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Chapter 5 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Rising Call

A year had passed, and with it, Daemyr Lhaerys' childhood had deepened into a sea of visions. At nine years old, the contours of his face were becoming more defined by the day, his violet eyes carrying an intensity that seemed to age his soul. The training yard and lessons with Baelor had shaped his body, but it was the dreams that forged his spirit.

That night, sleep dragged him into an abyss of fire and glory. It was no longer a distant observation, an echo. This time, Daemyr was Sunfyre, the Golden, in a way that transcended mere identification. He felt the warmth of the sun on his scales as if they were his own skin, the wind cutting through his wing membranes like a familiar caress. Each beat of his colossal heart resonated in Daemyr's chest, a primordial drum pulsing with the life of a dragon.

He was not just flying; he was hunting. The smell of smoke and scorched earth filled his nostrils, and the taste of blood and victory lingered on his tongue. Sunfyre's vision was sharp, every golden scale, every sharp tooth, every gleaming claw. He felt the strength in his jaws as he tore through, the wild satisfaction of a supreme predator. The memory of a knight, a young silver-haired boy, was intrinsically linked to his own consciousness, a fierce loyalty burning like dragonfire. He saw through Sunfyre's eyes, felt the pain of an old wound, the fury of a lost battle, and the unwavering devotion to his rider.

The dream did not simply fade; it tore apart. Daemyr awoke with a scream caught in his throat, his body drenched in cold sweat. His eyes opened to the familiar darkness of his room, but the image of Sunfyre remained etched on his retina, more real than anything he had ever seen awake. He could smell smoke on his clothes, taste metal in his mouth. The bed was undone, as if he had struggled against an invisible enemy. The connection was undeniable, terrifying. Each dream was a step deeper into the abyss of the past, and Daemyr felt himself becoming less himself and more the golden dragon. The call was growing, and he did not know if he could resist much longer.

He forced himself out of bed, his muscles still tense from the memory of flight and hunt. There was no time to succumb. Routine was a shield, an anchor against the chaos threatening to engulf his mind.

He dressed in silence, his movements mechanical. His silver hair was tied back, his violet eyes, still troubled, tried to focus on the present. He descended the stairs, the smell of fresh bread and coffee already filling the halls, a promise of normalcy. In the dining room, the family was already gathered. Aelarion at the head, Maeric by his side, Lyra and Serena in their usual places. The silence was less tense than the previous year, but the formality persisted. Daemyr sat in his place, exchanging a brief glance with Vaenyra, who was already focused on her breakfast, her posture upright and disciplined as always. He tried to eat, but the metallic taste of the dream lingered, making each bite difficult.

After breakfast, the routine continued. Daemyr and Vaenyra followed Lyra, his mother, to the library. The vast hall, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, was her domain. There, under the soft light streaming through tall windows, they delved into the complexities of High Valyrian, the ancestral language Lyra taught with quiet passion. Daemyr absorbed every word, every nuance, feeling a connection to the past. Next came history lessons—not the mundane wizarding history that Maeric valued so much, but the history of Valyria, its glory and fall, the great dragons and the lords who rode them. Lyra narrated with a melancholy that Daemyr felt in his own blood, and each story seemed to feed the intensity of his dreams.

After the lessons, it was time for the training yard. Baelor was already waiting, his imposing and austere figure looming. Fencing was not a pastime but a vital component of their formation. Vaenyra, also nine years old, the same age as Daemyr, was a relentless adversary. She gave no quarter, her attacks calculated and executed with brutal precision. Her mind was entirely focused, each strike aiming for an opening, each defense an immediate response.

Daemyr, for his part, tried to channel the turbulent energy of his dreams into his movements. He forced his body to turn the inner fury into controlled strikes, into firm parries. The clash between them was a test of endurance and technique. There was no room for hesitation. Baelor watched closely, correcting stances, demanding more strength, more speed. The sound of wooden swords colliding filled the training yard, a constant rhythm of impact and effort.

They trained until their muscles burned, until their breathing became ragged and sweat streamed like rivers. At the end of the session, both were exhausted, their bodies heavy and aching. Their silver hair clung to their foreheads, and their violet eyes, once full of fire, now reflected deep fatigue.

