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.
Intertwined Souls
"Has anyone seen a toad?" a young girl asks with a somewhat authoritative tone. She's already clad in her school uniform, identical to the one I had seen in Diagon Alley.
Her bushy brown hair partially obscures a boy, Neville, who seems to have misplaced his toad. "Neville's lost his," she explains, her eyes scanning the compartment.
"We already told him we haven't seen it," Ron responds, his voice tinged with impatience, likely due to being interrupted.
I'm still observing the new arrival, who now shifts her attention to Ron's wand. "Are you doing magic?" she inquires, her eyes lighting up with interest.
"Go on then," she encourages, a smile beginning to form.
She seems oblivious to my presence, yet I find myself unable to divert my attention from her.
"Uh... okay," Ron says, adjusting his posture nervously.
My focus shifts from the girl to Ron as curiosity takes over. With the attention of everyone now on him, Ron clears his throat and recites, "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." He waves his wand for emphasis.
But nothing changes. Scabbers remain the same grey color, still deep in slumber.
"Is that really a spell?" the girl asks, breaking the silence that followed the failed attempt.
"It doesn't look very good, does it?" she remarks, her voice now carrying a hint of condescension.
"I've tried a few simple ones myself, and they've all worked," she adds, undeterred.
She moves closer and takes a seat opposite me. "For example," she whispers, locking eyes with me. With a swift gesture, she points her wand at my face and utters, "Oculus reparo."
A soft glow emanates from the tip of her wand and quickly disappears. The ensuing silence suggests another unsuccessful spell, yet my newfound clarity and the girl's self-satisfied smile suggest otherwise.
"Better now, right?" she asks, casting a quick glance at Ron.
I remain silent, still processing the magic I've just witnessed.
"No one in my family's magic, so getting my letter was a huge surprise, but obviously, I was thrilled. I mean, it's the best school of magic there is, so I've heard." Her words tumble out rapidly, a torrent of enthusiasm and breathless excitement.
"I've already read all our course books, cover to cover. I hope it's enough," she concludes, her confidence wavering slightly.
Her monologue leaves me both impressed and slightly overwhelmed. Her ability to speak so quickly and with such varying emotions is remarkable.
As she finishes, her smile broadens, transforming the atmosphere. It's as if the room has suddenly brightened.
"By the way, my name's Hermione. What's yours?"
It takes me a moment to realize she's addressing me; lost as I am in thoughts about the significance of her name and the pleasant sensation it brings. A newfound confidence surges within me, and I find my voice carrying a tone I didn't know I possessed.
"I'm Harry," I respond, a smile instinctively forming on my face.
For a brief moment, everything else fades away except for Hermione.
Syrior I
As I near the estate, the beauty of the place confirms Malon's description. The mild climate of Lys, with its typical warmth, feels more temperate here, balanced by the cool sea breezes.
Our group is small, chosen for speed and efficiency. My heart races with each step closer to the estate, fueled by anticipation and a hint of nostalgia. The thought of reuniting with Malon, despite his sometimes-irritating sense of humor, brings a sense of familiarity and comfort. He's more than a friend; he's a connection to a past that seems increasingly distant.
The idea that Galaenar might still be alive flickers in the back of my mind, improbable as it seems. With the relentless hunt for Valyrian nobles following Aurion's failed endeavor to reclaim Valyria, news of surviving dragonlords has dwindled. The Targaryens remain secluded in Dragonstone, seemingly forgotten by the world.
Approaching the estate, I see Malon standing at the entrance, his face betraying no emotion. Beside him stands a striking woman with long silver hair, clad in elegant attire. Her presence raises questions – is she a noble? With the Maltanis, such surprises are not uncommon.
Filled with eagerness, I dismount my horse, and Vario and the others follow suit. I scan the surroundings, wondering where the rest of the people are. The estate seems unusually quiet. What has Malon planned, and what secrets does this meeting hold?
As I draw nearer, my composure gives way to an uncharacteristic impatience. My strides quicken, resembling more of a gallop, and unexpectedly, tears well up in my eyes.
"Are you crying?!" Malon's voice breaks through, his usual stoic facade replaced by an expression of shock.
Ignoring his remark, I reach him and envelop him in a tight embrace. "I thought I had lost you," I whisper, my voice quivering and barely audible. The last few years have been shadowed by the gnawing anxiety of not knowing the fate of my friends. There's been a flicker of hope that they found safety in anonymity, but the lack of news could just as easily mean the worst.
The fear and respect ingrained in everyone for centuries towards the Valyrian nobles have kept many from boasting of their demise. The possibility of retribution by even a single dragonlord has been a powerful deterrent.
But now, feeling Malon's presence, a sense of relief washes over me. He's alive, and that knowledge alone steadies my heart.
"You are ruining my outfit," Malon's complaint brings a smile to my face. His concern over something so trivial in such tumultuous times is so characteristic of him and reassures me further.
Reluctantly, I release Malon, straightening my attire. My gaze drifts, searching for other familiar faces. "Why did you take so long to send word to me?" I ask, fully aware that my question is somewhat unreasonable. The dangers they likely faced would have made any communication risky, yet I couldn't help but ask, driven by the mixture of relief and lingering concern.
"That letter was written seven years ago." I halt my train of thought as Malon's words sink in.
