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The Following 15 Chapters are available for Patrons.
Chapter 29 (Set Your Wings Free), Chapter 30 (The Young Dragon), Chapter 31 (A Song for A Lady), Chapter 32 (The Calm Before), Chapter 33 (Lady Hightower), Chapter 34 (The Storm), Chapter 35 (A Dance Under The Full Moon), Chapter 36 (Magic is Dark and Full of Lies), Chapter 37 (A Prince and A Princess), Chapter 38 (A Tourney of Sacrifice), Chapter 39 (Words are like an Arrow), Chapter 40 (Viserys's Decision), Chapter 41 (Aenar's Answer), Chapter 42 (You Will Doom Us All), and Chapter 43 (The First Cry of War) are already available for Patrons.
Aenar Targaryen
"Higher!!" A thunderous roar filled the air, resonating through the vast training yard, as the commanding voice of Aenar's father reverberated with unyielding determination.
Beads of sweat glistened on Aenar's furrowed brow as he strained to raise his shield higher, the weight of his father's relentless attacks bearing down upon him. With every swing of the sword, his father's strikes grew swifter and more forceful.
Though Aenar's shield often managed to intercept and deflect his father's onslaught, the physical disparity between them became increasingly evident. With each clash of steel against steel, Aenar's determination burned brighter, fueling his desire to match his father's unparalleled expertise.
Aenar often was able to block an attack, but his father was faster and stronger than Aenar, and despite Aenar's knowledge of swordfighting, he still was young.
With the grace of a seasoned warrior, Aenar skillfully maneuvered his shield, narrowly deflecting the training sword's strike just milliseconds before it made contact with his gleaming metallic barrier. The resounding clash reverberated throughout the vast training yard. Feeling the sheer force behind the blow, Aenar instinctively took a few measured steps backward, momentarily recoiling from the impact reverberating through his arm and resonating in his bones.
Fatigue began to settle in his right arm, weariness creeping into his muscles as they strained to keep the formidable shield aloft. A sharp twinge of pain shot through his body with each subsequent strike.
Aenar usually had more stamina than kids his age and even older kids, but his arm was exhausted, causing it to throb with an unrelenting soreness. The training had been raging for three relentless hours, and despite his determination, Aenar could feel the tendrils of weariness creeping into his bones. Each breath he took grew heavy, burdened by the weight of his labored exhales. Sweat cascaded down his face in rivulets, akin to miniature downpours, as if his very pores had transformed into miniature storm clouds. The searing rays of the sun bore down on him mercilessly, intensifying the discomfort that coursed through his tired body. To exacerbate matters, the shield felt heavier; each sword blow he deflected only further emphasized its weight.
Aenar's muscles were taut with anticipation, and he raised his shield valiantly, locking eyes with his father. His father circled him like a cunning predator. Each step his father took seemed deliberate as if he were biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash his lethal strike. Aenar, determined to show himself worthy, mirrored his every move. With a swift and calculated motion, he executed a decoy swing. However, Aenar consciously chose not to block his father's subsequent swing, which changed direction. As his father's blade veered towards his vulnerable stomach, Aenar deftly used his trusty shield, turning the lethal trajectory aside.
As the impact reverberated through Aenar's body, a searing pain surged through his arm, intensifying the agony. Yet, to his astonishment, his father unleashed a flurry of three more forceful strikes upon his shield, each blow resonating with a resounding thud. Aenar's arm throbbed relentlessly, and the mounting pain gradually numbed his senses, rendering his shield-bearing limb utterly inert. It hung limply at his side. Aenar's father deftly positioned the tip of the training sword right beneath his son's quivering chin, compelling him to gaze upward into his piercing eyes.
"You done well, Aenar. You can rest for today," his father said, his voice brimming with pride and admiration. A gentle smile danced upon his lips as he clasped Aenar's left hand, offering unwavering support. A wave of exhaustion washed over Aenar's body, his muscles yearning for respite after a grueling day. With a sigh of relief, he released the weighty shield from his right arm, feeling the burden lift from his weary bones. Yet, despite his efforts to alleviate the discomfort, a persistent ache lingered, causing his arm to throb in protest. Aenar winced, his brows furrowing, as he gingerly massaged his right shoulder, desperately seeking solace from the relentless pain that clung to him like a persistent shadow.
