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| Author's Note:You'll have to forgive me,— I had a job interview on Thursday, so releasing a chapter between Wednesday and Thursday was practically impossible.
Hope you understand!
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No quote today, instead, have some age reminders for this chapter:
The year is 82 AC:
- Aenys is 7 sunturns / namedays;
- Rhaenys is 8 sunturns / namedays;
- Viserys is 5 sunturns / namedays;
- Gael is 2 sunturns / namedays;
- Daemon is 1 sunturn / nameday;
- Aemma is a newborn.
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- Dragonstone, 82 AC:
Daella Targaryen was dead.
The evening sky burned with hues of orange and crimson, mirroring the great flames of Vermithor as they consumed the body laid upon the funeral pyre. Smoke curled into the twilight, thick and cloying, carrying with it the scents of burning flesh.
Aenys stood stiffly, his small hands clenched in the fabric of his tunic, his throat tight.
His aunt, Daella, was gone.
The fire licked hungrily at the sky, devouring the form that had once been filled with warmth and hesitant laughter. She had been kind, unfailingly so, even when others scoffed at him. And now she was nothing but ash, drifting away in the wind.
He wanted to turn away, to close his eyes and pretend this wasn't real, but his mother's hand was firm on his shoulder. Alyssa stood beside him, silent in her grief, her fingers tightening just enough to anchor him in place.
He wished she wouldn't.
He wished she would let him slip away into some distant place where the fire wasn't crackling, where Daella's gentle voice wasn't forever silenced.
At the forefront of the gathering stood his uncle, Aemon Targaryen, Daella's elder brother. His expression was unreadable, his posture rigid beside Aenys' grandfather, King Jaehaerys. Rodrik Arryn stood nearby as well, mourning the loss of his wife, his face carved from stone, his hands clasped behind his back in silent agony.
A few steps back, his other aunt, Jocelyn, clutched his newborn cousin to her chest, her lips pressed into a thin, colorless line.
Even now, no one would dare call her the 'cold-woman' that most in the realm did.
Not in this moment.
The babe, Aemma Arryn,— Aemma Targaryen to him,— did not cry.
She did not even stir, swaddled in cloth far too large for her, she remained oblivious to the mother she would never know.
Aenys had heard the whispers.
The handmaids, the lords and ladies of court, even the maesters had murmured:
"She was always so frail."
"She should have never had a child."
"She must have known what would happen."
"Princess Daella would have traded her life for her daughter's a thousand times over."
Aenys clenched his fists as tightly as his seven sunturns would allow.
It wasn't fair. His aunt had been the kindest of them all, when he had failed to mount Dreamfyre, when the others had mocked him, when even Rhaenys had struggled to understand his fears,— Daella had simply smiled at him.
She had stroked his hair and told him he was enough, just as he was. No one else had ever said that, not like she had, at least.
And now, she was nothing but cinders and embers, carried away by the winds of her ancestors' home.
The murmurs around him droned on.
Some wept softly, others bowed their heads in quiet reverence. His father Baelon stood a few steps ahead, holding Viserys hand in his own, while Alyssa cradled the young Daemon.
His grandmother, Queen Alysanne, wept openly by the pyre, heartbroken. Aenys knew she and his grandfather would argue later,— they always did, for the past few days.
He wondered if he would ever be able to cry.
Not a single tear had fallen since the moment he had learned Daella was dead.
He wondered,—...
A hand slipped into his own, small and warm,— Rhaenys'.
She did not speak, she did not try to comfort him. She simply stood beside him, her grip firm, and he squeezed back.
They were young, that much was true. But now, they shared the weight of loss,— young, but together,— as always.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement,— his uncle Aemon had turned away from the pyre, his shoulders taut with an emotion Aenys could not read.
His aunt Jocelyn followed him, her steps hurried, as if staying any longer might shatter her, with little Aemma pressed tightly against her chest.
Aenys swallowed against the knot in his throat. He had never seen his usually serious uncle like this,— so still, so quiet, so... blank.
Aemon was a warrior, fierce and unshakable, expressive even in his sternness. But now, he looked like a man who had lost something he could never win back, again.