This revelation sends a chill through me, dispelling the warmth of the climate. The urgency that had initially emanated from the letter now seems misplaced, replaced by a sense of missed opportunity and, perhaps, failure on my part.
Malon continues, explaining the dangers of sending the letter amidst Volantis's proximity and the brewing rebellion. Lys's precarious situation, hemmed in by the sea and under Volantine scrutiny, made any communication risky. Reflecting on the anonymous delivery of the letter, I realize it must have been facilitated by someone with significant influence.
Regaining my composure, I acknowledge his explanation, albeit with a tinge of frustration clouding my thoughts. Noticing that I've drifted into my musings, and seeing Malon's puzzled look, I shift my gaze to the woman beside him.
Seeking to divert the conversation, I force a smile and inquire, "And who is this beautiful maiden, Malon?"
"Elaerys," Malon responds, a hint of haste in his voice. The brief change in his usually stoic demeanor doesn't escape me; years of interaction with him have made me attuned to even the subtlest shifts in his expression.
"A pleasure to meet you, my lord Syrior," the woman, Elaerys, greets me with a voice that carries a heavenly timbre. Her polite acknowledgment jolts me back to the present, prompting a realization. When had my concern for Malon begun to overshadow the allure of a beautiful woman standing before me?
"No need for formalities, just call me Syrior," I reply with a casual ease, a response so often used it's almost instinctual. Extending my hand, I gently grasp Elaerys's, ready to bestow a customary sign of courtship while maintaining eye contact. Her expression betrays a hint of surprise.
"You'll learn to ignore him," Malon interjects, his tone laced with what seems like annoyance.
A brief silence envelops us, filled with unspoken questions and curiosity. I hold Malon's gaze, trying to decipher the subtle changes in his demeanor. He eventually breaks eye contact, his glance flitting toward Elaerys momentarily.
The realization dawns on me, and I can't suppress a grin as I piece together their apparent discomfort around each other.
"Malon..." I begin, eager to tease him further.
"The children are doing their assignments," he cuts me off abruptly, turning away to head towards the estate. Despite his effort to hide it, I notice the telltale reddening of his ears.
Oh, Malon, you sly dog...
"Follow me," he calls out, keeping a safe distance from me, perhaps wary of my teasing.
Wait, did he say children?
I quicken my steps to catch up with Malon, shooting a glance at Vario. He immediately understands my silent cue and turns to relay instructions to the rest of our group. As I walk alongside Malon, a mix of amusement and curiosity fills me, eager to uncover the story behind his sudden shyness and the mention of children.
"Children?" I query, my voice tinged with confusion. The word triggers a flood of thoughts, and suddenly, my heart races with anticipation. "Galeon?" I utter, almost in disbelief.
A wave of emotions crashes over me, a mix of hope and joy so intense that it feels overwhelming. Could it be true? Could Galaenar...
I find myself standing directly in Malon's path, my hands instinctively resting on his shoulders. "Does that mean...?" I begin, but the words trail off as I notice a shift in Malon's demeanor.
His gaze drops, a familiar sign of discomfort or regret. In that instant, I understand, even before the words are spoken. A heavy realization settles over me, and I whisper, "I see," as a form of acceptance, though the words feel inadequate.
The joy that had briefly illuminated my heart faded, replaced by a sense of loss and a peculiar emptiness. It's a void that feels both new and hauntingly familiar, as if it's been lurking in the background all along, unnoticed until now.
Had I unconsciously resigned myself to their fate? The thought troubles me. Malon gently removes my hands from his shoulders and steps aside, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken truth between us.
A surge of frustration wells up within me, and my hands clench into fists involuntarily, as if the physical pain could somehow alleviate the emotional turmoil. Could I have made a difference? Could I have saved them?
Deep down, I know the answer is uncertain, but the regret lingers. Galaenar would have risked everything for me; he was that kind of man. And in his memory, I must find the strength to move forward, despite the void left behind.
No, I can't let their memory be in vain.
"This is not pronounced like that, Galeon." I manage to hear a high-pitched voice, full of daintiness that could only belong to a girl. "In this word, the last vowel is not pronounced."
Now seeing the same scene as Malon I can distinguish two little children sitting in front of a desk that was surrounded by books.
Due to the distance and the intensity with which he spoke, I couldn't clearly make out what the boy said.
I infer this might be due to his still-developing confidence in mastering the language.
"Yes, like that!" The girl says emphatically, with a big contagious smile that soon takes effect on the little one she was talking to.
"The common tongue is very confusing, thank you Haelena."
The sight of the children engrossed in their studies, momentarily takes my mind off the heavy thoughts that had been weighing me down. I can't help but feel a glimmer of hope at the innocence and potential for a brighter future they represent.
"Don't worry, you are improving fast," the young girl encouraged, aiming to lift his spirits.
My eyes are drawn to the girl who's gently correcting her companion. Her voice, sweet and patient, is like a soothing balm to my troubled heart. The boy, presumably Galeon, listens intently, his youthful eagerness to learn evident in his expression.
The boy appeared to take her encouragement well and replied with a smile, "I haven't mastered it as well as you have."
Her cheeks flushed with a hint of red as she modestly averted her gaze from the boy, seemingly flattered.
