Balerion Tower
Laenor, with the two ladies—Melisa and Elaena—turned back the way he and Elaena had come earlier. Melisa's steps were hurried, almost unsteady, and if her worry over the troubling news from House Gontaris was not enough, she seemed to grow more flustered each time Elaena drifted too close to her. Laenor could not understand why a dragonlady of Valyria, born into a powerful clan, would appear so timid and easily unsettled in another's presence.
Yet Melisa was soon to be part of his family. That thought alone was enough to stir a faint sense of responsibility within him. With a steady breath, Laenor reached out, caught Elaena gently by the wrist, and drew her closer to him, silently signaling that she should walk at his side rather than shadow Melisa.
"I am truly sorry if my presence disturbs you, Lord Laenor," Melisa said softly, though her pace quickened further, as if the corridor itself might swallow her whole.
Laenor exhaled through his nose and shook his head in mild exasperation. He could only hope that marriage to Daemion would lend the young lady some measure of courage—or else Daeron would tease her mercilessly for years to come.
"If you wish to continue where we left off," Elaena murmured, leaning subtly closer again, "I can make some excuse to Father for our absence. The news can wait until after we are finished."
Her nearness brought the familiar urge back with unnerving force. The pull, the temptation—it rose swiftly, almost overwhelming.
But before his restraint could falter, Laenor lengthened his stride and moved ahead toward where Melisa had gone.
"Are you attempting to seduce me?" he asked bluntly, his tone low but steady. "And do not lie to me, Elaena Drakonar. You know well how such games end with me." There was warning in his voice, unmistakable and firm.
Elaena scoffed lightly and matched his pace, though this time she kept her distance, careful not to brush against him. "And what if I am?" she replied, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Yet she glanced sideways at him, gauging the danger in his expression. "By your reaction, you find me appealing. There are no games this time, Lord Laenor. My intention is plain. I intend to marry you—or die trying."
The certainty in her voice startled him more than the boldness of the words themselves. Her face held no trace of jest.
"Those are dangerous vows to make," Laenor said slowly, surprise threading into his tone. "Die trying? Is it worth your life for something that will not happen? I have already given you my answer, have I not?"
"Then why do you lean toward me every time?" Elaena countered softly. Her eyes searched his, hopeful yet questioning. There was a fragile light within them that he could not easily dismiss.
His silence, brief though it was, seemed to embolden her.
"You find me attractive, Laenor Velaryon. Admit it."
"When did I deny it?" he replied evenly, earning a flicker of triumph in her gaze. "But attraction rooted in beauty alone is a fragile thing. Beauty fades. It always does."
By then, they had reached the elevator once more. Melisa stood waiting there, hands folded neatly before her, posture composed though her cheeks still held a faint flush.
"In those western barbaric lands, perhaps," Elaena said coolly. "But here in Valyria, every dragonlord and freeholder knows that the beauty of Drakonar's does not wither like that of lesser blood."
Laenor raised a brow at her claim. Elaena's pride was not feigned; either she lied confidently, or it's the truth she is speaking.
"Is that so, Lady Melisa?" he asked gently.
Melisa startled at being addressed and nearly stumbled in her courtesy before nodding quickly. "Yes, my lord," she answered in a soft voice. Laenor regarded Elaena thoughtfully as the elevator started moving downward.
"Both the men and women of House Drakonar are said to possess and retain a beauty that was considered otherworldly even among the Dragonlords—at least until they are either very old or dead." Melisa replied, her voice soft yet steady. For a fleeting second, her gaze shifted toward Elaena with the faintest hint of jealousy before she quickly looked away again, schooling her expression.
"And when does this 'very old' age come?" Laenor asked with genuine curiosity. "Fifty? Sixty years?"
"Eighty." It was Elaena who answered this time, her chin lifting slightly. "After a Drakonar turns eighty, the years claim them swiftly. We age in a handful of seasons what others age in decades, until our eventual demise."
"So in the end, even Drakonar beauty fades," Laenor remarked with a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Melisa could not help but smile at that, though she tried to hide it behind her hand. Elaena, on the other hand, flushed red with annoyance.
"Not as quickly as lesser men," she shot back, her tone edged with pride.
