The Brave Prince

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The Following 15 Chapters are available for Patrons. 

Chapter 24 (The Mourning Dragons), Chapter 25 (Hightower), Chapter 26 (The Council of 101), Chapter 27 (Jaehaerys and Alysanne), Chapter 28 (A Last Talk), Chapter 29 (Set Your Wings Free), Chapter 30 (The Young Dragon), Chapter 31 (A Song for A Lady), Chapter 32 (The Calm Before), Chapter 33 (Lady Hightower), Chapter 34 (The Storm), Chapter 35 (A Dance Under The Full Moon), Chapter 36 (Magic is Dark and Full of Lies), Chapter 37 (A Prince and A Princess), and Chapter 38 (A Tourney of Sacrifice) are already available for Patrons.

In a whimsical twist of language, it appears as if the Spring Prince dances through life with a sprightly bounce in his every step. Baelon, known for his vivacity long before he and Alyssa exchanged vows, remains etched in her memories as a vibrant presence. She can still vividly recall her youthful years when she would cling to his legs, mesmerized by his ceaseless restlessness. Often brandishing a wooden sword, his countenance would radiate with an effortless smile. Their mother would jest that his liveliness was apparent even in the womb, mirroring the spirited nature of their younger son, Daemon. However, as the years of their union unfolded, Alyssa couldn't help but notice an additional surge of merriment that accompanied the arrival of each new pregnancy, infusing their lives with an extra dose of joyousness.

With his dark purple eyes gleaming brighter than ever and his grins growing wider, it was as if the joy within him intensified. But it was only when their babe finally arrived into the world that his happiness appeared to surpass all previous bounds.

Yet, despite this overwhelming bliss, it did not mean that Baelon's worries ceased to exist; on the contrary, they seemed to consume him. As Alyssa observed, in her honest opinion, Baelon fretted far too much. From the moment she first conceived, he became her constant shadow, never straying more than a few steps away. His body and expression were a delicate blend of tenderness and concern as if he feared something might harm their unborn child. Even after the birth, Baelon's unease persisted. He remained hesitant to share their intimate moments, reluctant to lay with her even seven moons after she had given life to their precious Viserys. It was a testament to his enduring love and protectiveness, though it sometimes left Alyssa yearning for the closeness they had once shared.

In spite of any initial worries, Alyssa finds solace in the presence of her two vibrant and robust children, whose innate ability to soar through the skies effortlessly only weeks after their birth has alleviated her unfounded anxieties. As the eagerly anticipated arrival of their third child approaches, a serene and tranquil aura envelops her, akin to the calm and unhurried waters of the majestic Mander River. 

Her heart skips a beat as she catches sight of her beloved husband making his way toward her, his every step resonating with an infectious sense of elation. Clad in his attire befitting a dragon rider, he emanates an aura of power and strength. A loose black undershirt, complemented by a fur-lined overtunic designed to ward off the cold winter winds, is paired with black leather pants that seamlessly blend into his grey boots. Adorned with minimal embellishments, his appearance is strikingly simple yet captivating. Baelon, even in his most unassuming attire, possesses an ethereal quality, resembling a deity in human form. His deep purple eyes sparkle with an intensity that rivals the brilliance of his radiant smile while his silver locks cascade down his back, carefully tied into a tail. With each purposeful stride, his anticipation grows, mirroring the quickening pace of Alyssa's heartbeat as he draws nearer to her.

As he enters the room, his eyes immediately find Alyssa and a mischievous grin creeps onto his face. With a playful twinkle in his eye, he greets her in a less-than-formal manner, planting a tender kiss on her cheek. The moment their lips meet, a rush of emotions floods over her, just like it did when they were young and reckless, causing her cheeks to flush with a beautiful shade of crimson. 

As he pulls away, his gaze remains fixed upon her, filled with a deep sense of adoration and awe. It's a look that speaks volumes without uttering a single word, reminding her of the love they've shared throughout the years. With graceful movements, he lowers himself to the floor, his knee gently touching the cold, smooth surface of the black marble. 