And Aemma, the cause of all this sorrow, would never know the woman who had given her life for her.
Aenys turned back to the flames, staring at the figure that was no longer Daella, and made a silent vow.
He would protect Aemma, he would not let her be alone in the world. He would not let her fade into nothingness like the embers of this dragonfire.
By his will, she would be cherished, and she would be loved.
No one would ever make her cry.
No one.
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Daella had known almost immediately.
Her body had always been delicate, prone to fatigue, easily overwhelmed by the smallest changes.
But this was different.
There was warmth in her belly, a fluttering sensation that felt as though a small flame had been lit inside her, growing stronger with each passing day.
At first, she had thought it another bout of frailty,— another moment where her body betrayed her. But when the maester at the Eyrie confirmed what she had already begun to suspect, Daella had wept.
She was going to be a mother!
The news had spread through the halls of the Eyrie, soft whispers of joy tinged with concern. The maester spoke cautiously, midwives exchanged knowing glances, and her lord husband, Rodrik Arryn, had looked at her as though he wished to be glad but feared for her all the same.
Daella had taken his hands without even thinking, squeezing them gently. "I want to go home, husband. To King's Landing,— I want to have the babe there, in my home."
Rodrik had hesitated,— if only for a moment. He was a lord of the Vale, strong and unyielding, but he had never been unkind to her. He had learned, as most had, that Daella's heart was soft, but her will was iron in its own way.
So, he agreed.
Their journey to the capital had been slow, careful, with every effort made to ensure her comfort. The closer they came to the Red Keep, the more at ease Daella felt.
Home.
She had learned to love the Vale,— its crisp air, its mountain peaks, the way the sky seemed so much closer there,— but it had never been her true home. The Red Keep was where she had been raised, where her family lived, where she had always felt safest, save for some occasions.
It was there where her little nephew, Aenys, and little Rhaenys would be waiting for her, she was sure of it.
Time passed quicker than expected, and soon, the Arryn couple reached the Red Keep.
The sun hung over the grand keep, casting golden light through the canopies of the royal gardens. Flowers swayed in the soft breeze, their fragrance mingling with the salt of the distant sea.
Daella found Aenys sitting beneath a large weeping willow, his back pressed against the trunk, knees curled to his chest. He had not noticed her approach, too lost in whatever thoughts weighed on his young mind.
She had heard what had happened,— the attempt to tame a grown dragon, Dreamfyre.
The failing, and the scolding that followed.
Soft footsteps barely disturbed the grass as she knelt beside him, smoothing out the folds of her pale lavender gown.
"You've been hiding here for quite some time, I'd wager." she murmured, and Aenys startled at her voice, turning quickly to face her.
His silver hair was mussed, his eyes red-rimmed, though he did not cry now.
When he recognized her, his tense shoulders relaxed, but only a little. "Aunt Daella..." His voice was small, uncertain. Though he held no surprise in his tone,— he had known she was coming home.
She smiled, warm and patient. "I was looking for you." And Aenys lowered his head, staring at the dirt beneath his hands. "Did my parents send you?"
"No." She shook her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I came because I wanted to see you."
A silence stretched between them, long enough for the sounds of the garden to press in,— the rustling leaves, the distant calls of gulls, the soft lapping of waves far below.
"You're not disappointed?" Aenys finally asked. "And why would I be?"
"Because everyone else is..." he muttered bitterly. "Because I failed."
Daella exhaled softly, shifting so that she sat fully beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed, though his couldn't quite reach hers. "They think you failed?"
Aenys gave a sharp nod. "I failed to build a bond with a dragon. I couldn't tame Dreamfyre, and everyone heard the commotion it caused,— since I almost died."
His voice wavered. "Every son and daughter of the noble lords and ladies at court laughed at me when no one else was looking."
Daella frowned, but not in the way others did when they looked at him. There was no judgment in her gaze, no impatience.
There was only understanding,— nothing else.
"You are not a failure." she said gently. "You do not need to be what they expect you to be. Life is too short for us to worry so much about what others say or do to mock us. You may be too young to understand that now, but... one day you will. And then, you will see that what matters most is our own sight of how the world is, and not the other way around."
