Dance of The Dragonwolf

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Chapter 39 (Words are like an Arrow), Chapter 40 (Viserys's Decision), Chapter 41 (Aenar's Answer), Chapter 42 (You Will Doom Us All), Chapter 43 (The First Cry of War), Chapter 44 (Revenge is a dish best served Cold), Chapter 45 (Dragons and Snakes), Chapter 46 ('You are not Loved'), Chapter 47 (Rhaenyra's Rage), Chapter 48 (Spread your Wings), Chapter 49 (A Falling Dragon), Chapter 50 (Even Eyes Can Lie), Chapter 51 (A Crying Dragon), Chapter 52 (Tears of a Dragon), and Chapter 53 (I Wish We Had More Time) are already available for Patrons.

Aenar tightened the straps around his armor as the squires saddled his horse and readied his lance. The horns outside his tent blew away for the first round of jousting. The crowds cheered as two knights charged toward one another, their lances aimed low and their shields raised high.

Putting on the last of his shoulder plates, Aenar called to the two. "Breastplate," he ordered, extending his arms, and Cregan quickly put the front and back plates on his chest, tightening them on both sides simultaneously.

He heard the sound of gasps amongst the audience, and Cregan let out a gasp at the sight of the man's destroyed leg; the horse had fallen on top of him. Those who worked in the Arena quickly ran to help him as he screamed for help.

"First time seeing something like this?" Aenar asked with concern, pointing at the man who was being dragged away; once his leg was free from the horse, they could see the blood had turned the cheap armor he word into red; the man screamed as they pulled out his helmet; because of the fall, his right cheek was torn and bleeding.

"No. Last year, there were six executions, and my father passed the sentence. Muna wasn't happy, but in the end, he took me with him to watch." Cregan explained, his eyes glued on what was happening in the Arena; the poor knight was dragged out of the Arena, screaming and crying, with a trail of blood following him.

"Did you look away?" Aenar asked intently, remembering when Bran had been in a similar position. He was sure he would have looked away if it wasn't for Robb and himself being there.

"No. It happened very fast. That was until Degory started kicking the head around like it was a ball, I puked right away, but my father was still proud of me, saying when he had first seen someone being executed, he had dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes." Cregan answered, sounding proud of himself.

"My first time seeing someone die was when I was five name days, this bandit attacked us, and father cut him in half." Aenar added, remembering the incident from his previous life. Instead of his Father, it had been Ser Rodrik.

Another horn blew as the match from the current jousters finished.

Finally, he put on his gauntlets, buckled his sword to his belt, and put on his helmet. Fully armored now, his horse Fire neighed. The girl was undoubtedly as restless to get this over with as he was. She was a feisty horse.

Taking the lead of his horse in his hand, Aenar signaled Cregan to follow him. "Come on, I won't want to keep the people waiting." As soon as he said so, another pair of horns sounded off, and the hooves of two horsemen quickly became drowned out by the cheers and expectations of the crowd.

Standing at the edge of the jousting grounds, Aenar and his little squire watched the spectacle unfold. Some new Vale knight was up next, a bright and haughty-faced boy who looked to have just come out of his childhood years, with his shiny bright armor hanged a crescent white moon in a field of blue.

Aenar had heard that the King had knighted the boy last year, a kind sentiment, all things considered, but it was clear to anyone who knew the boy that he was not even fit for jousting, let alone an actual battle.

"Up next, Ser Thhang of The Vale!" the announcer spoke.

"Father says Knights of The Vale are amongst the best knights you can find in Westeros," Cregan said with a look of slight awe, but he quickly added, "He's still no match against a Northern. We will eat them alive, along with their horses." He finished with a look of pride. Aenar chuckled in amusement before ruffling the top of his dark hair like a crow, but unlike Arya, he didn't seem to mind.

"And his opponent!" the announcer interrupted Aenar. "Ser Criston Cole."

Both knights rode to their opposite ends in the field and were handed their lances and shields. Hugh bore a simple tourney shield, thick enough to take the brunt of a lance but light enough not to tire out his shoulders carrying it.

