Dance of The Dragonwolf

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The Following 15 Chapters are available for Patrons.
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), Chapter 36 (Magic is Dark and Full of Lies), Chapter 37 (A Prince and A Princess), Chapter 38 (A Tourney of Sacrifice), Chapter 39 (Words are like an Arrow), and Chapter 40 (Viserys's Decision) are already available for Patrons.
With nimble fingers and a tender touch, the devoted mother diligently weaves her artistic magic, skillfully entwining her daughter's luscious tresses into intricate braids. Once unassuming and drab, the chestnut strands now radiate a warm glow, resembling the very essence of the mother herself. While the resemblance to her father is undeniable in the countenances of Gwayne, Gareth, and Alester, it is in this delicate act of hairstyling that the daughter finds solace, a precious reminder of her unique connection to her nurturing mother. As the sun casts its golden rays upon the room, reflecting off the daughter's cascading braids, her eyes meet her mother's gaze, revealing a shared depth of chocolate brown.
Mother had said once that she'd fallen those eyes that reminded her of cinnamon. There were no brown flowers in Highgarden, which had always made her so upset.
"I always thought it was so strange that we Tyrells had brown hair if there were no flowers like that." Mother pressed a warm hand against her cheek. "Brown eyes, too. Luckily, you were born with my grandfather's green eyes, like a stem. It seems so strange, you know? Lannisters have their golden mane and the Starks have the grey eyes of a wolf's coat. We have nothing. My House, Tyrell, has a golden rose, and we don't even have yellow hair. We aren't flowers."
"But we're growing strong, aren't we?" Alicent asks cheerfully. "You and I can be any flower we wish to be, Mother. Roses are so pretty. I should think that's why gowns were made-- you know, so we can be anything we wish to be."
Mother stands and turns to her very slowly. She kneels beside her daughter, brown eyes shining in hidden grief. Father often neglected her for the library or his solar or sometimes to travel to King's Landing. Alicent often heard her cry when Father left, and she supposed it was because Mother loved him so deeply. However, Otto Hightower was not so moved. Sometimes, she wondered if he had loved Helaena Tyrell or if he had loved her dowry.
"I could have married above my station. I could have been the bride of a Targaryen or a Redwyne or a Baratheon." She says hauntingly as if she were speaking to someone else, and it sounds more like a eulogy. "I could have been anything, my sweet girl. Helaena Baratheon. Helaena Targaryen. Now, I am nothing. I am not a rose. I am not happy. I was in love, and now I am not happy."
Alicent doesn't mean to say it. "I don't make you happy, Mother?"
Mother blinked away tears, flinching back as if her daughter had struck her as hard as she could. She smiled widely, though it didn't look genuine to her daughter.
"Of course you do, sweetling. Gwayne, Gareth, you, and Alester are my life's greatest joy. Especially you. You're a sweet girl, Alice, but remember at all times that you're more than any man that wants you. You can love and love and love, but sometimes love leaves you defenseless against great pain. Sometimes it strips you bare and takes away from you...takes the parts you that did not know could be taken. It takes the warmth from your sheets and the kindness from your soul. It picks you dry like a crow to a corpse. In the end, your greatest love will be your children, but for their sake, choose their father wisely. For your own sake, choose a man wisely."
.
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A girl with long brown hair swung her legs over the balcony's edge, steading her arms against the stone beams that supported her back.
"And what are you doing, girl?"
She turns slightly, smiling. "Father!"
He stepped forward, dragging a hand against his face. Lines seeped deep into the sun-tanned skin, and she saw the exhaustion in his gaze.
"Working hard today, Father?"
"As hard as a man can go up a peg on the ladder." Otto Hightower grasped her waist, forcing her backward so she wasn't so far on edge. "What've I told you about sitting up so high, Alicent? If you want to have air, sit in the breezeway or go to a lower floor."
"I like feeling tall. We're higher than anything else in the world. Have you ever thought of that? Even little birds can't fly higher. Even dragons don't go this high."
Otto chuckled at her pride. "You're right, my dear, dragons cannot go as high as us. Just be careful. It'd be a shame for you to fall from this height. You'll be dead before you hit the ground."
There's a moment of silence.
"Mother was looking for you," Alicent frowned. "You weren't in your solar. She cried again, so then Gwayne cried, and then the twins had to carry on and on about it. Where were you?"
With defeat, he sighed. "The library, my girl." Otto placed his hands against the large, finely cut stone and swung his own legs over so he could sit. The whole world seemed so much smaller here. "Learning. No matter how old you are, you can always learn more. Education, my girl, intelligence, that's what'll raise you up in the world. It's why I work so hard-- to advance our family."