"It's only because I've had more practice," she responded, her voice softening almost to a whisper.
For a moment, I'm captivated by this simple, yet profound, scene of learning and growth. It's a stark contrast to the turmoil and loss that has pervaded my life recently. These children, oblivious to the complexities and pain of the adult world, are focused solely on the lesson at hand.
I find myself smiling genuinely now, touched by the purity of the moment. It's a reminder that life continues, that there is still joy and innocence in the world, even amidst sorrow.
As I watch, a sense of calm settles over me. The presence of these children, especially Galeon, is a testament to the resilience of life and the enduring legacy of those we have lost. In them, I see a future that is yet to be written, one that holds promise and hope.
"Children," Malon's voice commanded the room, immediately capturing the focus of the two young learners.
Promptly upon his call, the girl rose to her feet, her swift response highlighting her attentiveness. Her fellow student paused momentarily to observe us before he stood, mirroring her action.
Closer observation revealed a delightful sight.
Adorned in a graceful, red, sleeveless gown that cascaded to the floor, her presence was imbued with a noble elegance, reminiscent of a young princess. Her deep purple eyes and silver hair, mirroring the shade of Elaerys's, only accentuated her distinguished aura.
The realization that the girl might be related to Malon catches me off guard. The resemblance between her and Elaerys is striking, and it raises questions in my mind. Could she be Malon's daughter? The idea seems plausible, yet something doesn't quite add up. Malon, with his reserved and often stoic demeanor, doesn't strike me as someone who would openly express the warmth and affection typically associated with fatherhood.
Conversely, the boy was dressed in a simple white jacket paired with dark trousers. While his attire was more modest compared to his companion's, it did nothing to diminish his distinguished appearance.
His unruly dark hair and the pronounced Valyrian nobility in his facial features marked his heritage.
Yet, it was his eyes that truly set him apart.
A unique emerald green, they were a distinctive trait of the Maltanis lineage, a noble and proud emblem.
Witnessing him, I couldn't help but murmur, "It's like seeing Galaenar again," my gaze fixed on Galeon, captivated by the resemblance.
Despite this, it was evident that he also inherited many of his mother's softer traits, which once rendered his father utterly captivated.
"While your features bear a striking resemblance to your mother, your eyes..."
Galeon completes my thought with a grin, "Are identical to those of my father."
"Indeed," I affirm, mirroring his cheerful expression.
The constant reminder of his lineage through Galeon's visage must weigh heavily on Malon, a poignant echo of what he once had and lost.
The emotions stirring in my heart are a tangled mess. I had imagined that seeing Galaenar's traits in his son would fill me with joy, a testament to their enduring presence through him. However, the striking resemblance in Galeon's gaze feels like an unspoken judgment, echoing Galaenar's own eyes too closely for comfort. Similarly, the warmth in his smile, a mirror of his mother's, leaves me feeling undeserving and scrutinizes my own failures.
Realizing I've let my formalities slip in the whirlwind of my emotions, I chastise myself silently, knowing my mother would be dismayed by my lapse.
Seeking to correct my oversight, I step closer to the young ones, respectfully lowering my head and slightly bending my knee in a gesture of introduction.
"I am Syrior Zōbrie," I announce, hoping to regain some semblance of propriety.
"Zōbrie?" The question echoes, prompting a smile tinged with nostalgia as I remember similar reactions from the past, affirming, "Yes, akin to the color," embracing the familiarity of the exchange.
Approaching Galeon, I extend my hand in greeting, adding, "Malon, your father, and I share a longstanding friendship," as he reciprocates the handshake.
"Not out of choice," Malon comments under his breath, loud enough for others to catch, undoubtedly intentional.
This prompts a moment of collective laughter in the room, lightening the atmosphere.
Turning my attention to the young girl who had promptly risen, her curtsy capturing our collective gaze, I inquire, "And who might this learned young lady be?"
With poise, she introduces herself, "Pleased to meet you, Lord Zōbrie. I am Haelena."
I couldn't help but think how much my mother would have cherished her demeanor.
Influenced by her gesture, I choose to adhere to formality, respecting her effort.
"It's an honor, Lady Haelena."
Her reaction to my formality seems to catch her off guard, perhaps she did not anticipate such earnest engagement from me. Or maybe she doubted my proficiency in adhering to such courtesies.
Shamelessness has never led me to forsake the lessons ingrained by my lineage.
Especially when such manners can captivate those of esteemed grace.
"So, you're acquainted with my father," Galeon interjects, his voice tinged with apprehension.
"Would you share tales of my parents?" He steps forward, as though to corner me into compliance, his eyes pleading for stories, "Malon never talks about them."
Upon hearing Galeon invoke his name, I catch a glimpse of Malon, noticing a slight twitch of discomfort.
Turning my attention back to the young heir, I affirm with a nod.
"Surely, we can share a story or two later..." I began, until Malon intervened, placing his hand on my shoulder.
"We must save that discussion for after your lessons, young master," he insists, diminishing Galeon's eager anticipation.
There's Malon, the usual party pooper.
"Just this once, Malon," pleads the boy, his gaze fixed on the one he sees as an obstacle.
My gaze joins his, observing as Malon's unease grows under the scrutiny of the young heir.