This match was over before it ever even began, yet still, the horns blared, the standards were raised, and the crowd cheered for the two knights who bravely galloped their horses in a quick motion to one another.

With one quick move, Criston hit the other knight with his lance; the sound of metal clashing echoed throughout the Arena as Criston's lance hit the other knight's armor, causing him to lose his balance and fly off his horse. The crowd gasped in amazement as the poor knight soared through the air before crashing down onto the ground with a deafening thud. Criston pulled his horse to a stop, turning to face the cheering crowd, triumphant in his victory.

Aenar barely paid attention; he would be next, wearing his helmet, which was a Faraam Helmet with the symbol of a three-headed dragon carved into it.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Rhaenyra found herself seated on a plush cushion, flanked by the likes of Laena and Jeyne Arryn, who was sitting here because of Daemon, Lady Alicent, eagerly anticipating the commencement of the jousting tournament. The atmosphere was electric, as the entire audience was abuzz with excitement, eagerly awaiting the spectacle that was about to unfold before them.

With the sun beating down upon them, the knights mounted their horses, their shining armor glinting in the light. The sound of trumpets blared throughout the Arena, announcing the start of the competition. As the knights charged toward each other, the crowd roared with delight, their cheers echoing throughout the Arena.

Bets were being placed left and right, with everyone vying to predict which knight would emerge victorious and which lady would be crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty.

"Who do you think Prince Aenar will crown as Queen of Love and Beauty?" Lady Arryn asked, turning her attention towards them. Because of the King, she and Daemon had spent some time together, trying to find any affection between one another, but it was futile; Rhaenyra knew her uncle was still in love with Aunt Lyanna, and Lady Arryn's 'friendship' with Jessamyn Redfort made it obvious, she would never want Daemon.

"We don't know if he will win." Laenor chimed in, looking at the Arena with a look of concern.

Rhaenyra heard Laena curse under her breath while Lord Velayron gave his son a cold glare. She knew Laenor wasn't supposed to say that, but it seemed he wasn't frightened by his father's look; even Princess Rhaenys looked at her son with disapproval.

"Ohh, who do you think will win?" Jeyne asked, intrigued, with an innocent smile, but her eyes showed something else as if she already knew who Laenor wanted to win this Tourney.

"I don't know, but Aenar is not the only one. My friend, Joffrey, he's an excellent rider," Laenor said with pride, showing Lady Arryn a smile, but it seemed his parents didn't appreciate his words.

"Laenor, shut up." Lord Corlys ordered his son with a whisper-yell voice, gripping his shoulder hard enough to cause pain. Rhaenyra looked away from them; right now, she wished she was seated somewhere else; the last thing she needed right now was to hear bickering; she poured herself another glass of wine, hoping it would help.

My mother is alright by the end of the day. She will be back to normal, she told herself as she took a small sip of wine. Laena, as if she could read her mind, and knowing she was concerned, her hand gripped hers in support, their fingers intertwined.

"It will be over soon, Nyra. Don't think about it; just focus on the Tourney." Her friend whispered to her softly, almost kissing her cheek. Nyra nodded reluctantly. It was not like she could help her mother by getting worried sick. She just needed to focus on the Tourney. Her mother would get well soon.

The Royal Family cheered when Aenar dismounted someone from House Frey who was named 'Viserys' of all names. While the spectators were thrilled by the outcome, Ser Ryam couldn't help but groan loudly at the mention of the name.

"Now my life is fulfilled. I could see no greater honor than having a Frey named after me." Viserys japed, his voice dripping with sarcasm, much to Daemon's amusement.

As Joffrey effortlessly dismounted a knight from the Vale, leaving the crowd gasping in awe, Laenor's cheers echoed louder than anyone else's.

"You two must really be good friends, Lord Laenor?" Alicent asked innocently, seated near the King. Rhaenyra gripped the glass hard. She didn't understand why someone like her was sitting so close to her father instead of sitting with Lord Otto Hightower.

