Dance of The Dragonwolf

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The Following 15 Chapters are available for Patrons. 

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), Chapter 35 (A Dance Under The Full Moon), and Chapter 36 (Magic is Dark and Full of Lies) are already available for Patrons.

This Was one of the Hardest Chapters I Have ever Written.

"A Thing Isn't Beautiful because it lasts." - Vision

Late 100 AC - Two Months Later

Aenar Targaryen 

' "Stop!" Aenar's voice rang out in the vibrant garden of Dragonstone, filled with a delightful blend of playfulness and feigned seriousness. With an infectious giggle, his mischievous little sister evaded his outstretched arms, her laughter reverberating through the air, harmonizing with the melodic chirping of the birds that flitted around the lush oasis. Like a whimsical dance, Aenar's futile attempts to capture his elusive sibling mirrored the futile grasp of sand slipping through his fingers, leaving him both exhilarated and exasperated in their delightful game of chase.

Aenar saw his sister running at the end of the garden corridor; Aenar quickly started chasing after her.

With each stride, Aenar's little sister darted towards the end of the garden corridor, her laughter echoing through the air like a playful melody enticing him to join the chase. Determined to catch her, Aenar's legs propelled him forward, his heart pounding with a mix of exhilaration and anticipation. 

Yet, no matter how hard he pursued, she seemed to effortlessly elude his grasp, her speed matching the wind that whispered through the surrounding trees. As Aenar's breath quickened and his muscles burned, he couldn't help but notice something strange. 

The garden corridor, once a familiar path, now appeared to stretch out endlessly, elongating like a mirage taunting his efforts.

Undeterred by this beguiling illusion, Aenar pressed on, his determination unwavering. With each step, he reached out, fingertips straining to bridge the ever-increasing gap between him and his elusive sibling. But alas, she remained just out of reach, a tantalizing mirage dancing on the horizon of his pursuit.

Time seemed to suspend its relentless march as Aenar's world narrowed down to a singular focus: capturing his mischievous sister. Every fiber of his being propelled him forward, his mind filled with images of triumphant victory. Yet, despite his valiant efforts, the distance between them only grew like an unbridgeable chasm mocking his fervent desire. In a final desperate act, Aenar stretched his arm out as far as humanly possible, fingertips straining, longing to grasp his sister's fleeting presence. But alas, fate had other plans, for she remained just beyond his reach, a distant speck of mischief and laughter, forever etched in his memory as the one that got away.

A sudden voice pierced the silence, sending icy tendrils of fear down his spine. "Why are you still chasing after her?" it whispered as if carried by a ghostly breeze. Aenar's heart raced, for he knew she was dead. With a trembling resolve, he slowly turned. 

There stood Arya. A wave of conflicting emotions swept over him as he tried to reconcile the impossibility of her presence. He had witnessed her demise with his own eyes. Yet, there she stood, her visage frozen in time, a haunting echo of the past.

"This is a Dream!" Aenar repeated fervently in his mind, hoping to awaken. But Arya remained unchanged, mirroring the same tragic wounds that had claimed her life. A gaping wound adorned her delicate neck, a vivid reminder of the blood that had once coursed through her veins, now forever dried and macabre.

"Jon, please stop chasing after us," Arya repeated before everything turned dark.

"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. A Dragon or a Wolf, what are you? You must choose your Path. If you don't make a choice, you're doomed to repeat your mistakes. Forever."

Aenar woke up with a sudden gasp, his heart racing and cold sweat rolling down his face. As he caught his breath, he looked around the dimly lit room with anxious eyes, trying to distinguish the line between his dream and reality. His hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, and his mind was still clouded with the vivid images of his nightmare. But as he gazed out the window and saw the City of King's Landing, he slowly came to his senses and remembered where he was. He took comfort in the familiar sights and smells that surrounded him. Despite the lingering fear from his dream, Aenar felt a sense of relief wash over him as he realized he was safe and sound.

