Dragon's Forge, Bloodstone
"A power that could far eclipse our dragon," Daemon said sarcastically, imitating Laenor's voice when he'd first uttered those words. Laenor sighed at the older man's childishness.
After over a week of testing, Laenor had finally decided it was time to reveal what he had spent the last gods-damned year working on. And since Daemon was currently the closest to him—Laenor being at Dragon's Forge—it made sense to craft the first wand for the King of the Narrow Sea. A chance to see how the wand functioned in someone else's hands.
Daemon, skeptical at first, folded almost immediately after witnessing a demonstration. Still, he followed Laenor back to his room with a doubtful expression. "You can manipulate water even without that wooden stick," he'd muttered, which Laenor didn't bother arguing with. Instead, he simply offered, "No one's forcing you. You're free to go if you don't trust me." Grumbling, Daemon had stayed—brow furrowed, frustration rising.
Now they stood on the sandy shores of Bloodstone. Daemon jabbed his wand—a ten-inch length of wood with a core made from Caraxes's scales—into the air. When asked how he had obtained the scale, Daemon had only grunted and shivered, refusing to elaborate. Laenor, unfazed, had made the wand with the same process as his own: bronze, silver, and gold layers, a sliver of dragonglass fused inside.
Daemon's first reaction to the wand was underwhelming—a faint thrumming in his hand. He had promptly dragged Laenor out to the beach, demanding assistance in producing magic that would prove Laenor's grand claims. "It sure is eclipsing everything in doing absolutely nothing, I suppose."
Laenor shot him a dry look. "Spells are not like runes," he explained. "With runes, you write your intention and simplify the magic of the world to achieve the effect—at a steep cost. Spells don't work that way. Tracing runes in the air doesn't count as actual carving. You have to channel emotion and intent—so powerfully that they bend reality through your incantation."
Daemon scowled. "What do you think I'm doing? I've done everything you told me. I moved the stick like you did, channeled my emotions, focused my thoughts, pronounced the incantation perfectly. If I've made a mistake, point it out. Since you haven't, the problem isn't with me. The problem is with your damn invention."
Laenor inhaled, then exhaled slowly, keeping calm. "I understand your frustration, Daemon, truly. But I did not just manipulate water. I conjured it. From nothing. I didn't bend existing water—I created it. That's a level of magic that goes beyond what we were doing before. Conjuration is not some beginner's parlor trick. It takes time. It takes patience. And even with my affinity—an unnatural, obscene affinity with water—it still took me nearly half an hour to create the spell."
Daemon gave him a long glare, but Laenor pressed on, his voice sharpening with sincerity.
"Your fire affinity is strong, I'll grant you that. But it is not my water affinity. Not even close. And fire is volatile—wilder, more emotional. You won't tame it by treating it like a rebellious servant."
Daemon's lips pressed into a hard line.
"Here's what I suggest," Laenor said, kneeling to sit on a flat rock and folding his arms. "Forget the incantation I gave you. Forget about the Fireball I told you to make, for now, even. But do not forget the wand movements I taught you. They remain valid for fire until you decide to invent your own spellcasting forms. Now—close your eyes. Find a singular, burning emotion. Not just any feeling—your strongest. Rage, hunger, pride, fear. Channel it. Wrap your intent around it. Then speak an incantation in High Valyrian that matches precisely what you want. If the spell fails again, it won't be for lack of effort. That, I can promise you."
Laenor leaned back on his elbows, watching. Daemon stood unmoving for a long moment, his breath coming hard and fast, face twitching as if torn between spitting insults or setting himself ablaze.
Then, without a word, he lifted the wand.
He traced the fire rune again, this time more deliberately. His lips moved, whispering the incantation under his breath again and again. Finally, aloud, he said, "Dracarys."
Nothing happened.
Laenor raised an eyebrow at Daemon's choice of incantation but said nothing.
Again Daemon tried, then again, teeth gritted, face red with frustration. Hour passed like grains in an hourglass. Laenor watched with growing concern. Daemon's face was a mask of fury, fists clenched, sweat dripping.
"You're not channeling it," Laenor said softly, finally. "Your rage is pouring outward. You're venting it. You need to bottle it, let it burn within, and then release it through the wand. Shape it. Think of your anger as a forge—don't scatter the heat, direct it."
Daemon glared, but his breathing slowed. He nodded once.