Noticing a budding smile on Galeon's face, I can't help but think.
This boy...
"Please."
...Knows what he is doing.
And there's Malon, showing a rare side of leniency.
Typically, only in the presence of a Maltanis, from my own observations of his usually steadfast demeanor.
Realizing Malon is on the verge of relenting, and knowing him as intimately as I do, I recognize I'll be the one facing consequences if I don't intervene.
Thus, I place my hand on his shoulder, aiming to break the young lord's influential charm.
He swiftly pauses, pondering my gaze, then his face lights up with a knowing smile, ready with his response.
"Syrior, perhaps now's a good time for you to share with us just how pivotal these lessons were for my esteemed Lord."
"Are we speaking of the same Galaenor?" I query, perplexed.
Malon's demeanor shifts instantly, the fleeting smile now gone, replaced by a more formidable presence, his grey eyes sharpening with an intensity that speaks volumes of his serious nature.
"Indeed, the lessons were of paramount importance. Your father and Malon engaged in their studies daily," I state, maintaining a neutral tone, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact with Malon's imposing stare.
Seeing Malon's demeanor soften, appeased by my affirmation, I subtly lean towards Galeon.
"Though he might not have always been keen on them," I murmur just for him.
His laughter fills the space, a sound of innocent amusement.
Malon's swift smack to the back of my head sparks a wave of laughter among those around us, including myself.
"Do we have much more to cover, Elaerys?" Haelena's inquiry cuts through the mirth, her question drawing both Elaerys's and Galeon's attention back to the matter at hand with a renewed focus.
"I don't think so, let me see," Elaerys answers, moving towards the desk to assess their progress.
In that instant, Malon and I share a look, a silent exchange passing between us. As the children reengage with their tasks, Malon nods subtly, signaling it's time to depart the room. I trail behind him.
Silently, we traverse the estate, the walk offering me a chance to take in the environment more fully. The verdancy inside mirrors the lush life outside, a testament to the vibrancy of this new Maltanis stronghold.
People bustle about, engaged in their daily routines, yet each person pauses briefly to acknowledge our presence with a nod or a greeting. Malon's presence seems to command a certain respect, a testament to his ability to impact lives, despite his often-stern exterior. His knack for forging connections, once given the chance, reveals a depth to his character that belies his initial impression of rigidity.
Malon had this remarkable ability to inspire greatness in others, often with minimal effort on his part. His expectations were high, yet somehow, disappointing him felt like a personal failure we all instinctively sought to avoid.
"This place you've created is truly magnificent, Malon," I comment as we pause in our walk, both of us taking a moment to admire the view before us, the wind gently caressing our faces.
"Galaenar often said Lys was among the most beautiful places he'd ever seen," I continue, reflecting on the words of a man who, despite his relatively short life, had an insatiable curiosity about the world and sought to explore every corner of it. His views on Lys were tinged with a sense of finality, suggesting it as a fitting place to meet one's end—anywhere but Valyria.
In our many discussions about the allure of Valyria, Galaenar and I found rare disagreement. I, for one, could not deny the profound emotions stirred by the mere sight of the freehold, convinced that no other place on earth could quite match its majestic beauty.
"Malon, I was just thinking—"
"Let's save that for another time, Syrior." Malon interjects, preempting a potentially heavy discussion.
He's likely correct; this isn't the moment for delving into those memories.
"Agreed. That's a conversation for a time when we have wine in abundance," I concede with an understanding nod.
After a brief silence, my curiosity gets the better of me. It's been ages since I've had a proper catch-up with Malon, and so much has unfolded.
"What is Galeon like?" I broach, seeking a lighter topic, unwilling to press Malon too hard.
He sighs, casting a direct gaze at me, "You're going to find him quite remarkable," he says, a rare smile playing on his lips.
Truthfully, warming up to Galaenar's son wouldn't be hard for me, and I suspect, for Malon, it's even easier.
"He takes after his father, then?"
My rapport with Nesaenya was nothing beyond polite. It wasn't for lack of her qualities; indeed, her intellect, kindness, and sharpness were a rarity among Valyrian nobles.
My nature just didn't mesh well with her more reserved demeanor, at least according to Malon.
"He must be a handful for you."
Malon's deep respect for his lord often masks a fundamental mismatch in their natures.
Galaenar might embody the dragonlord Malon admires, but beneath that façade, he and I were akin to kindred spirits. And that shared affinity was perhaps the only reason Malon tolerated my presence.
"How long are you planning on staying?" he inquires, indicating a willingness to endure my company.
The question reflects Malon's characteristic way of thinking—clear in his mind yet potentially abrasive when articulated.
"Am I overstaying my welcome, Malon?"
His puzzled look and raised eyebrow at my question suggest he's unaware of how his words might be perceived.
It's almost endearing, his obliviousness.
"I suppose I could linger a bit longer, maybe even grow close to another Maltanis."
The thought of staying here, away from the tumult back in Myr, is appealing.
The political landscape there is fraught with tension, plans disrupted, and many initiatives shelved due to the escalating unrest.
Efforts to quell dissent in Volantis' newly acquired territories have only heightened the sense of instability—a stark reminder that the iron grip of Valyria's rule isn't easily replicated.
And amidst such turmoil, a respite here might just be what I need.