"...We are, Joffrey is-" "Laenor. Quiet." Princess Rhaenys ordered with a glare towards her son; her words made Laenor quiet down, much to Alicent's disappointment, who seemed like she wanted to know more.

The Jousting Arena was excited as the following contestants were called to enter the field. The announcer's voice boomed through the stands, catching the attention of every spectator.

"Next, The Young Dragon, Prince Aenar Targaryen, against Lord Dondarrion," he bellowed, his words echoing across the Arena. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, each region cheering for their favored knight. The North and The Royal Family chanted Aenar's name. The two riders entered the Arena, their armor glistening in the sunlight as they prepared for the joust.

As the two knights rode towards each other, their lances pointed at one another, Rhaenyra could feel her heart racing with anticipation. With a quick and nimble move, Aenar dismounted Lord Dondarrion, sending him crashing to the ground along with his horse. For a moment, the audience collectively gasped, fearing that Lord Dondarrion might be seriously injured. Thankfully, much to the relief of everyone present, the horse didn't fall on top of Lord Beric, sparing him from any serious harm.

As the dust settled and the crowd erupted into cheers, Rhaenyra couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and admiration for the sheer skill and bravery displayed by Aenar. The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium, declaring him the winner of that round and sending the crowd into a frenzy of cheers and applause. The Northern Lords were particularly vocal in their excitement, thrilled to see one of their own claim yet another victory for the North; despite being a Targaryen Prince, the North viewed Aenar as one of them.

Aenar Targaryen - Later

With another blaring of the horns, the standards were raised again, and the announcer came forth to call the next match. "Facing off against the previous victor, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth..."

"...Prince Aenar!"

With his armor fitted, his saddle strapped, and his shield and lance were handed over. Cregan wished him good luck.

"Cousin, knock his ass down and feed him to your dragon." Cregan shouted.

Aenar rode into their position. Winter neighed, and the girl was getting impatient.

Rhaenyra's heart pounded with anxiety, and she nervously fidgeted with the hem of her dress about the upcoming fight until Laena tapped her shoulder. "Don't worry, Nyra. He stands no chance against Aenar." She whispered, reassuring Rhaenyra that everything would go smoothly. While Laenor looked worried sick.

The moment the horns sounded off, they both kicked their spurs into motion, and the horses began galloping away, with Joffrey's horse gaining the upper hand in speed and momentum. It was a simple trick that almost all knights knew but rarely used in effect. Frankly, it was seen as unsportsmanlike.

Their lances came closer and closer to each other's shields. Wait for the right moment, till the opening is there. Upon the halfway point where their lances met, Aenar ducked under, sliding himself to the sides and avoiding Joffrey's lance. With as much strength as he could muster in his arms, he lunged forward, hitting the Knight of Kisses' shield dead on.

Usually, just the sheer speed of the impact was enough to take out most jousters. Must some have gotten so used to their Tourney fighting that they knew of ways to brace themselves for the impact in such a way that it looked as if it did not even affect them? Just from looking at his riding style, Aenar could see that Joffrey was one such knight.

With a thunderous crack, his lance started to splinter and broke away. The knight's body hit the ground with a loud thud as he flew off his horse.

There seemed to be no other danger, however, as Joffrey quickly got back on his feet, if a bit dazed. When the victory was announced, everyone cheered for the Prince, but amidst the cheering, he could hear some chanting.

"The Heir."

"The Heir of The Iron Throne!"

Aenar quickly looked, but everyone was cheering. There was no way to know who was chanting those words. It seemed King Viserys and the rest sitting on the Royal Podium had heard them as well. Viserys seemed as if someone had just thrown cold water on his face. His wife was giving birth to the True Heir, crying out in pain, and these people had already decided that Aenar was more worthy than the true Heir of the Iron Throne.

With his head held high and armor clanking as he walked, Aenar returned to his tent after his latest jousting match. As he made his way through the crowds of people, he heard the announcer's voice booming throughout the stadium once again, echoing across the grounds like thunder. "Next up, we have Ser Criston Cole, facing off against Prince Aenar Targaryen, the Young Dragon!" The audience erupted into cheers and applause.