Alyssa reclines on the plush couch, propped up by an array of exquisite silken pillows. Each one seems as though it's vying for attention, their opulence almost matching the grandeur of her swollen belly. The softness of the pillows cradles her, providing both comfort and support, while her feet find solace on two additional cushions, elevating them to a position where they are impossible to miss.

From this vantage point, Alyssa gazes down at her feet, marveling at the changes her body has undergone during this miraculous journey of motherhood. The sight of her swollen feet serves as a constant reminder of the life growing inside her, filling her with a sense of wonder and anticipation. 

With a tender gaze and an affectionate smile gracing his lips, Baelon, a towering figure with hands that dwarfed her own, couldn't help but muse aloud, "You haven't moved an inch from there all day." As his gloved hands lay discarded, exposing the roughness of his calloused skin, they gently enveloped her smaller but still battle-scarred hands. Unimpressed by his remark, Alyssa couldn't help but snort derisively before retorting, "I would like to see you walk around in this state." 

Baelon's smile, radiant as the sun, only deepens as he gazes into her eyes, filled with adoration. With a gentle touch, one of his hands gracefully caresses her delicate cheek, its warmth seeping into her very soul. His fingers, kissed by the sun, glide effortlessly through the strands of her dirty blonde hair, intertwining with them. 

Alyssa, who has always despised her hair's hue, is captivated by how Baelon praises it, claiming it outshines even his own luscious silver locks like strands of moonlight. Whispering softly, his voice filled with tenderness, Baelon admits, "My love, I have never denied your unparalleled bravery, surpassing my own. Baelon the Brave, they call me, yet you have braved battles - nay, wars - that would have destroyed most men. Even ones with dragons." As he speaks, his lips delicately brush against the velvety skin of her cheek, leaving the lightest of kisses as a testament to his love and admiration.

"Only most?" 

"All men then," Baelon immediately corrects wholeheartedly, still smiling. His lips press a kiss to her right hand beside her ringed forefinger. "I brought the boys with me to Dragonstone. Viserys wanted to pick an egg for the babe while we were there. Daemon wanted to claim a dragon instead. Caraxes, in fact. He was quite vexed when he learned his uncle had already claimed him long ago."

"A pink egg," Baelon continues with an animated rise of his eyebrows, moving to caress her cheek, "with purple swirls and flakes of gold flaring from the top. Smaller than some, but I reckon she will come out fierce. 

Alyssa cannot help but arch an eyebrow at the insinuation. "I can remember him being very eager for a yellow one. It seems strange for him to change his mind so suddenly, given his stubbornness. And for you to call it a she-dragon... You have never been a good liar, my heart. You seem certain we will have a girl. Did you not once boast of your prowess at making sons?"

With playful words dancing on their tongues, the air is filled with a delightful mixture of teasing and affection as Baelon feels a gentle warmth creep across his cheeks, giving away the subtle blush that betrays his true emotions. Yet, despite the banter and the rosy hue adorning his face, his earnest smile remains steadfast, a beacon of sincerity in the midst of jest. 

His gaze meets hers; his eyes, filled with familiar tenderness, reflect the essence of the brother she has always cherished rather than the fearless Prince of myth and legends. A hand adorned in silken fabrics gently caresses her swollen belly. And in a wondrous display of serendipity, as if attuned to their father's touch, the babe stirs, a tiny kick echoing like a joyous heartbeat, an unspoken acknowledgment that their sire's love reaches out, even before their first breath.

"I pray it is a girl," her love finally says after a beat, "I love our sons and I would never regret having either of them. But... I wish so desperately for the bond between Aem and Rhaenys. To scare away the boys and to call her "my little princess" even long after she has had children of her own... To let her braid my hair and to order me around like you once did."

"Like I still do," Alyssa corrects smugly. Baelon lets out a chuckle, beaming. His forehead meets hers halfway. 

"Exactly like you. Although we never did agree on a name... You have always been so particular about naming our children in honour after someone neither of us have ever known. All of them tragic figures, I must say."