The sentiment of impending conflict looms large over Myr, hinting at a confrontation long deferred.
"Lord Galeon could benefit from new acquaintances," Malon diverts my attention from the darker prospects. "His heritage isolates him."
The world known to Galeon is likely confined within these lands, a reality both saddening and unchangeable given the dangers his existence incurs.
His ancestry not only marks him as a target throughout Essos but also ties him to the legacy of the formidable Aelor. It's unjust for anyone, especially a child, to be hunted for deeds not their own.
"Haelena stands as his sole friend."
A great friend of mine once told me that "a single rose could be a garden, just as a single friend could be a whole world."
"Haelena's influence seems beneficial for him," I observed, noting their camaraderie even in our brief encounter.
"Yet, it's insufficient."
Malon's concern likely isn't about the quantity of companions but rather the diversity of experiences and perspectives others could offer Galeon, aiding his development in unexplored areas of his life.
This mirrors the rationale behind our friendship—me embodying the worldly experiences Galaenar was to learn from, however coarse they may be.
"Children need other children to do children's things," Malon clarifies, maintaining his characteristic stoic demeanor as he addresses me.
"Am I to take on the role of a youthful companion for him?" I inquire, my voice laden with incredulity at the notion. "To be another child in his circle of friends?"
"Yes," he affirms earnestly, his expression unchanging.
It appears he's serious, though with Malon, one can never be too sure.
Opting not to gratify him with a direct response, I merely shake my head in amusement and chuckle.
Malon continues to regard me with an odd look, the silence between us growing.
Deciding to steer the conversation elsewhere, I voice the first question that springs to mind. "Who exactly is Haelena?"
Observing him smile and gaze off into the distance prompts my curiosity.
"She's the daughter of Lord Valennis."
The revelation quashes any hope of witnessing Malon in a paternal role, a disappointment indeed.
The Valennis lineage, known descendants of the Gontaris, were notoriously prouder than most Valyrian nobles—a significant statement given the already high levels of pride among dragonlords.
I never met a member of that family, and I will forever feel fortunate for that.
"How did you come into contact with her and her mother?" I probe further, noticing Malon's startled reaction.
"And why did I get the impression that the little girl is unaware of her affiliation with Elaerys?"
His troubled reaction suggests her ignorance is a protective measure. Yet, Malon's effort to safeguard a child unrelated to him puzzles me; such actions are uncharacteristic of him.
Engaging with another noble family from the empire only heightens the risk of discovery, complicating matters further by adding potential informants and those knowledgeable of the other family's existence.
Malon's gaze returns to the distance, his expression reflective.
"Occasionally, it eludes me that you're not as lacking in intellect as you seem," he dryly remarks, offering what could pass for a compliment in his book.
"I'll take that as a compliment, thanks."
Their resemblance was hard to miss, hinting at a connection between them that went beyond mere acquaintance. The thought of her taking after her father, however, was anything but comforting.
"We share an acquaintance," Malon finally admits, though he remains vague.
Considering Malon's typically insular social circle, closely tied to Galaenar's, this mutual acquaintance in Lys could only be one person.
"Lotho Rogare?" I guess, recalling the merchant Galaenar dealt with on the island.
The Rogare family, albeit emerging and modest in stature, had begun to gain prominence with the Maltanis's backing. Lotho Rogare, the patriarch, was known for his cunning and diligence in trade.
"He believed our interests aligned," Malon confirms with a slight nod.
What could those interests be? Forming alliances with empire nobility under current conditions was, at best, a risky social maneuver. For someone like Lotho, who was still carving out his niche, such a move seemed imprudent.
"And he was right."
"Are you suggesting that Rogare's motives align with yours, Malon? A businessman's allegiance often lies solely with his own gain, not the welfare of others." I say unknowingly that I had raised my voice when doing so. "I don't trust Rogare." I add, a little perplexed.
For a merchant, even honesty is speculation based on his earnings.
"Galaenar didn't either."
Gaining Galaenar's trust was no small feat; he was discerning with whom he placed his confidence. His interactions with Lotho were strictly professional, nothing beyond a business transaction.
"And neither do I," Malon asserts, his sigh heavy with resignation.
"I was left with no other choice."
So, Rogare is also privy to Galeon's existence. That's unsettling to hear.
And it's likely he played a role in conveying Malon's letter to me.
"Men like Rogare find comfort in believing they're privy to all your secrets."
It's my fault.
Due to my absence, they were compelled to embrace risks, leaving their fate in the hands of a stranger whose intentions are not clear to us.
With a heavy heart, I concede, "Your reassurance would hold more weight if it didn't hinge on the fact that he's aware of the only one that matters."
"He is ambitious and believes that having the last Maltanis is an investment."
Their safety now hinges on their value for Lotho.
This realization burdens me with guilt, manifesting as a physical pain that complicates my breathing.
Malon places his hand on my shoulder, meeting my gaze with a look of determination.
"No need to worry, I know how to deal with his kind."
A mere touch and a few words, yet they carried profound reassurance. The lingering bitterness fades, and my heart settles into a peaceful rhythm. Somehow, every worry that loomed on the horizon seems to dissipate.
If Malon believes it, then I have no reason to doubt it.