Aenar took a deep breath. He was ready to do this.

The air in the jousting Arena was electric, charged with the resounding echoes of an immensely jubilant audience. Their thunderous cheers reverberated through the stands, blending harmoniously with the clattering sound of hooves colliding against the earth.

Prince Aenar Targaryen guided his steed across the vast expanse of the Arena with ethereal grace.

The common people, their eyes fixated upon him, stood in awe; he appeared as if he were a deity among mortals, captivating their hearts and minds.

As Aenar stood amidst the grandeur of the jousting Arena, his gaze swept across the sprawling crowd until it landed on a familiar figure: his father, resplendent in his knightly armor. The clatter of hooves and the cheers of the spectators faded into the background as their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them.

Aenar's heart swelled with pride as he caught the glint of sunlight reflecting off his father's armor.

As the sun bathed the Arena in a golden hue, Aenar's distinctive purple eyes seemed to come alive, shimmering with an ethereal radiance.

As Prince Aenar guided his steed through the bustling Jousting Arena, his ebony locks cascaded in the wind.

With a regal tilt of his head, his piercing gaze caught a glimpse of Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena.

As Aenar's gaze shifted towards King Viserys, he couldn't help but notice the unmistakable signs of distraction etched upon the ruler's face, as if his body was physically present in the grand Tourney. Yet, his mind was persistently preoccupied with thoughts of his wife.

As Aenar's gaze swept across the audience, it briefly landed on Alicent Hightower.

In vain attempts to conceal her desire, Alicent couldn't help but cast longing glances in Aenar's direction. Despite her relentless efforts to initiate conversations with Rhaenyra, the young dragon princess showed no interest in diverting her attention toward the persistent noblewoman.

Instead, Rhaenyra found solace in her exclusive friendship with Aenar and Laena.

Aenar didn't care about her; she could look all she wanted; his attention quickly turned to face the next opponent in the Jousting contest.

Behind his intricately crafted mask, a smile slowly spread across his face, the corners of his lips reaching toward his ears. The mask resembled a dragon's head, its scale-like patterns and fiery hues capturing the essence of mythical creatures.

Adorned with small dragon wings at the top, the mask seemed to come alive with every move Aenar made. Aenar could feel its weight and power with a firm grip on his lance. His next opponent was Criston Cole.

The Kingmaker, Aenar thought, taking a deep breath; it was time to make a big change in history.

"We are going to win, aren't we, buddy?" Aenar spoke softly to Winter; the horse neighed gently before nodding his head as if agreeing with Aenar.

A broad grin spread across his face as Aenar sat atop his trusty steed, and he chuckled at the horse's playful nuzzling. He gently stroked the horse's neck, feeling the softness of his coat beneath his fingers, and the horse responded by affectionately licking his hand, much to Aenar's amusement.

As the last round of the tournament approached, Aenar's heart raced with anticipation. He felt the weight of his armor and the power of his horse beneath him. Cregan handed him his lance. Aenar grasped it tightly with one hand, the other firmly gripping the reins of his horse.

The announcer's voice boomed through the Arena, signaling the start of the final round. "Start!" he shouted, and Aenar kicked his horse into a gallop, holding the lance high.

The sun was blazing high in the sky as Aenar and Criston positioned themselves at opposite ends of the field. The clatter of their horses' hooves echoed through the air as they spurred their steeds forward, their lances held high, their eyes locked on each other with determination.

Aenar's white stallion thundered across the ground, its powerful muscles rippling beneath his armored form. Small rocks flew behind it as it charged forward with all its might. The wind whipped through Aenar's hair as he leaned low over his horse's neck.

As Aenar charged towards Criston, his heart was racing with adrenaline, his grip on his lance tightening with anticipation. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth filled his ears.

The clash of their lances echoed through the Arena as they collided, Aenar's lance striking out blindly in the heat of the moment. He could not tell where it hit Criston, but he knew that his lance had landed squarely in his chest, the force of it almost knocking him off his horse. Despite the pain and shock that coursed through him, Aenar remained steadfast.