As he lay on the bed, his chest heaving with each breath, he could feel his heart racing at an alarming pace as if it was trying to escape from his body. Despite his attempts to calm himself down, his mind was still racing with thoughts that refused to be silenced. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead and trickled down his face, leaving a cold, clammy sensation in their wake. The sweat continued to stream down his cheeks, leaving a trail of moisture on the bed mattress. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, but the sound of his heart pounding in his throat was too loud to ignore.

Once the tempestuous emotions within the heart of young Aenar had subsided, he made a conscious choice to recline upon the comforting sanctuary of his bed, surrendering himself to the enchanting symphony of nocturnal tranquility that enveloped his senses. With every breath, his eyes attuned themselves to the profound stillness of the night, keenly aware that by simply closing them, he could hear the gentle murmur of the wind outside transformed into an ethereal whisper.

As time passed, two hours passed by, Aenar found himself enveloped in a tranquil stillness within the confines of his chamber. In the depths of his slumber, completely unaware of the world outside, he was abruptly awakened by the gentle caress of sunlight seeping through the narrow cracks of his window. The morning rays, like liquid gold, cascaded into the room, casting a soft, ethereal glow upon every object they touched. Aenar's drowsy eyes fluttered open, and as he gradually emerged from the hazy embrace of sleep, he felt a renewed vitality coursing through his weary limbs.

.

Aenar crossed the threshold into the familial chamber, his eyes scanning the room for his mother's familiar visage. However, as his gaze finally fell upon her delicate frame, his once radiant smile, reminiscent of sunflowers in bloom, faded into oblivion, replaced by a crease of concern etching itself upon his youthful face. The sight that met his eyes was far from the vibrant and lively woman he had known his entire life. Instead, his mother's complexion, usually flushed with vitality, now bore a pallid hue, like moonlight gently caressing a waning flower. The unmistakable shadow of sickness loomed heavily upon her once radiant features, casting a veil of uncertainty over their familial sanctuary. The very essence of her being seemed to dwindle before his anguished eyes as if the very strength that had sustained her, like a mighty oak against the tempest, was gradually slipping away, like grains of sand cascading through an hourglass.

"Mom, good morrow," greeted young Aenar as the morning sun cast its warm glow across their chamber, his voice resonating with a mixture of effort and disappointment as he failed to conceal the burden weighing on his heart. His mother, weakened by the grip of illness, sat perched upon the sturdy wooden table, her every breath a laborious exhale, her once vibrant complexion now drained of color. Yet, despite her frailty, her eyes lifted to meet her son's concerned gaze, and a tender smile emerged like a delicate blossom breaking through the cracks of adversity, radiating love and unwavering strength.

Aenar's mother mustered the strength to greet her son with a gentle smile. "Good morrow, my beloved child," she whispered, her voice strained and raspy from the clutches of a relentless sickness that had weakened her body. Though her voice faltered, she fought to project an air of resilience and fortitude, determined to shield her young son from the depths of her suffering. Aenar, his heart heavy with a mixture of love and concern, felt a surge of emotion welling up within him, threatening to overflow. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, mirrored the pain and helplessness he felt.

With a swift and graceful movement, his father hastened to fill a delicate crystal goblet with the purest water, meticulously ensuring it was brimming to the very edge. Placing the glistening vessel within arm's reach of his ailing wife, he took his rightful place by her side, their bodies so close that their warmth seemed to melt together. Gently, he enveloped her fragile hand with his own, a gesture filled with a profound yearning to alleviate her suffering. As his fingertips made contact with her delicate skin, a shiver ran down his spine, for her touch felt as icy and ethereal as the touch of freshly fallen snow.

Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys, filled with an unwavering sense of devotion and compassion, tirelessly exerted every effort within their power to provide solace and aid to the ailing Lyanna. Their hearts brimming with hope, they sought out potions renowned for their curative properties, hoping to alleviate her suffering and restore her to vibrant health.

However, despite their earnest endeavors, Lyanna's condition showed no signs of improvement, casting a shadow of concern and apprehension upon the hearts of her loved ones. As the hands of time continued their relentless march forward, three arduous months elapsed, each day serving as a testament to the enduring strength and resilience of the expectant mother. Amongst those who held her in their thoughts, Aemma remained a constant presence by Lyanna's side.

