(Tides and Canvas) Chapter 14: Gifted Dreams (Patreon)

Chapter 14: Gifted Dreams

108 AC, Driftmark

And as evening turned to night, Laenor Velaryon continued to draw, feeling calmer with every stroke of his brush on the canvas, distilling his dream into a painting, where its beauty would cement the warnings that lay within, before they slipped away like mist beneath the morning sun.

The world was on fire. Laenor could not make up the earth or the sky, for there was nothing but the endless ever-shifting flames, each one murmuring a secret that he could not hear. In the distance, he saw the flames take something of a structured form, one that almost resembled impossibly tall fortresses, rising from the ground. At least, it did, until a great bird rose from its depths, approaching him, turning darker, its features becoming more distinct into those of a raven, the closer it got. The raven flew in circles before suddenly changing direction, diving towards him.

Just as Laenor prepared himself for the impact, he woke up with a gasp, which made him twitch.

Slowly, but surely, he opened his eyes, breathing heavily, as he looked around and saw the familiar sight of his Workshop. He… he had been asleep, hadn’t he? Ah, yes, he had not returned to his chambers the previous night, having spent the entire night painting and falling asleep while sitting upright on his stool.

Slowly, the memories of what happened in the previous day came back to him, and he paled as he remembered his joust with Gwayne Hightower, taking the Queen’s favour for ransom, while also being challenged to joust against a Kingsguard, one that was very hostile to him.

There were also the dreams that he had on the beach. They were so vivid, so clear, and he obviously knew that they meant something, and more critically, the ones with Ser Criston Cole violently beating men in a melee. One of them was strangely familiar. He remembered feeling rage and pain at it. Was the man planning to kill him?

Laenor shook his head. No, these were nothing more than dreams, but then again, his blood was proof in the power of dreams, for it was Daenys the Dreamer who had saved House Targaryen, a woman whose blood ran through his veins. Something within him told him that these were no ordinary dreams, and he believed them.

That said, he looked at the work of his previous days, the painting that he had made while half-exhausted and half-mad from whatever visions he had while on that beach, and he would admit that there was an unnaturalness to it, one that had never been in his work since he painted his father’s gift before the war began, the one of the Merling King.

He had painted a story then, a song, where, in this case, he had painted a dream. Laenor often thought that he was cursed when he painted, for he had realised that he could not stop himself from painting truths. He had learned after many tries not to paint portraits, for he captured details, subtleties, truths that he knew most would not be unwilling to accept.

He could not paint his father’s face without an ambitious and greedy look in his eyes, his pursuit of power and a legacy that he treasured so. He could not paint his mother without showing the hints of rage that lay beneath her skin, a rage at the world itself for taking her birthright from her, and giving the throne to an unworthy man, just because he was a man.

Laenor hid these paintings in an unassuming chest that he left in the corner of the room, unwilling to destroy them, yet knowing that no good would come from displaying them. They were there, alongside the one that his father had asked him to give to Prince Aegon for his nameday, that of King Viserys. Despite whatever he tried, he could not paint the man without showing his weakness, the rot slowly spreading across him, turning him into a corpse king.

It felt like a fundamental truth, a depiction of the man that wore the crown, and what a sad thing it was. He had hidden it alongside the others, of course, and thought to just gift the boy one of his older (and normal) paintings and be done with it. But this one, what he had just drawn, he instinctively knew that he had to be given to House Targaryen, though he was not sure where this instinct came from. Perhaps it was meant as a warning of some sort; he did remember the panic and fear he felt in his dream. He did not know, but perhaps whoever it was meant to would know.

Despite how unnatural the painting felt, Laenor was awed by what he had accomplished on this day, for it was, without a doubt, a masterpiece. He stared at his work for some time before quickly covering it as a knock at his door startled him.

Laenor spoke up, “Come in.”

The tension that he felt at a newcomer disappeared as he realised that it was Laena who stood by his door, “Laenor! You worried everyone when you disappeared last night. You even missed the feast with the royal family. Father had to tell the king that you were busy with Prince Aegon’s nameday present, but then the servants said that you didn’t return to your chambers last night.”

He couldn’t help but smile sheepishly at that, “I apologise. I was tired after the joust with Ser Gwayne, and I needed to clear my head after the Princess’s challenge.”

At that, Laena’s eyes burned with determination, “The gall of that girl to use a Kingsguard to challenge you like this… I wished to throttle her last night.”