"So you can be the Hand of the King?"
"Aye, you're a smart girl. Kings need men like me. Our King Jaehaerys is wise, but to be on the council you must be wiser. Better than even a ruler. A king would not have a council if he was enough for the kingdom on his own."
Alicent adjusted her skirts, wrinkling the pretty fabric between her fingers. "I see." The girl, a child of eight, looked across Oldtown. "Wisdom won't make Mother stop crying. You're breaking her heart being gone so very much. I don't like it when Mama cries."
"Helaena is a tender-hearted woman, just as all Tyrells are. That's why their sigil is of a flower. You're not like your mother, though, Alicent. You're not a delicate flower. You're a strong stone tower." Her father said, looking at her in a slightly strict way.
Alicent sighs softly.
"If I was without boys, I could be just as pleased with you. You're going to do great things, Alicent, I can see it in your face. You ought to be a queen or a princess, not the daughter of a second son." Otto's voice became a bitter sneer, for his true anger was at his own position. Such an ambitious man limited by a brother's rank. He would never be Lord of Hightower or the Port or anything more than a second son. He turned to the girl with the long brown hair.
"I won't make your mother cry as much. She's a good woman, but she settled. She settled on a man like me. On a second son. A Tyrell could have done better. She didn't reach high enough." Her father promised, but his voice didn't sound genuine; Alicent simply nodded along with what her father was telling her.
"Mama says she married you for love." Alicent reminded him with a tiny hint of hope in her voice, but the smile quickly faded like smoke when she heard what her father told her next.
"That was her mistake. Daughters are lower than even second sons. But they can marry better. They can have those first sons. They can marry those first sons. Always reach higher, Alicent. Always reach higher." Her father spoke with a strict voice, reminding Alicent more of her maester than her loving father.
.
.
A sense of anticipation filled the air as Alicent strolled gracefully toward her mother's opulent chamber. She clutched a treasured book tightly in her delicate hands, eager to present it as a thoughtful gift. However, just as her nimble fingers grazed the ornate doorknob, a chilling declaration pierced the silence, "Prince Baelon is dead!" The words reverberated through the closed door, reaching Alicent's ears like a haunting melody. Intrigued and momentarily frozen in place, she instinctively halted her movement, opting instead to press her ear against the polished wooden surface, craving every nuance of her mother's voice. With bated breath, she absorbed the weight of those words, acutely aware that her world was about to change forever.
As Alicent stood on the other side of the door, her heart heavy with sorrow, she couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the lack of emotions resonating in her father's voice when he uttered those words, "Such tragedy." The weight of the silence in the chamber enveloped her, amplifying the sound of her mother's footsteps as she paced in circles, their echoes reverberating through the air like a haunting melody.
"What now?" Her mother's voice echoed through the heavy oak door, carrying a weight of uncertainty and trepidation. The sudden demise of the heir to the throne left a void that seemed impossible to fill, raising questions that hung in the air like a dark cloud. "The heir is dead. Who will rule the Seven Kingdoms? The King doesn't have many years left. I heard from the Maester that the King's health is degrading, the maester in King's Landing says the King has only a few years left." Alicent's ears caught the faint whispers of her mother's voice. Yet, as Alicent stood there, grappling with the weight of the situation, she couldn't help but notice a subtle change in her mother's voice. It lacked the usual frailty and fragility that accompanied her words, instead resonating with newfound strength and determination.
"The Queen?" Her father's voice pierced through the room, cutting through the air with a tinge of displeasure as if he had dismissed her words about the King entirely. Alicent couldn't help but wonder what had sparked such a reaction. As her mind wandered, she couldn't help but recall the tales that had been whispered throughout Westeros about Queen Alysanne, the esteemed 'Good Queen' who had won the hearts of the entire Realm. The mere thought of emulating such revered grace and benevolence filled Alicent's young heart with a burning desire to one day become a queen herself, one who would be remembered and adored for ages to come.
With a hint of unease lacing her voice, she remarked, "Nothing. It seems the young Prince is having a profound effect on her, my dear. The Maester even suggests that she might outlive the King."
Her father, exuding an air of authority and confidence, responded with a voice that resonated with absolute conviction. "She has little matter to us. Even if she outlives the King, she can't rule on her own. No, once King Jaehaerys is no more. The King should be Prince Viserys Targaryen," he proclaimed, his words carrying the weight of destiny as if they were fated to come true, as if his very utterance possessed the divine authority of gods themselves.
