Dance of The Dragonwolf

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The Following 15 Chapters are available for Patrons. 

Chapter 21 (A Song of Sorrow), Chapter 22 (Father and Son), Chapter 23 (The Brave Prince), Chapter 24 (The Mourning Dragons), Chapter 25 (Hightower), Chapter 26 (The Council of 101), Chapter 27 (Jaehaerys and Alysanne), Chapter 28 (A Last Talk), 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), and Chapter 35 (A Dance Under The Full Moon) are already available for Patrons.

Aenar Targaryen 

As they traveled South, the Royal Family's path unfolded with a delightful contrast to their previous expedition to the North. This time, their way was adorned with a series of castles, each one eagerly extending its hospitality to accommodate the distinguished guests - The Royal Family.

Lord Manderly stood out among the generous hosts, radiating enthusiasm as he organized extravagant feasts once again, surpassing his previous endeavors to honor the esteemed visitors. While the entourage reveled in the luxurious surroundings, Prince Aenar found solace in the company of Rhaenyra and Ghost. Although it took some time, Rhaenyra gradually shed her initial trepidation, finding comfort in Ghost's presence. No longer plagued by fear.

Whenever Aenar had the opportunity, he eagerly joined his father in training sessions, honing his skills in wielding a dagger. His father would impart valuable knowledge, teaching him the art of swiftly drawing a dagger from its holster with utmost agility. The lessons were not only focused on technique but also emphasized the importance of being prepared for any situation that might require the use of a dagger.

Daemon's voice resonated with authority, his words carrying the weight of experience. With a stern gaze fixed directly upon Aenar's eyes, he emphasized the gravity of his message, every syllable etching itself deep into his son's consciousness. "Swords, Aenar," Daemon began, his voice tinged with a hint of caution, "Swords are long and heavy," With a fatherly concern etched upon his weathered face, Daemon continued, his voice carrying a somber tone. "you might be the fastest swordsman in Westeros, but someone with a good hand and a knife, will always slice your throat before you can even pull out the sword in close distance," A hushed silence settled over the room as Daemon's words hung in the air, the weight of his cautionary tale resonating deeply within the young warrior's soul.

Aenar knew that in his past life, he never used daggers; he always preferred swords, so learning how to wield a dagger was something he had never been taught before; Aenar had nothing against it; he loved to spend as much time as possible with his father.

He always wanted an excuse to spend more time with him, he wanted to say that word as much as possible, and now without Lady Catelyn around, he knew he could say it as much as he wanted.

In the depths of Aenar's reminiscence, a nostalgic whisper danced through his mind every time he gazed upon Daemon as if a fleeting echo of Lord Stark resided within him. A constant interplay of emotions unfolded within Aenar's heart, for he couldn't help but draw connections and contrasts between the two. Initially, a part of him feared that he was inadvertently replacing the cherished memory of Lord Stark with Daemon.

Daemon gradually emerged as the father figure he had always yearned for, his paternal essence seeping into Aenar's being, filling the void that had long haunted him. Yet, amidst this profound connection, a disconcerting realization began to surface in Aenar's consciousness: the recollection of Lord Stark's visage was slipping through his fingers like elusive smoke, fading into the recesses of his mind. The once vibrant image of Lord Stark grew increasingly obscure, scarcely gracing the canvas of Aenar's thoughts, leaving him yearning for the memory that was slipping away.

As they embarked on the arduous journey back to King's Landing, Prince Aenar found solace in the presence of Queen Alysanne. With every passing moment, their connection grew stronger as the prince would serenade her with his melodic voice, weaving a tapestry of enchanting tunes that resonated deep within the queen's soul. The queen, captivated by the prince's vocal prowess, would often shower him with heartfelt compliments, her eyes sparkling with admiration. In those tender moments, she would bestow upon him affectionate kisses.

Amidst their shared moments, the queen would delve into the recesses of her memories, unveiling tales of her childhood that she once confided in the young prince.