Laenor waved his hand to calm her, hiding how unsettled he felt at the memory of the girl, which, for some reason, was greater than the knight that he had seen bludgeon people to death in his dreams, “Let us not speak of treason and killing members of the royal family. I suppose that I am late for the joust then?”

“Ah, I forgot that you were not there. At the end of the tourney’s events, Father claimed that the tourney would pause this day as it is Prince Aegon’s nameday. There will be a great feast tonight in the Great Hall. It seems that your joust with Ser Criston will have to wait.”

The young Velaryon slumped in relief at that, wincing slightly as the act made him remember the bruises that he felt. He needed a day to clear his head and perhaps recover. Gwayne Hightower’s tilts were certainly not gentle, no matter how well Laenor designed his armour and saddle to take them.

Laena must have noticed this, as she practically ran to his side, “Are you hurt?”

“Just bruises, Laena. Don’t worry, but I suppose that I should probably show my face soon, or else people would start having questions.”

He stood up, and it took a few moments until he felt comfortable enough to walk around. He turned to take a glimpse at his covered painting once more, the echo of his dream given form, before making his way back down alongside his sister.

Laena must have caught his gaze as she gave him a curious look, “Is that a new painting?”

“My gift for the prince. Father had not spoken falsely when he said that I was working on it.”

“Can I see it?” she asked with excitement brimming in her eyes.

He shook his head, “You’ll see it tonight, alongside the rest of the realm. But for now, where do you think we should go, then?”

Laena winced at the reminder, “Mother asked me for a gathering that she has set up in the gardens, which I am sure will be boring. As for you, I heard that most have gone to the training yard either to spar or watch other sparring. I will try to convince Mother to come see. It is not often that we see some of the best knights of the realm fight, and the melee is not till the end of the tourney.”

Laenor smiled at that, “Then I suppose I should wish you good luck, then.”

His sister huffed at him before giving a gentle look, “I will be cross with you if you get hurt.”

It took some time for Laenor to bathe himself, wear fresh clothes, and make his way to the training yard. He heard it before he saw it, with the clang of tourney swords echoing as well as some cheers and jeers in the distance. His sister was not wrong, for most knights in the realm were there, practising, likely for the coming melee. However, most of their families, lords and ladies, were also there.

Laenor saw in the distance many members of the small council, including Lyonel Strong, who was watching his son, Harwin, spar against a man wearing House Reyne’s colours. Most importantly, Princess Rhaenyra was also there, watching the fights dispassionately and with barely any interest.

He also saw Ser Criston, who was fighting against one of the other Kingsguards, and was quite on the offensive. He wielded his Morning Star with a viciousness that made him remember his dream, making Laenor stiffen at the sight.

Joffrey was also there, sparring with a Frey of all people, and looked quite happy, given the smile on his face. Laenor felt a measure of guilt at that. While he had gotten quite good with a sword, he had never felt passionate about fighting anyone, and that included sparring. He hadn’t done any of it with his friend in some time, probably since his father returned from the war, given the pressure that he was under. Perhaps after the tourney, he would make some time to spar more.

His attention was taken by two squires, around his age, who began to shout at one another and began to spar, quite violently, in Laenor’s opinion. While it was not out of the ordinary, the risk of injury, even with tourney swords, was quite high. Laenor heard a voice mutter a curse, and he turned towards its source with a questioning look, only to freeze.

The source of the noise was a young woman, perhaps one or two years older than him. She was slender, but her hair was a cascade of dark curls reaching down to her waist. Her eyes were black, with a hint of greyness in them. The girl in question was cursing beneath her breath as she stared at the fight.

She quickly realised that he could hear her, given the blush that overtook her face, “I apologise for my uncouth words, Lord Velaryon.”

Laenor snorted, “I don’t mind. May I ask which one of them is the source of your cursing?”

“The taller one is my younger brother,” the girl answered with commiseration, “My father will not be happy with such a commotion, even if it’s against a Bracken. Then again, perhaps he will applaud him should he win, and gain the princess’s attention.”

 “You must be a Blackwood of Raventree Hall then,” he asked, remembering their legendary rivalry between these two houses.

“Alysanne Blackwood, daughter of the current Lord Blackwood. And you must be Laenor Velaryon, the Sea Snake’s son, and the mystery knight in the joust.”

Laenor choked on his spit on that last part, especially given the surety in her voice, and spluttered, “How?”

