Save the Dragons
F.Y.I: Laenor is straight, I said as much in Chapter 1 and state as much in the description, but you might have missed it like some reviewers have.
I knew I'd get shit for not having Laenor take Vhagar, it's by design. The hoary bitch was meant for Laena.
Chapter 2 – Hard Knocks
Loving Laena had not been his first idea.
His first idea involved being cold and distant to her so he would never get attached to her, so he wouldn't be sad when she died in childbirth and he could steal her dragon before she ever owned it.
But he had promised Rhaenys to be a good brother, and that women had 'taught' him how to read. If she needed him to love Laena, then he would.
Prophecies had always felt like a bad story device to him, the idea of them being real was up there with the Tooth Fairy, and yet somehow he'd ended up being reborn into a family with dragon skulls lining their sitting room. So family solidarity was a priority now.
On to Plan L – Love Laena. Try to manage to create a situation where Laena lives so he can have his super cool, Vhagar-wielding sister help him win the Dance. It shouldn't be too hard - right?
"What's the next part, Laenor?" asked the focus of his contemplation.
This was the first phase of Plan L – bonding time. They both loved flying together, and Laenor certainly enjoyed outrunning the older Vhagar, but they did have one other thing in common, they both loved music. Even if Laenor was the only one of them who actually knew how to play an instrument, thankfully, Laena was only a couple of years older than him in this world, so it's not like there was much of a jealously thing going on.
As to his new found musical talents, there simply weren't that many books lying around High Tide, he was a quick reader and he'd soon burned through all of Geradys' recommendations. The only other books that were available were badly written fables by sexually repressed septons or mindless drivel from ignorant maesters who thought that diseases were caused by 'vapours' or demons. It was clear that if he wanted something decent to read he'd have to travel to the Citadel, and it was going to be a while before he could do that, so he'd found another useful hobby.
So he'd gotten father to hire him the best bard around to tutor him, and now he was a fairly competent harp player with some amazing 'original' tunes. It was like that movie where the guy 'writes' all the Beatles' songs, except nobody wants him dead.
"It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift, the baffled king composing hmph..." Shit.
"What's wrong? I thought it was good." The weird thing about trying to love Laena, is that he could see the appeal. She seemed to be a genuinely nice kid. Teaching her the harp had its drawbacks though.
Namely, the songs that had stayed stuck in his head even after being jettisoned into a story tended to include words and sayings that didn't make any sense to Westerosi. 'Well Laena, you see the song I'm trying to show you is called 'Hallelujah', which I can't explain to you the meaning of because there are no Hebrews in this world, and I almost slipped up again!'
"Forget about it, Laena. I can't figure out where to go from there."
"Oh, alright then, do you want to try 'Seasons of My Love' again?"
"Not yet, I've got something else I can try."
"Whenever you're ready. You're getting a lot better with the harp, Laenor."
"Thanks, Laena..." he took a deep breath and tried again with a different Leonard Cohen song, "Dance me to your beauty like a burning violin, dance me through the panic till I'm gath-"
"What's a violin?" By the way, harps don't sound great when they abruptly stop.
"A what?"
"You said burning violin, what's that?"
"Oh, it's a kind of fiddle." Yeah, a fiddle, fiddles exist in this world. No problem.
Unfortunately, Laena was a musician, "What kind of fiddle?"
"Well, it's not a kind of fiddle per se-"
"Per-what?"
"You see," he corrected.
"Oh, sorry."
"It's a different word for fiddle."
"What's wrong with 'fiddle'?"
"There's nothing wrong with it, it's just another word from another language is all."
"What language?"
"I don't know, Laena, maybe Quartheen or Ghiscari, one of them, I saw it somewhere and it just rolled off the tongue, okay?"
"Alright."
"Thank you."
"What's a 'tungohkay'?"
"Laena, can you just let me sing the song, please?"
"Whenever you're ready, little brother."
"Good, thank you." Phew, this was exhausting, "Oh, let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone. Let me feel you moving like they do in Babyl-"
"Gods damn it!" he screamed in a fit, throwing the harp to the ground and snapping it beneath his foot.