Whenever he needed to either put on his armor or remove it, his father had shown him the first time how to do it; after that, his father had told Aenar to do it only by himself, with no one's help, wearing and removing his armor was training for Aenar, the armor was quite heavy, Ser Ryam would often try to help, but Aenar would order him to not to, that was one of the ways, Aenar trained himself every day.
"I know it hurts, Aenar, but the pain is part of every sword training, if there's no pain, then the Master at arms is doing something wrong," With a keen awareness of his son's weariness, Daemon, his voice laced with concern, gently instructed Aenar, handing him a bottle skin filled with refreshing water. As the parched young warrior gratefully accepted the offering, his numb and fatigued arm suddenly rejuvenated with newfound strength. Without a moment's hesitation, he eagerly quenched his thirst, savoring every satisfying sip from the bottle.
As the sparkling water cascaded down his parched throat, Aenar felt an instant rejuvenation coursing through his veins. Absentmindedly, he gently massaged his aching shoulder, a testament to the grueling training session he had just endured. Despite the throbbing pain that resonated through his weary bones, Aenar harbored no resentment towards his father; he knew the pain was indeed part of every sword training. Memories flooded his mind, vivid recollections of Theon's finger fracturing under the relentless strain of swordplay, not just once but multiple times, much the same as Robb's injury.
As Aenar winced in pain, Robb's mocking voice reverberated through his mind, taunting him. "It hurts doesn't it, congratulations Jon. You just broke your first finger," Robb's words echoed, dripping with amusement. The sting of his broken finger served as a painful reminder of the intense training session they had just endured. Unlike Robb, whose satisfaction was evident, Maester Luwin's reaction was far from pleased. With a disapproving gaze, the wise Maester reminded them that training should not involve the reckless shattering of each other's bones for mere entertainment.
Jon Aenar repeated the name under his breath; it sounded strange to say it; he hadn't heard the name for a very long time. After everyone learned who he really was, everyone eventually started calling him by his real name, except for Arya; she never stopped calling him 'Jon' until she drew her last breath.
"J-Jon, Where is my needle?" Arya's desperate plea echoed through the cold air, the urgency in her voice fading into the silence as her chest froze, refusing to rise again. Her once lively eyes now held a vacant stillness, extinguished like a flickering candle extinguished by a gust of wind. The crimson stream continued relentlessly flowing from the gaping wound on her delicate neck. Jon crumbled to his knees, his anguished sobs reverberating through the air as he pressed his forehead against Arya's, seeking solace in the cold touch of her lifeless skin.
At that moment, Lady Stoneheart let out a scream of sorrow. '
Aenar felt his heart suddenly beat faster; it felt like someone was squeezing his heart, his eyes burning with unshed tears that he refused to let go. Aenar realized something. He hadn't thought of them for a very long time. He had started forgetting about his past life. He had started forgetting about everyone that once mattered to him. Rhaenys, Daenerys, Arya, Robb, and everyone else.
Aenar wondered if he was betraying their memory by not remembering them, by not thinking about them, or maybe they would have wanted him to not dwell on the past and focus on the present, to not cry and spend his time mourning about something that had long passed and would never return to how it was, Aenar wasn't sure what he should do, as he remembered the words of the old man.
"You keep running away from what you can't escape. But don't you see, my dear boy? If you keep running, you will be running for eternity. You must embrace the Flame, embrace the fire that burns within you, and let it guide you on your path."
Aenar escaped his thoughts as metallic melodies reverberated through the air. His gaze instinctively ascended, drawn towards the epicenter of the tumult, where his father valiantly engaged in a fierce duel against a knight in the heart of the meticulously manicured training yard. An eclectic congregation of servants, knights, and onlookers had assembled, their collective gazes fixated upon this grand spectacle as Prince Daemon's enthralling combat unfolded before their mesmerized eyes.
His father, as usual, was showing off, with a constant smug smile on his face as he clashed sword with the poor knight, easily overpowering him; Aenar snickered as his father skillfully disarmed his opponent, causing the knight's weapon to fall helplessly to the ground. Daemon's sword, poised with precision, drew closer to the knight's terrified face.
