Dance of The Dragonwolf

Time seemed to stand still; the air was filled with a symphony of resonant bells. From the towering sept of King's Landing, each bell in the enchanting city pealed with mournful elegance, their somber toll echoing through the cobblestone streets.
The solemn chimes, destined to reverberate ceaselessly throughout the entire week, served as a poignant reminder of the profound loss that had befallen the kingdom: the passing of Prince Baelon Targaryen, a figure beloved by his people. From sunrise to sunset, the heavenly melody of the bells enveloped the entire city, their haunting sound intertwining with the very essence of its inhabitants' grief-stricken hearts.
For Daemon, the tolling of the bells became an agonizing symphony, an unwelcome intrusion into his fragile emotional sanctuary. With each resounding peal, his eyes instinctively shut as if seeking solace in the darkness, shielding himself from the piercing reminders of his father's untimely demise. His mind wandered back to the days when his father's face radiated warmth and joy, a visage that effortlessly captured the hearts of all he encountered.
Baelon Targaryen possessed an enchanting charisma, a magnetic charm that instantly endeared him to those around him. Even in his final moments, lying on his deathbed, the prince departed this world with an ethereal smile, a testament to a life well-lived and the indomitable spirit that defined him. In the midst of this citywide requiem, Daemon found himself grappling with a maelstrom of emotions. The bells, once a symbol of joyous occasions and communal celebrations, had transformed into a melancholic reminder of his father's absence. Each tolling bell became a tribute to the legacy of Prince Baelon Targaryen, forever etched in the hearts and minds of those who loved him.
Daemon found himself bathed in the golden hues of the morrow's sunlight, its gentle caress seeping through the cracks of his chamber. Perched on the edge of his son's bed, his gaze fixated upon his lap, Daemon's hands cradled the unsheathed Valyrian Sword bestowed upon him by his late father.
Yet, as the rays of hope danced upon his countenance, the anticipated elation that should have accompanied such a gift dissipated like ethereal smoke, as elusive as sand slipping through his grasp. Overwhelmed by the weight of his loss, Daemon sought solace in the refuge of his hands, his face concealed from the world. His father's death struck with force far greater than he could have imagined, an indescribable ache that echoed through the depths of his soul. And in the wake of this profound sorrow, another wave crashed upon the shores of his heart, for Lyanna, too, had departed from his life. Two pillars of love and affection were cruelly snatched away, leaving Daemon adrift in a sea of emotions, grappling with the overwhelming void they left behind.
Daemon could feel the warm trail of tears cascading down his weathered cheeks. Yet, determined to shield his beloved son from the crushing weight of despair, Daemon summoned every ounce of his inner strength, resolutely refusing to succumb to the tempest of emotions that threatened to engulf him. Aware that his son's tender heart would shatter upon witnessing his father's vulnerability, Daemon resolved to wear a mask of unwavering bravery, concealing the glistening pearls of anguish that threatened to betray his composure.
Ohh, Lyanna, her name escaping his lips in a whispered murmur that carried the weight of his desires. With her, he had reveled in a sanctuary of authenticity, a sanctuary where he could bare his soul and shield himself from the burdens of pretense. But now, in the wake of her absence, he felt an overwhelming sense of solitude. The pain of losing Lyanna, like a thorny blade piercing his heart, dug deep into the recesses of Daemon's being, rending his spirit asunder.
Each passing moment was a reminder of her absence, a reminder that their once inseparable souls had been cruelly torn apart. And yet, the anguish did not stop there, for the loss of his father added another layer of torment to Daemon's already burdened heart. It was as if the world's weight had been thrust upon him, the heaviness of grief intertwining with every beat of his wounded heart.
The soft caress of Lyanna's hand, the warmth of her smile, and the gentle sound of her laughter seemed to linger in the air, tantalizing him with fragments of a past that could never be reclaimed. Like a twisted knife, the pain continued to twist within his chest, a visceral reminder of the depth of his sorrow. Yet, amidst the darkness that threatened to consume him, a glimmer of hope flickered.