Laena dissolved into a fit of hysterics at my frustration, and I decided to abandon Plan L for the time being.
By the time the guards came to investigate, we were rolling on the floor as I was pinning the much smaller Laena on the floor who was alternating between calling for muna and laughing as hard as she could as I desperately tried to kill her, having realized that love was never an option.
In a past life, he had wanted to join the RCMP, until he found out the M stood for 'mounted', meaning horses; which was a huge nope.
"I don't want to start this relationship off on the wrong foot, but I feel like I should warn you that if you kick me, there are a lot of hungry people in Spicetown who would be more than happy to have you for dinner," he told the huge white destrier in front of him.
The reality was now he was in a reality where he had to learn to ride a horse and ride one well.
Not that he didn't like horses, they were pretty animals, and friendly enough. It's not like they were fire-breathing dragons or something, but mounting the formidable beast was harder than riding Silverwing, who practically loved being ridden and loved him as much if not more so than he did her.
He had read in Septon Barth's 'Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History' that dragons bind with their riders, more than just choosing one rider at a time. This seemed to be true with Dany and Drogon's experience, as well as the relationship he had with Silverwing. He could almost feel her feelings, and she could definitely feel his.
Whereas his horse, dubbed 'Trots' by his sister, was a naturally skittish animal that needed blinders in order to charge at anything remotely frightening, as opposed to Silverwing, who would melt anything remotely appetizing.
Picking Silverwing over Vhagar had paid off, because now he was dreaming about a little girl with silver hair and was certain she was dreaming of him.
Word had come from King's Landing, as it had bellowed across the realm, Laenor's hope had come true.
The Princess Rhaenyra had chosen a dragon at the tender age of seven. The Old King's dragon. Vermithor; the Bronze Fury. Silverwing's bonded mate.
He would have to ensure the future betrothal lasted until she was of age, because there was only so much culture shock that he could take.
Galloping along, Laenor's arse began to hurt and he wished he was flying. Beating Laena in another race.
He simply didn't have the makings of a great jouster.
Not taking fencing lessons seemed like a huge mistake in retrospect, it wasn't as if he had something against reenactors or LARPers but he just hadn't expected that swordsmanship was going to be a skill that was going to come in handy later in life. He could maintain that the logic behind that 'decision' remained sound, but that didn't mean he still didn't regret it now that he was training to be a knight in shining armour.
Yet despite not having decades of experience with it as he did with many of his other skills, he was still considered a prodigy at this too albeit to a lesser extent. With a determination that only an adult trapped in a child's body could have, he tended to mop the floor with the other children. The most important factor he figured was that he was in better shape than his peers. People here hadn't really figured out exercising or nutrition yet.
The Westerosi hadn't even had the influences of the Greco-Roman gymnastic tradition to draw on, let alone the calisthenics movement of Victorian times or decades of dietetics research that hadn't even been completely figured out when he died. Of course, they knew enough to be ready for war, they'd climb walls and ladders, knew being used to the weight of armour and steel weapons was important, that running would help get one into a shape, etc. But they held onto foolish notions like lifting weights was peasant's work that was beneath the lordly class, that if a person wasn't fat and had a good posture that they were fit, even the Maesters thought of fitness mostly as a manner of proportion and physique rather than actual well-being.
Nobody here even knew what push-ups or sit-ups were.
Diet wasn't really about proper nutrition as it was a virtue of temperance and not being a glutton. Vitamin deficiencies and alcoholism were rampant and hardly noticed. Stupid cultural ideas about certain foods being peasant dishes had led to some seriously under-exploited foods, and they either devoured meat and exotic fruit as a sign of their wealth or gorged on carbs. Gout was indeed a rich man's disease here. Sailor's Bane would have sailors dying constantly since nobody had figured out here that scurvy was just a lack of vitamin C and they just needed to eat an orange or lemon at sea to save themselves.