Aenar, not knowing what else to do, decided to do one thing his mother always loved about him, to sing a song; With a resolute determination, he took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, and then, with a gentle clearing of his throat, he began to sing. As the melodious notes escaped his lips, they wove a tapestry of emotions, intertwining with the heaviness in the room. In that fleeting moment, his mother summoned her remaining strength to form a smile, her eyes glistening with unspoken pride and love.

"Like the sky at night

There in the dark

You can hide your fear

Can lie, my dear

So forever still, keep me in your dreams

Though they're crimson stained

Go on and spread your wings?

What's the lie?

What's the truth?

What to believe?

Like a fallen angel

Swept away by the wind

Like a memory, falling through time

Into the starry night

Just like I'm touched from above

Won't you hold me tight for eternity

Fly to heaven

Like the sky at night

There in the dark

You can hide your fear

Can lie, my dear

So forever still, keep me in your dreams

Though they're crimson stained

Go on and spread your wings?

What's the lie?

What's the truth?

What to believe?

Like a fallen angel

Swept away by the wind

Like a memory, falling through time

Into the starry night

Just like I'm touched from above

Won't you hold me tight for eternity

Fly to heaven."

As Aenar strummed the final chord of his heartfelt melody, the resonating notes seemed to weave a tapestry of emotions in the air: his mother, her frail frame draped in a soft, knitted shawl. But as the last note gently faded into the room, a transformation occurred before Aenar's eyes. A radiant smile spread across his mother's face, chasing away the shadows of illness as if a vibrant sunbeam had broken through the stormy clouds. In that fleeting moment, her eyes sparkled with the same vitality that had adorned her countenance on healthier days, evoking memories of laughter-filled conversations and carefree strolls through sun-kissed meadows.

"My son, the old gods gifted you with an incredible voice," Lyanna spoke with a joyful voice; a radiant smile illuminated Aenar's face as he basked in the warmth of his mother's presence, grateful to witness her well-being; if only for a fleeting moment.

Lyanna gracefully rose from the plush armchair. With an air of tenderness, she traversed the distance between her and her little boy, each step carrying her closer to the epitome of her heart's affection.

As she reached her destination, Lyanna leaned in, her lips brushing against the softness of her son's cheek, leaving behind a gentle mark of affection. Though her actions were drenched in love, an emblazoned hue of crimson flushed across her little boy's face, his embarrassment momentarily overshadowing the overwhelming tenderness that enveloped the room.

Whispering in a voice as delicate as a butterfly's wings, Lyanna shared her deepest emotions with her cherished child. "I love you," she murmured, the tremor in her words echoing the depth of her affection. "I know I have said it before, but I will say it as many times as I can."

Lyanna enveloped her little boy, a sanctuary of love formed by their intertwined arms. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, silently reflecting the depth of her emotions.

Later

In the tranquil depths of God's Wood, where the ancient Weirwood Tree stood tall and wise, its gnarled branches reaching towards the heavens, a hushed silence enveloped the air. Amidst the dappled sunlight filtering through the vibrant leaves, the youthful voice of Rhaenyra shattered the stillness like a crystal chime, her words resonating with genuine concern.

"Are you worried?" she inquired, her eyes filled with empathy as she observed Aenar. Though their intentions were to revel in their usual games and laughter, the atmosphere had shifted as if the world's weight had settled upon Aenar's shoulders. Instead of partaking in their playful escapades, he had chosen to seek solace beneath the sheltering embrace of the Weirwood Tree. With his back pressed against the rough bark, Aenar sat in contemplation, his thoughts wandering like whispers in the wind. Beside him, Rhaenyra settled herself upon the verdant grass, feeling its gentle caress against her bare legs, a sensation that tickled her senses.

