Chapter 2: House Lhaerys
The air in the dining room was heavy, thick with a faint familial tension. Daemyr and Vaenyra, now seated in their respective places, felt the evaluating gazes upon them.
At the imposing head of the long polished wooden table sat their grandfather, Aelarion Lhaerys. The patriarch, with his long silver hair and violet eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom and sorrow of ages, watched the smoke from his pipe rise in slow spirals. His presence was the gravitational center of the room, calm and absolute. The melancholy in his eyes was a constant veil, a silent reminder of the loss of his beloved wife, who had died shortly after they arrived in this new world, succumbing to the hardships of adaptation and the grief of lost Valyria.
To Aelarion's right, occupying the seat of honor beside the patriarch, sat Maeric Lhaerys, Daemyr and Vaenyra's father. His silver hair was shorter, his face stern. He did not relax in his chair but maintained a rigid posture, like a sentinel. His violet eyes, identical to his children's, moved with a dark intensity, analyzing everything. While Aelarion embodied the past and magic, Maeric represented the present and duty. His authority was undeniable, but here at the table, he was still the son of the man who had saved them all.
Opposite Maeric, on the other side of the table, sat Lyra Lhaerys, Maeric's cousin and Daemyr's mother. Her silver hair, a shade darker than her son's, fell in elegant waves over her shoulders, and her violet eyes held a thoughtful, almost melancholic depth.
Lyra was the personification of grace and erudition, a woman who spent hours in the fortress library, immersed in ancient tomes and Valyrian scrolls. Her beauty was serene and calm, contrasting with the impression her husband conveyed; she rarely spoke during meals, preferring to observe, her eyes fixed on Daemyr with a mixture of pride and concern.
Beside Lyra, and to Aelarion's left, sat Serena Lhaerys, Maeric's aunt and Vaenyra's mother. Serena was the vibrant opposite of Lyra. Her silver hair was shorter and wilder, framing a face of strong, angular features. Her violet eyes, though of the same hue, burned with fierce intensity, reflecting the determination her daughter had inherited.
Serena was a woman of action, with contained energy that seemed ready to explode at any moment. She helped oversee sword training and the fortress defenses, and her presence at the table was more a display of strength than quietude. She was not given to long speeches, but her few words were always direct and laden with authority. Her eyes met Vaenyra's with a gleam of recognition and approval, an unbreakable connection between mother and daughter.
Daemyr and Vaenyra, seated between their parents and grandfather, were the product of these two lineages, each carrying a piece of the complex Valyrian heritage. Breakfast, more than a meal, was a ritual, a daily demonstration of hierarchy.
The silence in the dining room was as heavy as the tapestries on the walls. The occasional clink of cutlery was the only sound, broken only by the distant crackle of the fireplace. Aelarion, at the head of the table, watched the smoke from his pipe, his eyes lost in thought. Lyra and Serena maintained their elegant postures, but the tension was palpable. Daemyr and Vaenyra, seated across from each other, felt the weight of expectation, particularly from their father.
It was Maeric who finally broke the silence, his deep, emotionless voice echoing slightly in the vast hall. He did not address anyone in particular, but his violet eyes, cold and calculating, swept over his children.
"I heard the morning training was… energetic," he began, a tone of barely concealed disapproval in his words. "Baelor told me you overexerted yourselves. Fencing is a discipline, not a display of uncontrolled fury, Daemyr. And you, Vaenyra, your aggressiveness is remarkable, but brute strength without purpose is wasted." He paused, and the air seemed to grow even colder. "I do not see the talent Aelarion so highly values in these 'dances.'"
Daemyr felt a blush rise to his face, while Vaenyra merely pressed her lips together, her eyes fixed on her plate. Lyra cast a worried glance at her son but did not intervene. Serena, for her part, kept an impassive expression, though a slight glint in her eyes indicated she had noticed the critique of her daughter.
"And what about the dragons?" Maeric continued, his voice now tinged with bitterness. "Daemyr, you are already eight. Vaenyra, too. Others of our lineage in Valyria would already have established a bond, perhaps even flown. But you… there is still no dragon that recognizes you. No call, no response. It is a failure, not just of yours, but of our lineage here. Is our bloodline weakening?"
Maeric's words struck like blows—not of a sword, but of disappointment. He spoke not as a father hoping for the best, but as a lord assessing the aptitude of his heirs. His vision was pragmatic, devoid of the subtlety Aelarion so valued.