"We were named for people we've never known. People who died in such a fashion...If you can call drowning off a ship drunk a tragic death. It is to remember our dead, brother. So that mayhaps one Viserys who suffered may watch from the halls of our ancestors as another one soars," Alyssa gently reminds him, her defiant spirit radiating through the graceful arches of both her eyebrows. Meanwhile, her husband raises his arms in surrender in an act that has become second nature to him ever since his futile attempt to dissuade her from riding Meleys while carrying their child. Even to this day, the same gesture elicits a profound sense of satisfaction within her.

"And besides," she continues, "we already have the name for a boy. Aegon, after our late brother. Since you are so eager for a daughter, then why do you not find a name for her, my love?"

"What about Daenerys?" Baelon asks quietly, his eyes wistful. The excitement is still there, but it's been tempered. Almost reflexively, Alyssa's hand squeezes his in comfort. Daenerys, the sister she never knew. The sister that the Shivers stole. 

After a brief moment of thoughtful silence, Alyssa's eyes filled with genuine warmth as she wholeheartedly concurred, "That is a very beautiful name," Gazing into the distance, she allowed her mind to drift back to cherished memories of their dearly departed loved ones, feeling a bittersweet pang in her heart that lingered even now. "Aegon for a boy. After our brother Aegon. And Daenerys for a girl... After our lost sister."

In the midst of their playful banter, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of amber and gold, Baelon's mischievous grin spread across his face like wildfire. "But if he's a boy," he mused, his voice laced with a hint of mischief, "I don't want to name him Aegon." His words hung in the air like a delicate secret, sparking curiosity in Alyssa's eyes. 

Sensing the opportunity to ignite a playful exchange, she tilted her head coyly and inquired, "Ohh, what would you want to name him, my love?"

Now - Daemon Targaryen 

In the wake of Lyanna's untimely demise, three long and arduous months had come and gone, yet Daemon still found himself grappling with an inescapable struggle to accept the grim reality of her fate. Each morning, as the sun timidly rose, casting its gentle glow upon his desolate surroundings, Daemon's weary eyes would flutter open, only to be greeted by an overwhelming emptiness that seemed to permeate the air. In that fleeting moment between sleep and wakefulness, a bittersweet whisper would escape his lips, carrying the weight of her name upon its breath.

With a sense of longing that engulfed his very being, his outstretched arm would search for solace, yearning to feel the familiar contours of her delicate form against his fingertips. Alas, the cruel truth of her absence would swiftly wash over him, as the frigid touch of the vacant bed sheets served as a chilling reminder that he was condemned to face the world alone. From that day forward, the dawn would forever hold a hollow emptiness, for he would never again awaken to the tender embrace of Lyanna's loving arms. Alongside her, their second child, a precious daughter who would never have the chance to grace the world with her presence, was lost to him, forever lost in the depths of his shattered heart.

Quite often, Daemon thought all of this was nothing more but an evil joke from the gods. He didn't know how many were there and which one was the true one, but Daemon cursed all of them.

The passage of time mournfully marked two weeks since the tragic demise of the ethereal Lyanna. In the heart-wrenching aftermath, House Stark embarked upon a solemn pilgrimage, their sorrow-laden steps guiding them to the walls of King's Landing. Their purpose was twofold: to retrieve the lifeless remains of their cherished kin and to escort them back to the ancestral seat of Winterfell.

Yet, amidst the somber procession, an undercurrent of dissent coursed through the veins of Daemon. Despite the earnest pleas of his father and brother, Daemon's unwavering belief held firm—the rightful resting place for Lyanna, in his eyes, lay within the sacred fortress of Dragonstone.

To Daemon, she was a true and deserving member of House Targaryen. The thought of her body being laid to rest in a land far removed from his tender grasp was an agony he could not bear.

As Gael made her way towards him, Daemon could feel a mix of emotions swirling within him. They engaged in a heartfelt conversation, delving into the depths of their shared sorrow over the loss of Lyanna. Gael expressed how deeply she missed Lyanna, emphasizing her admiration for her, who had not only been a source of support but had also emboldened Gael to embrace her inner strength by claiming a dragon, banishing fear from her heart.