Aenar watched as his father launched himself at the opposing knight, his sword slicing through the air with precision and brutality. Each strike was executed with relentless determination. And then, as the knight's defenses weakened, his father delivered a powerful swing that sent the enemy's sword plummeting to the earth. With a swift and calculated motion, his father unleashed a devastating punch. The knight, momentarily protected by his helmet, was not spared the impact entirely, but it was enough to send him crashing to the ground, his consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers. A trickle of crimson liquid escaped from his nose, staining the earth beneath him.
As Prince Daemon stood before the enraptured audience, basking in the resounding cheers that echoed through the training yard, he gracefully extended his arms, reveling in the adulation that enveloped him. Yet amidst the sea of faces, it was the sight of his cherished young son, his eyes gleaming with unbridled admiration, that truly warmed Daemon's heart. A radiant smile bloomed on the prince's face, a testament to the immense pride and joy he felt in that moment, unable to resist the infectious happiness that emanated from his little boy.
"My father enjoys the attention," Aenar turned around to see Ser Ryam behind him. His loyal knight always followed him around, never leaving him out of his sight, and Ghost was also right next to Aenar. It had taken a while, but Ser Ryam had gotten used to Ghost's presence, and Ghost had gotten used to Ser Ryam, especially when the latter gave him a whole chicken. Ghost, at that moment, had smiled at the knight as if Ser Ryam was his owner.
"My father always loved the attention; he likes to bloat about his abilities with a sword," Aenar said with a smile as his eyes flickered at his knight behind his shoulder; the knight had a thoughtful look before nodding in agreement.
"Ser Ryam," Prince Aenar inquired with a touch of curiosity, his voice tinged with an endearing awkwardness, "how were you when you were, well, younger?" As the words escaped the prince's lips, a mischievous glimmer danced in his eyes, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the weathered knight.
"Well, unlike Prince Daemon, I enjoyed the fight, but never the attention. I joined the King's Guard and loved the thrill of fighting when I was much younger, but as I grew older. I only want to protect the Royal Family." Ser Ryam answered with a smile across his old face.
"What was your closest fight ser?" Aenar questioned, right now paying attention to the old knight and less to his father, who was beating up another knight effortlessly; his father was playing with the knight rather than fighting him seriously.
"A pirate, if you can believe it. Aedaer was a beast, his choice of weapon was a strong axe. They say he once cut the heads of five men with one swing." Ser Ryam said with seriousness. Aenar couldn't help but remember Euron Greyjoy; he also used a strong axe as his weapon.
"Well, do you believe he did it?" Aenar questioned, with no hint of skepticism in his voice, something that took Ser Ryam a little off guard. Usually, many would take that as nonsense.
"I saw the man swing his axe at me. I believe if he had the opportunity, he would have easily done it." Ser Ryam answered with a stern look on his face, his hands caressing a small slash scar on his jawline.
"How did you win?" Aenar questioned, knowing someone who used a Great Axe must lack in speed; they were powerful weapons, but Arthur always said that speed was far more important than strength.
"I was faster and lucky. He made a mistake, and my sword was the last thing he saw," Ser Ryam answered with a deep look on his face; their attention was quickly drawn to yet another fallen knight. The prince, basking in the glory of his victory, triumphantly raised his arms skyward, eliciting thunderous applause from the crowd surrounding them. Meanwhile, the defeated knight lay sprawled on the ground; his back pressed against the earth, his anguished moans echoing through the air as the pain coursed through his weary body.
"You know a young Prince like you usually doesn't enjoy the company of an old man like me," Ser Ryam said humorously. Aenar chuckled as he turned his head to look at him.
"I enjoy your company, ser," Aenar added as they both watched Prince Daemon defeat yet another soldier. Aenar could see the looks the servants were giving his father; he had seen the same look quite often, especially when his father was in the training yard and showed his skill publicly.