Aenys bit his lip, his small hands gripping the fabric of his tunic with something akin to self-loathing. "I should still have a dragon..."
"Perhaps." She agreed, tilting her head thoughtfully. "But why should that make you more or less than what you already are?"
He blinked, uncertain. "Do you think I am weak because I do not have a dragon?" she asked, her tone light, almost teasing.
Aenys' head shot up, alarmed. "No! Of course not!"
"Then why do you think of yourself that way?" Aenys opened his mouth, then closed it, struggling for an answer.
Daella reached out, brushing a hand over his silver hair, smoothing it down as her mother had done to her when she was younger.
"There will always be those who expect more from you." she said softly. "And there will be those who will mock what you are, no matter how much you try to change for them." She paused, waiting for him to meet her eyes before continuing. "But do not shape yourself to fit their idea of who you should be, Aenys. You are already enough, just as you are, my lovable little nephew."
His throat bobbed, a small shuddering breath escaping him. "I wanted to be strong, like my father..." he whispered.
"You are strong,— perhaps more than even Baleon." Daella assured him with a teasing smile. "Strength is not only fire and flight. Sometimes, it is kindness, sometimes, it is resilience. And sometimes, it is knowing when to walk away from what is not meant for us."
Aenys' lip trembled, and he blinked rapidly, as though trying to hold back tears.
Daella sighed fondly, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into a gentle embrace. "Do not let their voices drown out your own." Aenys clung to her, burying his face in the fabric of her gown.
She smelled like lilac and honey, a scent that had always comforted him.
They sat there for a long time, until the sky deepened into hues of dusk, and the world felt just a little quieter.
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The memory clung to him, tender and aching, like a ghost that refused to fade.
Aenys stood before the funeral pyre, watching as the flames devoured the only person who had ever told him he was enough,— and actually made him believe it.
The heat licked at his skin, but the cold in his chest remained. Tears welled in his eyes, yet he did not let them fall.
Instead, his gaze drifted downward, to the tiny babe cradled in Jocelyn's arms.
His cousin, Aemma.
So small, so unaware. A child who would never hear her mother's voice, never know the warmth and quiet strength Daella had carried within her.
Aenys swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a breath. "I will protect her." The wind carried his words away, but it did not matter.
It was a promise.
A vow.
For Daella,— for Aemma,— and perhaps for himself.
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- Dragonstone, a few days after the funeral:
The sea wind howled against the blackened walls of Dragonstone, rattling the shutters like a vengeful specter unwilling to let go.
The "storm" that had stolen Daella away was not yet done with them.
Inside the great hall, the tension swirled as thick as the smoke from the torches, crackling with the heat of unspoken grief.
Alyssa Targaryen stood at the head of the table, her palms pressed flat against the dark wood, knuckles whitening as she fought to steady herself. Her silver hair, unbound, shimmered in the flickering firelight, but there was nothing soft about her now.
"She belongs with us!" she said, her voice steady but edged with steel. "In King's Landing, where she can be raised among her mother's kin, among her blood. She is my niece,— my sister's only child, the last memory we have of her. I will not see her taken away."
Across from her, Lord Rodrik Arryn sat with the rigid posture of a man who had already braced for war. His blue eyes, cold as the Vale's mountaintops, met Alyssa's with unwavering resolve.
"She is my daughter..." he said, his voice firm, yet raw. "She will be raised in the Eyrie, where Daella should have lived, where she should have grown old. Had she not,—..."
His voice caught. A breath, sharp as a blade, cut through his chest before he forced himself to continue. "She belongs in her parents' home."
Alyssa's fingers curled against the wood.
"Her mother's home is here, with my family, where we live." she countered, her voice sharp as dragonsteel. "Not the Vale. Not among strangers who never knew her mother, no matter how noble their intentions. She is a Targaryen, she belongs with us."
"She is an Arryn!" Rodrik's jaw tightened. "She carries my blood as well, and I will not have her torn from me."
A silence heavier than lead settled over the chamber before Queen Alysanne finally spoke. Her voice, though measured, carried the weight of authority. "Aemma is not a prize to be fought over." she said, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though grief flickered behind her cool exterior. "She has lost her mother. Must she lose her family as well?"