Lunch was a brief interlude, a moment of silence and replenishment before the afternoon. And the afternoon belonged to Maeric. Daemyr accompanied his father in his tasks, whether in the administrative wing of the fortress, reviewing documents and strategies for the protection of New Valyria, or visiting the small hidden wizarding village nearby, where Maeric interacted with the few allies the House Lhaerys had cultivated. Daemyr observed his father with a mixture of admiration and confusion. Maeric was efficient, pragmatic, a natural leader. He spoke of alliances, the politics of the wizarding world, the necessity of adapting.

But Daemyr, with the image of Sunfyre still burning in his mind, felt there was something more, something his father, in his pursuit of power and pragmatism, had left behind. Routine was a cycle, but with each passing day, the line between dream and reality became thinner for the young Lhaerys.

That day, the task was a routine inspection of the external defenses of the village, a set of magical barriers and discreet sentinels that protected the settlement from the curious eyes of the outside world.

The streets of New Valyria, although built from the same fused black stone as the fortress, were more organic, less formal. Smaller houses, but equally sturdy, lined winding alleys, with small gardens where magical herbs and rare plants were cultivated. The air was clean, carrying the scent of pine from the mountains and the faint aroma of fireplace smoke. Children ran and played, their laughter echoing among the buildings—a rare sound of carefree joy in a place so focused on preserving a legacy.

Maeric walked with an upright posture, his violet eyes sweeping the environment with constant attention, evaluating every detail, every shadow. Daemyr, beside him, tried to mimic his father's vigilance, but his mind still wandered to the image of Sunfyre.

Suddenly, a sharp scream cut through the air, followed by a chorus of frightened voices and the sound of something breaking. The joyful chatter of the children turned into confused tumult. Maeric stopped abruptly, his hand instinctively reaching for the wand hidden beneath his robes. Daemyr felt a shiver run down his spine. The carefreeness had vanished, replaced by a palpable tension.

The sound came from a small plaza, an open space at the center of the village where an ancient stone well served as a gathering point. As they approached, they saw a small group of children, some crying, others pointing toward the center of the plaza. On the ground, near the well, lay a broken object, and thick green smoke began to spread, making the children cough and retreat. In the midst of the chaos, a smaller figure with dark hair and a dirty face knelt, covering her face with her hands, seeming as frightened as the others. It was a girl, and she appeared to be the center of the commotion.

Daemyr and Maeric approached quickly. The green smoke had grown thicker now, and the acrid smell irritated their nostrils. The fleeing children whispered words like "bastard," "Vharanor," and "monster." In the center of the plaza, the kneeling girl had deep black hair, a stark contrast to the silver hair of most New Valyrians. It was an unmistakable sign of her mixed ancestry, that she was not a pure Valyrian. When she slowly removed her hands from her face, she revealed the undeniable proof of her heritage: her eyes. One was an intense red, like embers, and the other a deep violet—the unmistakable mark of Valyrian blood, and more specifically, a rare trait of House Vharanor, known for its peculiar genetics.

"Look at her!" shouted one of the boys, pointing. "The Vharanor bastard broke everything!"

"She's an abomination!" echoed a girl, eyes wide with fear and repulsion. "She shouldn't be here!"

Daemyr felt a pang in his stomach. He had witnessed bullying against the girl before. Her black hair made her an easy target for the other children, who saw in her an impurity, a stain on Valyrian lineage. But it had never gone this far. Daemyr realized the green smoke did not come from the broken object itself, but seemed to emanate from the girl or the space around her. The object, a small wooden cart the children had used to play, was twisted and charred in places, as if struck by lightning. It was undeniable: this was the result of accidental magic, an uncontrolled explosion of raw power, unleashed by the girl's fear and anger.

Maeric, with a stern look, gestured for the children to step back. He knelt quickly beside the girl, who still trembled, her heterochromatic eyes wide with terror. His voice, though firm, carried no warmth, focused on the situation rather than the child. "It's all right, child. What happened here?" He did not touch her, maintaining a formal distance, his eyes scanning the destroyed object and lingering smoke. The concern on his face was evident, but Daemyr realized it was not for the girl herself, but for the uncontrolled manifestation of magic and its implications for community safety. The presence of a bastard, especially one with latent, unbridled power, was an anomaly Maeric, with his strict adherence to tradition and order, could not easily tolerate. Impure lineage was a weakness, and uncontrolled magic a danger.