"Well, glad to hear that, your grace." The old knight said with a smile across his old face. Aenar's gaze suddenly went to a lady gracefully strolling towards him, accompanied by a distinguished older knight. The lady's presence was impossible to ignore, for she donned a resplendent red gown that flowed elegantly with each step she took. Adorned upon her delicate fingers were glistening golden rings, sparkling like rays of sunlight. Her lustrous locks were meticulously brushed. The lady and her noble companion drew closer to Aenar with each measured stride.
The sun's golden rays danced upon the knight's gleaming armor. As the knight extended a hand in camaraderie towards Prince Daemon, a glint of recognition sparked in Aenar's eyes, drawn to the intricate sigil of House Hightower emblazoned upon the knight's breastplate. A shiver ran down his spine, his once-warm gaze turning icy as he realized the true identity of the warrior. Aenar's sudden shift in demeanor did not go unnoticed as Ghost rose to his feet, his fiery crimson eyes fixated intently on the approaching lady.
Aenar stood up from his seat and walked towards his father, who was dueling the Hightower knight, followed by Ser Ryam and Ghost, who paid attention only to Aenar.
Aenar watched as his father was playing a little with the knight, trying to see first how powerful he was before actually dueling them; the knight seemed to not notice that he was already making the mistake of giving it all from the beginning. Aenar knew the knight would soon get exhausted, making it easier for his father to win the fight.
"You must be Prince Aenar," As Aenar turned to his right, his eyes met the lady's gaze. The corners of her lips curled into a warm smile as she gracefully closed the distance between them, her every movement akin to a dance. At that moment, Aenar couldn't help but notice the alluring scent of her perfume, which now filled the air even more strongly. It wafted towards him like a gentle breeze, reminiscent of a garden adorned with vibrant, blooming flowers. As his gaze traveled down, a resplendent red gown shimmered and sparkled under the midday sunlight as though it was woven from threads of pure radiance.
"Prince Aenar Targaryen, might I know your name, my lady?" Aenar asked with courtesy as his lips gently brushed against her delicate hand; a flush of crimson instantly suffused the lady's cheeks, her face resembling the scarlet hues of spilled blood.
"Lady Alicent Hightower," the moment those words reached Prince Aenar's ears, his mood soured. The smile still lingered on his face, but Ser Ryam could tell right away something was bothering the prince; the brief stiffness was something he knew the prince sometimes did when he was nervous or tense.
"A beautiful name, my lady. I hope you are enjoying your time in King's Landing?" Aenar asked with enough courtesy, his voice sounding formal, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I am enjoying my time, my Prince. King's Landing is beautiful. The dragons are majestic," the lady answered; her words seemed to dance on the air, mirroring the graceful movements of her tiptoe, which appeared as though it yearned to join the rhythm of a joyous song.
"You like dragons, my lady?"
"I always have; dragons are magnificent. They're beautiful," Lady Alicent answered with a tone that Aenar knew wasn't sincere; he detected a subtle insincerity in her response, as evidenced by the disconnection between her words and the lack of genuine warmth in her smile, which failed to reach the depths of her eyes. Moreover, Aenar's observant gaze noticed the presence of scabs near the delicate contours of Lady Alicent's fingernails.
"I liked them too, my lady, especially Cannibal," Aenar answered; his words caused Lady Alicent to look at him as if she didn't quite hear him right.
"Cannibal?" She spoke out the name with a tiny hint of fear that she tried to hide behind a smile.
"Indeed, Cannibal is my companion. Which dragon do you like, my lady?" Aenar questioned with a hint of intrigue as he observed his father getting a little rough with the Hightower Knight.
"I-I-" Lady Alicent's voice trembled as she began to speak, her words stumbling over each other like stones on a treacherous path. The radiant smile that once graced her lips faded like a waning moon, replaced by an expression tinged with vulnerability and uncertainty. With a palpable sense of relief, she finally managed to utter her response, "I like Vermithor," the weight of her words lifting a burden from her weary shoulders. Aenar caught a glimpse of something amiss, the faintest trace of blood staining the delicate skin around Lady Alicent's fingertips.