Her mother's voice pierced the air with urgency. "What if Princess Rhaenys becomes Queen?" the query escaped her lips, laden with intrigue and curiosity. Though she couldn't catch a glimpse of her mother's actions, the faint symphony of liquid cascading into a crystal glass reached her ears, stirring her curiosity. Late into the eve, Alicent puzzled over the unusual occurrence, for her mother had never indulged in the pleasures of wine.
As her mother posed the question, a heavy silence fell upon the room, enveloping her father's figure in a cloak of quiet contemplation. With a weariness that seemed to seep from his very core, he released a long, weary sigh, the weight of his thoughts palpable in the air. Sensing the tension, her mother hesitated momentarily, her mouth poised to utter the next words. The room brimmed with anticipation as her voice broke the stillness. "You know Lord Corlys is a prideful man like Prince Daemon. I'm not sure which one would be worse for the Realm," There was a subtle edge to her mother's voice, a mix of caution and concern, as she pondered the implications for the Realm. Uncertainty lingered in the air like a delicate dance, leaving them all to wonder which of these two formidable men would prove to be the greater challenge.
Her father's voice carried an air of confidence as he confidently proclaimed, "The King choose Prince Baelon over his niece, he will do the same again." Alicent watched through a small crack in the door as her mother's brows furrowed, her concern evident in the way her fingers nervously tapped against the armrest of her chair.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, her father continued, "The Queen will be against him, but her voice is still inferior to that of the King's voice." Curiosity piqued within Alicent's mind as she listened attentively to the conversation unfolding before her.
Her mother's voice trembled slightly as she posed a question that seemed to carry a sense of foreboding, "But what about the young Prince? You know what they say about him and his connection to Cannibal?" Alicent couldn't help but wonder why her mother sounded so concerned, her words laced with worry. Prince Aenar's name had never been a topic of discussion within their household, and yet here it was, brought up in the midst of this intense conversation. The mention of Cannibal made Alicent shudder slightly; while she had never seen him, she had heard enough rumors to know the black dragon ate other dragons. Cannibalism was considered one of the biggest sins one could commit from the faith of the seven.
"You know, once I knew a man who had the biggest sword I ever saw, so large that it was bigger than him. The man would boost about his sword every day, and every night, saying with that sword he was invincible, but one day, he was ambushed, and do you know what happened?" Her father questioned; Alicent expected her mother to answer. Instead, she was quiet, waiting for him to continue.
"The man didn't even have a time to raise his sword to defend himself. A knife, not bigger than the palm of the hand was enough to kill him." Her father finished with a look of satisfaction on his face.
A profound silence enveloped the room in the midst of a hushed atmosphere that lingered for what felt like an eternity. Alicent found herself perplexed by the intense, whispered conversation unfolding between her parents. Their animated gestures and hushed tones suggested a clandestine discussion about the esteemed Royal Family, but Alicent sensed an unspoken tension as if her parents harbored reservations or even dissenting opinions.
Although uncertainty gnawed at her, she trusted her parents implicitly, knowing they always had valid motives behind their actions. As the seconds ticked by, Alicent contemplated retreating to the solace of her own chamber. Just as she was about to make her silent departure, a faint yet familiar voice pierced through the stillness, capturing her attention.
It was her mother's voice, tinged with a fleeting vulnerability, that betrayed her true emotions. Alicent's heart skipped a beat as she absorbed the melancholic undertones of her mother's inquiry. "You... will you leave?" Her mother's voice quivered ever so slightly, revealing a profound sadness that struck a chord deep within Alicent's soul.
With unwavering determination, Her father's resolute voice reverberated through the chamber. "Yes. It's time for House Hightower to reach higher than it has ever has before," Her father said without hesitation and pride; she couldn't help but steal a glimpse of her mother's face, peering through the narrow slit of the partially ajar door. The sight that met her eyes was one of profound devastation. In that fleeting moment, it became clear to Alicent that the weight of their family's future rested on the precipice of her father's grand vision, a vision that, if not tempered, had the potential to bring ruin upon them all.
"You will doom us All."
Now - King's Landing
Alysanne stood in disbelief, her mind grappling with the harsh reality she never anticipated. She never thought she would find herself engulfed in this sorrowful scene once more, her heart shattering into countless fragments. As her eyes scanned the place, they landed upon her lifeless son, his fragile form delicately enveloped by pristine white sheets. A profound sadness washed over her as the realization dawned upon her: he was now part of the somber pile awaiting the fiery embrace of the Targaryen tradition. The solemn ritual of burning the deceased was deeply ingrained in their lineage, a tradition that spared no exceptions, not even for her beloved son.
