonfire.
The bands did more than reinforce—they formed a stylized design: two Valyrian dragons, one on each door, coiling in relief, their wings and tails intertwined in a symmetrical knot that met at the center when closed. Their eyes, made of polished obsidian, seemed to follow whoever approached.
At the point where the dragons met, serving as handles, were two massive iron rings, each shaped like a smaller dragon's head, jaws open, fangs bared. The weight and chill of the metal were palpable. The hinges, equally massive and forged of the same dark iron, were visible and ornate, each engraved with the sigil of House Lhaerys: a stylized eye, representing dragon dreams and the gift of seeing beyond the veil of time—the defining mark of their lineage.
When opened, the doors did not creak but moved with a heavy whisper, revealing the dining hall beyond—a place where formality and tradition were as tangible as the air itself.
As they entered, they saw the familiar scene.
At the imposing head of the long polished table sat their grandfather, Aelarion Lhaerys. The patriarch, with his long silver hair and violet eyes that seemed to hold both the wisdom and sorrow of ages, watched the slow spirals of smoke rise from his pipe. His presence was the gravitational center of the room—calm, absolute.
To his right sat Lord Maeric, their father. His silver hair was shorter, his face sterner. He did not relax in his chair but held himself upright, like a sentinel. His violet eyes, identical to his children's, moved with a dark, assessing intensity. If Aelarion was the past and magic, Maeric was the present and duty. His authority was undeniable, yet at that table, he was still the son of the man who had saved them all.
Neither man spoke when the children entered. Aelarion simply inclined his head toward their seats. Maeric watched them with a gaze that seemed to weigh every flaw.
Daemyr and Vaenyra sat in silence, the air between them charged with a complex mixture of respect.
Breakfast was about to begin.