"He's quite a sight, my lady, but do you know the knight that is fighting my father?" Aenar questioned as he turned his attention back to the fight; his father was now obviously getting the better of the Hightower Knight, his sword easily overpowering the poor knight who tried to protect himself with a shield, with each relentless strike unleashed by Daemon, the Hightower Knight's struggle to shield himself grew increasingly arduous, especially evident when a sudden grimace of pain contorted the knight's face.
"He's my brother, he's the best knight in House Hightower," Alicent spoke with a look of pride on her face.
"Your brother is about to lose," Ser Ryam interjected into the conversation; he was fully paying attention to the fight.
"H-he can't," Alicent said, her voice cracking as her brother's sword slipped from his grasp and resounded with a resolute thud upon the ground. Prince Daemon brought a swift, bone-crushing punch directed towards the knight's vulnerable midsection. The impact reverberated through the air. The knight, his body crumpling like a fragile paper doll, succumbed to the forceful blow, collapsing onto the earth's embrace, defeated and broken. Writhing in agony, the knight clutched his wounded arm. Maesters, their steady footsteps quickening with urgency, hastened to his side.
"Your brother fought well," Aemon said, seeing the way her body stiffened as she glared at her brother, who was still lying on the ground, defeated while moaning in pain.
"He promised me," Aenar heard her murmur under her breath, but he didn't comment on it as his smile brightened up once he saw Queen Alysanne approaching him, while Alicent quickly stepped further away, trying to not be noticed by Queen Alysanne.
"How is my little dragon?" Alysanne questioned with the brightest smile on her face. Aenar leaned in swiftly, planting a tender peck on each of her cheeks. Alysanne reciprocated the affectionate gesture, her lips brushing against his cheeks. She enveloped him in a warm, heartfelt embrace.
"How are you, great grandma?" as his words reverberated through the air, the radiant smile reciprocated, spreading across her face like the first rays of dawn. However, as her eyes inadvertently shifted toward Lady Alicent, her welcoming gaze transformed into an icy glare reminiscent of the cold and unforgiving grasp of Winter itself. Aenar's inquisitive mind began to wander, questioning the reasons why Queen Alysanne harbored such palpable disdain towards Lady Alicent.
"Aenar, the King wants your presence in his bedchamber," She instructed with courtesy. Aenar nodded right away as he walked away from the training yard, followed by Ser Ryam, Ghost, and Queen Alysanne.
As they ventured further into the corridor, Prince Aenar cast a quick glance over his shoulder, locking eyes with Ser Ryam. The knight, aware of the unspoken request, obliged by taking a few discreet steps back, followed by Ghost. This subtle retreat granted Aenar the privacy he sought as he ascended the regal staircase.
"Great Grandma, you don't like Lady Alicent?" Prince Aenar questioned innocently as they walked upstairs. Queen Alysanne, slightly lagging behind her energetic grandson, gracefully conquered each step with a semblance of ease, her regal presence undeterred by the modest challenge of the staircase.
"She lied to Jaehaerys. She told him that she was my dear Saera. She lied to the king," she spoke with venom in every word she spat, her face red with anger.
Aenar bit his tongue, restraining himself from not asking about Saera; his great-grandmother loved to share everything about her life, but not about Saera; that was the one subject she refused to discuss, and Aenar knew better than to ask her.
Aenar felt his anger flaring up; he remembered what he had read in the books about Dance of the Dragons, the books made it seem as if the King had mistaken Lady Alicent as his daughter, and Alicent had often told him who she was; but the King had a short memory on his last years, and would mistake her as Saera quite often.
Yet, now, she had lied to him, lied to the King that his daughter had returned from the Narrow Sea; Aenar felt his anger rising even more as his hands turned to fists. House Hightower had caused so many problems for House Targaryen.
Aenar suddenly felt a sudden touch on his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts, causing his mind to abruptly shift gears. Startled, he lifted his gaze to look at his great-grandmother. With a gentle smile adorning her face, she lovingly caressed his cheek, the warmth of her touch enveloping him in a blanket of affection.
Her words, dripping with sweetness, danced through the air, soothing his inner turmoil. "Hey, don't get angry. I don't want to see my little dragon angry," she whispered, her voice a melodic lullaby. Instantly, a radiant smile blossomed on Aenar's lips and unfailingly found its way into his heart. No matter how tempestuous his emotions, she possessed the extraordinary ability to effortlessly conjure a smile upon his face.