“Very little can be hidden from those who have the blood of the First Men running through their veins,” The girl answered with a serious and yet mysterious tone, which quickly turned into snickering, “I also saw the bruise on your shoulder, exactly where one of Ser Gwayne’s lances hit the mystery knight. The knight’s frame was smaller than that of a full-grown man, and his armour was well-made, meaning that it belonged to someone who would grow out of it soon. That was a symbol of wealth, likely the person riding being the son of a lord. I looked around and noticed that you have the right frame and height, and that you were not there during any of the jousts when the Knight of the Tree and Stars participated.”

Laenor turned towards Alysanne Blackwood and, despite being found out, couldn’t help but smile at that. The girl in question blushed slightly, probably after almost babbling half of her explanation, and changed the subject, “You do know that the Queen has an unofficial bounty on your head, don’t you?”

The young Velaryon blinked at that, “She does? I suppose it is to be expected; an unknown knight did take her favour. Even if he didn’t do anything with it, half of the realm would start selling silk handkerchiefs and claim that they belonged to the Queen.”

The girl snorted at that, “It would be quite the shame if the gallant knight were revealed to the Queen, such a shame indeed. Unless, of course, someone was to spend time around this young maiden, to relieve her from her boredom, and protect her from the many squires who seek her courtship.”

Laenor chuckled at that, “Then I suppose that you have your protector, Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

Both of them burst into laughter and continued their conversation. Laenor was impressed with the girl’s intelligence and wasn’t overly worried about being revealed as the Knight of the Tree and Stars, as he planned on doing so anyway. The Queen would also not dare do anything, not while she was in Driftmark, and she would look quite petty for holding a grudge over such a small offence after the tourney ended.

Truthfully, he found Alysanne to be fun, and not quite a simpering, obedient girl like most of the noble ladies their age. She was also an archer, which was a skill that he loved. They continued their conversation in peace, while trying to ignore how Princess Rhaenyra’s gaze kept shifting towards him every once in a while. It had not taken long until the feast was to begin, and they separated to sit near their respective families.

It was a normal feast, well, as normal as it being the first nameday of the son of a king. Even his father wasn’t that unhappy, especially given the compliments for the food and the small fortune’s worth of spices that were spent making it. Laenor didn’t really mind; every noble had scoured Spicetown for a gift somewhere, and the merchants there had inflated most prices, knowing this. Laenor expected a tidy profit from the feast in taxes, hopefully enough to pay for the food and entertainment at the very least.

Of course, Princess Rhaenyra did seem to be frowning for most of the time, which had unsettled him greatly. Then again, everyone was prepared for the man to just announce the boy to be his heir and be done with it, which would reduce her status. Laenor did his best not to let the girl bother him, especially the glowering Kingsguard next to her.

At the height of the feast, when the last of the first courses had been cleared, and the musicians softened their tune, King Viserys rose from his seat with Aegon in his arms.

“My lords,” he said warmly, “it would seem that it is time for gifts. I do wonder who should begin.”

Murmurs spread across the hall, which was silenced by Otto Hightower’s words, “It would be fitting, Your Grace, for our gracious hosts to begin.”

Several heads turned at once toward the high table of House Velaryon. Laenor’s father turned to him and gave him a nod, which he returned. He had already brought the painting down earlier when the feast began. And so, he rose from his seat, aware of eyes following him as he crossed the hall.

He took the painting in his hands, the cloth still draped over it, and returned to stand before the King, letting his father speak, “This is a painting made by my son, Laenor. Though most would find more expensive items, I assure you that you will find no finer gift for your son this day, for my son’s work is the finest that I have seen in all my voyages.”

A ripple of polite laughter followed, likely expecting this to be a mockery of the royal family in some way, an insult draped in a cheap gift. They were immediately silenced as Laenor removed the drape covering his painting, being quickly replaced by gasps of awe.

The king, himself, seemed almost frozen, and he swore that he heard the man mutter, “Gods!”

Laenor suppressed a smile at all of this. After all, his father had asked him for a suitable gift, hadn’t he?

AN: This story is still relatively new, so if you'd like me to continue it, please let me know in the comments what you think of the rewrite so far.

I had fun writing this chapter. It wasn't as eventful as it probably should have been, but I liked the idea of introducing Alysanne Blackwood. Also, this is not the same Alysanne that Cregan Stark marries in the future, so her age isn't a factor. There will be details later in the future, but I thought that her addition made the chapter a bit more interesting, given that it was essentially Laenor's introduction as an artist to the realm. As usual, I don’t mind rewriting this chapter depending on your feedback, so please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.