Alysanne cursed the gods for forcing her to go through this again. As the bitter memories of losing her first child resurfaced, Alysanne vividly recalled the fervent prayers she had whispered, desperately pleading that fate would spare her from enduring such heartbreak again. She had beseeched the Seven, begging that she would not be forced to outlive any more of her beloved offspring.
Yet, fate seemed unyielding, mercilessly placing her in this treacherous position once more. And so, against all odds, she remained standing, her breaths a testimony to her resilience in the face of unimaginable loss. Only two of her thirteen treasured children still clung to life's fragile thread. Seara, her daughter, had ventured far away to the distant shores of Lys despite countless attempts from Alysanne to reach out and bridge the growing chasm between them. Saera never once acknowledged the heartfelt letters penned by her anguished mother.
Alysanne, gripped by an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, could only offer fervent prayers, desperately hoping that her daughter still breathed the same air as she did. Vaegon stood as her lone son left in this desolate landscape of maternal sorrow. He, her cherished son, remained by her side, but the bitter truth remained that his calling as an esteemed Archmaester bound him to the hallowed halls of the Citadel, distant from the bustling Realm of King's Landing and distant from his sorrow-stricken parents.
And Gael, her precious daughter, but her place was in Winterfell now, and not in King's Landing.
In the depths of her heart, Alysanne had fervently beseeched the Seven, with tearful prayers whispered in the darkness that the cruel hand of fate would never snatch away another one of her beloved children nor force her eyes to witness the searing flames engulfing their innocent bodies in a macabre pyre. Yet, she found herself standing there, transfixed, her heart heavy with grief, as yet another cherished child succumbed to the grasp of mortality while she, against all odds, endured the bitter taste of life's cruel irony. It was an agonizing scene that etched itself upon her soul, for this was the tenth time she had witnessed her precious progeny consumed by the relentless fires while she remained steadfast, her breath heavy with the weight of unimaginable loss.
With a heavy heart, Queen Alysanne discreetly observed King Jaehaerys at her side, her gaze flickering from the corner of her eyes. Time had been unkind to him since the tragic passing of their beloved son, Prince Baelon. A week had slipped by in mourning, yet it seemed as though the weight of grief had etched itself onto Jaehaerys' very being. The once-vibrant ruler now relied on a cane to steady himself, his every step a testament to the burden he carried.
His regal duties, once executed with unwavering strength, now proved a struggle, a mere shadow of what they once were. Although Jaehaerys had appointed Otto Hightower as the new Hand of the King, Alysanne found herself unwilling to relinquish the governance of the Realm to a stranger. The responsibility of ensuring the stability and prosperity of the kingdom weighed heavily upon her shoulders. Thus, she resolved to shoulder the duties of a queen with unwavering determination, fulfilling her role to the utmost extent possible.
Alysanne's eyes went to Lord Hightower standing near the King; the man's face was as unreadable as a rock, yet Alysanne detected a faint flicker of pride, a subtle glimmer that hinted at the depths of his ambition. It was in the regal way he carried himself, his chest puffed out with an air of authority, proudly displaying the emblem of the Hand of the King adorning his chest—an insignia that commanded respect and reverence, a symbol of unparalleled power within the Realm of Westeros. In the shifting dynamics of power, that solitary badge elevated him to the esteemed position of the second most influential figure in the entire kingdom.
Alysanne felt her blood boil slightly; it should have been on Baelon's chest instead of his. Her children should have been alive, and Aemon would have been a perfect king, especially with his brother Baelon as the Hand of the King.
Alysanne didn't know the man, but she didn't like how proud he looked of himself. But she figured everyone would be proud of themselves if they became Hand of the King, especially when they were second sons.
Near Alysanne and Jaehaerys were standing the rest of the Royal Family, including Princess Rhaenys and her family. Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenyra were standing beside Prince Aenar, both standing near him. An air of melancholy hung over the air as Rhaenyra's tear-streaked countenance betrayed her inner turmoil, while Prince Aenar valiantly masked his sorrow, though his reddened eyes betrayed his unspoken grief. In this tender moment, Laena clasped Aenar's trembling hand, her own delicate tears teetering on the brink of release yet resolutely suppressed.
