Chapter 4: Awakening
The morning after the incident in the square was born cold and gray — a perfect reflection of the mood in the Lhaerys household's dining hall. The crackling of the hearth sounded muted, and the silence at the table was heavier than usual.
Daemyr barely touched his food. The image of Sylara's heterochromatic eyes — one ember-red, one violet — overlaid the memory of Sunfyre's blazing gold. Two fires, distinct yet bound: one born of shame, the other of glory. And both now burned within his mind.
It was Maeric, as always, who cut through the quiet with the precision of a blade. He set down his silver goblet with a dull thud, the sound echoing like a verdict.
"There was an incident in the village yesterday," he announced, his gaze sweeping across the table before fixing on Aelarion. "The Vharanor bastard. Sylara. There was a manifestation of accidental magic."
Lyra lifted her eyes from her plate, worry creasing her brow. Serena, on the other hand, leaned forward slightly, her interest sharpened.
Maeric continued, his voice steady and clinical. "The power was... considerable. An object destroyed, smoke, panic among the other children. Kaelan Vharanor was informed and took responsibility." He paused, his eyes flicking briefly to Daemyr. "The raw power is undeniable. Dangerous in unstable hands — but a tool nonetheless. The Vharanors must contain it, train it with rigor. Or isolate it, before it grows into something worse."
The word contain lingered in the air, cold and sterile. Daemyr felt a knot twist in his stomach. They spoke of Sylara as though she were a storm to be chained, not a frightened child.
Aelarion, who had been quietly smoking his pipe, slowly removed it from his mouth. The smoke rose in spirals, weaving his thoughts into the air.
"Wild power does not respond well to chains, Maeric," the patriarch said softly, his tone weighted with ancient wisdom. "It responds to understanding. A flame can warm a home... or burn it down. The difference lies not in the fire, but in the hand that guides it."
"A firm hand is exactly what she needs," Serena countered, her practicality sharp as a blade. "The Vharanors are masters of control. If anyone can forge that weapon, it's them."
Vaenyra, silent until then, finally spoke. "She lost control. That's weakness." But then, a strange gleam passed through her violet eyes. "Yet the power she used... to destroy something without a wand, through anger alone... that's not weak." There was reluctant respect in her voice — the acknowledgment of a force she understood on a primal level.
Daemyr said nothing. Guilt pressed heavy in his chest. He hadn't defended her. Not truly. And now her fate was being decided by others, who saw her as either a problem or a weapon.
The rest of the day blurred. His once-comforting routine now felt like a cage. During lessons with his mother, Lyra, the words in High Valyrian tangled in his head. Dracarys became Sunfyre. Valonqar became Golden. Lyra corrected him patiently, but her eyes betrayed concern.
Training was worse. Baelor ordered a spar, and Vaenyra came at him with her usual precision. But Daemyr's mind was elsewhere. He parried the first strikes by instinct alone. His movements were sluggish, his focus gone. The calling in his chest had changed. It was no longer a whisper or a dream — it was physical, a steady warmth radiating from his sternum, a low hum only he could hear. It was pulling him downward, into the mountain's heart.
Clack.
Vaenyra's wooden sword struck his with force, sending it flying from his hand. He stood there, disarmed, panting — not looking at his sister, but at the stone floor, as though he could see through it.
"Where's your head, Daemyr?" Vaenyra's voice was sharp, a mix of irritation and concern. "You're not fighting. You're... listening."
Baelor's shadow loomed over him. "Dismissed," the master-at-arms said, his tone final. "Your mind's not in the steel today. Find it, then return."
Daemyr didn't argue. He retrieved his sword and sheathed it. The sting of failure mixed with the pull thrumming in his chest.
That night, sleep never came. He tossed and turned, the hum now a constant drumbeat, the warmth a living ember. The call was no longer an invitation — it was a command.
He rose. Fear bowed before certainty. He had to follow that sound.
Dressing quietly, he slipped into the fortress's shadowed halls. The moon, shining through high windows, cast slivers of silver light across the black stone, guiding his way. He moved with a stealth he didn't know he possessed, passing through corridors like a ghost. Past the residential wing. Down the stairways, beyond the library, the training yard.
The air changed. The night's chill gave way to a dry heat. The faint scent of sulfur and ancient stone filled his lungs. The hum grew louder. Stronger.
He was in a part of the fortress he had never seen — old, carved straight from the mountain. The pull guided him to the end of a dark corridor, where a massive stone door stood before him. No handle, no lock. Valyrian runes, faded with time, glowed faintly around its edges — pulsing with sleeping magic.
It was the entrance to the Incubator.