Yet, an almost imperceptible flash of surprise crossed Maeric's face as he assessed the extent of the damage. The brute force of the girl's accidental magic was undeniable, a power that, even uncontrolled, was impressive. Power… power was something to be respected, even in its most chaotic form.

Seeing such an uncontrolled manifestation, coming from a child already marginalized, was an unsettling omen for the New Valyria community.

Maeric asked in a firm voice, "What is your name, child?"

The girl shrank even more, her heterochromatic eyes fixed on the ground. Her voice, when it came, was an almost inaudible whisper, full of fear and deep insecurity. "S-Sylara… Sylara Vharanor." She did not raise her gaze, as if expecting reprimand or punishment. The mention of her surname, even with the bastard designation, was a burden she carried with shame, not pride.

Maeric furrowed his brow. Sylara Vharanor. The surname was noble, but her bastard status and impure lineage were sensitive points for him. His expression hardened slightly, but the surprise at the girl's magical strength was still evident in his eyes. He did not show compassion, only a cold, calculated assessment. "Sylara Vharanor," he repeated, the name sounding more like a statement than recognition. "You come with me. We need to resolve this with your House."

He stood, his imposing figure towering over the small Sylara. There was no invitation, only an order. The girl, without hesitation, stood as well, her eyes still lowered, but following Maeric with near-instinctive obedience, like a frightened animal following its tamer. Daemyr observed, feeling a mix of pity for the girl and a strange fascination with the power she had displayed.

For the Valyrians of New Valyria, bastardy was not primarily a matter of social or moral illegitimacy, as in many other cultures. Although the absence of a formal marriage was a factor, the true concern lay in the dilution of pureblood lineage. Valyrian magic, the ability to tame dragons, prophetic dreams, and even distinctive physical traits — silver hair and violet eyes — were seen as direct manifestations of their ancestral blood, a legacy believed to be weakened by mixing with non-Valyrian blood.

A bastard, especially one with physical traits that betrayed mixed ancestry (such as Sylara's black hair), was a visible reminder of this dilution. It was not just a matter of social status, but of magical potential. It was believed that the mixing of bloodlines could result in the loss or weakening of innate Valyrian abilities, making the individual less capable of wielding blood magic, connecting with dragons, or experiencing dragon dreams. In a culture that valued blood purity as the source of power and identity, a bastard was seen as a failure in preserving the lineage, a threat to the genetic and magical integrity of the House.

Walking for a short while, they soon arrived at House Vharanor.

If the Lhaerys fortress was a monument to history and ancestral magic, the seat of House Vharanor was a testament to strength and discipline. Built from the same fused black stone, but with a more austere and functional architecture, it rose as a smaller fortress, yet equally unyielding. Its walls were solid, its windows narrow, and the air carried the scent of cold stone and discipline, with the distant echo of voices in training. It was a place of order, of control, where magic was seen as a tool to be mastered, not a mystery to be unraveled.

Upon entering, Maeric and Daemyr were received in an inner courtyard where silence was broken only by the sound of firm footsteps and the rustle of robes. There, awaiting them, was the head of House Vharanor, Lord Kaelan Vharanor. Kaelan was of average height, but his presence was imposing. His silver hair fell long over his shoulders, occasionally tied with a simple leather band. His violet eyes had a sharp intensity, as one who evaluates and judges. He wore simple yet sturdy garments, and his hands were strong, evidence of a life of command and control. A deep scar crossed his left eyebrow and descended along his temple, pale and irregular—a trace of an ancient magical curse.

Kaelan inclined his head toward Maeric, a gesture of mutual respect. His eyes then fell upon Sylara, who cowered behind Maeric. Immediate recognition, followed by a slight but unmistakable look of disdain, crossed his face. The bastard girl of House Vharanor. He knew her, or at least knew the stain she represented.

"My lord. What brings you here unexpectedly? And why do you bring this… child?" The last word was said with a tone not of curiosity, but of disapproval.