Jumping off the shoulders of the giants of his world, Laenor had not only picked up on the workout schedule and meal plan he'd had in his last life but was ramping it up. He'd run circles around the walls of Hide Tide and risk being seen doing 'queer dances (jumping jacks) and strange poses (yoga)'. Climbing was not permitted, on orders of Lord Velaryon urged on by his lady wife, and besides, Bran's fate had kind of worried him there, so instead he had installed a make-shift pull-up bar in his room. Subsisting on a diet of fresh fruit, fish, almonds, porridge, and a fanciful dish with cheeses, turkey, and lettuce between two slices of bread that he had needed to make himself since sandwiches hadn't been invented. The kitchen hands thought it was dog food.
One of these days he was going to invent spaghetti.
Beyond just better health, children seldom possess the determination or attention span to devote themselves to training or are usually unwilling to be hurt so often, especially lordlings, and so with him having all those things in droves and a lifetime of watching sword fights in movies, he had an edge over his little competition that was seeming to widen with each day. He'd seen interviews of professional athletes describing how early periods of dominance were important for long-term success and that seemed to be holding true.
More than all that, there seemed to be something else about being a Targaryen. His new family had a history of producing famous warriors and while he'd originally thought that was royal propaganda, even as his own 'supernatural' talent at arms was talked about at court. Compared to Daemon Blackfyre, the royal bastard who'd been knighted at twelve, it was simply par for the course. Perhaps the legends about the Dragonknight were true after all. Of course, they hadn't even been born yet in this timeline, so technically they took after Rhaenys' son, Laenor.
Regardless, Laenor stood alone in the yard. Not that he was there all by himself, he just stood across from the other boys who would not meet his eyes for fear of looking afraid.
They whispered to each other, careful not to let him overhear them. He might have taken that personally if not for the fact that they were children and he'd long since outgrown being picked last for things like this. Of course, they weren't here to play flag football and if anyone was going to be picking teams, it'd be him considering he was the lordling and they were not.
"All right, come together now!" roared Ser Adrian Crabb, the master-at-arms here at High Tide, and the man responsible for teaching him how to fight.
Soon they had all gathered around the bear of a man, he took up a spot on the far right while the others kept their distance but stood close enough so not to draw attention to that fact. It was a great honour to train with their future lord after all.
Ser Adrian would look at each of the others, sizing them up, sometimes whacking them with a walking stick if they were slouching or smiling before grunting and turning to the next.
As it happened, Laenor was the shortest one here. Not that he was short for his age, in fact, he was probably in the 95 percentile in terms of height for his age group thanks to good genetics and a healthy diet. The other boys stood head and shoulders above him today because they were years older.
"Vaemond!" the shout made the boy jump a little as he turned to face their tutor, "You'll spar with His Lordship, understood?"
The boy seemed to wilt before nodding "Yes, Ser Adrian."
Vaemond Velaryon was his 1st cousin. Another grandson of Lord Corwyn Velaryon. Everyone thought the boy was a noble young lad and would be a fine addition to their house.
It didn't endear Laenor to Vaemond, who would canonically one day try to seize Driftmark for himself.
From reading the 'Fire & Blood' you would think that Laenor was Mr. Popularity, at the very least in his own circle. Maybe that was going to happen in the future, but as of now, Laenor was thought of as a bully or a dork. Not surprising that he was so much smarter than everyone in his age group, it must have made him seem like a brat. That and he didn't like kiss asses.
As to the dork bit, he spent more time reading than was considered normal. Again, not that surprising since he'd broken the multiverse record for the youngest reader.
Laenor gripped the hilt of the practice sword in his hand and stared down his opponent for the day. It was hard to be intimidating when you had to look up to see eye to eye, but he was fairly sure that Vaemond was scared. He was right to be.
It was no coincidence that they were fighting today, he was here to teach a lesson, and Vaemond was about to learn one.
Last week, after Geradys had taught the castles's children a lesson about the Scandal of Princess Saera and how she had given away her virtue and fled beyond the Narrow Sea. Vaemond had had the unmitigated gall to compare her to Laena, simply because she preferred playing with boys than practicing needlework with the other girls of Driftmark. Not that Laena cared about boys all that much anyways, she'd much rather be flying, but there were rainy days sometimes.