"I am," Aenar admitted, his voice tinged with concern, his heart heavy with the weight of the past three months. Time had slipped through his fingers like sand since the day his mother fell ill. What was once a source of boundless joy had transformed into a relentless cycle of despair that clutched at his soul. Aenar couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread settle upon him as he witnessed his mother's struggle against the relentless sickness that held her captive. Each time the Maester administered the medicine, a glimmer of hope ignited within him, only to be cruelly extinguished when the illness resurfaced, more formidable than before, casting a shadow over their lives.

It had been eight months since his mother told him that he would become a big brother; Aenar had spent more and more time praying to the old gods, praying that his mother and little sister would survive. Sometimes Queen Alysanne would accompany him in the God's Wood, she wasn't a follower of the old gods, but she said she didn't want him to feel alone.

Aenar felt Ghost at the back of his head; his direwolf was hunting in King's Wood, away from King's Landing; Ghost always loved to hunt, and being in a castle would deprive him of doing that because of this Aenar allowed Ghost to hunt in the King's Wood, he would go into the King's Wood and return within two days.

Rhaenyra was a little surprised that Aenar admitted that he was concerned for Aunt Lyanna; she wondered if she could help him in any way; her first thought was of Laena; she really wished their friend would be there.

She would know how to make him feel better, Rhaenyra thought, knowing Laena always managed to make Aenar smile no matter what as they sat beside the Weirwood tree. A gentle breeze rustled the vibrant red leaves, casting an ethereal glow upon the scene as if the very essence of the sunlight had been distilled into precious red jewels.

In the tranquil embrace of God's Wood, Aenar found solace in the gentle sanctuary of silence. The rustling leaves, like delicate whispers of nature's symphony, accompanied his every step as he wandered through the enchanted grove. He would often lose himself for hours on end, engrossed in the pages of a captivating book, while the ethereal melodies of birdsong filled the air around him. It would get even better whenever Rhaenyra accompanied him.

"Aenar, Aunt Lyanna is strong; she is of House Stark; Direwolves are hard to kill," Rhaenyra spoke with an upbeat voice before standing up and looking down at Aenar; she quickly extended her hand towards him for a moment. She tried to think of something that would distract him before she quickly came up with an idea.

With a gentle smile lighting up her face, Rhaenyra eagerly proposed a heartwarming idea, her eyes sparkling with compassion and kindness. "How about we get some flowers for Old Great Grandma? You know she loves flowers," she suggested, her words brimming with warmth and affection. Aenar, however, hesitated momentarily, his thoughts torn between his desire to offer solace to his worried heart and Rhaenyra's thoughtful suggestion. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the notion of confiding in her, revealing his overwhelming need to seek solace in prayer for his mother. Yet, he soon decided that those flowers could help both his mother and Old Great Grandma.

Daemon Targaryen

His head was a mess, Daemon really wished he could do something to help, to help even in the smallest way, but he could do nothing but watch. Beside him, Lyanna sat in serene silence, the gentle breeze caressing her as they settled into the plush chairs placed on the sun-kissed balcony of their intimate bedchamber. Bathed in the warm embrace of sunlight and serenaded by the melodic chorus of seagulls gracefully gliding around the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay, their surroundings offered a fleeting respite from the profound ache that resonated deep within their hearts, though it proved insufficient to alleviate the profound sorrow they both shared.

As Daemon sat there, a tingling sensation tickled the back of his throat, parching it slowly. Desperately seeking relief, he reached for the goblet filled with crimson wine, hoping its sweet nectar would quench his insatiable thirst. But to his dismay, with every gulp he took, his throat grew even drier, as if the liquid evaporated before it could provide any solace. Meanwhile, Lyanna sat gracefully beside him, her gaze fixed upon the vast expanse of the Narrow Sea. The waves crashed against the rugged rocks. However, despite the breathtaking scenery, her countenance had transformed, losing its rosy hue, giving way to a haunting pallor. Dark circles embraced her delicate eyes, betraying the weariness that plagued her. She found herself perspiring, beads of sweat forming on her brow, despite the chill that enveloped her body, akin to freshly fallen snow.