Daemon's gratitude overflowed as he listened to Gael's words, finding solace in the knowledge that Lyanna held such a significant place in her heart. Yet, amidst their poignant exchange, Gael ventured to alter Daemon's intentions regarding Lyanna's final resting place. Daemon made it abundantly clear with a resolute determination that he would honor Lyanna's memory by laying her to rest in Dragonstone, unyielding to any persuasion, no matter how influential or regal the source might be. The King himself would not sway Daemon's unwavering decision.

However, it was Aenar who managed to sway his father's stubborn heart and change his perspective entirely. Initially, Daemon found himself consumed by anger as Aenar persistently argued for Lyanna's final resting place to be Winterfell. Yet, the little boy gently reminded his father of the undeniable truth - Winterfell was Lyanna's home. She embodied the fierce spirit of the noble Direwolves, a true embodiment of House Stark. Thus, it was only fitting that she should be laid to rest amongst her kin, alongside her mother, in the sacred grounds of Winterfell. With a heavy heart, Daemon reluctantly relented, allowing House Stark to carry away the precious remains of Lyanna, escorting her back to the place where she had blossomed and thrived.

After Lyanna was buried, Daemon tried to slowly return his life back to normal, he knew he would never be able to do that, but Daemon wanted to be there for his son as much as possible; that was the one thing he wanted the most, to ensure that his son would grow up happy, safe, and as King of Westeros if necessary.

In the vibrant training yard, where the echoes of clashing weapons resonated like a symphony of steel. Day after day, they immersed themselves in an immersive training regime that went far beyond the mere mastery of a knife.

Daemon had gracefully transitioned from imparting knife techniques to unveiling the secrets of wielding mighty axes and gleaming swords. Aenar absorbed every word and gesture, his hands trembling with a mix of trepidation and excitement as he learned to cradle these formidable weapons, their weight and power pulsating through his veins.

With unwavering patience, he guided Aenar through the intricacies of grip, emphasizing the delicate balance between strength and flexibility. Each day, their practice sessions began with disciplined drills, where Aenar's hands grew accustomed to the weight and feel of the weapons.

Whenever Aenar wasn't training with his father, he would spend time in the company of Rhaenyra, Laena, and Ghost.

Because of Lyanna's passing, Lord Velayron and Princess Rhaenys had sailed to King's Landing to stay a whole week before sailing back, much to Daemon's annoyance. Usually, Daemon simply ignored Lord Velayron; the man was nothing to him, but this time, he had asked nonstop questions about Aenar, about his bond with Cannibal; he brought up the fact that Laena and Aenar were good friends more than ten times, Daemon had more than once restrained himself from punching him in the teeth.

Daemon never saw himself as a good player of Game of Thrones, but Daemon understood what Lord Corlys wanted, and it seemed Princess Rhaenys wanted the same all of a sudden.

Daemon still remembered when one-night Aenar told him that Princess Rhaenys had asked him if he wanted to foster in Driftmark; when he had heard that, Daemon felt his blood boil in rage. If he thinks that he can take my son away, he's mistaken. Daemon had thought and had been ready to go to Lord Corlys and beat him to death, but Aenar quickly changed his mind, telling him that the King had already said No.

Daemon sighed in relief at that moment; he would never leave Aenar alone until he was sure Aenar could handle what the world could throw at him until he was grown up and ready to show the world that he was a Prince of House Targaryen and the one with one of the most dangerous dragons.

The second month after Lyanna's passing, Determined to escape the clutches of grief, he resolved to immerse himself in constant activity, refusing to succumb to the haunting emptiness that threatened to consume him. No matter the task at hand, Daemon compelled himself to remain occupied, sparing no effort in ensuring his days were filled with purpose. Thankfully, the King had taken notice of his plight and presented him with a myriad of opportunities to divert his attention. These newfound responsibilities encompassed not only the rigorous training of Aenar but also the arduous task of instructing numerous aspiring knights. Additionally, Daemon was entrusted with the crucial duty of patrolling the bustling city, ridding its streets of the nefarious presence of bandits and thieves. As word spread throughout the realm, a formidable reputation began to precede him, sending shivers down the spines of those who dared cross his path. This was particularly true when, one fateful night, Daemon apprehended a rapist in the very act of violating his victim.