Aenar eventually noticed that she didn't call him Aemon as often as she used to before.

Surprisingly, his great-grandfather had wanted an audience with him a week after they left Winterfell.

' With a firm grip, Prince Aenar reached out for the ornate silver handle of the royal door, feeling the coolness of the metal against his palm before gingerly pushing it open. As the door swung wide, he stepped into the threshold of the wheelhouse, his eyes swiftly adjusting to the subtle illumination scattered throughout the dimly lit expanse. The vast room stretched out before him, its grandeur shrouded in shadows, while the dancing flames of countless candles cast eerie, flickering patterns upon the surrounding darkness. Intrigued and somewhat perplexed, Prince Aenar couldn't help but wonder why the king's chamber was cloaked in such a pervasive obscurity, where even the windows were veiled beneath heavy black curtains as if shielding some enigmatic secret from the prying eyes of the world.

Aenar's gaze was drawn to the slumbering figure of the King, nestled amidst the opulent drapery of his regal bedchamber. The air hung heavy with the pungent scent of potent liquor, evoking a vivid recollection of Maester Luwin's quarters, where the aged scholar took great delight in preserving that unmistakable aroma. In his wisdom, Maester Luwin had often regaled Aenar with tales of the nocturnal rodents' aversion to the heady fumes of alcohol, thus justifying his peculiar choice of fragrance.

Prince Aenar approached the king's bed with the utmost deference, his voice dripping with courtesy as he spoke, "Your grace, you called for me." Bowing his head in profound respect, his regal presence filled the room, accentuated by the captivating gaze of his purple eyes that directed their attention toward the humble wooden floor below. Meanwhile, as the wheelhouse navigated its way through a treacherous stretch of the road, a small dump unexpectedly materialized, sending a ripple of vibrations through the entire chamber, causing delicate trinkets and tapestries to tremble in tandem with the prince's graceful bow.

From the comfort of his regal bed, the aged king uttered words with a timeworn rasp, his voice barely audible above a mere whisper. "Aenar, I am truly grateful you came," the king addressed, his words floating gently through the air. As Aenar respectfully inclined his head in a deep bow, his mind couldn't help but wonder, drawing a parallel between the frailty of the old king's voice and Maester Aemon's melodic timbre.

Despite his advanced age, Maester Aemon defied the passage of time as his voice resonated with a youthful vigor that belied his years. On the other hand, the words that escaped King Jaehaerys' lips carried a weariness and fatigue that revealed the toll Winterfell's departure had taken on his once robust health. With every passing day, his physical condition had deteriorated ever so slightly, casting a shadow on his regal countenance.

"What can I do for you, my King?" Prince Aenar asked, finally raising his head. His gaze, though not meeting the king's eyes directly, showed respect and deference. The question hung in the air, waiting for a response from the realm's ruler. 

"Open the curtains, my boy. I want to see you," The old King spoke with a hint of melancholy, his weary voice echoing through the vast chambers of the wheelhouse. Aenar swiftly responded to the King's request, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors as he made his way toward the wheelhouse window. With a sense of purpose in his eyes, Aenar gently grasped the heavy velvet curtains, their rich burgundy fabric tinged with age, and pulled them apart with a flourish. As the curtains gracefully unfurled, the majestic rays of sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the polished parquet flooring. The room, once shrouded in darkness, was now bathed in a warm, golden glow, illuminating every intricate detail of the ornate furniture and tapestries that adorned the walls. The King, his eyes filled with bittersweet nostalgia, gazed out at the sprawling kingdom beyond, his heart heavy with both longing and regret.