He told no one about what Vaemond said, he had simply gone to Ser Adrian and asked to train with the older boys, and the man did not need much convincing. None of his peers could withstand him, mayhaps it was best that he got to practice with boys closer to his skill level.
Mayhaps not.
Steadying his breathing, Laenor levelled the tip of his practice sword at Vaemond and waited.
"Begin!"
It wasn't really a fight...
Usually, Laenor would try to end things quickly, no sense in drawing things out if it was obvious who was going to win and time was too precious to waste beating up children.
Today he was going to drag things out.
He was going to humiliate Vaemond.
Older, bigger, more experienced, and still outclassed.
Laenor could strike his target with ease and then slip away before the boy could even realize what happened. As Ser Adrian roared instructions to them, Laenor would make a mockery of it. Ser Adrian said to mind your footing. I'll stomp on your feet. Keep your guard up? What nice shins you have. Never fight with your mouth open? Nothing a good smack to the jaw won't fix.
"Enough, enough," Ser Adrian started trying to stop them "Rhogar you go take-"
He wasn't interested in fighting anyone else today, so before Ser Adrian could finish, Laenor had tripped Vaemond and seen the boy lying flat on his back.
"-Vaemond's place." finished the bemused master-at-arms with a sigh.
Now looming over the flustered, terribly embarrassed boy, Laenor took some delight in the bruises and flushed face of his target. He placed the tip of his practice sword to Vaemond's throat, being blunt there was no real threat but it helped get the point across.
"Laenor!" came the reprimand for unsportsmanlike conduct from Ser Adrian, but the Crabb knight was only his tutor, he did not command him.
"Do you see now, Vaemond?" Laenor asked the boy, infinitely more mockingly than curious, "If my sister is the next Saera, does that makes you less than a whore?"
There was no doubt that the boy was afraid, and shocked to realize that the beating had been revenge. Fear however had not dampened that famed Velaryon pride it seemed. It did not help that Laenor was pressing the tip of a practice sword to his throat.
The proud boy, unwilling to bear the shame quietly, lashed out in a frenzy and tried to sweep the feet out from under him. And to Laenor's dismay, it caught him by surprise and he lost his footing, tumbling to the ground, they wrestled to the cries of the crowd of boys and the screams of their instructor. Laenor might have been by far the better swordsman, but Vaemond was much bigger and so on the ground, it was quite the reversal as the larger boy pinned him to the ground.
"Do you see? Do you see?!" Vaemond screamed his ears as he rained down blows on his small body from his place on top of him, furious at the humiliation of losing to a boy half his size in front of his posse. As much as he struggled, the bigger boy was getting the better of him on the ground. If either were in their sound mind, neither would ever dare find themselves in this situation. Vaemond was striking his future lord, it was in the training ground, yes, but still, things had passed as evidenced by Ser Adrian shouting at Vaemond something about hands and the losing thereof.
To Laenor – it was treason.
Vaemond was an even less skilled grappler than a swordsman, and so when Laenor managed to slide his legs between him and Vaemond, he grabbed the boy's arm, and stretched his legs out as hard as he could, flipping Vaemond onto his back long enough for Laenor to climb on top of him and press down on the boys small arms with his knees, finally trapping him and putting an end to it. Laenor heard a sigh of relief as out of the corner his eye he saw Ser Adrian come to a halt.
Laenor looked down at the boy struggling to free his arms with no luck, this too was a victory.
By rights, it should have ended there, but Vaemond would not have it.
House Velaryon's words were 'The Old, the True, the Brave.' Vaemond was far from old and farther still from true, but none could claim he wasn't brave.
Vaemond was not done yet.
As the spit struck Laenor in the face, everything seemed to slow down like he was watching the world in slow motion as a spectator even as he moved. A red shroud had fallen over the world and a ringing filled his ears. Mayhaps Ser Adrian was crying out for him to stop, or maybe Vaemond was apologizing, but it didn't matter. All any of them could do was watch.
His eyes were fixed on Vaemond's as the boy stared in fear as the small hand edged towards his face.