Daemon's hand went through his hair in frustration; whenever he faced a problem, he always had his sword or Caraxes to fix his problems; there was rarely ever a problem his dragon or sword couldn't fix, but this wasn't something he could fix through brute strength, it wasn't something he could just burn away with Dragonfire.

Lyanna had gotten worse, and now, Daemon feared for her life; he still believed Lyanna could get through this; she was strong, the strongest woman he had ever known, but that didn't stop him from feeling worried beyond measure. Daemon drew a deep breath, allowing its calming embrace to settle his restless spirit.

A part of him really wished he could fly with Caraxes somewhere like he used to do, for both of them to fly away and just disappear for a day, but Daemon remembered that Lyanna needed him beside her, and most importantly, their son needed him.

' "Daemon, I need you to promise me something," As the moon cast its gentle glow upon the dimly lit chamber, Lyanna's voice broke the silence, commanding Daemon's attention. As the delicate fabric of her garments slipped from her, with each article carefully removed by Daemon's steady hands, a vulnerable yet determined look adorned Lyanna's face. As the nightgown, soft and ethereal, was delicately placed in her waiting hands, Lyanna's request hung in the air, creating a palpable tension between them.

In the intimacy of their shared space, Lyanna and Daemon found solace as they reclined side by side on the bed, their bodies comfortably intertwined. With tenderness, she gently placed her delicate hand upon his chest, her fingers instinctively seeking the rhythmic beat of his heart, a soothing melody that echoed through their connection. Meanwhile, his affectionate touch danced through her long, lustrous tresses, marveling at the silky strands that cascaded like a waterfall of obsidian beauty. As a symphony of emotions enveloped them, the warmth of her breath brushed against his skin, creating a gentle tickling sensation that heightened the intimacy of their embrace.

With tender affection, Daemon, his voice filled with unwavering devotion, whispered, "Anything, Ñuha Jorrāelagon (My Love)," as he pressed his lips gently against Lyanna's forehead, ensuring her comfort in his embrace, his strong arms enveloping her petite frame, warding off the chill of the world around them. However, as Daemon fought back the welling tears, a poignant mixture of love and heartache, a disconcerting contrast emerged: despite the scorching temperatures enveloping them, Lyanna appeared strangely cold to his touch, as if the very essence of her being was frozen in time, trapped in a state of perpetual winter.

Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over, as she uttered those fearful words, "Aenar, our little dragon. I-I don't know what will happen." The weight of uncertainty pressed down upon her, causing her to swallow back a sob that threatened to escape. Daemon stood beside her, his eyes filled with empathy. At that moment, he was tempted to reassure her, to tell her that she was in no danger and that she would undoubtedly survive whatever lay ahead. However, he chose to keep his mouth shut, recognizing that Lyanna needed the space to express her concerns, her hopes, and her fears. 

"None of us do. My mother always used to say that no one knows the future, that we are simply creatures that are made to love others, and we should do so until the day we draw our last breath. But Aenar, Promise me that you will always be there for him. Our little boy is still young. Promise me that you will be there for him, and he will live a long, happy life," With each word, Lyanna's heart poured forth a mother's love unyielding, an unspoken plea for the assurance of her child's future.

Daemon felt a tear rolling down his cheek; he was never good with emotions, with controlling them; his mother had died giving birth to his younger brother. Daemon didn't remember her anymore, he had been too young when she left this world, but he remembered her beautiful hair, something Lyanna always reminded him of.

Daemon knew he wanted to tell her that she would go through this, that she was of House Stark, and she would make it, but Daemon knew Lyanna wanted him to promise, so he took a deep breath. "I promise, Lyanna. I will never leave Aenar alone. He will grow strong and happy, I will be there for him in every step he takes, and I will make sure he will grow old and happy, older than the king." Daemon promised with all his life. Lyanna, she smiled wholeheartedly, the most beautiful smile she could muster.