Daemon commanded for the man's most intimate part, his cock, to be drenched in sticky, golden honey. The pungent scent of the sweet nectar mingled with the putrid stench of the dirtiest street in the entire city as the man's body was tightly bound to a weathered pole, trapping him in a macabre spectacle for all to witness.

As the man found himself at the mercy of the rats that were irresistibly drawn to the honey-coated appendage, desperation clawed at his heart, and he pleaded for his life. His voice trembled with fear as he begged Daemon to show him mercy. However, Daemon remained unmoved by the man's cries.

Daemon seized a torch, its flames casting an eerie glow across his face. The flickering light danced with an ominous grace as he brought it closer to the man, its scorching heat threatening to devour his fragile body. The man's eyes widened with terror, his pleas for mercy growing louder and more desperate with each passing moment.

The rats, their beady eyes glinting with hunger, scurried closer, their tiny paws scratching against the cobblestones.

The torch's flickering light served as a makeshift fortress, warding off the relentless horde of rats that scurried hungrily through the city's underbelly. Drawn by the tantalizing scent of the honey that clung to the man's flesh, these vermin ceased their approach, preferring the safety of darkness over the allure of a sweet feast. Throughout the night, the man's piercing screams pierced the stillness. When the first rays of dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, Daemon issued orders to his men. He commanded them to spread the tale far and wide, ensuring that the entire city would learn of the fate that befell rapists, thieves, and bandits. The whispers of dread and caution would permeate every tavern, marketplace, and alleyway, for Daemon's message was clear.

The King had been against what Daemon had done, saying he should have executed the man, not tortured him; Daemon did not really care to listen to the King's reasons, so he quickly defended himself, saying fear was the best way to make people like them thinking twice before harming someone else.

True to Daemon's words, crime started decreasing a week after Daemon started taking care of people who caused too much trouble. The people in the city, mostly the thieves, were afraid of Daemon, and everyone else cheered for him, saying he was their white Prince.

The third month after Lyanna's passing was when tragedy hit House Targaryen once again.

.

.

"How is he?" With his heart pounding against his chest in a rhythm of growing concern, Daemon, a picture of worry etched upon his face, leaned against the cold stone wall for support. As his anxiety intensified, his once-flushed complexion turned paler, beads of cold sweat trickling down his forehead, accentuating the gravity of the situation. In that tense moment, his throat felt as dry as the arid desert sands, each breath catching in his constricted throat. His eyes, wide with anticipation, remained locked on his big brother, who emerged from the towering entrance that led to the Tower of the Hand of the King.

With a mixture of anticipation and anxiety swirling in his heart, Daemon fervently hoped that the news awaiting him would bring much-needed solace. His eyes, brimming with concern, reflected his inner turmoil as he stood there, his breath catching in his throat. Summoning all his courage, he leaned forward, distancing himself from the cold, unyielding wall that seemed to mock his apprehension. Gazing at Viserys, Daemon silently beseeched the heavens for a glimmer of hope. However, the moment their eyes met, a sinking feeling settled in the depths of Daemon's being, whispering the painful truth that whatever words would soon escape his brother's lips, they would be a far cry from the tidings he longed to hear.

"Daemon, the maester says he might not make it until the morrow," As the words pierced his ears, a sinking sensation gnawed at Daemon's core, as if his stomach were plummeting into an abyss. The grip on his heart tightened, constricting it with a vice-like force, suffocating the hope within. Strange as it may seem, a peculiar urge to laugh welled up within him, a laughter that would mock the capriciousness of life itself. At that moment, Daemon yearned for the cathartic release of mirth, an outpouring of amusement that would defy the cruelties of fate, yet simultaneously, tears threatened to stream down his face, an expression of the profound sorrow that consumed him.

