This isn't the best I couldn't figure out where I want to go with it so sorry if it bad I used ai more on this chapter I mostly use it for gammer and structure but I used it more this chapter then what i do less chapter be less ai I promise.
129 AC – Dragonstone
Point of View: Aenar Targaryen
The halls of Dragonstone had changed little in the half-century since Aenar had last walked them. The same cold stone beneath his boots. The same fire-lit sconces flickering against ancient walls. The same lingering scent of ash, sea salt, and long-forgotten memory.
He moved slowly, each step a negotiation with pain and time. A nearby guard reached out to steady him, but Aenar waved the hand away with a quiet grunt.
He would not be helped.
He had never asked for it before. He wouldn't start now.
His body ached from the long flight atop Balerion—once the Black Dread, now a fading shadow of his former might. But he still flew. Still answered Aenar's call. They were alike in that: too proud to surrender, too stubborn to die.
The great hall loomed ahead. Rhaenyra paced like a caged lioness, fury barely restrained. Her sons whispered urgently among themselves, eyes darting toward their mother.
Before a word could be exchanged, the heavy doors slammed open.
A young guard rushed in, pale and breathless.
"Your Grace!" he gasped, eyes wide with horror. "It's Prince Lucerys… he's gone. A ship has returned—with what they could recover."
The chamber went still.
Rhaenyra turned slowly, disbelief carved into her expression.
"What do you mean?" she asked, voice low and sharp as a blade. "He went to Storm's End. He was under guest right."
The guard swallowed hard. "It wasn't Lord Borros, Your Grace. It was Prince Aemond. And Vhagar."
Jacaerys gasped. Rhaenyra went pale, unmoving.
"They met above Shipbreaker Bay," the guard continued. "Witnesses say Vhagar tore Arrax in half. Prince Lucerys fell into the sea. They… recovered only parts of his body."
The goblet slipped from Rhaenyra's hand, shattering against the stone floor. Wine pooled like blood between her feet.
Aenar closed his eyes.
So it begins, he thought grimly. Another Dance.
But this one would burn deeper. Brighter. Deadlier.
Until now, he had only heard rumors—of Viserys' death, of Aegon's coronation, of stolen crowns and broken oaths. But this… this made it real. Kin-slaying. Blood vengeance. Dragonfire.
He stared into the hearth, flames flickering like echoes of the past. He remembered his father's rule—Maegor the Cruel—built on blood, crowned with fire.
And now, the realm would burn again.
He leaned forward, his voice hoarse from age and long silence.
Meeting Rhaenyra's grief-stricken gaze, he offered the only thing he could.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Aenar rasped. Quiet. Honest.
It was all that needed to be said.
The Next Morning
The corridors of Dragonstone creaked under the weight of war. Shadows lengthened. Servants whispered behind closed doors. The air itself felt heavier, as though the keep knew what was coming.
Aenar walked slowly through the halls, each step echoing with the soft crack and pop of tired bones.
He was nearly to the bench by the window—his favorite seat, where he could watch the sea—when a small voice called from behind him.
"Lord Aenar?"
He turned, one brow rising.
A young girl stood there, silver hair catching the morning light. Rhaena—Rhaenyra's daughter. Her violet eyes were wide with curiosity, though sadness lingered in them too.
"Ahh, little Rhaena," he said with a faint smile, his voice rough but kind. "Come to talk with an old ghost, have you?"
She nodded shyly and stepped closer. "You… you rode Balerion. The Black Dread. Didn't you?"
Aenar chuckled softly, settling onto the bench with a sigh that came from his soul.
"Yes," he said. "I did. And I expect I'll be his last rider."
"Why?" Rhaena asked, eyes narrowing with the innocent sharpness of youth. "Is Balerion getting weaker?"
Aenar paused, then nodded slowly. "He is. I feel it in his flame. Like a candle nearing the end of its wick. He's tired… just like I am."
Rhaena looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "Will he die?"
"Everything does, in time," Aenar said gently. "Even dragons. Even Targaryens."
They sat in silence for a moment, the waves crashing far below.
Then the girl looked up. "But while you're both still here… can you tell me what it was like? Riding him?"
Aenar looked out over the sea, eyes distant.
"A dragon's back is no throne, little one. No matter what men say. It's not power—it's a burden. A bond. You feel his thoughts. His fire. His rage. And if you're not careful… his madness too."
Rhaena nodded slowly, absorbing his words.
Aenar smiled faintly. "But gods… it's magic. The sky. The sea. The wind under your wings. For a moment, you feel like the Conqueror himself."