Despite the excruciating pain throbbing in his chest, Prince Aenar is determined to Win. He spurred his trusty steed forward, galloping toward the end of the Arena. As he approached, Cregan hastened to his side, presenting him with a fresh lance to replace the one that had shattered in the previous joust.

With a grateful nod, Aenar grasped the weapon firmly and urged his mount forward once more, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Criston. With the thundering of hooves echoing in his ears, Aenar charged toward his foe.

Their lances crashed into each other's shoulders, causing a thunderous clash that echoed throughout the Arena. Aenar didn't flinch. However, as the adrenaline slowly began to fade, he felt a jolt of excruciating pain shoot through his shoulder, causing him to wince in agony.

The pain continued to spread throughout his entire arm, causing an intense burning sensation that made it difficult to hold onto his reigns. Despite the pain, Aenar refused to give up.

Sensing its rider's distress, his horse began to move in a slow and steady rhythm as if to say, "I've got you, Aenar. I won't let you fall." The animal's gait was gentle and reassuring, and Aenar felt a sense of comfort wash over him.

Aenar felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he bit down hard on his lower lip. He could feel his clothes becoming damp under his armor.

Aenar patted his stallion affectionately on the neck and whispered, "Good boy!" The magnificent animal snorted in response, clearly pleased with the praise.

But Aenar's attention quickly turned to the jousting as he rode over to Cregan, deftly dismounting and reaching for another lance.

Despite the dull ache in his left shoulder from the wound he had received in the previous round, Aenar was determined to continue the competition. This time, he relinquished his grip on the reins, allowing his trusty steed to guide him forward as he tightly gripped the lance with his right hand. Aenar watched as Criston looked at him through the helmet with... concern.

With one swift kick to their horses, the two set off at a gallop, their armor clanking rhythmically with each stride. The sun beat down on their backs, and the crowd roared excitedly as they watched them charge toward each other, their lances ready.

The trumpets sounded, signaling the start of the new round, and they both simultaneously spurred their horses into a gallop, causing the audience to hold their breath in anticipation. The sound of hooves pounding against the dirt grew louder and louder as they charged toward each other, and the cheers of the crowd faded into a deafening silence. The only sound that could be heard was the clashing of their lances as they met in the middle of the jousting Arena, causing a spark to fly between them. Aenar, with precision, hit Criston square in the abdomen with his lance, causing the crowd to erupt in cheers.

However, Criston's lance hit Aenar's chest once again. The spectators gasped as Aenar and Criston were sent flying from their horses. Aenar's body soared through the air before crashing onto the ground with a loud thud.

Ignoring the pain, Aenar unsheathed his sword, and Criston grasped his Morningstar.

"The best one wins," Aenar said with a smile, feeling his blood pumping faster than before. It's been a long time since he fought someone like this.

"Thank you, your Grace," Criston said before swinging his Morningstar at him. Aenar could hear the weight behind each swing, and they were fast. His moves were calm and made to show as few openings as possible, but Aenar, despite the wound on his shoulder, had something Criston didn't have: speed.

Criston's Morningstar whirled through the air, aimed with deadly precision at the Prince. Despite his best efforts, the Prince's swift and agile movements were like that of a snake, effortlessly evading each swing with a grace that seemed almost supernatural. The two opponents circled each other, locked in a dance of death, the sound of metal against metal ringing out with each strike. But as much as Criston tried, he could not land a single blow on the elusive Prince, whose movements seemed almost preternatural in their speed and fluidity.

"You are good, you are worthy of a Kingsguard," Aenar said with a sincere smile as he dodged another swing before rushing forward, punching him in the face. But Criston quickly punched him back before swinging his Morningstar. Aenar quickly dodged before using his sword in his hand, holding the Morningstar. Much to his surprise, Criston let go of the weapon, only to use his other hand to punch Aenar on the wounded shoulder.