The old king squinted his eyes in a valiant attempt to shield himself from the blinding radiance. His weathered face, etched with the marks of time, crinkled in response, bearing witness to a life well-lived. With a serene countenance, he released a contented sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of wisdom. In a silent gesture, a subtle flick of his hand, he beckoned for Aenar to draw nearer. Aenar, filled with both reverence and trepidation, hastened to the side of the monarch's grand bed, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished wooden floors. Gazing downward, his eyes momentarily fixed upon his own feet, he recognized the solemnity of the moment, aware that raising his gaze to meet the king's eyes would be deemed an act of utmost disrespect.

"My dear boy," the old King beckoned, his voice infused with a renewed vigor that resonated through the chamber, "come hither and take your place beside me." Prince Aenar graciously inclined his head in acknowledgment before deftly seizing hold of a glistening royal chain from the nearby ornate display. With utmost care, he proceeded to position the majestic link of honor in perfect proximity to the venerable monarch's stately bed.

The air was thick with anticipation as the young prince, adorned in regal attire, took a step forward, his voice laced with deference, "Your grace-" "Jaehaerys," Yet, before he could finish his address, the aged king, Jaehaerys, interrupted his great-grandson with a gentle but commanding gesture, his piercing amethyst eyes meeting Aenar's own, their rich purple hues converging in a poignant moment. The atmosphere grew heavy with a bittersweet mixture of melancholy and warmth as the elderly monarch drew a deep breath

"My name is Jaehaerys Targaryen. You can call me great-grandfather. What is your name?" The old king asked with a small smile across his old face as he looked up at Aenar.

"Aenar Targaryen, Great Grandfather," Aenar introduced himself, his voice slightly changing from courtesy to one of warmth, the same tone he used with his great-grandmother.

"Aenar," the old king repeated the name before looking back at his great-grandson. "You have a good Targaryen name. I couldn't think of a better name." He spoke, old and wise. The old king reached out, his old hand grasping Aenar's small hand. "What is that you like to do, Aenar?" The old king asked curiously, his right hand moving away from Aenar's hand as he grabbed a book from a table near his bed.

"Aenar," the old king repeated with a gentle nod, his voice laced with a hint of nostalgia, as he shifted his gaze back to his great-grandson, their eyes meeting in a moment of familial connection. The weight of his years seemed to hang upon his wrinkled face, each line telling a story of a life well-lived and wisdom earned. 

"You have a good Targaryen name. I couldn't think of a better name." he continued, his words dripping with pride. A soft smile played at the corners of his mouth, revealing his fondness for the young prince before him. With a tender gesture, the old king extended his weathered hand to clasp Aenar's small, delicate hand. Curiosity danced in the old king's eyes, shimmering like ancient embers as he leaned back in bed, his voice carrying the weight of genuine interest. "What is that you like to do, Aenar?" As he posed this question, his right hand gracefully disengaged from Aenar's grasp, reaching out toward a nearby table adorned with books.

"I like to read, great grandfather," Aenar responded with genuine enthusiasm, his eyes lighting up like flickering candle flames as the venerable king tenderly clasped a weathered book within his aged hands. With utmost reverence, the old monarch delicately positioned the tome on the velvet-strewn edge of his regal bed, revealing its resplendent scarlet cover adorned with an intricate ebony border, proudly displaying the intricately carved sigil of House Targaryen, a symbol of their noble lineage and indomitable spirit.

"I used to read too. Tell me what you like to read?" Jaehaerys questioned, with genuine interest, opening the book's first page.

"I like to read about the Age of Heroes, Rhoynar's Water Magic, and The Great Empire of the Dawn," Aenar answered with a childlike wonder; the old king listened to his every word intently and with a smile on his face. 

Aenar reminded the old king of himself when he had been younger and full of dreams.

He turned his gaze towards his great-grandson. With a twinkle in his eyes, Jaehaerys posed a question that was laced with nostalgia, "I used to read about them a long time ago. Have you read of Symeon Star-Eyes, the valiant knight with iridescent sapphire orbs for eyes?" As the words left his lips, he observed Aenar's face lighting up with excitement, his youthful eagerness shining through. A nod of affirmation accompanied by a childlike smile danced upon Aenar's lips, filling Jaehaerys's heart with a profound warmth.