As Daemon's mind wrestled with a flurry of thoughts, his contemplation was abruptly shattered by an unexpected grunt of agony emanating from the vicinity beside him. Instantly snapping his head in the direction of the sound, his eyes fell upon Lyanna, her delicate hands clutching her abdomen with a wincing expression etched upon her face, her once porcelain complexion now flushed crimson with the intensity of the pain coursing through her.

In a heartbeat, Daemon's concern surged forth like a tidal wave, his voice resounding with a sense of urgency as he called out her name, his heart brimming with worry and empathy. A surge of protective instinct propelled him to reach out, his hand instinctively intertwining with hers, offering a steady pillar of support amidst her distress. The crimson hue tinging Lyanna's visage only served to deepen his apprehension, leaving him acutely aware of the magnitude of her suffering.

Lyanna's distress echoed through the grand halls of The Bedchamber as she desperately gasped, "The baby!" Her words, though strained by excruciating pain, pierced the air, causing a shiver to crawl up Daemon's spine. His heart, heavy with worry, threatened to burst through his chest while an overwhelming sense of fear coursed through his veins, infecting his entire body like a relentless sickness. With trembling hands, he tenderly clasped her right arm, offering solace, as he gently guided her, step by agonizing step, towards the sanctuary of their intricately adorned bed.

"Help!" Daemon's desperate cry for aid reverberated through the stillness, piercing the silence like a shard of shattered glass. Lyanna, her face etched with agony, battled against the mounting waves of torment threatening to consume her, her ragged breaths a testament to her valiant struggle. Tremors coursed through her weakened legs, rendering her unable to bear the weight of her own body, reducing her to a mere quivering soul confined to the confines of the bed. And yet, she clung to the remnants of her composure, determined to stifle the primal urge to release a scream that threatened to escape her lips.

As the seconds stretched into an eternity, tension coiling around them, the door to the chamber exploded open with a resounding crash. In rushed a retinue of servants, their faces etched with concern, bearing witness to the desperate pleas for assistance. Among them, a figure clad in the armor of the Kingsguard,

"Call the Maester!" commanded Daemon, his voice carrying the weight of concern and authority. The noble Kingsguard, clad in gleaming armor, swiftly hastened to fulfill their lord's command, disappearing like shadows into the dimly lit corridors of the castle.

Meanwhile, Daemon's focus shifted back to his beloved wife, who, with each agonizing cry, seemed to be engulfed in a whirlwind of torment. Determined to offer solace and unwavering support, he clasped her trembling hand with gentle strength, his touch conveying both reassurance and unwavering devotion.

As Daemon tended to his wife's needs, the diligent servant sprang into action. With meticulous care, the servant meticulously arranged a multitude of plush pillows behind the weary woman's head, aiming to alleviate even a fraction of the relentless pain that besieged her body. Yet, despite the servant's dedicated efforts, the softness of the pillows proved to be a meager balm against the intensity of her suffering.

Driven by a stroke of ingenuity, one of the attendants seized a pristine white blanket and swiftly immersed it in a basin of chilled water, imbuing it with a refreshing coolness. With deftness and empathy, the attendant tenderly placed the dampened cloth upon the fevered brow of Lyanna, hoping that the combined forces of water's soothing touch and the coolness it brought would offer respite amidst the fiery storm of anguish.

It didn't take long for the Maester to arrive, and the old man quickly checked on Lyanna.

Daemon found solace in taking deep, measured breaths, willing himself to remain composed. The seasoned Maester diligently attended to Lyanna, his rhythmic movements mirroring the reassuring mantra that Daemon silently chanted in his mind: "She will be fine. There is nothing to worry about." The weight of anticipation pressed upon his shoulders, but he refused to succumb to fear.

With unwavering determination, he held onto the unwavering belief that their child's arrival would be met with only joy and blessings. As the seconds ticked by, a cacophony of footsteps approached the room, their echoes reverberating through the walls. Yet, amidst the commotion, Daemon remained steadfast, his focus undeterred by the unknown visitors. His heart skipped a beat as a familiar voice, rich with authority and warmth, reached his ears, confirming the presence of his father by his side.