He closed his eyes again. This time, he breathed deeply—once, twice. His face, once a twisted portrait of rage, smoothed out into eerie calm. Laenor tilted his head. Was that serenity? No—focus. A predator's stillness before the pounce.
Then Daemon opened his mouth.
"Dracarys."
And the world burned.
Flames burst forth like a living creature, bright crimson like blood, roaring from the wand's tip like a newborn dragon set loose. The fire surged in a single, monstrous jet—longer than a war galley—blasting forward with terrible hunger. It hissed as it touched the sea, boiling the water instantly. Steam rose like a great white wall, shrouding everything in a thick, sulfuric fog.
Where fire kissed sand, molten glass was left behind—twinkling, bubbling pools that hardened into rippling black obsidian.
Laenor stood up, wide-eyed. The spell had worked.
And it had answered Daemon's fury with fire of its own.
Laenor tore his gaze from the vicious flames to the man who had conjured them, only to find Daemon standing there with a savage glint in his eyes and an excited smile stretched across his face. It had been a minute or two since the fire had erupted, but Laenor could already see the signs—Daemon was pouring out too much magic, too quickly. If he continued, magical exhaustion would soon follow.
Laenor decided to intervene, which wasn't difficult for him, especially here—so close to his domain. Without lifting a finger, he commanded the sea with a mere thought. Water obeyed. Rising from the ocean and surging through the dense fog that had veiled the coastline, a colossal wave—longer and higher than Daemon's jet of fire—formed and rushed toward the beach. It crashed down with roaring force, slamming into the flames and dousing Daemon in a cold, soaking sheet.
Laenor watched in amusement as the fire hissed into steam and the rage vanished momentarily from Daemon's face—only to return with a vengeance.
Still, the wave had done its job. Daemon blinked as if waking from a fever dream. The euphoric intoxication of raw magic faded, and with it, his balance wavered. He stumbled as he turned toward Laenor, his legs faltering slightly.
"This is why I did what I did," Laenor said with a snort.
Daemon glared, furious. "You could have called out to me, and I would've stopped! And don't lie—you didn't do that to help me. That was a show of power. I'm not a child, Laenor."
The venom in Daemon's tone caught Laenor off guard. That glare—it wasn't irritation. It was hate. A deep, simmering fury burned in Daemon's eyes, the kind Laenor hadn't expected from someone he considered a friend. Not his best friend, perhaps—but a friend nonetheless. And he had always believed Daemon felt the same. So why such rage over something so minor?
If Daemon had been able to stand firm, Laenor had little doubt the man would have lunged at him.
"I won't deny it," Laenor said calmly. "Yes, it was a show of power. A reminder—that we are still learning, still growing. You've seen only the tip of the iceberg, Daemon. And the look on your face—like you were drunk on your own might—led me to that decision."
His expression hardened as he took a step closer. "But all that can come later. Right now, I need you to calm down. Take a breath and look at yourself. You're acting like someone just stole Caraxes from you."
Laenor narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Calm yourself," he said, voice sharp with command. "Or I'll have to do it for you."
"And what if I don't? Huh? What will you do now? Bath me again? The maids of King's Landing could do a better job than you," Daemon grunted, his voice still thick with fury. He staggered forward like a drunkard in the street, muttering to himself, "Fucking cunt, why can't I stand properly?"
Then he looked at Laenor with eyes full of barely contained rage. "It's you. Aye, it's you. You're doing this. Stop it, Laenor. Let me stand straight—or I swear by the Fourteen, I'll aim the flames at you this time," he threatened, his wand hand twitching.
Laenor tried to hold it in—he truly did—but one more stumble from Daemon was all it took. He burst into laughter. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed more. The sight was too much: the Rogue Prince, the King of the Narrow Sea, staggering like a halfwit drunk and tossing around empty threats for something Laenor hadn't even done.
Oh, he didn't miss the murderous glare Daemon was shooting his way, no. But that only made it funnier.
Once Laenor finally caught his breath, he raised an eyebrow—only to see Daemon lifting his wand with clear intent to cast the one spell he had succeeded at, the fire spell.
Laenor sighed. He may be immune to flame, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being set ablaze. More than that, he pitied Daemon in this moment. So, with barely a thought, Laenor summoned the sea behind his friend and shaped it into a blunt hammer of water.
Then—with no more ceremony—he brought it down on Daemon's head.
The splash was loud. The fall louder.
Daemon crumpled like a sack of flour, knocked out cold.
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