When his father arrived earlier than expected, a glimmer of relief danced in Daemon's eyes, for he was convinced that the pain gnawing at his father's stomach was but a fleeting discomfort, easily shrugged off by a man of such noble stature. Days turned into nights, and darkness draped its somber veil over the castle's chambers.

Daemon's hopes dwindled with each passing hour, for his father's sickness showed no signs of abating. The young Prince watched helplessly as the vibrant gleam in his father's eyes dimmed, replaced by the pallor of illness. On the fourth day, when the weight of anxiety pressed upon Daemon's chest like a heavy stone, he received the devastating news he had feared.

Daemon's world shattered, the air thick with a heaviness that seemed to choke him. The castle's grand halls echoed with the whispers of impending loss, and the weight of responsibility settled heavily upon his young shoulders.

Daemon was thankful that Aenar wasn't present; his little boy was spending time with Queen Alysanne and Rhaenyra; Queen Alysanne was willing to spend time with Aenar to make him forget about everything that was happening around him; she would often read him tales from books, or even tell him tales of her youth.

Daemon, in a way, was thankful that Aenar didn't know his grandfather as well as he knew his great-grandmother, Baelon, often wanted to spend time with Aenar, but his duties as heir would prevent him from spending time with his grandson. Now, he was dying from sickness; he would never get to know Aenar.

As Daemon found himself lost in his own thoughts, a distant voice pierced through the fog, resonating with familiarity. It was the voice of Viserys, "Daemon." Daemon's mind snapped back into focus like a startled bird abruptly awoken from its reverie.

He turned his head, his eyes meeting his brother's gaze, only to discover the glimmer of unshed tears threatening to spill from Viserys' eyes.

"Father wants to talk with you," he announced, his voice carrying the somberness of a funeral dirge. A sigh, laden with the burden of countless unspoken worries, escaped Daemon's lips. With a heavy heart, he reached out and grasped the cool, metallic door handle. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the door open.

As Daemon traversed the dimly lit corridor, his heart raced with anticipation, his footsteps echoing ominously against the cold stone walls. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across his face, adding to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. Each step brought him closer to the door that guarded his father's chamber.

A heavy, oppressive scent wafted through the air, sending a chill down Daemon's spine. It was the unmistakable smell of death, mingled with the sickly sweet tang of sickness. The combination was suffocating, as if invisible tendrils of morbidity were reaching out to embrace him. For a fleeting moment, doubt clouded his mind, his hand hesitating on the doorknob. Summoning every ounce of courage, Daemon inhaled deeply, steeling himself against the overwhelming stench.

With a determined grip, his fingers closed around the cold handle, their touch a stark contrast to the warmth of his trembling palm. Slowly, he turned the knob, a creaking sound piercing the heavy silence. As the door swung open, a gust of stale air rushed towards him, carrying the full force of death and sickness.

It assaulted his senses, assaulting him with its raw, unfiltered presence. The putrid odor clawed at his throat, threatening to choke him. Daemon's eyes watered, his face contorting in a mix of disgust and sadness.

As he cautiously crossed the threshold into the dimly lit room, his vivid purple eyes fixated on the ominous sight that unfolded before him: the bed, once adorned with pristine white sheets, was now saturated in a haunting shade of crimson, each fiber tainted by the macabre presence of blood.

The putrid scent of decay mercilessly infiltrated his senses, assaulting his nostrils with an unyielding reminder of mortality. It was in this morbid tableau that Daemon's gaze fell upon Lyanna, her fragile form resting upon the bed of her final moments. Her countenance, as cold and lifeless as the icy depths of winter, held her eyes shut in eternal slumber, forever deprived of the light that once danced within them.

The noxious odor of death lingered in the air, a grotesque symphony that threatened to wrench the contents of his stomach from their rightful place. Overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the sight, Daemon's lips parted in disbelief, a silent gasp escaping from his trembling mouth as the realization of Lyanna's demise struck him with force akin to a thunderclap.