"Tradition is important, yes," Maeric continued, as if reading the unspoken thoughts of Aelarion, "but survival demands adaptation. I myself learned this at Durmstrang. There, there were no dragons to tame, no 'dreams' to guide. There was magic. Powerful, practical magic that shapes the world. I was the first of our House to attend one of the great wizarding schools of Europe, and it opened my eyes to the true power that exists in this new world—the power of wands, of spells, of alliances. While you cling to wooden swords and dreams of a past that is gone, the wizarding world advances. And we, the Lhaerys, must be ahead, not trapped by ghosts."
He lifted his silver goblet and took a sip, his eyes fixed on Aelarion, a silent challenge between father and son. Aelarion, for his part, merely drew from his pipe, a cloud of aromatic smoke obscuring his face for a moment. The tension at the table was almost unbearable. Maeric, the man who had embraced the wizarding world, saw his family's future not in the flames of dragons, but in the mastery of magic he had learned at Durmstrang.
Aelarion removed his pipe from his mouth, and the aromatic smoke slowly dissipated into the air. His violet eyes, deep and ancient, fixed on Maeric, yet without a trace of anger or disapproval. There was only a weary, almost infinite wisdom.
"You speak with the truth of your own experience, my son," Aelarion began, his voice soft but resonant enough to fill the hall. "And I am proud of the man you have become. It was you who opened our eyes to the possibilities of this new world, who showed us that magic is not limited to flame and blood. Your sharp mind and your capacity for adaptation are valuable gifts, forged in your experience at Durmstrang and the alliances you have built. No one can deny your achievements, Maeric. You have brought us security and new understanding."
A slight nod from Maeric indicated he had received the acknowledgment, but the tension still lingered. Aelarion then leaned forward slightly, his eyes moving to his grandchildren, then back to his son.
"However," the patriarch continued, the word floating in the air like a feather, "there are paths the mind cannot forge, and bonds that the wand cannot create. You sought power in the outside world, and you found it. But the power that resides in our blood, the power that once bound us to our dragons… that, my dear Maeric, you never awakened. Not for lack of trying, I know. But the heart of a dragon chooses its rider, not the other way around. And dragon's blood, however it adapts, never dilutes. It merely finds new forms in which to manifest."
Maeric stiffened, the mention of his failure to tame a dragon—a topic rarely discussed—hitting him like a subtle but precise blow. He averted his gaze for a moment, the bitterness in his eyes deepening.
Aelarion, however, allowed no time for a response. His eyes returned to Daemyr and Vaenyra, and an almost imperceptible glint appeared in them, like the reflection of a distant flame. "Our young ones carry the future in their hearts and minds. One sees the world in dreams, echoes of a glorious past and glimpses of a yet-unwritten future. The other feels the world in her steel, the strength and determination needed to forge that future. They are different, yes, but both are what House Lhaerys needs. What this world will need. The flames of ancient Valyria still burn, Maeric. And sometimes, they manifest in ways that even we, the elders, cannot fully foresee. But I feel them. And I know their destiny… ah, their destiny will be grand. One way or another."
He finished with an enigmatic smile, taking up his pipe again.
Maeric observed his father, the expression on his face a complex mix of skepticism and a spark of something resembling hope. He wanted to believe Aelarion's words, in the promise of a grand future for his children, but his mind, trained in the logic and practical magic of Durmstrang, resisted. He had seen many "dreams" and "omens" dissipate like smoke.
"Grand, perhaps," Maeric finally replied, his voice still carrying a pragmatic tone, but with an almost imperceptible softness. "But grandeur, father, requires more than dreams and steel. It requires power. And the power of Valyria, true power, has always been tied to our dragons. Without them, we are now merely wizards of ancient blood, but without the glory that defined us."
He looked at Daemyr and Vaenyra, and an almost inaudible sigh escaped his lips. "We have only three. Three living dragons, and only one still flies with a rider. And even that rider…" Maeric hesitated, casting a respectful but melancholy glance at Aelarion. "…is no longer as young as when Valyria fell."
Aelarion nodded slowly, the smoke from his pipe forming perfect rings in the air. "It is true. My old friend, Lyserax, is still strong, but his one hundred and thirty years weigh on his wings. He is the last living bridge to the Valyria we knew, the last of the great dragons that came with us."
"And the other two?" asked Lyra, her soft voice breaking the gravity of the conversation. "Nyxarion and Merakzor? They are already adults, over fifty years each. Why haven't they chosen their riders yet?"
Maeric shook his head. "That is the question, Lyra. They are there, in the depths of the mountains, waiting. But the call… the bond… has not manifested. We tried. I tried. Others tried. But they remain wild, untamed. As if waiting for something we cannot offer."