Overcome with relief and grateful for the steadfast presence of my friend, a gentle smile finds its way across my face.
"It's a relief to see you haven't changed, Malon."
Aenar I
As I realized my cup was empty, I was pulled back from the depths of the letter I had been engrossed in.
I couldn't even recall the taste of the wine, a fact that would surely incite Lord Celtigar to consider warfare, given his cherished collection in Claw Isle's cellar, a treasure trove of wines diverse in flavor and hue.
This generosity had birthed a tradition between our families, marked by the barrels shared with us periodically.
"Father."
My focus shifts to the sound of the voice, and I'm greeted by the sight of my daughter, my pride, approaching with a flagon in hand and a smile gracing her face.
As she reaches my side, I pass her my cup for a refill, and she obliges, pouring the wine with care.
With my cup now replenished, I offer a nod of thanks, handing her the letter that had consumed my attention.
Daenys sets the flagon aside and delves into the contents of the message. Given its brevity, she swiftly reaches its end.
"Remind me why we don't kill him and avoid problems in the future, now that it's easy, now that he's vulnerable?" I ask for the hundredth time.
The future of House Maltanis hinged on our agreement with Aelor, securing Dragonstone as sanctuary, the price tethered to the life of the heir.
" Because you promised, father."
I doubt very much that this pact has any value now that the other interested party was dead.
"Our paramount duty is safeguarding our lineage," I declare, lifting the cup to my lips.
A single taste reaffirmed the Celtigars' refined selection; the tartness blended with fruit sweetness struck a harmonious balance, likely a Dornish vintage.
Regrettably, Daenys doesn't relish the robust flavor of this particular red.
"No matter the cost," I muse, draining the cup once more.
The Empire's downfall delineated a historic watershed, heralding an era where our kin was foreseen to dominate, the last vestiges of a bygone dynasty.
This belief stemmed from our ancestral magics, especially the prophetic dragon dreams, a glimpse into the future afforded to a select few.
Despite their rarity and the discernment required to interpret them, our lineage can be considered fortunate.
Daenys envisioned us as the final bearers of the dragonlord legacy. Yet, this sense of preeminence was short-lived.
A deeper insight into her visions revealed the emergence of an individual destined to conclude the empire's longstanding strife, highlighting the irony in the resolution of Valyria's afflictions.
"Disregarding of our pride."
Our lineage's worth eclipses any self-serving notion of honor born from solitary acts of moral conviction. For the road to supremacy is paved with sacrifice and conquest, as it is the victors who shape history to their will.
"Honor has no place in this discussion."
For in the realm of mortality, true eminence isn't measured by the honor one carries into the afterlife, but by the enduring impact left behind.
At my assertion, Daenys offers a smile and strides to the balcony's edge.
"Yet, this time, it holds significance, Father," she remarks, casting a glance back at me while resting against the balustrade. Her piercing violet gaze locked onto mine, stripping away any illusion of secrecy with an unspoken intimacy.
"The gods bore witness," she solemnly declared, her words summoning a chill wind through the balcony that danced with her silver tresses.
Her smile dimmed as she faced the horizon, contemplative.
"Their will ensure the oath's fulfillment."
Since when did divine forces so directly shape human destiny? What makes this child so important to their schemes?
"Is that what you saw?" I ventured, my voice betraying my unease, sparked by her solemn proclamation.
"I saw myriad possibilities, a tangle of potential futures and destinies. The line between what might and what must happen blurred," she confessed, easing the tension coiled within me.
As long as the future remains unwritten, the potential for altering its course persists, diverging vastly from the visions seen years prior. The gift of foresight, bound by youth or purity according to lore, now eludes confirmation due to its fleeting nature.
The marriage of Gaemon and Daenys, once a strategic union among scant worthy matches, now stands as the sole option to preserve our lineage and power without diluting our heritage, despite the desolation of suitable alliances after the Empire's demise.
"Together, we shall usher in eras of transformation," She declared, contemplating the inevitable cycle of creation and destruction that accompanies dominion.
"And everything we've aspired to will be within our grasp," Daenys added, her voice echoing with a premonitory certainty.
At her words, a surge of resolve invigorated me, compelling me to rise and approach her.
"Daenys—" I called out, my steps drawn irresistibly towards her.
She turned to face me, her gaze alighting upon mine with an expectant clarity.
As difficult as it may be to hold her unwavering gaze, it's crucial that she meets my eyes as she explains. I'm compelled to understand the paradox of a future that promises us everything we've ever wanted, yet suggests a shared destiny with another, presenting an inherent contradiction.
"We cannot be enemies, father," Daenys articulates with a calm yet firm conviction.
My disposition isn't to be his adversary; my aspirations don't align with fostering enmity. My only desire is for his demise, which could manifest in countless manners, perhaps swiftly enough to preclude any discourse or contemplation of the orchestrator or their motives.
"There was only a clear and unchangeable fate."
Throughout my existence, I've cultivated the belief that destiny, in the traditional sense of a preordained path, is a fallacy. I've always held that life is shaped more by choices than by fate; that our desires and goals remain attainable through perseverance and struggle, not predestined by some cosmic lottery at birth.
Daenys's revelations about the empire's fate, offering glimpses of destruction and alternately, survival, cast doubt on my long-held beliefs. Her visions, unaffected by personal choice or action, challenge the notion of our agency in shaping destiny.