"There was an incident in the plaza," Maeric began, his voice formal and direct, without circumlocution. "This is Sylara Vharanor. She manifested accidental magic in… considerable fashion. A wooden cart was charred, and green smoke spread. The raw power is undeniable, and although her lineage is mixed, her heterochromatic eyes confirm her connection to House Vharanor. This matter is now your responsibility. She needs guidance and control, or she could become a danger to the community."

Kaelan listened silently, his eyes assessing the girl with an intensity that made Sylara tremble even more. Surprise and concern were evident on his face, but there was also recognition of the strength Maeric described. The mention of such potent accidental magic in a bastard was something requiring immediate attention.

For a moment, the Lord of House Vharanor said nothing. Then he stepped forward.

"Sylara," he said, and the girl stiffened at the sound of her name. "Lift your head."

She obeyed, slowly revealing her mismatched eyes trembling between fear and shame. Kaelan studied her long, without compassion.

"You have shamed our House today," he said, voice calm but firm. "But shame is less grave than weakness. You will learn to control this, or it will control you."

Sylara swallowed hard, her whole body trembling. "Y-yes, my lord…"

Maeric inclined his head slightly. "She has potential, Kaelan. And if that potential is guided… perhaps one day it will serve something greater than the fear it provokes."

Kaelan let out a discreet sigh. "Perhaps." He then turned to Sylara again. "Go. We will discuss this matter later."

Sylara hesitated. Her eyes turned one last time to Daemyr, who watched silently, unsure why—perhaps sensing something familiar.

She murmured, almost imperceptibly:

"Thank you… for not leaving me there."

Daemyr watched her disappear through the corridors of House Vharanor, a pang of something that felt like responsibility—or perhaps a premonition—tightening his chest.

Maeric and Daemyr soon said their farewells and left House Vharanor. The silence of the street replaced the controlled bustle of the inner courtyard. The sun was beginning to set, painting the Carpathian sky with shades of orange and purple, but the atmosphere between father and son remained somber.

"That girl," Maeric began, his voice low, almost a monologue to himself as they walked back toward the Lhaerys fortress. "She is a paradox. A bastard, a stain on the lineage, yet with raw power… impressive. That kind of accidental magic, so explosive, is rare even among the pure-blooded. It is a power that cannot be ignored, Daemyr. A power that, if channeled, could be… formidable."

He paused, and Daemyr felt the weight of his words. Maeric was not speaking of Sylara as a child, but as a force, a variable to be considered. "House Vharanor will have quite a challenge. To control such a wild power, especially from such… an impure source. But if they succeed, she could become an asset. Or an even greater threat."

Daemyr looked at his father, confusion on his face. "But… she's just a child, father. Afraid."

Maeric stopped and turned to Daemyr, his violet eyes fixed on his son, with no trace of sentimentality. "Every child grows, Daemyr. And children who are afraid with uncontrolled power are the most dangerous. Remember this. Power does not care for age or innocence. It simply is. And our responsibility is to ensure it serves New Valyria, not destroys it. That kind of force… it reminds us of what we lost in Valyria. And what we need to protect here."

Daemyr stood still for a moment, watching his father move ahead. The cold wind carried the distant echo of voices from House Vharanor—and with it, the memory of Sylara's eyes, one red and one violet, burning through the smoke. The call in his chest pulsed again, stronger, closer. And he knew, without understanding why, that this would not be their last encounter.

As he walked back to the fortress, the weight of the day settled on his shoulders. The vision of Sunfyre still burned behind his eyelids, now intertwined with the image of Sylara—small, trembling, yet carrying something wild, uncontrollable.

Perhaps power does not choose its bearer, he thought. Perhaps it only awakens where the fire has not yet gone out.

He remembered his father's words—about discipline, about serving New Valyria—but inside him, something silently disagreed.

What if power should not serve anyone?

What if it were something that, like the dragon in his dreams, could only be truly understood when freed?

Daemyr lifted his eyes to the horizon, where the last traces of light disappeared behind the mountains.

The flame within him did not diminish.

It grew, as if something ancient, forgotten, and golden, was calling his name.

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