Disclaimer: This narrative and its characters are inspired by the incredible worlds of Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire, which belong to their respective copyright holders.
Sequels
As the first light of dawn filters through, a crisp sea breeze caresses my face, a sensation unique to coastal mornings.
I lie awake, aware of the day's responsibilities, yet my body yearns for just a few more moments of reprieve. I shift under the sheets, seeking the warmth that might lull me back into the remnants of a fading dream.
Turning away, a new scent fills the air – roses. The fragrance triggers memories of the previous night, intensifying the aroma and stirring my other senses. Visions of her taste, the silkiness of her skin, and her impeccable form invade my thoughts. Contrary to its initial reluctance, my body responds with a growing desire.
I open my eyes, eager to see the embodiment of the beauty that has captivated me. With a contented smile, I softly utter "Elyria," careful not to disturb her slumber if she is still embraced by dreams.
Her smile, in response, quickens my heartbeat – a reflexive reaction I've grown accustomed to whenever she graces me with her joy.
Her eyes, a striking shade of indigo, flutter open, and her face lights up with an understanding of the effect her allure has on me. Her laughter, light and carefree, fills the room, a sound akin to an angel's melody.
Unable to resist the pull of this enchanting moment, I wrap my arms around her and gently draw her closer. Her laughter shifts, now laced with a playful undertone, perfectly capturing her mischievous charm.
"Master!" the shout interrupts us, but for a few moments, Elyria and I decide to ignore it, lost in the significance of our shared moment.
"Master!" the voice repeats insistently.
Elyria starts to look away, but my hand instinctively guides her face back towards mine. Our kiss deepens, momentarily blotting out the external world and the urgency of the call. Her lips have a bewitching effect, making everything else seem trivial.
"Syrior!" I recognize the voice this time. It's urgent, demanding my attention.
Resignedly, I'm about to rise when the door bursts open with a loud bang.
"We better be under attack by dragons, Vario," I remark, irritation lacing my tone, mourning the loss of the enchanting interlude.
Vario's response chills me. "I fear our current predicament might be worse, Syrior."
Perplexed, I glance at Elyria, noticing her smile vanishing, a sense of foreboding filling the room.
"An army is at our gates, demanding our surrender," he declares.
I whirl around in disbelief. "What?!" My gaze shifts to the soldiers accompanying Vario, demanding, "How?!" Their avoidance of my gaze speaks volumes of their own confusion and fear.
"We'll have time to unravel that mystery," he says, while I start to hastily dress.
My search for clothes is hampered by the disarray from the night before, but I eventually find my tunic on the other side of the bed.
Elyria watches, panic etched on her face. "I won't be long," I whisper, forcing a smile to reassure her.
She returns the smile, briefly restoring a sense of tranquility.
As I stride through the corridors, still adjusting my attire, I attempt to lighten the mood with a wry question, "How is this worse than facing fire-breathing beasts?"
Vario's answer is stark. "It's Volantis."
The gravity of the situation sinks in. Volantis's involvement complicates everything.
Damn them.
Lotho Rogare III
For centuries, the Valyrian peninsula was a quiet, unremarkable place, home to simple farmers and fishermen. Their lives changed dramatically with the first dragonriders soaring across the sky, drawing the attention of every known civilization.
This marked the beginning of what would become history's most powerful empire. The mystery of how a peaceful society tamed these majestic beasts spawned countless tales, which over time transformed into legends and myths.
The birth of Valyria is shrouded in mysticism and grandeur, varying in detail depending on the storyteller. Yet, a common thread runs through most accounts – the first dragonlords, the founders of Valyrian supremacy. These were four families: the Baelnaris and Gontaris, famed for producing formidable warriors with magic woven into their voices; and the Maltanis and Taraelis, known for the potent blood magic that touched the edges of darkness.
Each dynasty had its strengths and limitations, leading to a culture of inbreeding to enhance their magical prowess and diminish their weaknesses. Their control over magic was absolute, and the rare occasions they sought lovers outside their circles led to the birth of lesser noble dragon families.
Their ultimate pursuit was the creation of the perfect dragon, a pursuit so ambitious it bordered on seeking to birth a deity.