"Now or centuries hence, our efforts falter, we always lose," she confides, her voice laden with sorrow, as if the utterance itself inflicts pain.
My initial reaction is to retreat inwardly, but Daenys forestalls this withdrawal by clasping my hand firmly, grounding me in the present. This gesture coaxes a reluctant smile from me, tinged with disappointment.
"I envisioned a different outcome, believing our era would diverge from that of the empire," I confess.
I had presumed this era would herald our ascendancy, where House Targaryen, unshackled from the empire's ruins, would seize dominion through force and ancestral might.
"Must we eternally lurk in the Maltanis' shadow?" I lament.
Our legacy within the empire was a constant battle for prominence or risk fading into obscurity. The prospect of continuing in a subservient role grate against every ambition we harbor for our house's destiny.
Our family, long overshadowed by our origins from the Maltanis dynasty, constantly sought recognition for our achievements. Yet, accolades were often attributed to our ancestral ties rather than our merits.
"Don't misunderstand, father," Daenys clarifies, stepping away to emphasize her point. "You were right—things will be different."
Her assurance captivates me, dispelling any unease as I lock eyes with her once more.
"We can rule," she affirms softly, her smile reflecting a blend of sweetness and resolve.
Turning to gaze out over the horizon, she repeats with conviction, "We are going to rule."
Intrigued and drawn by her vision, I join her side, allowing the vast expanse before us to fill my view.
"We don't need to go anywhere," she states, anchoring our future to the here and now.
Captivated by Daenys's vision, I find myself awestruck. Her eyes sparkle, illuminating the moment, while her hair hints at a dark red, challenging the silver it usually boasts.
"We are where we should be, at the brink of endless potential," she declares, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
A deep, innate sense pervades me, a sensation that our lineage's magic will carve out our destiny.
"Our destiny," she asserts, compelling me to share her perspective.
Yielding to this silent command, I join her in looking outward, only then grasping the magnetism of her focus.
It dawns on me, the realization sharp and clear: our path lies westward, where our future awaits.
Galeon I
He's a demon, a figure carved from the chill of an impending winter.
As the season turn, bringing a crispness to the air, I find myself at the cusp of my first winter with awareness — a contrast to the forgotten cold of my infancy.
Our journey began at dawn, at Malon's commands — though he staunchly frames his orders as mere suggestions, denying any semblance of authority over me, as he upholds that he has no right to do so.
If truly left to my whims, the sanctity of sleep would have prevailed over this early venture. Even if the winter here is "better than elsewhere," the allure of rest is already curtailed by my lessons with Elaerys, limiting most of my days.
Nevertheless, it's never about what I want to do.
Malon has led us to a tower amongst the hills, its purpose shrouded in the pretext of a lesson, piquing my interest further in the absence of Syrior and Elaerys — my usual companions in such endeavors.
This time, it's merely Malon, Haelena, and myself.
There he is, the demon, perched upon his steed with an air of stoic grace, his hair dancing with the wind. His occasional backward glances seem to tether us, a silent assurance against the possibility of getting lost.
In those moments, his gaze held a seriousness, a quality usually reserved for discussions of work or commerce, far removed from the more light-hearted demeanor he adopted during our bedtime stories of the empire.
Haelena, conversely, seemed alight with excitement. Her face was alive with a broad smile, her violet eyes sparkling with eager anticipation, a common reaction whenever there was something new to learn. Yet today, her enthusiasm seemed to amplify.
To this day, her fondness for Malon puzzles me.
The demon conditioned this lesson on the grounds that he would only give it if we were all taking part in it. He knew that I would not come voluntarily and that's why he used her to convince me.
Such is his cunning.
Upon our arrival, Malon dismounted with a swift grace and removed his gloves, turning to face us as we mimicked his actions and drew near.
I couldn't help but survey our surroundings, noting the unexpected desolation of a place that, under normal circumstances, Malon ensured was always guarded.
What could possibly be the lesson Malon intends to impart today?
This question occupied my thoughts until Haelena's tug redirected my attention not to her, but to Malon, who now commanded the focus of us both.
As Malon cleared his throat and unwrapped the cloth from around his chest, he stepped forward to reveal his hidden items: two wooden swords, one notably smaller than the other.
"Lord Aelor was renowned as the finest swordsman in centuries, and your father too was celebrated for his exceptional skill," Malon declared, offering a sword to each of us.
Haelena appeared somewhat disheartened by this turn of events.
Despite her admiration for the tales of warriors and dragonlords, she had never expressed a desire to learn their martial skills, a sentiment she made evident when she declined the covert training sessions Syrior had offered us.
Although at the time I thought her rejection was largely just because of the clandestine nature of them as if it was something we shouldn't do.
"It is time for you to follow in their footsteps, as you are both old enough to learn, my lord and my lady."
The sword felt significantly heavier than the ones I used in practice with Syrior. Casting a glance at Haelena, it was clear she too struggled to comfortably handle hers.
"Starting today, we will begin our days early, dedicating time for practice both before and after your sessions with Elaerys."
Upon hearing Malon's decree, my resolve faltered, and the wooden sword slipped from my grasp.
Every single day?