"L-Lyanna!" he stammered, his voice betraying a desperate hope that defied reason. As his mind grappled with the inconceivable notion that she could be present in this room, he was abruptly reminded of the harsh truth—she was Dead, her body laid to rest on the grounds of Winterfell.

"Daemon."

Daemon's eyes widened in disbelief as he blinked, unable to comprehend the swift disappearance of Lyanna. Like smoke vanishing into the wind, she had dissipated before his very eyes, leaving behind an empty void that echoed with his bewildered thoughts. But what replaced her ethereal presence was a haunting sight that sent shivers down his spine - his father, lying motionless on the bed, his once vibrant countenance now drained of all color, as pale as freshly fallen snow. Beads of perspiration rolled down his father's forehead, tracing a path of anguish.

The man before Daemon looked like a mere shadow of the strong, formidable figure he had known his father to be. Within the span of just five agonizing days, a relentless illness had stripped away his father's robust physique, leaving behind a frail, weathered shell that seemed to have aged three decades in an instant.

"Father!" With a sudden burst of urgency, Daemon swiftly rushed to his father's side, his heart pounding as he knelt before the bed, gently clasping his father's weakened hand in his own. The room was filled with a bittersweet atmosphere as his tired father mustered a faint smile, his face etched with the weight of years gone by. Turning his gaze directly towards his beloved son, a flicker of unshed tears shimmered in the depths of his eyes, silently conveying the depth of his emotions in that poignant moment.

"Daemon, it's good to see you," he rasped, his voice a mere whisper, devoid of the strength it once possessed. A pang of worry gripped his heart, for he had feared that his son wouldn't come, that he would be left alone in this somber room, consumed by the weight of his weary bones. Daemon longed to assure his father that he would always be there, a steadfast presence in times of need. However, as he gazed upon Baelon's tired face, etched with lines of fatigue, he couldn't bring himself to utter those words.

With a flicker of hope, Baelon's weary eyes scanned the chamber, searching for a familiar face that of his beloved grandson. "W-where's Aenar?" Yet, disappointment painted his expression as he realized the young boy was nowhere to be found, leaving only his son to fill the void.

"With grandmother Alysanne. Should I call him?" Daemon questioned quickly, thinking his father wanted to say something to Aenar, but his father shook his head slowly in denial.

With a voice heavy with sadness and remorse, Baelon's words echoed through the chamber, resonating with the weight of unspoken regrets. "There's no point," he murmured, his words carrying a poignant resignation. "I don't want the last memory of him for me to be of an old man dying." The anguish in his voice was palpable, a lament for the missed opportunities and the irreparable chasms that had formed between them. Feeling a surge of empathy and understanding, Daemon held his father's hand tightly, afraid to let go as if the mere act of releasing his grip would cause his father to fade away.

"Daemon, Dark Sister. I want you to have it," Baelon claimed, pointing towards the sheathed sword lying against the wall near the bed. Daemon didn't say anything; instead, he reached out and grasped the pommel, bringing the sword closer.

Dark Sister was the most beautiful sword he had ever seen; its magnificent guard, meticulously crafted from pure, gleaming gold, stood as a testament to the masterful artistry of its creation. Nestled within the guard's heart, a crimson, ruby gem danced with a mesmerizing brilliance, casting a captivating glow upon the surroundings.

Below, the pommel, fashioned from gilded gold and enveloped in flawlessly polished boiled leather, exuded an air of regality and elegance. Daemon found himself torn between conflicting emotions, grappling with the bittersweet nature of his possession.

On the one hand, he couldn't help but feel a surge of pride coursing through his veins, knowing that Dark Sister now belonged to him—a coveted sword he had yearned to wield since his earliest memories as a wide-eyed toddler. Yet, the circumstances under which it had come into his possession weighed heavily upon his heart.

It was a somber truth that gnawed at his conscience, for the prized blade had been passed down to him from his ailing father, who lay confined to his deathbed.