"Maester?" Prince Baelon asked with concern as Lyanna let out another scream of pain.

"She is in her labor, your grace," the maester answered as he told one of the servants to bring him something.

Prince Baelon instinctively reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Daemon's trembling shoulder, his voice hushed and measured, "Daemon, perhaps it is best if we give the maester the space he needs to tend to Lyanna's needs. Let the maester do his job," Tenderly, Daemon squeezed Lyanna's clammy hand, his heart heavy with concern

"I'm not leaving until Lyanna gives birth," Daemon spoke with a voice that made it clear that he would rather die than leave Lyanna as she was giving birth; In response, Baelon exhaled a weary sigh, his frustration palpable in the air. Empathizing with his son's unwavering loyalty, he understood the depth of the emotions that tethered Daemon to Lyanna's side. However, a sense of rationality whispered in Baelon's mind, reminding him that his presence within the confines of the birthing chamber would be of no practical assistance. Nevertheless, cognizant of his son's unyielding obstinacy, Baelon made the decision to patiently await outside, ready to offer solace and support when the time was right.

"Prince Baelon," Lyanna called out, letting out heavy breaths and cold sweat rolling down her face. As she could barely keep herself from screaming out in pain, Baelon quickly turned to face her.

"Prince Baelon," Lyanna pleaded, her voice trembling with urgency and desperation as another wave of excruciating pain shot through her swollen stomach. The agonizing sensation engulfed her entire body, leaving her feeling as though an unrelenting inferno was consuming her. With every ounce of strength, she could muster, she implored, "If Aenar comes here, don't let him walk inside. Please," The thought of her beloved young boy witnessing her in such a vulnerable state, in the throes of childbirth, was unbearable. She longed to shield him from the rawness of her pain, to preserve his innocence and spare him the sight of his mother at her most vulnerable.

"Of course," Baelon promised, quickly leaving the bedchamber; he gave one last look at Lyanna over his shoulder before leaving the bedchamber; he couldn't help but remember when his wife had given birth to his sons; he said a small prayer, hoping Lyanna would survive.

With a calm and reassuring tone, Daemon, his voice slicing through the chaotic symphony of screams and agony, tenderly whispered the words, "Everything will be alright," to Lyanna, who was locked in a fierce battle with excruciating pain. The sheer intensity of her suffering was palpable, her hand clenching his with such tenacity that Daemon could almost feel the bones in his thumb grinding and breaking under the vice-like grip. Yet, he stoically endured this personal torment, steadfastly pushing aside his own agony as he fervently beseeched every God known to man, sending up fervent prayers in a desperate plea for Lyanna's survival.

.

.

It had taken Seven hours for Lyanna to give birth to Aenar; now, it has been over eleven hours, and Lyanna could barely scream anymore; the pain was unbearable, and Daemon kept holding her hand. They had tried and tried, but the baby wasn't coming out.

Daemon's heart pounded relentlessly within his chest, threatening to shatter through the confines of his ribcage as he knelt before his wife's bedside. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, his trembling hand nearly devoid of sensation. With a mixture of anguish and love etched across his face, he tightly shut his eyes, wincing at the physical pain it caused, desperate to shield himself from the sight that unfolded before him. The raw agony etched into her features was unbearable; every fiber of his being yearned to shield his ears from the piercing cries of torment that escaped her lips as if by doing so, he could somehow lessen her suffering.

In an instant, the tranquility of the air was shattered as a powerful and unmistakable scent invaded his nostrils - the metallic tang of... blood. Daemon's eyes snapped open in sheer alarm, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. What he beheld before him was a scene that struck him to his very core, causing his stomach to plummet with a sense of despair that threatened to consume him. No longer able to contain his emotions, tears cascaded down his anguished face, each droplet a testament to the devastating loss he was about to endure. As he clutched Lyanna's frail hand, he could feel her feeble grip slipping away, a chilling reminder of her weakening body.