There is no way my body can do this so often.
"My lessons with Elaerys start early, Malon," I say, bending down to retrieve my sword, aware that Malon's intense gaze is warning me of the serious implications if I do not comply.
"What time will I have to rest?" I attempt to ask, but Malon cuts me off before I can finish.
"The Naeliar family's combat style is tailored for warfare, not mere dueling."
I had long suspected that Malon sought to wear me out with an onslaught of books, perhaps as a covert means to dispatch me. Now, it seems, upon realizing the inefficacy of his literary onslaught, he's resorting to physical exhaustion.
This must be his idea of the perfect crime.
"To master it, significant sacrifices are necessary. We need to sharpen your senses, to alter your perception to a heightened awareness," he continues, drawing his sword and presenting it before us in demonstration.
Resigned to my fate, I decided to savor the remaining fragments of my life, despite my anticipation of loathing these lessons. Yet, I cannot ignore my captivation with the tales Syrior shared about my father and grandfather.
Moreover, I've found genuine enjoyment in the fencing lessons with Syrior these past months. While they sometimes feel repetitive, they never bore me as Elaerys's sessions often do.
I can only hope Malon's teachings will be as straightforward.
"Adopting this technique necessitates a transformation in your everyday life and perspective, demanding every available moment you have—and even that may not suffice," he cautions with a sterner voice than before, hinting that his words should be heeded as a serious advisory.
"I've devoted my entire life to mastering it, yet in comparison to Lord Galaenar, I was merely a novice," he remarks, his voice betraying a touch of pride as he reflects on my father, his eyes alight with that distinctive spark he always exhibits when discussing him.
Driven by curiosity and lacking any solid explanation, I once questioned Syrior about who the superior swordsman among them was.
With a boastful grin, he claimed superiority over Malon and confessed to often outdueling my father in one-on-one combat. However, his smile diminished as he conceded that, despite these victories, my father was the superior warrior, capable of defeating both Syrior and Malon simultaneously.
His explanation was baffling and left me more confused than enlightened.
"And he only had an adequate level in the art," Malon concludes, stepping back to showcase a series of swift sword maneuvers intended to dazzle us.
Such displays fail to impress me, however, as I've watched the guards' training sessions, witnessing their fluidity and precision. Despite Malon's skill, I still find Syrior's technique more remarkable.
"There was no figure more esteemed than your grandfather. He captivated audiences and garnered respect, while his adversaries quivered at the mere mention of his name."
Witnessing Syrior contend against six opponents simultaneously and come out on top, if he and my father were deemed merely competent, then what extraordinary prowess did my grandfather possess?
I find myself wishing I had the opportunity to meet him.
In the midst of these reflections, a chill permeates the air, prompting a sharp intake of breath from Haelena that draws my attention.
Mirroring her shock, my gaze lands on a sight that solidifies my long-held belief in Malon's otherworldly nature, as a demon.
His eyes now shimmer with an unnatural dark green radiance, and his hair adopts a crimson tint, suggesting not merely a change in appearance but an augmentation in speed and force. Each of his movement's cuts through the air with such ferocity that it seems to tear at the very air, leaving a resonating echo in its wake.
"This is the heritage that awaits you, my lord."
I retract my earlier statement.
Seeing Malon in action, I realize he outshines Syrior, and I'm compelled to master this art.
Despite the daunting challenge it presents, I'm resolved to persevere through the training, appeasing the demon this one time, but determined to emerge unscathed.
"Yet, the prowess people admire is the result of relentless effort."
As Malon reverts to his usual, perhaps more human, guise, the atmosphere settles back to normalcy, and I can't help but let a smile break across my face.
Glancing at Haelena, I see her earlier zeal has been reignited, her expression alight with the familiar joy we've come to expect.
"Lord Aelor epitomized dedication," Malon states, his voice imbued with reverence.
Syrior was right about one thing: Malon possesses an unparalleled ability to compel you into action, convincing you it was your desire all along.
And so, I find myself outmaneuvered by him once more.
"What I propose is only the inevitable work for you to get what you need."
Malon often speaks of the diversity in the world, highlighting that not all individuals we encounter will show us kindness, as those within our state do. He warns that malice exists, emphasizing our heightened vulnerability due to who we are.
Yet, he's never clarified why specifically we face greater risks, leaving us to ponder the enigma of our inherent danger.
In concluding these discussions, he outlines the requisite for overcoming such threats: to be intellectually and physically superior to our adversaries.
My desires are simple, rooted deeply in the life we've built here. I yearn to continue learning from Xaro's craftsmanship, to savor Gyldayn's covertly shared pastries, to immerse myself in Gerah's daily tales, and to care for animals alongside Breza, despite Skoro's persuasion towards farming.
I want to keep pranking Malon with the help of Syrior, and I want to keep playing with Haelena while we learn with Elaerys. Given that books never were my thing, I must be strong then.
"Do not fret, my lord," Malon reassures, his hand resting on my shoulder. "I've witnessed demise through boredom, conflict, and disease," he confesses, his visage morphing into the sardonic grin typically prefacing a daunting challenge he sets before me.
"Never for working hard."
His words, rather than uplifting, dampened the spark of motivation his actions had kindled within me.
Indeed, this demon wants to kill me.