Gods really love making cruel jokes, Daemon thought, a burst of anger and sadness in his heart, his gaze drifted, momentarily torn away from the divine mockery, to settle upon his dying father. His grip around the sword's hilt, a symbol of his lineage and the weight of their legacy, tightened instinctively. Baelon's voice, weakened by the burden of his impending departure, pierced through the heavy silence.

Each word he spoke carried with it a sense of urgency, a profound message that resonated with the depths of Daemon's essence. "One day," Baelon's voice quivered, punctuated by labored breaths, "you will pass this sword to Aenar, and he will give it to his children, and so on," Daemon's heart constricted with a mixture of reluctance and obligation. As his father's words echoed in his mind, he reluctantly nodded, acknowledging the weight of his responsibility. The sword, a tangible embodiment of their family's honor and valor, now rested securely at his waist.

"Daemon," Baelon called out once again, his voice trembling and faint as though carried on the wings of a gentle breeze. Daemon knelt before his father's bedside; his heart was heavy with concern.

Leaning in, he positioned his head closer, their faces mere inches apart. With a tender urgency in his voice, Baelon beseeched his youngest son, his words dripping with both caution and desperation. "Promise me to protect your brother. He will need your guidance, those vipers will tear him apart. He will need someone like you by his side. He might not know it, but he needs you more than you need him. Promise me, you will always love him, and never betray him." As the tear slipped down Baelon's weathered cheek, his eyes brimmed with expectations, hoping that his plea had reached the depths of Daemon's soul.

"Nyke kivio jorrāelagon kepa (I promise, dear father)," Daemon promised wholeheartedly; his words made Baelon smile in gratitude and relief; he looked as if he suddenly had no more regrets.

Baelon took a deep breath as he looked at his son once again. "Aegon. You might not remember him, but his eyes are the same eyes as your son's. He has his eyes. He might be four name days, but I know he will be a good man when he grows up..." Each word that escaped his lips seemed to fade into the distance, his voice trailing off as if carried away by the wind. Baelon's eyes shifted, drifting from his son to the horizon on his right.

As Baelon gazed out of the closed window, his eyes fixated on the expanse of the clear blue sky above. Despite the breathtaking view, an unexpected sensation washed over him. It wasn't the chill he anticipated but rather a comforting warmth that enveloped his being. This inexplicable feeling transported him back to a time when she was still alive, her presence so vivid and tangible. Almost as if in a dream, he could almost feel her delicate arms encircling him from behind, her beautiful face finding solace on his shoulder. The memory of her piercing purple eyes, brimming with love, lingered in his mind, etching itself into the depths of his soul.

With a tender whisper that hung in the air like a delicate melody. "Aenar, my love," he breathed, his voice dipped in both longing and reverence, "I want his name to be... Aenar..." As his voice trailed off into the ethereal realm of his thoughts, Baelon's eyes ascended slightly as if seeking solace from the heavens above.

In that fleeting moment, a profound stillness embraced the room as time seemed to stand still. Suddenly, the light in Baelon's eyes flickered and vanished. His chest, once pulsating with life's vibrant rhythm, now lay motionless, surrendering to the chill of the night. As if sensing the essence of his final breath, the candle that stood proudly near his bedside trembled, then submitted to the whims of the unseen, extinguishing its flickering flame. And in the wake of this poignant farewell, a delicate trail of smoke arose from the lifeless wick, ascending into the somber night sky like a whispered lament.

A hush fell upon the ancient city as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery glow over the towering spires and cobblestone streets of King's Landing. The air grew heavy with anticipation as the mighty dragon Vhagar.

In that fateful moment, Vhagar released a mournful cry of Sorrow, so powerful and resonant that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the city itself. The sound echoed through the narrow alleys and grand halls, reaching the farthest corners of King's Landing and beyond, carried by the winds to the far reaches of the Seven Kingdoms.

As the sound reverberated through the air, it was as if the heavens themselves wept, for the cry was joined by a chorus of other dragons. Even the fearsome Cannibal added his mournful voice to the lamentation. One by one, they raised their voices in unison, their cries echoing through the night sky, all of them united in their grief for Baelon Targaryen, 'The Brave Prince.'

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