I believe the "Doom" that devastated Valyria was a direct result of this relentless obsession. As they neared the pinnacle of their quest, it was thought that the empire would stabilize and turn its attention to unclaimed territories.
But human nature proved otherwise. No one relishes defeat, and the game the dragonlords had played for generations was reaching its climax. The drive for supremacy and the unwillingness to accept loss led to their downfall – a lesson in the peril of unchecked ambition and the fragility of power.
"I regret the brevity of my message, but the situation required a cautious approach," I say, fixing my gaze on the man before me.
Malon, despite his status as a slave, was presented by his lord in a manner that made many forget his origins. His impeccable appearance and refined demeanor often eclipsed those of the highest noble lineage.
"These recent days have been marked by significant events," I continue, picking up a cup of fine Lysene wine.
"Such is the nature of these exceptional times," Malon replies, mirroring my action with a cup of his own.
"Yet, many seem to underestimate the impact of the Empire's fall," I add, swirling the wine gently in my cup. "Challenging times lie ahead."
"My great lord Galaenar often said that lacking a plan means risking becoming part of someone else's," Malon muses, his voice tinged with reflection.
"Lord Maltanis was indeed a brilliant man," I comment, a smile playing on my lips. "Would it be accurate to assume that was why he resided in Lys?"
"My great lord was unaware of the impending doom of the empire," Malon responds promptly, maintaining eye contact.
"I see." The prophecy surrounding his son's birth comes to mind. I've always been skeptical of such prophetic notions, but recent revelations have shaken that skepticism.
"Let's return to the purpose of our meeting," I suggest, setting down my nearly empty glass and straightening in my chair. "Have you heard of the Targaryen family?"
"A distinguished family of dragonriders," Malon acknowledges. "And some other details arising from the perspective that my great lord's father held towards them, which I believe are not pertinent to our current discussion."
I lose the subtlety in my smile, understanding the probable nature of Aelor's views. "Those were complex times in Valyria's power struggles," I say, almost defensively.
"Some families were compelled to migrate or faced extinction," I continue, noting Malon's uncertainty about the direction of our conversation.
"Aenar, the exile," I begin, repositioning myself and interlocking my fingers on the desk. "That's how the head of the Targaryen family was known." I close my eyes momentarily. "At the time, it seemed an appropriate title." Aenar Targaryen wasn't officially exiled from Valyria, but the title carried a deeper, more insulting implication, especially considering the precedent set by the fallen Qohtigar family.
"The Targaryens weren't among the strongest in Valyria, but they were far from decline," I continue. Their decision to leave Valyria was seen as cowardly, yet now I have reasons to believe it was not motivated by weakness or desperation.
"My great lord believed their departure was illogical," Malon interjects. Indeed, without the knowledge we have now, their actions were puzzling, seemingly defying logic.
I open my eyes, searching for a document on my desk. "They sold all their Valyrian assets when they left." I found the letter and passed it to Malon. "Interestingly, it was the Maltanis family who bought everything."
As Malon examines the letter, a relic of a transaction that piqued my father's interest years ago, I lean back in my chair. The Maltanis' acquisition of Targaryen assets was a significant move in Valyria's complex tapestry of power.
"Lord Maltanis didn't share his business with Lord Galaenar," Malon states after reading, setting the document down. It's well-known that Malon's master and his father had a strained relationship, reinforcing my belief that the elder Maltanis knew more about the Targaryens' departure than he let on.
"Aenar Targaryen had a daughter, Daenys," I resume the story, noticing Malon's growing interest. "It's said she was the reason for their exile."
I pause, contemplating the extent of Valyrian magic, a closely guarded secret among the dragonlords. "Have you heard of prophetic dreams, Malon?"
Malon's brief flash of surprise quickly fades as he regains his composure. "Dragon dreams," he replies. "Those of the four bloodlines have experienced them at least once in their lives."
His response confirms the mystical nature of these visions, a unique aspect of Valyrian magic that transcends mere fantasy, deeply rooted in the blood of the dragonlords.
The Targaryens originated as an offshoot of the Maltanis family, their lineage granting them the power to control dragons and a magical heritage that elevated them above ordinary people like me. The prophecies of Daenys and her family's departure now make more sense in this context.