Daemon looked away from the sheathed sword; he didn't have the strength to even pull out the sword and enjoy the beauty of Valyria Steel; having the sword on his lap felt wrong; Daemon had wanted the blade more than anything, yet, now he felt as if he had stolen the blade from his father.
"One day," his father's voice echoed in his thoughts, "give it to Aenar." The words, like delicate whispers of wisdom, reverberated through his being. With a gentle sigh, Daemon's eyes caressed the slumbering form of his little boy, his heart heavy with the weight of responsibility.
Daemon's keen gaze pierced through the mist of time, transporting him to a future where his son stood tall and mighty, wielding the legendary Dark Sister sword in his hands. As his mind painted vivid portraits of his beloved son, a surge of paternal pride washed over Daemon, etching a gentle smile upon his lips. His heart, brimming with a profound sense of joy, expanded to the rhythm of his son's triumphs, momentarily engulfing Daemon in a cascade of unadulterated happiness... Boom!
The tranquility was suddenly shattered by the resounding toll of a nearby bell, jolting him back to reality. As the joy he had momentarily embraced dissipated into thin air, Daemon took a profound breath, his gaze shifting from the glimmering sword to the sight of his slumbering little boy nestled in the comfort of his bed. Daemon extended his hand with tender affection, delicately sweeping aside a stray strand of hair that veiled his son's peaceful countenance. In the serenity of sleep, the child appeared untouched by the woes that burdened their hearts. Deep within, Daemon understood Lyanna's tragic demise's profound impact on Aenar. Despite the young boy's valiant attempts to conceal his grief, Daemon was acutely aware of the profound depths to which it had affected him.
Daemon had noticed how often Aenar would be in the company of Queen Alysanne, sometimes more with her than Rhaenyra; Daemon wasn't stupid; he figured that his son sought a maternal love that he yearned for, and it seemed that Aenar found solace and affection in the warm embrace of Queen Alysanne. The Queen graciously welcomed the opportunity to bond with her great-grandson, relishing every precious moment she could share with the eager and imaginative Aenar.
Daemon gracefully leaned down. With tenderness and affection, he bestowed a kiss upon the rosy cheek of his beloved son, whose slumber was interrupted, causing him to stir slightly in his cozy bed. As the young boy's drowsy purple eyes fluttered open, they gazed up at his father, a mix of bewilderment and curiosity dancing within their depths. Aenar wondered why his father had chosen this late hour to grace his bedside with his presence.
Aenar's eyes darted toward the grand window that framed the sprawling cityscape before him. With a mixture of curiosity and haste, he wondered if he had overslept, his gaze lingering on the sun that lazily climbed the horizon. Yet, as the soft glow bathed the city in its early morning embrace, Aenar's realization dawned upon him like a gentle breeze - it was still too early in the morrow. His attention swiftly shifted back to his father. With his eyebrows raised in a perplexed expression, Aenar's inquisitive eyes swiftly caught sight of the legendary Dark Sister, resting serenely upon his father's lap, its gleaming metal a testament to the power and history it held.
"Father? How is Grandpa Baelon?" Aenar's voice quivered with concern as he anxiously posed a question to his father, desperately seeking news. With an instinctive glance at his father's countenance, Aenar already sensed the somber tidings that would escape his lips, and his intuition proved astute as his father tenderly clasped his son's head, pulling him into a tight embrace. Overwhelmed by the affectionate gesture, Aenar could feel his father's lips gently planting a kiss on his forehead.
With a voice tinged with sorrow and gravity, he revealed, "Your grandfather is dead, my son." As the weight of the words settled upon them, an eerie silence engulfed the room, broken only by the haunting melody of the wind rustling through the age-old trees and the distant tolling of bells echoing from the heart of King's Landing as if mourning the loss alongside them.
The chamber was consumed by an eerie silence as if even the walls held their breath. Suddenly, the tranquility shattered, giving way to the heart-wrenching sobs of Aenar, resonating through the air like a mournful melody. With each tear cascading down his cheeks, Aenar sought solace in his father's embrace, whose heart ached witnessing his son's anguish.