"The blind knight, the knight who existed despite there being no such thing as a knight eight thousand years ago," Aenar answered with a bit of awe in his voice; he remembered that Bran used to talk about Ser Symeon; it was said that to this day, Ser Symeon was one of the most powerful knights to have ever lived, despite his lack of eyes, it was said the man could hear the water dripping down from hundreds of meters away, but many Maesters said such a thing was just a fairy tale and naught more.

"Indeed, the man wielded a long staff with Blades on each end. I read that he once was able to climb a wall all by himself. But Bran The Builder is the one that I find the most fascinating," Jaehaerys admitted his voice for a moment sounding much younger than his age.

"Why?"

"Bran The Builder had three little brothers, one that could lead, one that could fight, and the one that betrayed everyone. Bran was said to be able to build everything, even structures that should be impossible," Jaehaerys answered, his voice old and wise, taking a deep breath.

Jaehaerys and his great-grandson continued talking until dusk, discussing the water magic of Rhoynar and how they were able to kill three fully grown Dragons of Valyria with their magic. Still, then Valyria attacked once again, the second time with 300 Dragons.

They discussed the heroes, like Lann, The Clever, and the one who founded House Lannister. 

Garth Greenhand, the man who was said that die every Autumn, only to be reborn on the first day of Spring; some called him the Undying since people used to sacrifice themselves for him, and some called him a God.

Durran the First, the man who wedded the daughter of the God of the Sea, it was said the God of Sea and Godness of Wind never approved of their marriage; on their wedding day, they brought a storm that killed Durran's entire family, but Durran survived since Elenei protected him from her parents. Durran built another castle, but the gods would destroy them; Durran built a larger, stronger castle, but the same result, until the seventh castle was built, which was strong enough to resist even the strongest of Storms; that castle now is known as Storm's End.

The Grey King who wedded a mermaid and was the man who slayed the largest Sea Dragon, Nagga; her corpse still resides in the Iron Islands.

"Aenar, I heard you are good at singing, my boy," the old king asked kindly, and with warmth, young Prince Aenar quickly nodded with a smile; everyone told the young prince that his voice was beautiful, especially Rhaenyra, who sometimes would ask if he could sing her a song so she could sleep.

"Might I hear your voice?" Jaehaerys requested in a tone that carried a gentle longing as he graciously allowed himself to embrace a moment of respite. With his silver locks cascading gracefully onto the plush pillow, his head sank into its comforting embrace, creating a serene tableau in the grandeur of his bedchamber. 

"Yes, great grandfather," Aenar responded with a hint of profound respect. Taking a moment to compose himself, he cleared his throat with a delicate cough, his anticipation palpable in the air.

"Don't you think about me enough?

I've been burning my heart out

Got to face, need to tell you

I won't run 'cause I'm reticent

You will know you're reborn tonight

Must be ragged but I stay by your side

Even if my body's bleached to the bones

I don't want go through that ever again

So cry no more, oh my beloved

Go ahead, be proud and fight it out

You are the ONE, our rising star

You guide us far to home yet girt

Don't you think about me enough?

I've been burning my heart out

Got to face, need to tell you

I won't run 'cause I'm reticent

You will know you're reborn tonight

Must be ragged but I stay by your side

Even if my body's bleached to the bones

I don't want go through that ever again

So cry no more, oh my beloved

Go ahead, be proud and fight it out

You are the ONE, our rising star

You guide us far to home yet girt."

As Aenar's enchanting melody reached its final note, he concluded his song with a profound sense of accomplishment. Gently, he turned his gaze toward his great-grandfather, whose aged visage was illuminated by the soft glow of the sunlight cascading through the window. 