Lord Maelor's Solar
By the time they reached the solar of Lord Maelor, Laenor and Elaena had drifted into a brief discussion about the recorded history of her clan—their ancient rites, their peculiar blood traits, and their influence within the Freehold. Guards standing at attention pushed the heavy doors open without hesitation.
Elaena entered first, her posture composed once more. Melisa followed, still visibly tense, and Laenor stepped in last, his expression calm. He had seen enough of Balerion Tower's grandeur not to be impressed by the luxuries within Maelor's private chamber. The carved pillars, inlaid gold, and shelves of ancient scrolls were expected within the solar of one of Valyria's most powerful dragonlords.
Lord Maelor was not alone. Aelor, the High Steward of the tower, sat beside him at a smaller table laden with parchments. At their entrance, Aelor rose immediately and bowed slightly.
"Forgive me, Lord Laenor," Aelor said respectfully. "I was unable to greet you upon arrival."
Laenor waved the apology away. "No fault of yours. My visit was unannounced."
With that, Aelor excused himself, leaving the chamber quietly.
"It is good to see you return to this tower, Lord Laenor," Maelor said, rising from his chair. He stepped forward and clasped Laenor's hand firmly. Afterward, he motioned for Laenor to sit beside Elaena. Melisa took the seat on Elaena's other side, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"It is good to see your home again, Lord Maelor," Laenor replied evenly as servants approached to pour wine into gold-rimmed cups. "How fares your day?"
Maelor's expression darkened slightly. "Not well, if I am to speak plainly. First the Council's sudden gathering… and now troubling movements from the Gontaris and Aetharyon clan." His gaze flicked briefly toward Melisa, gauging her reaction.
Her fingers tightened further.
"I received word only moments before your arrival," Maelor continued, lifting his cup and taking a measured sip. "I was contemplating sending notice to your father at once."
"Do you believe they have learned of the marriage?" Laenor asked, leaning back slightly in his chair. His tone was calm, but his eyes sharpened.
"I cannot say with certainty," Maelor admitted. "What I know is this—the return of the dragon legion did not go unnoticed. Nor did their halt at Blackfyre Tower. It would not surprise me if word of the marriage slipped from Lady Rhaenys's slaves or from that tower. If Maegor heard even a whisper of it, he would not hesitate to inform that brute Aetharyon." Maelor's jaw tightened. "He lacks the spine to stand against me alone."
He drained the rest of his wine in a single swallow and set the cup down with controlled force.
"Though," he added after a pause, "I may be wrong. It could be speculation born of caution. Still, their movements are real."
Silence settled over the solar. Of the three seated beside him, Melisa appeared the most distressed. Her breathing had grown uneven, her eyes darting between Lord Maelor and Laenor.
"Whatever the reason," Maelor said at last, turning fully toward Laenor, "we shall know soon enough. But now that you are here, Lord Laenor, I would ask plainly—if Maegor comes to my door, do you wish Drakonar clan to handle him… or will you handle him yourself?"
The question hung heavy in the air, weighted not only with politics, but with pride, power, and looming conflict.
"I will handle him and his clan myself," Laenor said without a moment's hesitation. His tone was calm, but there was iron beneath it.
The Zaldri clan had borne an ancient blood feud with the Gontaris for generations, one written in fire. With Melisa as the last true daughter of Zaldri and soon to be bound to House Velaryon by marriage, Laenor found it only fitting that he himself deal with Maegor and whatever prideful kin he brought with him. It would serve as a lesson—a reminder that neither Maegor nor the Gontaris stood as equals to him or to the house Melisa would soon join.
Melisa's eyes widened slightly at his declaration. Whether from relief or apprehension, it was difficult to tell, but some of the tension left her shoulders. Elaena, meanwhile, watched him with something unreadable in her lilac gaze—approval, perhaps, there was hunger in them too which Laenor chose to ignore.
"Very well," Maelor replied after a measured pause. He did not question Laenor's decision, nor did he offer to intervene further. The Lord of the Drakonars knew well enough that the young man seated before him could reduce the Gontaris's pride to ashes if he so desired. In truth, it would be advantageous for the Drakonars to allow Laenor to display his might openly before their rivals. Let the enemies of both houses witness it. Let them carry that memory into the Council chamber and weigh their words more carefully.
Maelor leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands together atop the armrest. "Now," he continued in a steadier tone, "will you tell me the reason behind your visit, Lord Laenor?"
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