Rodrik turned to Jaehaerys, searching for the king's judgment, but Jaehaerys had not yet spoken. His gaze, unreadable, lingered on the table, his fingers lightly drumming against the wood.
Aemon sat to his right, his face carefully schooled, torn between loyalty to his good-brother's family and his own wishes.
Jocelyn, ever a pillar at his side, brushed her fingers against his wrist, a silent plea for calm.
Baelon, who had been second closest to Daella in life,— after Alyssa,— sat motionless. His hand curled into a fist on the table, the knuckles white with pressure, but he did not speak.
And then there was him, Aenys.
Seven sunturns, yet old enough to understand that no one had asked for his thoughts.
He stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, nails biting into his palms.
He was here, but his brothers and cousin were not, and understand it he did not.
She belongs with us, the words echoed in his mind. She is the only thing of Aunt Daella that I have left.
But with him? With Rodrik Arryn, a man he hardly knew? A man who had already taken Daella away, and now wanted to take her daughter as well?
His stomach twisted, but still, he said nothing.
The wind outside shrieked against the stones, and the silence in the chamber thickened, suffocating.
Rodrik stood. "I will not argue this further." he said, his grief hardening into something unyielding. "Aemma is my daughter. I will take her home."
"You are not the only one who grieves her!" Alyssa shot back, her voice rising, her breath ragged with emotion. But Rodrik only met her gaze, his expression unreadable, before turning to the king.
"She is of my blood, Your Grace. My wife would have wanted her raised among her father's people. I ask for your blessing to take her back to the Vale."
Alysanne inhaled sharply, but Jaehaerys did not answer at once. His gaze flickered to Aemon, then to Baelon. And then,— finally,— to Aenys.
Aenys' breath hitched. For the first time, someone was looking at him.
Jaehaerys studied him, as if waiting. As if offering him a chance to speak.
But the weight of expectation pressed against Aenys' throat, leaving him hollow, unable to force the words from his chest.
The moment stretched, and then it passed.
The king exhaled, the weariness of his years settling deep in his bones.
"The truth of it is plain." he said at last, his voice quiet but unshakable. "Aemma is Lord Rodrik's daughter, as much as she was Daella's. The bond of blood and marriage cannot be denied."
Alyssa stiffened, her lips parting as if to protest, but Jaehaerys raised a hand. "I would have her with us as well." he admitted, his voice thick with sorrow. "I would see her raised among her mother's kin, with those who loved Daella best." His gaze flickered toward Alyssa, and then to Baelon, who remained silent, then toward Aemon, who would not meet his eyes. "But it is not our choice to make."
Alysanne shut her eyes briefly, inhaling as though trying to contain her dismay. Rodrik's expression did not change, for he had known the answer before he asked.
Any sane man would.
Jaehaerys straightened. "You have my blessing to take her home to the Vale."
Alyssa's chair scraped sharply against the stone as she stood, her face tight with grief.
"She belongs with us!" she snapped, her voice raw. "She is all we have left of her!"
Rodrik's grief was colder, quieter. "And she is all I have left of my wife!" he said. Alyssa turned to Aemon, then to Baelon. "Say something..." she pleaded, her voice breaking. "You knew her best, you,—..."
Baelon shoved back his chair so abruptly that it wobbled. "I will say... nothing." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
And then, without another word, he turned and left the chamber. Aenys flinched at the sound of the Kingsguard closing the doors behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Jocelyn reached for Aemon's hand beneath the table, and he squeezed it, but he, too, said nothing.
Alysanne pressed her fingers against her temple. "This is a mistake." she murmured, not to Jaehaerys, not to Rodrik, but to herself.
The decision had been made, and Rodrik dipped his head in respect. "I will leave with her on the morrow."
Alyssa turned away, blinking back furious tears, and Aenys' nails dug into his palms, his body rigid with silent, childlike anger.
He wanted to speak too, he wanted to scream.
But no one had asked him anything anymore, not truly.
No one ever did, and so, he said nothing.
Outside, the wind roared against Dragonstone's walls, while inside, the storm had passed.
And they had lost.
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|| Fire & Blood ||
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