However, as Aenar's eyes met those of his elder kin, a bittersweet realization washed over him; his great-grandfather had succumbed to the soothing embrace of slumber, entranced by the mesmerizing strains of the melody. In the act of tender consideration, Aenar delicately closed the ornate book that had rested upon his lap. With utmost care, he placed it upon the table adjacent to his bed, ensuring that even the faintest rustle would not disturb the tranquil stillness that enveloped the room.

"I-I'm Sorry-" As Jaehaerys lay in a restless slumber, his mind immersed in a realm of dreams, he murmured a fragmented apology that escaped his lips in a hushed whisper. The sunlight spilled through the window, casting a soft glow upon his troubled face as he involuntarily tossed and turned, seeking solace in the cotton embrace of his pillow. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, tracing a path down his cheek, chilling the air with their cool touch. Aenar contemplated the idea of rousing his great-grandfather from this fitful sleep, concerned for his well-being. 

However, just as he was about to intervene, a sudden change swept over Jaehaerys' slumbering form. The heavy, labored breaths that had filled the room abruptly ceased, giving way to a gradual return to a calm and steady rhythm. Aenar's apprehension ebbed away, replaced by a sense of relief, as he watched the tranquility reclaim Jaehaerys.

"Please, Forgive Me." 

Now

Aenar had arrived in King's Landing with his family; it took a whole month for the Royal Party to ride from Winterfell to King's Landing.

Filled with anticipation and excitement, the young prince's heart danced within his chest as he eagerly anticipated the imminent arrival of a new addition to their family. Imagining the joyous moments that lay ahead, he could almost hear the echoing symphony of his little sister's tiny footsteps reverberating through the grand chamber, her laughter filling the air like sweet music. Oh, the adventures they would embark upon together!

His mind painted vivid images of them soaring through the clouds atop Cannibal, their laughter carried by the wind, intertwining with the exhilarating adrenaline rush. Aenar could already picture his little sister's enchanting appearance. Cascading down her delicate frame would be long tresses of shimmering silver. Her eyes, like precious gems, would hold a captivating allure - one a mesmerizing shade of gray, reminiscent of their mother's gentle gaze, while the other a deep and mystical purple, mirroring their father's eyes.

In the depths of Aenar's slumber, vivid dreams danced before his mind's eye. Aenar's heart swelled with anticipation as he envisioned the joyous moments that awaited them, their laughter echoing through the resplendent gardens of King's Landing. In his nocturnal reverie, he witnessed his sister frolicking hand in hand with Rhaenyra, their laughter mingling harmoniously with the gentle whispers of the wind. And in the tapestry of his dreams, he saw his sister twirling and giggling alongside Laena.

Aenar's mind effortlessly traversed the delicate tapestry of dreams. In the depths of his nocturnal reverie, he found himself amidst a picturesque garden, resplendent with vibrant blooms and sun-kissed foliage. The gentle breeze whispered secrets as his sister frolicked through nature's sanctuary, her laughter harmonizing with the melodious chorus of nature's creatures.

Enthralled by the whimsical dance of a mesmerizing blue butterfly swirling and twirling in a balletic display, she chased after its evasive flight. Aenar eagerly pursued his sister, his agile footsteps blending harmoniously with the symphony of petals beneath his feet. Time seemed to suspend its ceaseless march, as if the dreamscape existed solely for their jubilant chase, each moment an eternal tapestry of anticipation.

Yet, as the dream neared its crescendo, the elusive blue butterfly surrendered to his sister's nimble grasp. In that ephemeral instant, a radiant smile adorned her countenance, a reflection of pure elation. Gently cradling the azure-winged marvel in her delicate hands, she turned towards Aenar, her eyes alight with unbridled joy. With a voice resounding like the sweetest lullaby, she breathed words of eager anticipation, conveying her fervent desire to meet him beyond the realm of dreams.