"What does Great Grandpa want from me?" Aenar pondered aloud, his voice echoing through the corridor as they maneuvered around the corner. The path ahead unraveled towards the opulent King's solar, adorned with intricate tapestries. A stoic Kingsguard stood sentinel, his armor glinting under the flickering torchlight. The walls, bathed in a warm hue of yellow, seemed to radiate an ethereal glow, evoking an illusion that they were made of Gold.
"Jaehaerys wants to talk with you; he wants to spend time with you. I'm sure you won't mind that," Alysanne said with a smile. As they reached the King's Chamber, the Kingsguard respectfully stepped aside; Aenar's curious gaze met his great-grandmother's wise eyes.
Perhaps, he pondered, she would guide him through the regal doors and to the king's chamber, but to his surprise, Alysanne motioned for him to walk inside all by himself.
As Aenar entered the chamber, the heavy wooden door swung shut behind him, emitting a resounding click reverberating through the room. The sudden stillness that enveloped the chamber caught his attention. Not a single sound could be discerned save for the crackling of the fire dancing within the confines of the stone fireplace, casting flickering shadows upon the aged walls.
As Aenar ventured deeper into the chamber. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows on the stone walls, guiding his gaze toward his great-grandfather's bed. Swathed in a cocoon of soft, woven blankets, the elder appeared peacefully asleep, his weathered visage illuminated by the gentle glow of the nearby lantern.
Nestled beside the slumbering patriarch's bedside, a small wooden table stood sentinel, adorned with a meticulously crafted knife holder. Its intricate carvings seemed to dance in the flickering firelight. And there, perched atop the table, lay the object that captured Aenar's attention: the catspaw dagger. As deadly as it was alluring, its slender, curved blade shimmered like liquid moonlight, reflecting the flames that danced with a mesmerizing allure in the nearby lantern.
My father's dagger! Aenar thought, astonished, as he slowly walked towards the dagger; he remembered Ser Barristan telling him that the dagger used to belong to Rhaegar Targaryen.
With measured steps, Aenar sauntered towards the gleaming dagger. As he drew near, his small hand reached out, delicately curling around the handle crafted from the ancient bones of a mighty dragon. The weight of the weapon felt reassuring in his grasp.
With a deft motion, Aenar liberated the dagger from its resting place within the knife holder, the metallic clink piercing the air. The sheath offered little resistance as he slid the blade out, revealing its razor-sharp edge that glinted with a menacing glimmer.
He tilted the weapon, allowing his eyes to meet his own reflection on its polished surface. For a moment, Aenar saw himself. He marveled at its unparalleled sharpness, the blade as sharp as the day it was forged.
"It belonged to Aegon, The Conqueror," Aenar quickly looked to his right to see his great-grandfather moving his upper body upwards from the bed, looking at Aenar.
"It's a dagger that has been in our house for a very long time," Jaehaerys spoke as he extended his old hand towards Aenar, who handed him the dagger without saying anything. Jaehaerys placed the unsheathed dagger on the flames.
"Valyrian Steel, like Dark Sister and Blackfyre," Aenar said, watching the flames kiss the Valyrian Steel; its once cool surface began to radiate warmth, transforming into a hue of yellowish gold.
"Yes, but this blade holds a secret," Jaehaerys said as he gently wrapped his fingers around the handle of the blade, unphased by the scorching heat that engulfed it. His great-grandfather's hands maneuvered the weapon through the dancing flames. Intricate Valyrian script began to materialize atop the blade's surface, each letter radiating a crimson glow.
"From my blood comes the Prince that was Promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire," Aenar spoke with astonishment as his eyes widened in shock. He had never known the blade was hiding any secret message; not even Ser Barristan ever brought up that the blade had anything carved into it.
"Our ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, he saw a vision, the darkness will come from the North, they shall bring upon the second Long Night, and the only way to fight against the Darkness is for House Targaryen to reunite the realm, for the Dragons to fight. For All of them to fight together against the Dark," Jaehaerys spoke, his fingers touching the blade, his fingers brushing against the carved words into the blade.