"That includes my great lord," Malon adds, acknowledging the connection.
Yes, and I know to what you refer, Malon. Valyria was teetering on the edge of anarchy due to such visions.
"What they perceive in these dreams is often confusing and uncontrollable," He notes. It's common for people to have perplexing dreams, but when dragonlords experience them, they're deemed significant.
"Most such visions end up being inconsequential," he continues. Yet, knowing that Daenys Targaryen saved her family by heeding her prophetic dream compels me to reconsider my stance on these visions.
"Many get overly fixated on these dreams and lose themselves chasing after what they believe they saw." I can easily imagine Aenar Targaryen warning the arrogant Valyrian nobility about the empire's impending doom. To them, such a notion must have seemed the ravings of a madman.
As Malon remains silent, I voice my conclusion. "If Aenar claimed Daenys foresaw the empire's fall," I say, reaching for the letter I had shown Malon earlier. "And given that Lord Maltanis was likely one of the last to speak with Aenar..."
Aelor Maltanis epitomized the malice often associated with dragonlords, and his cunning wouldn't have allowed him to disregard a prophecy from his own kin, no matter how outlandish it might seem.
"Lord Rogare," Malon interjects, his tone carrying a cold authority possibly learned from his association with powerful figures. It's as if he possesses dragon blood himself.
"It appears I require your assistance once more." Malon's request reflects a shared curiosity: why did Aelor Maltanis, with his influence and foresight, not act to prevent Valyria's downfall?
Malon III
Lys has descended into chaos, its streets overwhelmed by confusion, violence, and fear. The smoky haze enveloping the port serves as a veil for those seeking to conceal their deeds. The air is filled with screams of despair, not just from women and children, but from all its citizens.
The attack, still being initiated from a distance, has already wreaked havoc without the enemy even breaching the city's sea defenses. The assailants will arrive to find a city torn apart by its own people. In the absence of leadership or organized defense, chaos reigns supreme.
"Fools," I mutter under my breath, reflecting on the city's downfall. The wealthy, in their selfishness and cowardice, prioritized their own safety, igniting mistrust and panic among the populace. The very defenders of the city, who should have united against the external threat, are now embroiled in conflict with their own people.
In this maelstrom of turmoil, one might be tempted to succumb to the brutality of the situation. However, I, Malon, refuse to be swayed. My heart races, yet my movements are calm and deliberate. The tropical warmth of Lys is irrelevant to the chill of my sweat. My senses are heightened, filtering out all distractions as I march determinedly to my destination.
My lord would indeed be proud.
Fortune seems to have favored me lately, allowing me to conclude my business in the city just as the assault began. My escort of twenty guards surrounds me, an island of order amidst the chaos.
I understand that some might criticize my decision not to lend aid in the city's defense, but I am no fool. The battle for Lys was lost the moment an enemy set its sights on the city.
Lys, the city of pleasure, was always the most vulnerable without Valyria's protection. It lacks the military strength to repel invaders, its populace more accustomed to the comforts of pleasure houses than the rigors of battle. The only feasible path to victory lies in forging alliances to match the numbers and strength of the enemy.
As I move through the tumultuous chaos, the strategic timing of the attack on Lys becomes evident. Utilizing an adversary's weaknesses and striking swiftly before they can reinforce their defenses is a key tactic in warfare. Ironically, the turmoil engulfing Lys inadvertently resolves a pressing concern for us.
My recent efforts have been concentrated on acquiring slaves to bolster the security of our newly acquired lands. With the impending takeover of the port, the new rulers will also assume the role of protectors. This development prompts me to reconsider the necessity of my ongoing project.
Yet, it's prudent not to rely solely on another's protection. Despite the current upheaval, it's essential to maintain our own safeguards.
Many in Lys are still grappling with their newfound freedom, and it's likely that not everyone shares my perspective on the situation.
As I approach the city gates and they swing open, I can't help but feel a sense of anticipation at the thought of reuniting with my little master.
Glancing back, I take in the last views of the city, now a canvas of anarchy and unrest. A part of me hopes that the day's events don't result in excessive loss of life. In times like these, the line between order and chaos is perilously thin, and the decisions we make now will shape the future of our lands and our people.