Every night, as Aenar drifted off into slumber, a mystical realm unfolded within his mind's eye, where he would find himself engrossed in vivid visions of his yet-to-be-born sister. However, as the gentle caress of dawn's first light parted the veil of sleep, Aenar's eyes would flutter open, only to be greeted by the shimmering trails of tears that silently cascaded down his cheeks.

But after arriving in King's Landing the following day, The King called Aenar to the throne room.

With a resolute push, Ser Ryam exerted his strength to swing open the imposing double doors of the grand hall, their weight creaking in protest against the force. As the doors parted to reveal the majestic expanse within, Prince Aenar emerged with a regal stride, his presence commanding attention. By his side, Ghost glided silently, his icy gaze piercing through the air. The sight of such a formidable creature caused a collective gasp among the vigilant guards stationed throughout the hall, their hands instinctively tightening around the pommels of their swords. Standing tall and with a coat as white as freshly fallen snow, Ghost's immense size rivaled that of a fully grown horse, making him a sight to behold, both awe-inspiring and fearsome in equal measure.

Silent as a whispering breeze, Ghost stood ever watchful by Aenar's side. With cautious steps, Aenar ascended the marble stairs that wound their way toward the grand Iron Throne, where King Jaehaerys sat in all his old regal glory. His piercing gaze met Aenar's as if peering into the depths of his soul. In a swift, commanding motion, the king beckoned his loyal guards to retreat, leaving the Throne Room bathed in an eerie stillness. Within that vast expanse, it was only King Jaehaerys, Prince Aenar, Prince Baelon, and three Kingsguards who shared the solemn space, their presence echoing through the hallowed halls of power.

With a somber tone resonating in his aged voice, the old king addressed Prince Aenar, delivering a decree that weighed heavy upon his heart. "Prince Aenar, you're a prince of the realm and my great-grandson, but I'm afraid that you have to keep your Direwolf in the Kennels of the castle," he commanded, a faint trace of sorrow lingering in his words, yet steadfastly maintaining an unwavering composure that mirrored his enduring sovereignty.

Aenar's voice rang out, nearly shouting, "Ghost is harmless!" His stance grew resolute as he stood as a shield, defending Ghost from any harm that may dare approach. The air grew tense as Ghost let out a low growl, its piercing gaze fixed upon the King, bristling with disdain and defiance, as if ready to lunge and sink its fangs into the very throat of authority. Beside Aenar, Ser Ryam leaned in closer, his voice a mere whisper.

"Prince Aenar, control your animal. He shouldn't be seen growling at the King unless you want it dead," Ser Ryam quickly warned with a hushed tone; Aenar's heart raced as he exchanged a fleeting glance with Ghost, their unspoken bond pulsating with shared understanding. With a swift nod, Aenar communicated his silent command, and like an obedient guardian, Ghost ceased his growling, lowering his noble head in deference.

As the direwolf emitted a fierce growl, King Jaehaerys, undeterred by the display of aggression, made a deliberate choice to set it aside, redirecting his unwavering focus towards his great-grandson, who teetered on the precipice of cascading tears. "I'm afraid I have no choice, Aenar. There's a reason why we have stalls for horses and other animals, why we have kennels for dogs. The animals sleep there. There's a reason why we have the Dragon Pit. I'm afraid I can't allow Ghost to roam freely in the Red Keep," Jaehaerys' unwavering voice resonated with an undeniable conviction, leaving no room for doubt that his stance remained unyielding, unswayed by any possibility of deviation.

His eyes gleamed with determination as he defended Ghost. "Ghost is harmless, see," Aenar quickly pointed out as his faithful companion fully kneeled beside him, a tinge of sadness in his piercing red eyes.

Despite this heartfelt display, it seemed that the King's decision was irrevocable, for he stood resolute, taking a deep breath, his regal presence filling the vast chamber. The old King, his voice resonating with authority, retorted sharply, piercing through the air like a sword striking its target. "Aenar, it doesn't matter if your direwolf is harmless. Do you know how many people come to the Red Keep every day?" His words reverberated against the walls, echoing the weight of responsibility that burdened his aged shoulders.