The next thing he knew, Ser Adrian had thrown him off of Vaemond, who was screaming for dear life, making the most piteous sounds that he'd ever heard, worse than he thought was possible for a boy to make.
As he lay there in the dust, Laenor wondered what had happened to make him cry like that.
Why could he hear Silverwing roaring in the distance?
Then he looked down at his hand, saw the blood staining his fingers, and remembered how he'd just plucked out a boy's eye.
He'd done what? Why had he done that?! Laenor wanted to scream but nothing of the sort came from his mouth as he watched Ser Adrian pick the convulsing, shrieking mess of Vaemond off the ground and run out of the yard, presumably for Maester Gerardys.
The rest went by in a blur, but it was no less intense. Men in blue cloaks with silver seahorse broaches raising a fuss, drawing their swords and shouting something at him. Not that Laenor could hear any of it.
A hand on his shoulder saw him make it to his feet and being led from the courtyard as well. Passing the terrified looks of his fellow pages was a surreal experience. He didn't know whether to beg forgiveness or show them his hand.
Making their way down the corridor, Laenor looked up to the knight escorting him to find it was Ser Arthor Celtigar and was shocked to see how unfazed the knight was. Arthor was a cynical man by nature, but the man looked like he was taking him for ice cream rather than dragging him away from a violent crime scene.
"W-why I'd do that?" he asked. He didn't understand why he was asking Arthor, perhaps because he didn't know the answer any more than he did and Laenor wanted to feel normal for another moment.
"Well, My Lord," Arthor chuckled, "it certainly helped that boy see the error of his ways."
Laenor could only gape at him. He'd known about Arthor's penchant for dark jokes, but the man didn't seem the least bit taken back by the fact that he'd just watched one child maim another over practically nothing, more than that, he was complimenting him for it!
He felt so lost. This did not make sense to him. Why had he done such a vile thing, to a child even?
He'd never been one to have a short temper. Ask anyone who'd met him, he was sure they'd all agree he had a calm disposition and was pretty easygoing. He'd even been spat on before, once by an older kid at the local rec centre which he'd laughed off before hocking a loogie back. Even getting his face beaten to a pulp afterward hadn't upset him all that much, he'd shook hands with the kid not long after. He'd gone his whole life without ever attacking anyone for anything.
So what the hell was that?
As Arthor marched him away, he couldn't stop looking at his blood-soaked hands.
Soon, Laenor stood before the great seat of House Velaryon, the Driftwood throne, the fabled seat gifted by the Merling King that Father had moved from Driftmark to High Tide.
The Hall of Nine was empty save for Lord Corlys and his council save Gerardys who was likely seeing to Vaemond.
His father, the Lord of the Tides, sat on his lofty perch atop the Driftwood Throne. Laenor remembered his boyhood memories of sitting on his father's lap as he sentenced men to death for lesser crimes than maiming a member of his house.
High on his vantage, it was hard to see what expression his father wore, which did not bode well for him.
On a level with him, but still standing much taller than he was the king's councillors.
For there was cause for concern outside of that. Vaemond's father, Monford Velaryon stood to Rhaenys' right.
Laenor could not meet his eyes. It was only the silver and blue the man wore that gave him away.
He knew he'd been caught red-handed, the same hands still stained by Vaemond's blood. He knew he needed to be punished.
As his mind conjured up all manner of horrifying scenarios that might befall him, Ser Monford stepped towards him, and Laenor tried to keep himself still, assuring himself that the man would not dare anything with Ser Arthor present, except on order of his Lord Father. With the father of his juvenile enemy towering before him, he worried that mayhaps his father had given such an order already.
But to his shock, the man knelt before him. On bended knee, he met his eyes, and instead of fury, Laenor saw only the same fear that must have shown in his.
"I beg My Lord's pardon for the actions of my son, he is still only a boy, not accustomed to the company of lords or yet familiar with the law as he should be as is my fault for not instructing him. As your blood, I beg your forgiveness on his behalf."
