89 AC. Antillia Island
Corlys inhaled the crisp air, which vibrated with the heavy scent of magic. He took immense pride in the work he had poured into this remarkable sanctuary. Antillia was one of the islands within the chain known as the Stepstones. Ten years ago, when Corlys decided to hatch his dragons, he had faced a critical dilemma. Hatching them was the easy part; the difficulty lay in finding a place where they could grow and thrive far from prying eyes. Had the lords of Westeros, and especially the Royal Family, discovered that the Velaryons possessed dragons, Corlys had no doubt the Targaryens would have moved to destroy them. Back then, they weren't ready for an open confrontation with the rest of the realm. To avoid such a headache, Corlys chose this island. Antillia, as he named it, was surrounded by treacherous reefs for ten kilometers in every direction, making it impossible for any ship to approach. He had also woven a magical fog around the island, dense enough to disorient any dragon not belonging to his bloodline. Everything was designed to protect the island and its inhabitants.
From the Valyrian tomes he had recovered, Corlys had learned there were three ways to hatch a dragon. The first was the method practiced by the Targaryens: placing an egg in a babe's cradle and hoping it would stir. The second was to place the egg within a great pyre and ignite it, fueling the birth with life-force in the form of a human sacrifice. While this method could wake even petrified eggs, it had flaws; dragons born of blood and sacrifice tended to be wilder, more disobedient, and less intelligent. The third method involved using dragonfire—or witch-fire—to transmit pure magical energy into the egg to awaken it. The books claimed that dragons born this way grew stronger, smarter, and more ferocious than any others.
Before hatching them, Corlys performed a ritual over the eggs that bound each one specifically to his bloodline. Thanks to this rite, no Valyrian or Targaryen who did not share his direct blood could ever hope to mount these dragons.
Corlys would never forget the day those three magnificent creatures hatched. The way they had scrambled onto his shoulders, and the unbreakable bond he felt forming between them, would remain etched in his memory forever.
This island was a home not only for his dragons but for the magical creatures he had brought from his previous world. He had also planted various magical flora, later harvested as ingredients for his potions. The island was tended to by House-elves, who were delighted to assist Corlys in maintaining the grounds. Thanks to the concentration of magical beings and plants, the background magical frequency here was higher than anywhere else. Corlys had gone even further, performing a ritual to anchor the island to the world's Ley-lines, surging the ambient magic even higher. This contributed to the rapid growth of his dragons, who were already larger and stronger than Caraxes—proving the old adage that dragons need freedom, not chains and pits.
His reflections were shattered by the roar of three young dragons. Sensing their rider's presence, they streaked toward him, weaving through mountains and narrow canyons with incredible speed and agility. They radiated pure joy. Reaching Corlys, they landed with a grace and lightness unfitting for creatures of such immense size.
"Finally, you have returned, Corlys," one of the dragons hissed in Parseltongue.
Corlys was pleased to see his theories confirmed: the dragons of this world could indeed communicate in the language of serpents. He was also convinced that his method of birth had made them far more intelligent and obedient than the captive dragons of the Targaryens.
"Could I ever truly forget you, brother?" Corlys asked with a smile.
He could never have imagined how deeply he would come to love these creatures. Their bond grew stronger with every flight; nothing could compare to the sensation of soaring through the clouds. His past experience as a Seeker in Quidditch had made him a formidable and seasoned dragonrider.
"You were gone too long," another dragon hissed.
"I flew with you only two days ago, Isis," Corlys protested with a laugh.
He had named them after figures from his old world. Neltharion was a massive black dragon with violet patterns tracing his body and eyes of the same hue. Midir was a stunning dragoness with silver scales and piercing blue eyes. Isis, named for the Egyptian goddess of magic and fate, had scales of deep gray and penetrating emerald eyes. A distinguishing feature of his dragons was their front limbs, giving them a hexapedal structure that offered a distinct advantage over the wyvern-like dragons of the Targaryens. Corlys hadn't stopped at Valyrian techniques to empower his favorites; he had developed new potions to increase their strength and the density of their scales. Thanks to his alchemy, it would now take massive bolts forged of Valyrian steel to even hope to pierce their hides. Given the scarcity of that metal in this world, it was unlikely anyone would risk the little they had.
"What do you say to a flight?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Neltharion lowered a wing, allowing his rider to mount. Once Corlys gave the signal, they surged into the sky. The two dragonesses kept pace, letting out cries of delight. Corlys circled the island several times before mentally commanding Neltharion to climb higher. Reaching the desired altitude, he unclipped the chains securing him to the saddle and prepared for a stunt no other rider would dare.
Taking one last look at his companion, he stepped off and plummeted into the void. The sensation of free-fall was intoxicating. Corlys knew he could rely on his dragons, and Midir did not disappoint. She glided through the air beside him, drawing closer with every passing second. When the sea water was dangerously close, Corlys caught the saddle; Midir leveled out at the last possible moment, skimming the waves with a triumphant roar.
