Chapter 3: Father's Notes: Valyrian Blood and Magic
"I suppose you've handled everything well after my death, my child.
I'm sorry to see you like this for the last time.
I was not a good father; because of my willfulness and folly, you and your brother were branded from birth as the sons of a wanton princess.
Of course, I know you will not care."
Dragonzel curled his lips and continued reading.
The script remained beautiful—neat, flowing High Valyrian noble script.
"Everyone carries secrets, and your old man is no different. As for what that secret is, haha, it is no longer important; I have taken it to my grave, and there is no need for you to know."
"…"
Dragonzel suppressed the urge to hurl the book away and turned to the next page.
"Your old man was absurd for half his life and sober for the other half. Only at the very end did I realize that you are the cursed golden gift the gods sent me. A born Blood Witch—had there been no way to confirm it, your old man would almost have believed you were merely like me."
"A golden gift?" Dragonzel scratched his head in confusion.
"I believed I could master the magic spoken of in our family legends, or at least that the blood of House Varezes would allow me to hatch a great dragon. But, regrettably, I was wrong."
Dragonzel could sense the regret and dissatisfaction woven through his usually unrestrained father's words.
"I gathered countless mages; some indeed possessed skill, yet there were far more charlatans. If you ever have the chance to go to Qarth, remember to spit upon the House of the Undying for your old man. By the gods' own asses, those Warlocks—though they possessed some measure of ability—sought to draw both my blood and yours. Hmph. Had I possessed a dragon, I would have burned them first."
"You were maddened by your longing for a dragon, old man," Dragonzel thought to himself. Yet he understood his father's intent and had always followed his design.
After all, what Valyrian boy could resist the allure of dragons?
Countless nights, he had dreamt of soaring across the heavens, bathed in sunlight.
"Yet your old man was not entirely without fortune. I managed, at last, to achieve something, my child. I hope these accomplishments will aid you in fulfilling our grand design.
First, I trust you have read the ancient tomes brought by Dr. Visari and learned of the legends of distant lands, as well as the history of the Valyrian Freehold. Tell me—have you asked yourself: Why did the Valyrians rise? Why did a people long dormant for thousands of years bear such peculiar features? Why can the noble bloodlines among us command dragons? And from whence did dragons come?"
"Of course I have," Dragonzel answered under his breath.
"So did I. I read every family record, along with those texts brought by the mages. It is undeniable that the Valyrians could not have been a race born of mere nature; arcane essence flows within our veins. My child, do you still remember the motto of House Varezes?"
"My Blood Flows Silver," Dragonzel murmured. He had long harbored suspicions regarding this question, and now his father's notes seemed poised to confirm them.
"My Blood Flows Silver—that is our House's motto. In Westeros, your mother's House proclaims, 'Blood and Fire.' Have you noticed? We Dragonlord Houses revere and guard our bloodlines. In the age of the Freehold, the forty Dragonlords intermarried or wed within their own kin, not merely to prevent their blood from dispersing, but to preserve the arcane essence within it.
Son, you are a born Blood Witch. For you, purity of blood comes effortlessly. You know well that the source of a Blood Witch's power is blood itself. Not only Blood Witches—within the fire rites of R'hllor and the shadow arts of Asshai, blood sacrifice stands as a central pillar. Even our Valyrian Steel, according to our family's records, requires fresh blood during its forging.
Blood is the currency of the arcane world.
This is the law of equivalent exchange. And the blood of we descendants of Dragonlord Houses is more precious still. Your Blood Magic surpasses any Blood Witch your old man ever encountered, and therein lies my confidence."
Dragonzel frowned. He knew well the potency of his blood. Weapons anointed with it grew keener; poisons mingled with it became tenfold deadlier. Through blood, he could trace others, hear the thoughts of those who had consumed it, and even bend beasts to his will…
Yet he did not grasp the root of his father's certainty.
Their grand design was not complex. Cleorius had devised an intricate Blood Magic rune, said to shield against the curse of the Smoking Sea.
They intended to seek the lost host of Orion Valareus—and the dragon eggs he had borne with him.
"The bloodline of a Valyrian Dragonlord, joined with Blood Magic—do you understand now? Son, what I seek to recreate is the ancient rite by which the people of Old Valyria first bound and hatched dragons. Our House has ever kept ships patrolling the fringes of the Smoking Sea. What we know is this: the heart of the Smoking Sea is peril beyond reckoning. There lie the ruins of Valyria and most of the former Freehold. No matter what you do, you must not set foot in those lands.
Yet the outer regions—I believe that with proper arcane safeguards, you may lead a small company to explore them.
Along the western edge of the Broken Arm of Valyria lie the marshes crossed by the Valyrian Road, the former fortress-city of House Myrasian, one of our own cities, a Fire Warlock tower of House Geleisos, and several lesser estates. This knowledge comes from our House archives. If you possess the boldness, you may explore these lands to your heart's content—but remain vigilant.
We reconstructed Orion's path as best we could. Before his disappearance, his host was last seen in the marshes at the edge of the peninsula. If they did not venture into Valyria's heartland, then their remains—or their relics—may lie between our city of Vasor and Geleisos's Tower.
In the age of the Freehold, House Varezes served the Valyrian deity Vermithor, god of the forge. Thus, before the Doom, our House mastered the crafting of Valyrian Steel. Should you reach Vasor, you will find wealth beyond measure. At the very least, Valyrian Steel will not be scarce.
In the days of the Freehold, Dragonlords hatched dragons through volcanoes and sorcery. Now, after the fall of the dragons, the Targaryen Dragonlords in the Sunset Lands hatch dragons through the purity of newborn blood. Whatever their origin, one truth remains—for now, only our blood can command them.
That is enough. Child, within you converge the bloodlines of two great Dragonlord Houses. I believe the purity of your blood rivals even the Dragonlords of old. Forgive me, my child, for placing upon you so perilous a burden. Yet I believe you can succeed. Forgive me—for I was not a worthy father, to lay upon my son the weight of my ambitions and dreams."
"Everything is for the House." Dragonzel gripped the page tightly. "For the House… for Valarr and Ray and the others."
"My child, may honor forever course through your veins. May the blood of House Varezes never run dry. And may the glory of dragons soaring across the heavens return to our House once more."
Dragonzel lifted his gaze and closed his eyes.
Something clear as crystal fell soundlessly.
The shadows stirred, and a bearded man clad in crimson robes emerged quietly from the darkness.
"Dragonzel, my lord, are you prepared?"
Dragonzel opened his eyes and returned the notebook to its place.
"Begin, acolyte of the Red God."
"As you command." The red-robed monk bowed his head. "Son of God."
Bantaro Manor.
The towering orange trees shielded Volantis from the fierce sunlight, yet costly wine lay spilled across the ground.
Morgul Bantaro, head of House Bantaro, watched as Little Kavido collapsed into the arms of two trembling, beautiful slave girls, veins standing stark upon his brow.
"My lord! My lord! We truly did not know—the master only kept demanding more wine!" the male slave pleaded, clutching at his master's feet, tears streaming onto the marble. Then he saw his own body.
"Hmph." Morgul extended his foot toward a nearby slave girl, allowing her to lick clean the stain upon his boot. The Unsullied at his side silently withdrew his battle-axe.
"My lord, no known poison was detected in the young master's body," said the physician-slave, his face marked with a serpent tattoo, as he prostrated himself.
"I do not have such a foolish son." Morgul forced down his fury. "Prepare the golden palanquin. We go to Megya Palace."
"Yes, my lord."