Laenor was shocked, for but a moment. Before he remembered this was Westeros. Vaemond had assaulted his liege lord's heir and paid the price. The blood of the dragon flew through Laenor's veins. The Sea Snake would not suffer such a thing beneath his roof to go unpunished, and Laenor had meted it out.
Finding his words, Laenor bowed, "He is forgiven."
Ser Monford bowed his head to Lord Corlys, who promptly dismissed him and his other councillors. Leaving behind only his parents with him.
The black-haired beauty that was Princess Rhaenys, strode up to him, and slapped him across the face – hard. When he didn't cry from the blow, she struck him again. Still, he didn't cry, he didn't think he deserved her pity.
"What were you thinking?" she shook him firmly, "that boy will be your bannerman one day, and you plucked out one of his eyes? For what? Spitting on you? Are you another Maegor the Cruel?"
Laenor could only shake his head.
Lord Corlys stepped down from his chair and knelt before him. "Why would you do such a thing, son?"
He began to ramble about losing his temper, how he didn't even realize what he was doing until it was done, how he'd only seen red.
Rhaenys showed Corlys a knowing look. Mother cupped his face with her hand gently, "You have a dragon's temper, my son, you must learn to control it."
Laenor nodded.
Father loomed over him, and commanded, "From now on, you will clean up after Silverwing yourself to remind you of the dangers of hubris. Her leavings, her filth. Until such a time I deem the lesson has been learned. You will pray to the Father for a month for forgiveness."
He could only nod again. If anything the punishment was a light one. But Lord Corlys could not openly punish his son, or else admit he had done something beneath his family's rights.
After Laenor was escorted back to his rooms and began to clean the dried blood from underneath his fingertips, he began to cry for the first time since coming here.
This wasn't his world. This was a world of ice and fire.
Thankfully his advances in mathematics had endeared his father's trust in his ideas.
Most of the advances he had brought with him to Westeros were distant memories, waiting to be unlocked by an older mind. But there was a Biology 101 breakthrough just bursting forth from his mind that needed to be unlocked immediately.
Seriously, people weren't even washing their hands here.
Though some maesters had already speculated that disease was caused by 'invisible creatures', it hadn't been proven and was about as popular an idea as the theory that the Seven Gods Above sometimes liked to inflict sickness on people as punishment for their sins or to welcome their souls into the Seven Heavens.
So he had told Lord Corlys that he had been dreaming again. Valyrians were willing to believe a lot about dreams.
In this latest dream, he told Lord Corlys that the Valyrians of old had used unique contraptions made of glass to examine things in detail and that they should make something similar.
And so lens-crafters from Myr had been freed from slavery with a hefty purchase of their freedom to ensure their loyalty, and brought across the Narrow Sea to Spicetown to make new lens straight from his high-school science class lessons, resulting in the 're-invention' of the first microscope, or because Westerosi didn't understand what 'micro' or 'scope' meant, the first 'near-eye' or 'Driftmark eye'.
Laenor and Gerardys were soon examining plants à la Robert Hooke, and found that they were made up of little bodies they dubbed 'cells', and that other tiny individual cells were living everywhere and on everything from pond water to saliva to urine, that when isolated had the potential to cause diseases like consumption and the mouldy bread maesters had been using to keep wounds from festering were simply killing these cells.
Laenor had been granted three silver links to a maester's chain for the discovery of germ theory, and Lord Corlys soon started implementing hygiene regulations on the isle of Driftmark and urged other lords to do the same. In the years to come, the Citadel was mass producing something akin to penicillin, enough to supply at least all the high lords of Westeros with antibiotics, which Maester Gerardys had them call 'milk of the sea horse'.
The fame it brought their House was great, and Laenor relished his first real accomplishment, but he would soon find that it had opened the greatest door in the Seven Kingdoms.
Ever since King Viserys had chosen to wed Alicent instead of Laena, there had been enmity between House Targaryen and House Velaryon. Ever since Mother had ridden Meleys, Princess Alyssa's dragon, the dragon of the King's mother before her sons could lay claim to it, there had been animosity. The enmity had grown deeper still when Mother had been passed over for Prince Baelon, and then when Laenor's claim had been passed over in favour of Viserys' at the Great Council. But this time, Lord Corlys had refused to even attend the wedding of the king and had instead allied himself with Prince Daemon.
