Cost of Westeros, three days later
Laenor's ship, Sea Spawn, was sailing through the waters along the coast of Westeros, making its steady way toward White Harbor. There was no real need to hug the coastline, nor to have men constantly pacing back and forth to check the sails and rigging—Laenor could have managed both the ship's course and speed with nothing more than a thought. But this time, he decided not to be in haste. They had no reason to rush, and the North was far more isolated than the books in his old world had made it seem. House Stark might well need some time to prepare for hosting him.
Now, three days after departing Driftmark, they had just passed Gulltown, where they had stopped for supplies. In truth, they had more than enough provisions already—only more wine had been purchased there. The real purpose of the stop was sightseeing. Laenor had been curious to see the largest settlement of the Vale of Arryn for himself. But he had left disappointed; for all its status, the port was barely larger than Driftmark's own main harbor. To him, it was a waste of potential.
His thoughts drifted as his gaze fell upon the rolling waters and the marine life gliding beneath the waves, each creature absorbed in the endless business of survival. A sudden, strong breeze gusted across the deck, filling the sails and giving the ship a subtle but noticeable burst of speed. Laenor's lips curved into an amused smile. He had not used so much as an ounce of his power to summon that wind, yet it had been at their backs ever since they had set sail. The crew, of course, had drawn their own conclusions. They thought it was his doing—not that any would dare say it to his face. But he could hear them whispering behind his back well enough.
"We're past the Runestone," came a voice from behind him. Laenor didn't turn. Moments later, a boy with brown hair streaked faintly with silver curls appeared at his side, leaning casually against the ship's rail in a mirror of Laenor's own posture.
Aurane Velaryon, his cousin, was a comely lad for his thirteen name days—though that was hardly unusual for one of Valyrian blood. Many might not guess his heritage at first glance; he had inherited his blue eyes and brown hair from his Andal mother. Laenor did not care overmuch for such distinctions—though in Daemon's company, he did indeed speak of Valyrian superiority with some conviction. That was because there was something about Daemon's presence that made him feel the truth of it. As for Aurane's mother's name, Laenor could not recall it, nor did he much care to. Aurane's father, a distant cousin of Laenor's father, had died on one of nine voyages Laenor's father made across the Known World. That was why the boy had been raised in the Keep, unlike other branches of the family who lived in their own manses on Driftmark and were rarely invited within the Keep's walls.
This was Aurane's first voyage, and the boy was alight with curiosity—eager to stop at every port, to see every landmark, to meet people from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Laenor, feeling a streak of mischief, turned toward him with a conspirator's smile.
"We should have stopped there," he said lightly, "if only to see the ancient armor House Royce claims to possess. Imagine, Aurane—a runic language thousands of years old. Wouldn't that be exciting?"
Aurane's eyes lit up at once. He gripped Laenor's shoulder, leaning forward. "We can still turn back—it wouldn't take long. Just say the word and I'll have the ship about. Yes?"
"But wouldn't that be—"
"No, it wouldn't," Aurane interrupted, his eagerness spilling over. "We've not gone far. I slowed us down on purpose, to catch a glimpse of the Runestone. Do I need to turn the ship, Lord Laenor?" He was already signaling to a few sailors to adjust course, but they froze when Laenor's gaze cut toward them.
"So, Aurane," Laenor said slowly, his tone cooling, "even with my explicit command to make best speed, you delayed us—because of your curiosity. Do you fancy yourself the captain of this ship?"
Aurane blinked. "Huh?"
The realization dawned on him a heartbeat later, and his face drained of color. "I didn't mean to… my lord. I apologize—"
A sharp burst of laughter cut him off. Aurane's head whipped toward the sound, startled, and found several crewmen grinning at his expense. The laughter spread like a spark catching dry tinder, until the whole deck was chuckling. Even Laenor's lips curved in amusement, though he did glare at the crew, who should be doing their work, not paying attention to what he and Aurane were talking about.
Aurane, though young, was not a fool. It didn't take long for him to realize he was being made fun of. His eyes narrowed, and he turned on his heel, storming toward his cabin.
Laenor shook his head, still smiling as he watched him go. Aurane wrestled with the cabin door for a moment before it gave way, slamming it shut behind him with a loud bang.
Laenor turned back toward the deck, the laughter of the crew still lingering in the air. Perhaps he should have made them work hard to interpret his fun. And he also has to think of something to lift his cousin's spirits. After all, they couldn't have a sullen Aurane on his first voyage.
Dragonstone, The Narrow Sea
Daena Valarr gracefully walked toward the archway she remembered as the one leading to Aegon's garden. It had been several days since she arrived here on Dragonstone—the farthest outpost of Old Valyria, now the seat of the heir to the Iron Throne, and owned by a dragonlord family who were nowhere near the top ten… not even the top twenty back in Valyria. Now, the only dragonlord family that is left alive. Fourteen had blessed the Targaryens and chosen them, she supposed.
Though outwardly she smiled at every person she passed, inwardly she was disgusted by the looks some knights gave her. Back in Lys, no slave was permitted to ogle at her like this.
With quickened steps, Daena reached Aegon's garden—the only place on this island that was not cloaked in gloom and shadow.
She was about to take a seat on the nearby bench when a massive dragon swept overhead, banking in a sharp turn to avoid the Stone Drum tower that loomed in its path. Daena's gaze locked on it in awe. Bronze-scaled, vast, and majestic, excluding power and heat in waves—it was everything she had imagined dragons to be. Even after days of seeing them circle the skies at least once daily, the sheer excitement and wonder they inspired in her had not dimmed, not even slightly.
The dragon soon vanished into the clouds above, and Daena sat down, savoring the sight of colors beyond black and red—the only hues that seemed to exist within the keep. She stared at the tree before her as her thoughts drifted toward her purpose in coming here: to learn… and, if possible, to woo Prince Daemon, binding her family to a House that possessed both dragons and magic.
Daena had grown up in Lys, the city of love and pleasure. From a young age, she had been trained in the womanly arts by women said to ensnare any man—married or not—draining them of gold and power before casting them aside once nothing more could be gained from them. The Rogue Prince, however, was no weak man who would yield to the simple flutter of her eyelashes—she knew as much. She had expected trouble, resistance, perhaps even to find her way into his bed and employ the skills her tutors had honed in her.
Yet it seemed the rumors of the Rogue Prince's fondness for all things Valyrian were truer than she'd thought. She had not even needed to try—Prince Daemon was trying to court her. But in his eyes, she saw only lust and hunger, not something which would lead to marriage once he had taken what he wanted. For that reason, Daena held back from accepting too much of his attention until she understood more of his character and weaknesses—enough to control him.
Another of her aims was to learn magic: the craft of forging Valyrian steel, the secrets House Velaryon surely shared with House Targaryen. Yet here, too, she found frustration—Daemon had taught her nothing, offering only old Valyrian scrolls filled with knowledge she had already read back in her home.
"Never has Aegon's garden looked more beautiful."
The voice, close at hand, nearly made Daena jump up from her seat.
She turned to her left. Prince Daemon stood leaning against the trunk of a tree, a smirk on his lips. He wore black and red, as ever—a combination he seemed to never grow tired of.
"Prince Daemon," Daena said.
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