As Alysanne's ears caught the distant echo of mighty dragon wings flapping, she instinctively craned her neck, her gaze darting skyward. The sound grew closer, reverberating through the air. And there it was, her beloved dragon Silverwing, descending gracefully from the heavens, its massive form casting a shadow that engulfed the pyre below.
The ground trembled beneath her feet as Silverwing touched down, its presence commanding and awe-inspiring, towering like a behemoth, dwarfing even the grandest castle's proportions. But Silverwing wasn't the only dragon present. Meleys, Caraxes, Vermithor, Cannibal, and Seasmoke joined Silverwing in this extraordinary gathering. They danced in the sky, their wings outstretched, painting a mesmerizing picture against the azure canvas above. All but Cannibal, who lay sprawled on a vast emerald field, fixated on Aenar with an unwavering gaze as if standing sentinel, faithfully guarding his every move.
Once Silverwing landed, it didn't take long for Vermithor to follow suit. As the dragons touched the ground, their sorrowful gazes mirrored that of their riders, Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys Targaryen, who approached with heavy hearts. Every step they took brought them closer to the solemn pyre, where the lifeless form of their beloved son lay. The world seemed to hold its breath as the royal couple halted, their eyes fixated on the lifeless vessel that once embodied the hopes and dreams of their lineage.
As Alysanne spoke to her son, her voice trembled with emotion, the weight of her words echoing in the air. "Ñuha tresy (My dear son,)" she began, her heart heavy with grief, "Nyke hope aōha soul iksis lēda Āemon, Alyssa se tolvys else (I hope your soul is with Aemon, Alyssa, and everyone else.)." Her voice cracked, the vulnerability shining through as she fought back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. She could feel the warmth of her husband's hand enveloping hers, their fingers intertwined tightly, offering solace in this moment of shared sorrow. Looking into his weathered face, etched with lines of a life well-lived, she recognized the reflection of her own anguish mirrored in his eyes.
With a heavy heart burdened by grief and longing, Jaehaerys's voice trembling with sorrow and regret directed his words to the heavens above. "Baelon, kostagon ao rest isse lyks. Avy jorrāelan mirre, sīr dearly Baelon, (Baelon, may you rest in peace. I love you all, so dearly. My children.)" he uttered, his love for his fallen son echoing in every syllable. His tear-streaked face bore the marks of a well-lived life, etched with the passage of time. Gazing upward, their eyes met the piercing gaze of their own majestic dragons, loyal and steadfast, leaning closer in anticipation, ready to heed their every command.
With a resounding command of "Dracarys!" echoing in the air, their scaly companions drew in deep breaths; the anticipation swelled, a palpable force of impending devastation. In perfect synchrony, the dragons unleashed their fiery wrath upon the pyle, the flames consuming the lifeless body of Baelon Targaryen with a voracious hunger that seemed insatiable.
Alysanne, her heart heavy with grief, stood steadfast, her tear-filled eyes transfixed upon the haunting spectacle unfolding before her. The sight of her beloved son's mortal vessel reduced to mere ashes was a cruel torment threatening to shatter her spirit. Yet, even amidst her sorrow, she couldn't tear her gaze away from the mesmerizing dance of the flames, their radiant glow casting an ominous shadow upon the desolate field.
As the conflagration raged on, a shower of crimson and gold sparks burst forth into the air, their vibrant hues painting the somber sky with a flickering tapestry of ephemeral beauty. Each ember, like a tiny beacon of the fallen Prince's memory, soared on the invisible current, carrying a fragment of his essence into the vast unknown. At that moment, the air seemed laden with a mixture of sorrow and awe, as if the very elements themselves mourned the loss of a Targaryen scion. The searing heat, mingled with the bittersweet scent of charred remnants, enveloped all who stood witness.
A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant crashing waves against the rocky shores. In that poignant moment, Vhagar unleashed a sorrowful roar that reverberated through the stillness, its haunting echoes reaching every corner of the island. The mournful sound seemed to carry the weight of a thousand sorrows, a piercing lament that pierced the hearts of all who heard it.
It was a sound that spoke of a deep bond shattered, a companion lost, and a fierce spirit left to wander the vast expanse of the world alone. Only after the last flicker of flame had consumed Baelon's lifeless body, leaving nothing behind but ashes and memories, did Vhagar unfurl her majestic wings.
They stretched wide, embracing the sky as if yearning to escape the suffocating grip of grief that clung to her scaled form. She rose from the ground with a powerful beat of her wings, her silhouette cutting through the sky with grace and purpose. The wind caressed her scales, carrying away the weight of sorrow that had burdened her. Vhagar was alone once again.
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