Aenar opened and closed his mouth several times, he didn't know how many, but he knew that at least hundreds of them came every day to talk with the king and talk about their problems.

"Thousands come to me every day, Aenar, common people, traders, and lords in King's Landing. They come at me in hopes of me helping them. Your direwolf, whether or not he's harmless, doesn't matter. He will look dangerous to everyone. Everyone who doesn't know him will be afraid of him. You are asking everyone in this castle to simply believe you and hope the direwolf won't suddenly attack one of them. Even our dragons are placed in the Dragon Pit the moment they're bigger than a normal grown dog. I'm sorry, Aenar, but your direwolf cannot stay here. My decision is final." The King spoke; despite his stoic face, he wasn't happy ordering his great-grandson to keep his direwolf away.

Aenar didn't know what to say; Lord Stark had never asked him to keep the direwolves away, he wanted to protest, to say that he didn't care what the king wanted, but Aenar understood that he was only a child with little to no real power, he had yet to ride Cannibal, the dragon wasn't yet his dragon. Aenar thought perhaps he could sail to Dragonstone with Ghost when a voice cut through the silence.

"Father," Prince Baelon's voice suddenly cut through the silence in the Great Hall; everyone turned their attention to Prince Baelon, who looked up at his father, who motioned for him to continue what he wanted to say.

"I don't know everything about House Stark, but direwolves are their house's sigil. A Direwolf is a creature made to have a lot of space. They need to be able to run. If we put Ghost in the Kennels, it would be better just to kill him ourselves. That would be torture for the Direwolf. He will become weak and die." Prince Baelon spoke, his voice careful and filled with respect as he talked with his father.

A profound silence filled the Great Hall. His piercing gaze fixated on the innocent countenance of his great-grandson. After a contemplative pause, the old king shifted his attention back to his son, with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue evident in his weathered eyes. With a voice laced with authority, he inquired, "What are you proposing?" This unexpected query caught Ser Ryam completely off guard, causing him to raise an eyebrow concealed beneath his gleaming helmet discreetly.

Prince Baelon turned his attention back to his grandson before walking up to him, his grandson looking up at him with hope behind his eyes. "Prince Aenar, you say Ghost is harmless, I believe you, but I will tell you this, if he attacks anyone unprovoked, then we will put him in the Kennels, and you won't say a word," Prince Baelon spoke firmly, his voice making it clear that he was expecting an answer from his grandson.

With unwavering conviction, Prince Aenar fervently assured those around him, his voice quivering with earnestness, "I promise, Ghost won't harm anyone," The air seemed to hold its breath as the prince's words hung in the atmosphere, brimming with a sense of noble responsibility. He then extended his slender arms, embracing his wise and revered grandfather and nestling his head against his grandfather's broad waist. A melodic laughter escaped Baelon, his eyes twinkling with mirth, as he tenderly clasped his grandson's delicate arms and effortlessly hoisted him up onto his sturdy shoulder, a gesture that elicited hearty chuckles and delighted smiles from all those around them.

Night

"Never wanted to Leaveee,"

His voice, as sweet as a lark's, filled the room as his mother, with a radiant smile adorning her face, gently caressed her burgeoning belly, feeling the tender kicks of the life blossoming within. The soothing rhythm of the song resonated through the air, weaving a tapestry of love and anticipation. As the last note lingered in the air, a delightful hum escaped from his mother's lips, harmonizing with the melody in perfect synchrony. Her eyes twinkled with pride and joy, basking in the musical gift bestowed upon her by her beloved son.

"Your song will surely charm the hearts of all the lovely ladies," Lyanna playfully teased, unable to contain her mirth. Aenar's cheeks flushed with a blend of admiration and bashfulness, his embarrassment causing him to resemble a blossoming rose. The room erupted with infectious laughter.