In a desperate attempt to offer comfort, Daemon tenderly caressed his son's head, his fingers gently weaving through the tousled strands of hair. Planting a gentle kiss on Aenar's furrowed forehead, Daemon's voice, filled with love and compassion, echoed softly in the chamber. He spoke words so sweet, so heartfelt, that they danced like whispers of hope, reminding Aenar that he was not alone and promising never to leave him alone.
"Why again?!" Aenar's pained cry pierced the air, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger, confusion, and profound sorrow. As if sensing the depth of his son's despair, Daemon pulled Aenar even closer, their embrace growing tighter, the strength of it a shield against the relentless waves of grief threatening to engulf them both. At that moment, Daemon understood the weight of Aenar's sorrow, for the wounds inflicted by Lyanna's untimely death was still raw, throbbing with the ache of loss. And so, he held his son, his own heart heavy with shared sorrow, silently vowing never to let Aenar face the world alone.
Aenar's heartache was palpable. His tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes were evidence of the emotional turmoil that had consumed him for what felt like an eternity. As he leaned back, seeking solace in the arms of his grief-stricken father, Daemon's mind raced with concern and compassion. Daemon wondered if he should ask his son if he wanted to eat something; he knew his son was probably not hungry, but eating something was better than nothing.
Amidst the heavy silence, broken only by the soft sobs that echoed in the chamber, "Where's Great Grandma?" Aenar's voice trembled as he broke the stillness. His words carried an undercurrent of mounting worry as he anxiously scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. The weight of his concern settled upon him like a leaden cloak, for he suddenly realized the absence of his beloved Great Grandma. The realization struck him with a sharp pang of guilt, knowing that she, too, must be engulfed in her own private sea of tears, hidden away in the solace of her own chamber.
"In her chambers, Aenar, but I think is better to leave her alone for now," Daemon quickly said; he understood Aenar's desire to be there for Alysanne, especially after her son's death, but Daemon thought that what she needed was be alone for now, Daemon knew people grieve in different ways, some people liked to be left alone when a loved ones passed away.
"No!" his voice echoed through the stone walls of his chamber. His tousled hair danced in disarray as his head vigorously shook from side to side as if attempting to dislodge the words he had just uttered. However, before Daemon could intervene or offer solace, Aenar's determination propelled him into action. Aenar propelled himself from the comfort of his bed, his feet barely touching the stone floor. His little legs carried him swiftly toward the heavy oak door like a blur of energy. With each step, the echoes of his footsteps reverberated through the corridor.
"She's alone. I don't want her to be alone," Aenar shouted with more tears rolling down his little face; thoughts raced through Daemon's mind, contemplating a change of heart. Yet, a heavy sigh escaped his lips as he succumbed to defeat, his own sorrow weighing him down. Determined to project strength for his young son, he swallowed back his own tears and resolved to lend an ear, to truly listen.
"Very well, but don't stay too long," Daemon remarked. As his words gently unfurled into the air, Aenar felt a warmth caress his heart, a shimmering reflection of the gratitude that bloomed on his lips, manifesting as a small but sincere smile. With graceful determination, Daemon approached the door, his steps echoing with purpose, and with a flourish of his hand, he swung it open, revealing the corridor bathed in the soft glow of flickering torches. The air whispered with anticipation as Aenar swiftly crossed the threshold.
It didn't take long for them to reach the Queen's chamber, their footsteps echoing against the stone walls. The ceaseless sound of his great-grandmother's rhythmic wiping reverberated through the passageways, growing louder and more distinct with each step taken, intensifying Aenar's eagerness to reach the Queen's chamber. As he approached the door, the Kingsguard stationed outside instinctively recognized Aenar's presence. With a subtle nod, the stoic sentinel wordlessly stepped back, granting the young prince unhindered access. Aenar's hands, small yet determined, eagerly grasped the cold handle, feeling its weight in his palms as he summoned every ounce of strength and determination. With a resolute tug, the door swung open.
As Aenar stepped into the room, a heavy atmosphere engulfed him. The sight that greeted his eyes was heart-wrenching: his great-grandmother, now reduced to a mere silhouette of despair. Clutching a soft pillow to her tear-streaked face, she wept inconsolably. Aware of the fragile state of the moment, Aenar gingerly closed the door behind him, ensuring not even a whisper of sound disrupted the solemnity.