Daemyr's heart hammered against his ribs, trying to match the rhythm in his chest. He knew he shouldn't be there. This place was sacred — forbidden.
But the call was absolute.
He lifted a trembling hand and pressed it to the cold stone.
He didn't think. He felt. The words of his House's motto rose in his mind — not as a lesson memorized, but as a living truth, whispered from the fire of his dreams.
"In the flames, we hear beyond death."
The moment the words left his lips, the runes blazed with violet light. With a deep groan, like the sigh of an ancient beast awakening, the stone door slid aside — revealing the warm darkness beyond.
Daemyr hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping through.
The chamber was vast and vaulted, a natural cavern glowing with veins of magma beneath a floor of black obsidian. The air shimmered with heat — thick, alive with power. And at the center, on a pedestal of stone, rested four dragon eggs.
They were larger than he had imagined, each the size of his head. Three were dull jewels — one deep green streaked with bronze, one dark blue speckled with silver, one pale cream veined with gray. Beautiful, but cold.
The fourth, though... the fourth was different.
It called to him.
Its petrified scales shimmered with blinding gold, laced with brighter veins, as if the sun itself were trapped inside. A soft light pulsed from within — a heartbeat, beating in time with his own.
Hypnotized, Daemyr stepped closer. The call was a siren's song now — irresistible, deafening. The image of Sunfyre, the Golden, filled his vision — not memory, but promise. The essence of the great dragon was here, waiting.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the warm, scaled shell.
At once, a wave of heat and golden light burst from the egg, wrapping him in fire that did not burn. The hum in his mind became a triumphant cry — not heard with ears, but felt in his soul. The bond, once a whisper, now blazed unbreakable. Before his eyes, a crack of light spread across the golden shell.
The egg did not hatch — it awoke.
Mine.
The word wasn't his. It came from within.
Yours.
The sound of stone sliding broke the trance. Daemyr turned, heart racing, expecting his father's wrath.
But it wasn't Maeric standing there.
It was Aelarion.
His grandfather's face was not angry — it was awed. In his violet eyes, so often clouded with ancient sorrow, now burned a light of wonder.
The old man stepped forward, smiling faintly.
"Indeed, we hear," Aelarion said, his voice resonant with prophecy, completing the motto his grandson had spoken. "The call, my grandson... has finally been answered."
His voice filled the cavern — not with reprimand, but with the calm of destiny fulfilled.
Daemyr, still touching the glowing egg, turned toward him. Fear gave way to confusion, then relief.
"Grandfather," he whispered. "I... I don't know how. I just... heard."
Aelarion approached slowly, his steps soundless on the obsidian. He looked not at Daemyr, but at the cracked egg, its light reflected in his eyes.
"You didn't hear with your ears, my boy," he said gently. "You heard with your blood. The same blood that warned me of the Doom, the same blood that brought you here. For generations, this egg has slept. Many of us tried to wake it. Your father tried."
A shadow crossed his face. "But a dragon is not a sword to be wielded. It is a soul to be bound. And this soul... was waiting for yours."
Daemyr stared at the egg, at the fine crack widening across its shell. "Sunfyre," he breathed. "I see him in my dreams. A golden dragon — from an age long gone."
"Dragon dreams are not fantasies," Aelarion murmured, his gaze now on the boy. Pride glimmered in his eyes. "They are echoes. Memories carried through blood. Sometimes warnings. Sometimes... a call home. The spirit of the great Sunfyre — or one of his line — has been reborn in this egg. You were not dreaming of the past. It was calling to your future. To you."
The egg began to tremble violently. Cracks webbed across it, glowing like molten light. The sound in Daemyr's mind rose — effort, anticipation. Grandfather and grandson held their breath.
With a sharp, ringing crack, a piece of the golden shell fell away — and light poured out. A small head emerged, scales gleaming like liquid gold. The creature blinked, its eyes two orbs of molten obsidian, locking instantly on Daemyr.
The hatchling struggled free, clumsy but strong. Small — no larger than a cat — its fragile wings still clung to its sides. Yet nothing about it was fragile. It shook its head and released a hiss that sounded like smoke and embers.
Ignoring Aelarion entirely, the dragon stumbled across the pedestal and pressed its warm, scaled head against Daemyr's hand.
A rush of emotion flooded him — belonging, loyalty, fierce love. The bond was complete, sealed not by dream, but by flesh and fire.
He looked at the creature, a legend reborn before his eyes — the answer to the call that had haunted his soul. A smile of pure wonder broke across his face.
"Sunfyre," he whispered, voice trembling with emotion, sealing the name — and the destiny — of the golden dragon.