Aenar turned to his mother and mustered up the courage to ask, "Muna, can I hear my sister?" The room was filled with laughter, but as his words hung in the air, his mother's laughter subsided, replaced with a proud and loving smile. Sensing his anticipation, she motioned for him to come closer, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

Aenar leaned in, placing his ear gently against her rounded belly, his heart pounding with anticipation. For a brief moment, there was silence, causing a flicker of doubt to cross Aenar's face. But then, as if in response to his longing, he felt a tiny push against his ear. In an instant, his smile transformed into a radiant beam, illuminating the room like a star. His little sister was on her way, ready to join their family, and Aenar's excitement knew no bounds. The days ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, each passing moment filled with anticipation and the joyous anticipation of her arrival.

Five Months Later

With a gentle expression on his weathered face, the old Maester approached Princess Lyanna, his voice dripping with concern as if each word carried the weight of his years of knowledge and experience. "How are you feeling, your grace?" he inquired, his words flowing with a deliberate slowness mirrored his careful preparations of a soothing elixir for the distressed princess.

As he mixed the ingredients with practiced precision, Lyanna couldn't help but feel a sudden surge of pain coursing through her belly, as if a thousand tiny daggers were piercing her delicate flesh. This jolt of agony only intensified her worry for the precious life growing within her, causing every fiber of her being to be consumed by a mixture of fear and protectiveness. In this moment of distress, Daemon clasped her hand tightly, his face etched with genuine concern that mirrored the love and tenderness he held for both Lyanna and their unborn child.

"Not good, the pain is growing," With a weary timbre in her voice, Lyanna expressed her distress, acknowledging the intensifying ache that was steadily coursing through her body. Clutching her distended abdomen, she battled against the growing waves of discomfort, her face betraying a subtle pallor while her once vibrant eyes bore a hint of crimson, remnants of unshed tears.

As the soft morning light filtered through the grand windows of the chamber, casting a warm glow upon the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls, the Maester spoke with a gentle concern that resonated in his voice. "This tea should help you, your grace, but I'm afraid there's not much else I can do that won't harm the baby," The Maester spoke, not looking at Lyanna as he was mixing something in a small square glass.

Daemon's entire being seemed to convulse with the force of a sudden blow to his gut, the pain radiating through every fiber of his being. At that moment, a surge of anger and helplessness washed over him, threatening to erupt in a furious outburst directed at the Maester. His desperation to find a cure for Lyanna's ailment was nearly overwhelming, pushing him to the edge of shouting, demanding that the Maester provide something, anything, to mend her shattered health. However, before he could utter a single word, Lyanna's piercing gaze pierced through his turmoil, her eyes conveying a silent message as if she had already comprehended the turbulent thoughts that swirled within him, effectively halting his impulsive outburst in its tracks.

"Thank you, Maester," Lyanna's voice resonated through the chamber as she addressed the Maester, whose weathered visage remained devoid of any discernible emotion. With unhurried steps, he pivoted, directing his gaze towards the young princess as if peering into the depths of her soul. Closing the distance between them, the Maester extended his gnarled hand, bearing a delicate porcelain cup brimming with fragrant tea.

"This should help you, your grace," The Old Maester spoke, looking at Lyanna. Gently, Lyanna accepted the steaming cup of tea, its aroma dancing delicately in the air. With each sip, the bitter liquid caressed her lips.

As the seconds turned into minutes, the tea worked its magic, weaving its healing touch through Lyanna's weary body. The pain that had once gripped her stomach, like a vise squeezing her very essence, now dissolved into oblivion, vanishing like a wisp of smoke in the wind. Her eyes, once clouded with weariness, sparkled with renewed vitality as if the very essence of life had been breathed back into her soul.

"Thank you, Maester Runciter," Lyanna thanked him sincerely with a bright smile; standing up, the old maester showed a small smile on his old face.

"Anytime you need me, your Grace..."

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