"Now it is Isis's turn to catch you, Father," she hissed, ascending back toward the clouds.
Corlys repeated the feat several times, flying with his beloved companions until sunset. He cherished these flights; they reminded him of the days he taught his own children to fly brooms and play Quidditch.
After bidding the dragons farewell, Corlys Apparated home. He was tired, but he had ideas on how to spend the rest of his evening.
89 AC. Driftmark
It was late, and the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. Inside Corlys's bedchamber, the rhythmic creak of the bed and feminine moans filled the air.
"Don't stop," whispered the dark-haired woman, her slender, shapely legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Smirking, Corlys squeezed her breasts and quickened his pace. They continued for some time until Corlys felt he was reaching his limit. He gripped her hips, driving with increasing force.
"I'm close," he growled into her ear. With one final thrust, he spent himself inside her, pushing her over the edge of her own pleasure. Corlys collapsed onto his back, breathing heavily after a three-hour marathon.
"Gods, you have no idea how much I needed that. You've had so little time for us lately. It's a pity Alysia couldn't join us; I could have used her help," Joanna said, her slender arms encircling his torso as she rested her head on his chest.
Joanna Celtigar was a beautiful woman of thirty-two who had become a lady companion to his mother. Joanna had been married at eighteen to an old man who died a month into the marriage, after which she had adamantly refused to become a bride again. Her lord had intended to send her to a motherhouse to become a septa until Alyce offered her a place at High Tide.
Alysia Tarth had a similar story. She had been married off to a lord in the Stormlands, but after three years of failing to provide an heir, she was cast out like a broken toy. No one cared that her "husband" was a seventy-five-year-old man whose "equipment" was entirely non-functional. Alyce had known Alysia's mother and decided to help the poor girl, who had been abandoned by her own father. Now thirty-four, she was perfectly happy living at Driftmark.
To this day, Corlys couldn't fathom parents who sold their daughters to old men for a plot of land or a chest of coin. If anyone had approached him with such a proposal in his past life, he would have buried the fool on the spot.
Their passionate arrangement had begun when he was eighteen, and he was quite satisfied with his mother's decision to bring them into the household. Though they kept their nocturnal activities discreet, Alyce had sniffed out the truth quickly enough. She had initially fumed, accusing the women of "corrupting" her son. Corlys often laughed at that—it was debatable who had seduced whom. Eventually, his mother calmed down, finding the silver lining: it was better for her son to stay out of brothels and away from gold-digging harlots, even if it meant tolerating her two protégées in his bed.
Waking the next morning, Corlys prepared for the day. Joanna was still sound asleep. Leaving his chambers, he found his familiar lying before the door, as expected. This was Ares, a black panther he had found as a cub during one of his travels. Usually, Ares slept in the room, but when Corlys was not alone, the panther preferred to wait outside, sparing himself the sight of his master's diversions.
"Forgive me if the noise disturbed you, my friend," Corlys said to his loyal familiar, who looked at him as if considering biting his head off. Not that it would be difficult for him; Ares was a massive beast, rivaling a lion in size.
After lunch with his family, he threw himself into his duties, and time blurred. Returning to the castle, he learned that Lord Daemon had ordered a family dinner.
The atmosphere was joyous. The table was laden with various dishes, many of which were recipes Corlys had shared from his previous life. Lord Daemon looked radiant, watching his family with pride. Despite losing more than half his kin to the Shivers years ago, Daemon was at peace with the strength of his house. House Velaryon was more powerful than ever, and the old lord knew he could trust the future to his grandsons, especially Corlys.
He looked once more at his great-grandson, who was curled up comfortably in his arms. The boy looked remarkably like his grandfather, and it was no wonder he bore his name. The memory of his late son made his heart ache, but he pushed the thought aside to focus on the present. Handing young Deamon back to his mother, the old lord asked Corlys to escort him to his bedchamber.
Walking through the richly decorated halls, grandfather and grandson reminisced about the boys' childhood pranks. Daemon didn't stop smiling as they reached his door. He embraced Corlys, bidding him a warm goodnight before sending him to bed.
...............................................
The first rays of dawn were breaking when a maid entered Corlys's room to wake him.
"My Lord," the girl whispered, trying to rouse him.
"What is it, Elsa?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep. "Why wake me so early?"
The girl, Elsa, looked at him with a somber gaze, and Corlys immediately felt the shift in the air.
"My Lord..." she began. "At dawn, the servants went to prepare Lord Daemon's clothes, as they always do..."
Corlys's heart skipped a beat.
"I am so sorry, my Lord... Lord Daemon passed away in his sleep. Please, accept my deepest condolences." She lowered her head.
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A/N
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