They are the ones whose souls desire freedom. They are those who can both destroy the world and allow it to flourish. They are dragons. Dragons dancing in fire. But the flame is not deadly, but bountiful.
The story of Dayraena of House Gelarion, rid...
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~TheBloodofOld Valyria ~ Chapter XV
She met Damon as the sun set over the sea, giving way to the moon surrounded by stars. The corridors of the castle were bathed in the warm glow of torches, and the living rooms were lit with candles and fireplaces to keep the cold night of the Fire Island from making them uncomfortable.
The prince had expected to see a library the size of the throne room of the Red Keep, but after following Dayraena through the tall oak doors behind Daemon, who seemed a little lost, he found himself in a small, even cramped room filled with shelving.
"Welcome to the abode of my family's secrets," her voice became low and drawling. She paused, turning around and spreading her arms as if she were showing off her domain.
"I admit, I expected more," the prince said with a joking tone, his eyes fixed on a full-wall tapestry of dragons soaring among the tall towers.
"Bigger? You'll be surprised..." Raena said enigmatically, and smiled, noticing her guest's interest in the brightly embroidered cloth. "I had no idea you'd be interested in it."
The man hummed and started walking toward the tapestry, trying not to bump the tight shelves with his shoulders. Dayraena followed him, running her hand along the dusty shelves of folios on which all sorts of spells were inscribed in Valyrian. This temple of her family's ancient knowledge was a kind of comfort to her in her hour of grief and need. In the early years of their marriage, when Daeron had locked this room in a fit of rage, wanting to take everything from his wife and to make her grovel before him, begging forgiveness for having wronged him in some way, Dayraena had been distraught, but she would never humiliate herself before her husband.
This magical place held not only the spellbooks of Old Valyria, but also biographies of some of the House of Gelarion that had lived in the Republic destroyed by Doom. Dayraena remembered how long she had studied every book and scroll in this sacred place, how she had absorbed the knowledge, gained strength, and excelled in the magical field. Her mother sometimes helped her with the most complicated magic formulas, but the rest of the time Dayraena was left to herself, so she could call herself self-taught.
And she was proud of it.
"I may not know anything about weaving, but this tapestry was definitely not made in Westeros."
Dayraena didn't notice as they approached the huge canvas. She shook her head to shake off the obsession and focused on the delicate work of the weavers.
"You're right. This is the work of valyrian craftsmen," the woman ran her palm lovingly over the glistening surface of the multicolored mottled threads. Daemon repeated her actions.
"It was as if it had just been finished."
"I don't know how old this tapestry is, but as far as I know, it will remain like this forever. The Valyrians were skilled at everything."
