The Red Dragon
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17. Dragons
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 18:23:51 +0000 UTCLaenor POV
Maidenpool
Consider Laenor officially bored.
It had been a few days since he and his family had arrived at Maidenpool for the tourney, held in honor of his mother’s cousin's coronation as King of the Seven Kingdoms. And though the town buzzed with music, pageantry, and clashing steel, the excitement had long since worn thin for him.
The problem? He already knew who would win. The thrill of combat faded quickly when the outcome was carved in memory rather than forged in the moment.
Still, it wasn’t entirely useless. Watching the realm’s best knights fight had its merits—one could learn a thing or two, assuming they had the talent to mimic such skill. Laenor’s gaze drifted to his right, where Rhaenyra sat fidgeting in her seat, eyes locked on the duel below between Daemon and Ser Criston Cole.
To Rhaenyra’s right sat Alicent Hightower. Truth be told, Laenor didn’t know what to make of the girl. From the leftover memories he has, he at least remembered one thing: back on Earth, he’d been a staunch supporter of the Blacks. But back then, they were only ink on a page—characters in a story. Now they breathed beside him.
If the Dance were to begin, Laenor couldn’t deny it—he had quietly rooted for it. After all, war created opportunity. Power abhors a vacuum, and chaos tends to elevate those bold enough to grasp at the crown while others cower beneath its weight. In a world like this, ambition thrived under the guise of disorder.
And House Velaryon? It had always hovered just beneath the dragonlords, never quite rising high enough. But now… now it had him. A wildcard. A tide-changer. And tides, he mused, were his to command—both literally and figuratively.
There had even been a chance, however slim, that House Velaryon could have usurped House Targaryen itself in the original timeline. Dragons, they had. A claim through Rhaenys, they had. According to Valyrian custom, they might’ve made a case. But that timeline was gone, drowned in the sea of what-ifs. This world was his now, and he had no intention of letting it play out the same way.
If the Dance happened, he would pick the side that served him best—or perhaps forge one of his own. Now that was an idea worth entertaining.
His thoughts wandered to his mother, seated behind him in a deep royal blue gown. What would Rhaenys say if he set his sights on the Iron Throne? If he dared to strip House Targaryen of its crown—her father’s house, her pride? She took such pride in her ancestry, and her love for her father ran deep. Would she denounce him? Or would she follow him?
As if sensing his thoughts, Rhaenys's violet eyes met his with a subtle question behind them. Laenor offered her a faint smile and a shake of the head before turning back toward the tiltyard.
Below, the battle between Daemon and Criston Cole neared its end. As expected, Criston's morningstar proved too much for the Rogue Prince to handle. Though Daemon fought fiercely, the outcome mirrored the books: Criston triumphed.
Criston approached the royal stand and presented the victor's laurel to Rhaenyra, who accepted it with a smile. Laenor, seated so close, could see the fine sheen of sweat on the knight’s brow and the gleam in his eye. Had Daemon lasted a few minutes longer, perhaps he could have turned the tide. But the ending was already written. The laurel was always meant for Rhaenyra.
Just as the crowd erupted into cheers for Criston, the air changed.
A massive shadow swept across the field, drowning the sun in silver. The roar of approval from the smallfolk died, swallowed by stunned silence as all eyes turned skyward.
A dragon.
Not just any dragon—Laenor had seen Meleys and Caraxes enough times in Maidenpool these past days, their immense forms soaring above the city. They were titans by mortal standards.
But this one… this silver she-dragon was something else entirely.
Larger. Sleeker. Faster.
She tore across the sky like a comet, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone—leaving only a gust of wind and awe-struck silence in her wake. Laenor barely caught more than a flash of scales and the glint of sunlight on wings. But that was enough.
Quicksilver.
The dragon that once escaped Balerion's jaws still lived.
“Why is she here?” Laenor’s mother asked, her voice tense with unease.
“How would I know?” Viserys replied, nervousness slipping through his usual composure. “She was never chained again after Vhagar melted her shackles and set her free.”
“She seems to just be passing through, Mother. There’s no need to panic,” Laenor said, trying to stay calm.