With a devilish smirk, Aenar savored the searing agony coursing through his body before lashing out at Criston. Grasping his hand, he landed a series of brutal punches to the man's face, relishing the satisfying crunch of breaking bones and the gush of blood that followed. As Criston stumbled to the ground, Aenar swiftly swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the earth with a satisfying thud.

Aenar quickly put the tip of his sword on his throat; just one small push, and he would slit his throat. He would bleed out and die. But Aenar looked down at his eyes; they didn't show fear; despite his broken nose, they showed great respect and admiration for him.

'Everyone deserves a second Chance.'

'Taking a man's life should never be easy, so before you do it, you owned it to them to hear their last words. If you do not, then maybe that man deserves to live.'

"I give up," Criston said, smiling, raising his hands. Aenar spit out blood from the punch he had received; before making the decision, he extended his hand; Criston grasped it, and he helped him up to his feet.

"You are a great warrior, Criston Cole," Aenar said sincerely. He had never fought Jaime Lannister before he lost his hand, but he was willing to bet that Criston was as good as Jaime with both hands.

"T-Thank you, your grace. It's an honor to hear it from you." Criston said, sounding amazed, and bent his knee to him.

"You said you want to become a Kingsguard. Well, if you want, you can become my sworn shield, and one day you can become a Kingsguard." Aenar offered genuinely; the man looked up at him with absolute respect.

"It would be my Honor."

"Then rise as Criston Cole, the Sworn Shield of Prince Aenar of House Targaryen," Aenar said with a commanding voice. Criston did so before shaking each other's hands.

Suddenly, the sound of a trumpet blast filled the air, and the announcer's voice boomed like a horn, "And the winner of the jousting is Prince Aenar Targaryen!" The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer.

As Aenar galloped through the jousting field, his eyes were drawn to the crown of blue roses on top of a pedestal, their delicate petals shimmering in the brilliant sunlight. He had long pondered who deserved it; he had even thought of crowing Queen Alysanne, but she had told him that she would slap him if he did, saying he needed to give the crown to the woman he loved.

But as he gazed upon the glittering blue roses in his hand, he knew without a doubt that there was only one.

With a flourish, he held up the crown of flowers, its petals shining in the bright sunlight. The audience fell silent as Aenar strode towards the Royal seats. Alicent's heart started beating faster, knowing her Prince would choose her. Everyone will envy me, and even the princesses will, Alicent thought, with the brightest smile she ever had on her face.

But her heart almost stopped beating, and her smile dropped when she saw Aenar ride past her.

With a graceful bow, Aenar placed the crown on Laena's lap, the delicate petals brushing against her skin.

Laena slowly gripped the crown of flowers, her gaze fixed on Aenar, who looked back at her with a mixture of amusement. Aenar gave her love a sweet smile.

"Lady Laena Velayron, Queen of Love and Beauty!" The sound of thunderous applause filled the air, drowning out the crowd's cheers and cries.

"Thank you, My Prince." Rhaenyra smiled brightly, but as she looked up to see her father's reaction, her smile wavered when she saw his empty seat.

The royal family couldn't help but applaud for who Aenar decided to crown- especially Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys.

Slowly, Laena placed it on top of her head. She didn't like that the Entire Westeros was looking at her right now.

But just like every beautiful thing, it could only last so long. Once the Tourney ended, they were all informed that Queen Aemma was in critical condition, and only King Viserys was allowed inside the chamber. They all waited. Rhaenyra was in tears, so he kept her close as they all waited to know how the Queen was doing.

After seven hours of waiting, the doors opened, and the Maester walked out with a grim look on his face.

"I'm sorry, but Queen Aemma died giving birth to the Prince, but I'm afraid the Prince is no more. We tried, but he passed away ten minutes ago." Her screams shook the entire Red Keep. Rhaenyra fell on her knees, tears streaming down her face; Aenar quickly hugged her from behind as she sobbed and screamed in agony.

If you want to Read 15 More Chapters, Write 'www.Patreon.com/Drinor' in the web search.

So Criston Cole is now an Ally of House Targaryen. Aenar will start his Conquest soon, especially with Dorne, since King Viserys will soon make a Terrible mistake.