Serena, who until then had remained silent, spoke, her voice firm. "They wait for the right blood. For the bond that cannot be forced. That is what Aelarion always said. And that is what they will do. It is not a question of if, but of when."
A heavy silence fell over the table again, but this time it was a silence of reflection, not of tension. The reality of the dragons, their importance, and the uncertainty of their future hovered over everyone. Daemyr and Vaenyra, who had listened attentively, felt the weight of the responsibility that dragon blood carried. Three dragons. Three magnificent beings, waiting for riders who may not yet have been born.
It was Lyra, Daemyr's mother, who broke the silence this time, her voice soft but with unexpected firmness. "But it's not just the three, is it?" She looked at Aelarion, who watched her with a gleam in his eyes. "We also have the four eggs in the incubator. Those our own dragons conceived here in the mountains, kept warm with our magic, waiting for the right moment."
An almost inaudible murmur ran through the table. Maeric, who seemed resigned to melancholy, raised an eyebrow. "The eggs… yes. Four sleeping stones. How long have we kept them, Lyra? Decades?" His tone was skeptical, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes.
"They wait," replied Aelarion, his voice deep and full of meaning. "They wait for the right warmth, for the right blood. Each one is a promise, a link to the past and a bridge to the future. They are the hope that dragon blood has not extinguished, merely slept, awaiting awakening."
Serena, Vaenyra's mother, added with her usual pragmatism, "They are the reason we continue to train, to protect. If one day they hatch, we will need riders. Worthy riders, with the blood and will to tame them. We cannot afford to have dragons without riders, or riders without dragons."
Maeric let out a heavy sigh, a sound that carried years of frustration. "'When' is the question, Serena. 'When' is what haunts us. How many generations have passed? How many eggs have been placed in cradles, waiting for a warmth that never came?" His eyes fixed on Daemyr and Vaenyra, and the hardness in his gaze softened for a brief moment, revealing a trace of pain. "One egg was placed in Daemyr's cradle, and another in Vaenyra's. An ancient tradition, a hope renewed with each birth. But none have hatched. Neither for my son, nor for my daughter. They remain… asleep. Alive, yes, but in a deep slumber, awaiting a awakening that seems never to come."
Lyra, Daemyr's mother, gently touched her son's hand, as if to comfort him from the memory of unfulfilled expectation. "Yet hope persists, Maeric. Magic has its own rhythms. And the eggs in the incubator… they are our promise. They pulse with life, even if silently."
Aelarion, observing the exchange with his usual serenity, nodded. "Hope is what sustains us, Lyra. And patience. Dragon blood is a deep and mysterious river. It flows in its own time and finds its own path. We cannot force it, only prepare it. They will hatch when the time is right, when the proper bond is forged."
With Aelarion's last word, breakfast tacitly came to an end. There was no formal farewell, just a silent movement of each toward their own tasks. Maeric rose with the same rigidity with which he had sat, his firm steps echoing as he moved toward the administrative wing of the fortress. Lyra and Serena exchanged a glance, and then went to their respective libraries and training yards, each with her own responsibilities.
Daemyr and Vaenyra also rose. Vaenyra cast one last glance at her brother, a gleam of challenge and understanding in her violet eyes, before heading to the training yard, where Baelor awaited her for another fencing session. Daemyr, for his part, felt an urgent need for solitude. The conversation about dragons, eggs, and his father's unmet expectations weighed heavily on his mind.
He climbed the dark stone stairs, the fortress silence now more perceptible. Upon reaching his room, he closed the door behind him, seeking refuge in the familiar gloom. He sat on the edge of the bed, the image of the golden dragon from his dream still vivid in his mind. Sunfyre. The splendor of his scales, the power of his flight, the heat of his breath. It was a vision so real, so tangible.
He thought of Lyserax, his grandfather's old dragon, a majestic creature, but with scales of a dark bronze hue, almost black in some parts, and a body marked by the ages. He thought of Nyxarion and Merakzor, the adult dragons that lived in the mountain caves, creatures of darker colors, with wild and untamable temperaments, who had never accepted a rider. None of them resembled the dragon from his dream. None possessed the golden gleam, the aura of glory that Sunfyre exuded.
Daemyr closed his eyes, trying to recapture the sensation of flight, the connection with the golden dragon. What did it mean to dream of a dragon that no longer existed, a dragon from a Valyria long lost? And why did he, Daemyr, feel such a deep connection to something that seemed only a memory? The mystery of Sunfyre and the absence of a similar dragon among the living Lhaerys weighed on his mind, an unanswered question that would follow him through his days and nights.