“You’re still young if you think this is a coincidence,” she snapped, frowning in confusion. “She has never come here before. Dragons are unpredictable, Laenor—we can never be certain.”
She turned sharply. “I’ll be with Meleys. Send word to Daemon if anything goes wrong—we’ll need both Meleys and Caraxes if we’re to chase off Quicksilver.” Without another word, she strode off toward where her dragon waited.
From the royal stand, Laenor watched as King Viserys barked orders to the Lord Commander, who quickly dispatched a rider to summon Prince Daemon. The smallfolk were already fleeing the arena, pouring out of their seats in a panic, hurrying back to the safety of the city. Laenor shook his head at their shortsightedness and turned his gaze to the nobles—many still seated but visibly uneasy, staring up at the sky with growing dread.
Then it came—the roar.
A sound not just of fury, but of pain, rage, and something that Laenor couldn’t identify.
Quicksilver.
She burst from the clouds above, circling the tourney grounds with molten gold eyes locked on the royal stand. Her scales shimmered like forged steel, her rage palpable even from such a height.
Laenor’s thoughts raced. Why is she enraged?
“Why is she doing that, Kepa?” Little Rhaenyra asked her father, her voice uncertain but not afraid. For the first time, Laenor saw something more than a pampered child in her—a flicker of steel beneath that arrogance. “Kepus says ours is Fire and Blood. Then why is Quicksilver staring at us like that?”
Viserys had no answer. He stood frozen, watching the skies with a furrowed brow and an unreadable gaze.
A sudden roar shattered the stillness—Meleys had taken flight.
The Red Queen climbed fast, a crimson blaze against the blue sky, her defiance evident in every beat of her wings. She roared back at Quicksilver, who turned to face the challenge. The two she-dragons circled one another, neither attacking each other nor backing down.
Then came Caraxes. With a scream like torn steel, the Blood Wyrm surged into the sky, red and serpentine, a blur of fury and excitement.
Laenor clenched his fists, heat blooming in his chest—not from fear, but from anger. What in the Void is Daemon thinking? Charging in like that? Quicksilver would clearly not be defeated without Meleys and Caraxes being gravely injured?
He wasn’t the only one furious. Murmurs of outrage rippled through the nobles at Daemon’s reckless arrival. But as Caraxes neared the others, something unexpected happened.
Instead of attacking, Caraxes veered right, flanking Meleys and letting loose a deafening cry—not at the other dragons, but at the clouds..
And then, a shadow fell over them all.
Larger than Quicksilver. Darker than a stormcloud.
The roar that followed was long, drawn out. A deep, guttural sound that made the very air tremble.
“Seven, have mercy,” whispered Alicent, clutching a seven-pointed star to her chest as she dropped to her knees in prayer. All around them, gasps of horror and awe echoed. Laenor felt his heart hammering as nobles knelt and smallfolk wept.
Vhagar.
The largest living dragon, bronze with hues of green and blue, emerged above them like the fire made flesh.
And in response, the others roared—Meleys in challenge, Caraxes in ferocity, Quicksilver in a scream of fury.
Laenor turned to run toward the river—his hydrokinesis might aid his mother by distracting the older dragons—but his father caught his arm.
“I can help them,” Laenor insisted.
Corlys Velaryon stared him down. “Even if you could ‘help’ them, what happens after?”
“I can breathe underwater! I—”
But another explosion of sound above interrupted him. The dragons had clashed.
Vhagar, like an airborne mountain, lunged at Quicksilver, trying to pin her from above. But the younger she-dragon twisted nimbly, evading the crushing force of the elder’s body.
Then came the roar—not of war, but of betrayal.
Quicksilver screamed, a sound that chilled Laenor to the bone, and beat her wings with desperate strength, turning away from the field. She soared toward Dragonstone, abandoning the fight. Vhagar bellowed her victory and followed, the skies clearing in their wake.
Silence reigned for a long moment.
People exhaled. Some sobbed. Others laughed nervously in disbelief.
Laenor looked around at the stunned faces of nobles and royalty alike.
No one would forget this day. Not ever.
The ascension tourney of King Viserys Targaryen would be etched into memory as the day the world was reminded—dragons are power.
And before them, all men, kings or not, are small.