As Lyanna lay on the bed, her once pristine white mattress was now stained a deep crimson, the vivid hue of blood. Her breaths grew increasingly labored, each exhales weaker than the last, as if time itself was slowing down to match the rhythm of her fading life. With her eyes half open, she gazed out into the bustling room, where concerned voices filled the air, intermingling with the palpable tension. Yet, despite the cacophony of conversation, the words reached her ears as mere echoes, distant noises that seemed to slip through her grasp, their meaning lost in the haze of her diminishing consciousness.

"What is happening?" Daemon demanded, looking at the maester with a pleading look; the old man looked downwards, his lower jaw trembling, before he gave Daemon the news that he never wanted to hear in his life.

"I'm sorry, your grace, but the baby is not coming out...I will leave you alone," His voice carried the weight of solemnity, resonating in the hushed bedchamber. Slowly retreating, allowing the gravity of the situation to settle upon the room like a heavy shroud. As the maester's footsteps faded into the distance, Daemon felt time stand still, his heart momentarily ceasing its rhythmic beats. Disbelief washed over him in relentless waves, refusing to let reality sink in fully. In the depths of his soul, a flicker of hope clung stubbornly, yearning for this to be nothing more than a nightmarish illusion. Yet, amidst the tormenting silence, a gentle rustle of bed sheets stirred, and Lyanna's fragile voice, barely audible, pierced the darkness, calling out to him, wrenching him back to the harsh realm of truth.

Daemon escaped his thoughts as he walked up to his wife; she was still bleeding but was able to keep a smile on her face as Daemon kneeled before her, his hand grasping hers; her beautiful lips had lost all color.

"D-Daemon, Thank you for bringing me so Much Joy. I-I still remember how foolish you were when we first met," Lyanna spoke with a raspy voice; she could no longer feel her legs; she could no longer feel the pain.

"I'm still foolish," Daemon said with a sob as his wife placed a hand on his cheek. As Lyanna's trembling hand gently caressed his cheek, her once radiant grey eyes now fading, she summoned every ounce of strength she possessed, a testament to the love they shared.

"Remember the promise you made me, o-our l-little Dragon, our A-A-Aenar...." her fragile words hung in the air, and an undeniable sadness crept into her eyes, gradually extinguishing the light that once danced within them. With a gentle sigh, her hand, once warm and comforting, began its descent, gracefully falling to her side as she took her final breath, leaving behind a world forever changed. Daemon, overwhelmed by the weight of his grief, closed his eyes tightly as if trying to shield himself from the harsh reality of her absence. His forehead leaned forward, tenderly pressing against hers, seeking solace in the echo of their connection. Silent tears streamed down his face, mingling with the echoes of his sobs. As he mourned the loss of his beloved, his heart shattered into a million tiny fragments.

"L-Lyanna..." Daemon sobbed, his forehead touching her cold one; at that moment, Daemon made a promise to himself, a promise he would never forget, as he sobbed in front of his love, knowing all he had left of her were memories.

"MUNA!" Aenar's voice was heard inside the chamber as he finally managed to burst through the door. Clutched tightly in his little hand were delicate blue flowers, their vibrant petals contrasting against the pale pallor of his small fingers. As his eyes widened in shock, time seemed to freeze, his heart momentarily ceasing its rhythmic beat. The sight that was unveiled before him was devastating as his eyes fell upon his mother's lifeless form laid out on her bed, a profound stillness enveloping the room.

As Prince Aenar's trembling knees gave way beneath him, he felt the strength drain from his body, causing him to collapse onto the cold marble floor. In that vulnerable moment, tears cascaded down his anguished face, tracing a path of sorrow and despair. A sudden warmth enveloped him from behind. It was Queen Alysanne, who had rushed to his side, her tender embrace offering solace and a glimmer of comfort in his darkest hour. With a quivering voice and a heart heavy with anguish, Prince Aenar let out a wrenching cry, releasing the pent-up sorrow that consumed his soul.

Outside, all Dragons roared as ONE, Especially Cannibal and Caraxes that let out Roars of Sorrow and Anger.

Let me know in the comments what you think about the Chapter. I hope you have a Wonderful Day.

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