The weight of his great-grandmother's anguish hung in the air, evident in her anguished cry that pierced the silence, "Leave me Alone!" She didn't even bother to turn and acknowledge whoever had entered her chamber. Aenar's own eyes welled up with tears, mirroring the pain he saw etched upon his great-grandmother's face. At that moment, he couldn't help but reminisce about the strong and resilient woman she once was, the one they had left behind in Winterfell. Now, she lay on her bed, overcome with grief for her lost son, her vulnerability a stark contrast to the indomitable spirit.
Aenar's chest tightened as he felt his breathing become rapid, a result of both anxiety and the icy tendrils of fear that spread through his body. His eyes hesitantly drifted towards the bed once again, only to be met with a heart-wrenching realization: it wasn't the familiar figure of Alysanne lying there, but Rhaenys. Tears cascaded down her face, leaving glistening trails on her cheeks, as her anguished cries of sorrow and despair reverberated throughout the chamber, piercing through the silence. The weight of guilt pressed heavily upon Aenar's conscience as Rhaenys's voice trembled with remorse, her words echoing in the air like a haunting refrain.
"Aenar. I'm Sorry! I'M So Sorry. Please Forgive Me!" Her plea hung in the room, laden with raw emotion.
Aenar slowly blinked his eyes open, and as his heavy lids lifted, they were met with a flood of tears that welled up from deep within. The vivid memory that resurfaced in his mind's eye hit him with such force that it felt like an emotional dagger piercing his very heart. With a mixture of curiosity and concern, his gaze swiftly darted toward his great-grandmother. With each hesitant step he took, his little legs carried him closer to her bedside, where she remained, her sorrowful weeping echoing through the room.
As Aenar cautiously approached the foot of her bed, he couldn't help but notice how his great-grandmother remained unaware of his presence. At this moment, a surge of uncertainty washed over the young lad, leaving him bewildered and unsure of what course of action to take. Deep down, he yearned to offer some solace, some words of comfort that could bring a glimmer of joy to her troubled heart. However, a frustrating emptiness consumed his mind, preventing any meaningful thoughts from surfacing. A flicker of recollection sparked within Aenar's memory - the one thing that had never failed to bring a smile to his great-grandmother's face.
"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."
As Aenar's melodious song came to a gentle conclusion, he gradually opened his eyes, only to find his great-grandmother's gaze fixed upon him. In that poignant moment, the echoes of her sorrowful sobs had ceased, replaced by a profound mixture of grief for her departed son and an undeniable affection for Aenar. Her eyes, tinged with the redness of countless, shed tears, and her cheeks, swollen from the weight of her emotions. Yet, amidst this sea of melancholy, Aenar mustered a bittersweet half-smile. Without uttering a single word, his great-grandmother silently beckoned him to join her by her side. Without hesitation, Aenar swiftly took his place next to her on the bed.
Without hesitation, she rushed towards him, arms outstretched, and enveloped him in a tight, comforting hug. As her arms encircled him, she planted gentle kisses on the top of his forehead, leaving a trail of affectionate imprints. The soft touch of her hand, rhythmically rubbing his middle back, offered solace and reassurance as if to say, "I am here, and everything will be alright." Aenar reciprocated the love by pressing a tender kiss on her cheek, his face nestled against her shoulder.
With a gentle tone and a heartfelt expression, Aenar inquired, "Can I do something more?" Deep down, he yearned to provide solace and bring comfort to his great-grandmother, hoping to uplift her spirits in any way possible. In a tender gesture, Alysanne planted a delicate kiss on his cheek, her eyes conveying a profound sense of appreciation.
Desperation laced Alysanne's voice as she clung tightly to her cherished great-grandson, almost beseeching, "Please don't leave me, my sweet little dragon." In an attempt to reassure her, Aenar reciprocated her embrace, gently pressing a loving kiss against her cheek.
With unwavering devotion, Aenar vowed, "I won't leave you alone. Never."