However, Laenor did not approve of the estrangement and knew how things would go in the Step Stones.
"No, I will not allow it. You will stay here, on Driftmark, while I am gone."
The familiar argument was in full swing.
"Listen to your father, Laenor." Of course, Mother took Father's side.
Father was off to war and was leaving a twelve-year-old Laenor behind. Too young to go to war, even though Vhagar and Silverwing would make short work of any enemy.
"We cannot remain estranged from court!" argued Laenor. "With every day we remain away from the ear of the king, House Lannister, and House Hightower grow stronger and we weaker."
"I am the richest Lord in the Seven Kingdoms, Laenor," argued Corlys, "I do not need to court the king's favour to compete with my rivals. Freeing the Step Stones of pirates will open up the trade lanes to the Jade Sea and bring even greater prosperity to our House."
"We can not hope to hold the Step Stones alone, and Daemon will grow tired of his little kingdom soon enough."
"You're a mind beyond your years, Laenor, but you are still but a boy."
One thing about having such a famous, legendary, and ridiculously successful father is that he wasn't as easily persuaded as one would hope.
"There is only one place besides Dragonstone and High Tide that can stable a dragon. There is only one place besides the Citadel where I can learn more about the higher mysteries. There is only one place where I can learn the ways of court. There is only one place for me to be fostered."
Corlys looked contrite but could not help but take his meaning, "The Dragonpit, the Alchemist's Guild, and the Red Keep."
"If you are leaving, then I have to leave as well, and there's only one place outside of Oldtown where I can continue my research."
"House Targaryen has insulted ours too many times for me to send my only son into their service," Corlys retorted.
"I am a Targaryen," Laenor bit back. Rhaenys smiled, but Father scowled.
"You are Laenor Velaryon. Velaryon. You will be Lord of the Tides one day, and you will do as I command."
"I am a dragonrider. I will be a lord of the skies as well. Let me go to the Capital, let me restore our house to its proper place."
"There is the girl to be considered, Corlys," reminded Mother, finally seeing sense in his plan. "She is Viserys' heir now, and she will need a husband soon enough."
"That is what I'm talking about. The future of our house is on the line," Laenor agreed. He had to wed Rhaenyra, or the whole world was at risk.
"I know about the princess. What makes you think Viserys will marry his daughter to you when he wed the Hightower wench instead of Laena?"
"Because Alicent was a woman grown, Laena a girl not flowered, and he was a man. Viserys will want the greatest house in the realm protecting his daughter's claim, he will want to end the feud between the two dragon-riding houses or risk a civil war one day."
Laenor could tell that Father wanted to argue more, but his logic was undeniable. Canon Laenor had wed Rhaenyra, and House Velaryon was even richer now with him around, not to mention Canon Laenor was gay. In contrast, he was an already accomplished lordling who was straight to boot, and entirely willing to back Rhaenyra's claim with Silverwing and the Velaryon fleet at her back.
Corlys sat on the Driftwood Throne for an age, unwavering.
"Please, Father," Laenor begged, "If you trust me at all, then you must trust me with this. What I have seen in my dreams, the whole realm depends on this match, and I can only ensure it comes about if I go west, or else anything could happen."
He could not trust Criston Cole, Daemon Targaryen, or Harwin Strong. As sickening as it was, he needed to have Rhaenyra fall in love with him, or else the whole game could be lost.
Father sighed.
"So be it. You will go to King's Landing while I am gone, and serve as the King's squire until you are knighted."
Finally. The door was opened, and he had a foot firmly through it.
Thanks for reading, next update should come sooner as I've decided to delve into the Season 1 material more than I'd originally intended.
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Viserys didn't have a canon squire, which would be a pretty prestigious position at court and Laenor is that age to be one. I think Viserys would have tried to keep the boy close.
Microscopy and Germ Theory had to be mentioned early on so I don't have to include people dying all the time.