"The Others!" Aenar suddenly said without thinking. "Aegon knew of them!" He continued out loud, causing his great-grandfather to turn his head to look at Aenar with a deep, calculating look.
"You knew?" Jaehaerys asked right away with intrigue. Aenar looked at his great-grandfather, his mouth opening and closing several times, trying to come up with an excuse.
"I-I had a dream," Aenar answered with a slight stutter; his great-grandfather's expression showed that he didn't fully believe him, but he didn't comment on it. Instead, he motioned for Aenar to sit on the chair next to his bed.
"Aenar, the prophecy I told you is important. I want you to remember it, and never tell anyone, not even your own father," he said.
"Why me?"
"I had a dream, Aenar. Dragons falling from the sky, but those Dragons that remained they bowed their heads to you. I want you to remember what I told you and what I told Aemon and Baelon a long time ago." Jaehaerys spoke softly as he grasped Aenar's hand, his old hands grasping his young ones, looking at his great-grandson with warmth and love.
"The crown is heavy, and one needs more than a name to wear it properly. The Crown is made by Strength and Wisdom. Anyone can be lucky enough to be born with the right name to wear a crown, but the crown will Crush you if you don't have the strength to wear it. I told my sons, now I want you to remember my words. Aenar, remember, fulfilling your Dreams is important, but don't make the mistake I made. Love those you love; the day will come when you can't anymore; cherish them, my boy." Jaehaerys spoke with warmth and kindness in every word. Aenar smiled at his great-grandfather, and for the first time, Aenar shared a hug with his great-grandfather.
Jaehaerys was stunned but quickly hugged his great-grandson back. "You're iā sȳz riña, se pāsan kesā sagon iā rōvēgrie vala (You're a Good kid, and I believe you will be a great man)," Jaehaerys said; at that moment, the weight of his years seemed to melt away as tears, like liquid memories, cascaded down his time-worn cheeks, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
Aenar knew he needed to change quite a few things, to ensure that House Targaryen would stay in power, and the dragons wouldn't fall, one of them was the full invasion of Dorne. Aenar felt his blood boil at the mere thought of those snakes, the pain he had felt that day, Aenar still valued what Arthur Dayne had taught him, but Aenar had made a promise to himself, and House Martell would pay for what they did.
Pulling away from the hug, Jaehaerys had two more things for his great-grandson; he slowly extended his hand and grasped the handle of the Valyrian Steel dagger. he sheathed the dagger before presenting it to Aenar who looked ready to say 'No,' but Jaehaerys quickly opened his mouth before he could say anything.
"Your father has Dark Sister. Viserys will have Blackfyre once he becomes King. I want you to have Dragon's Tooth. A gift from an old man," Jaehaerys said with a bright smile on his old face that for a moment made him look younger than he was; his great-grandson still looked conflicted but eventually grasped the handle, accepting the gift.
"I will cherish this, Great Grandfather. Thank you," Aenar said wholeheartedly as he tightened the Valyrian Steel dagger on his waist. Jaehaerys smiled at the sight; his great-grandson already looked like a warrior.
Jaehaerys wished he could live just a little longer; he wanted to see Aenar grow up, grow up, and become a good man. Jaehaerys really wished he could be there to see the light coming from Aenar. A proper Prince of House Targaryen.
"I know you will; now, can you sing a song for me, my boy." Jaehaerys requested as his upper body gracefully descended upon the plush mattress, the softness enveloping him like a warm embrace. Nestling his head upon the cloud-like pillow, he let out a contented sigh, basking in the golden rays of sunlight filtering through the closed windows. As the tranquil ambiance surrounded him, he turned his attention to Aenar; as Aenar cleared his throat, a symphony of sweet melodies began to resonate through the air.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most
The ones who'd been gone for so very long
She couldn't remember their names
They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
They danced through the day
And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall
From winter to summer then winter again
Til the walls did crumble and fall
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones Who had loved her the most."
There will be a time skip after Chapter 29 (Aenar and Cannibal).
The Pairing in this Story is Jon/Laena/Rhaenyra.
Let me know in the comments what You think about the Chapter. I Hope You have a Wonderful Day.
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