Somewhere within the dream world…
"Gah!" Aeonar was yanked through the ether, landing heavily on his back in yet another section of the Red Keep. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and he lay there for a moment, disoriented, as the world around him swirled in a haze of colors and shadows before struggling to regain his bearings. It felt like he was being dragged through the very corridors of time and space, each transition more jarring than the last. This dreamlike landscape, this disorienting void filled with echoes of the past, was pulling him toward an uncertain fate. Aeonar yearned to escape its grasp, to break free from the chains of this disorienting experience that held him captive. However, he could not muster the energy needed to awaken, as if some unseen force anchored him to this place.
However, Aeonar found himself unable to summon the strength to awaken from this relentless dream, and each attempt was met with an invisible barrier that held him fast. The vision of a younger Rhaenyra with his first son Jaehaerys, humming a harmonic melody in the air as she cradled him tenderly in her arms, filled him with confusion. While his sister loved him deeply, a deep-seated resentment flowed beneath the surface; Rhaenyra felt weighed down by the high expectations Aeonar had imposed on her, the dreams he had woven around her like a gilded cage. He could see it in her eyes, a flicker of disappointment that cut deeper than any blade. He had pushed his sister to be more than she could be and, in doing so, had inadvertently widened the chasm between them.
« The Princess Rhaenyra wanted to tell you how she truly felt, but time and time again, you refused to hear her plea. Was it what you call a sense of duty to the House of the Dragon? Or did pride end up causing you two to drift further apart? »
"No!" Aeonar shook his head, unwilling to recognize what he had seen. "Rhaenyra was a stubborn little girl who needed to understand her place! She needed to grow and take her royal duties seriously, but my sister would repeatedly throw everything I gave her away!" The twitching and tugging at the back of his head, pulling on his nerves, began to cause pain. "No… Rhaenyra was merely a piece on the board. Daemon groomed her since she came of age. He made her this way. And for what?! Because I was his elder brother's firstborn son, that I had something our uncle would never have ever again?!"
« So you instead blame your uncle? You believe Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Flea Bottom and Prince of the City, to be the source of your ire? Was it from the Summer Festival, or did it begin at the tourney your parents proudly arranged in your honor? »
Once more, the relentless tugging and pulling at the nerves within Aeonar's head surged forth, enveloping him in a wave of profound discomfort and agony. It felt as if a thousand tiny daggers were piercing through the fog of his thoughts, each pulse of pain reverberating through his skull like a war drum. He clenched his eyes shut, gripping his head tightly and digging his fingers into his temples with a desperate intensity, as if he could physically suppress the torment that raged within, yelling as if he could command the pain to stop through sheer force of will. But the agony only intensified, a cruel reminder of his vulnerability. Yet, when Aeonar finally opened his eyes again, the world around him shifted dramatically. He was astonished and even more confused to find himself standing on the tournament grounds just outside King's Landing, near the Lion Gate. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and the sweet aroma of spiced wine, mingling with the excited chatter of the crowd, a stark contrast to the isolation of his previous torment. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden hue over the scene, illuminating the banners that fluttered in the gentle breeze, each emblazoned with the sigils of the great noble houses of Westeros.
"This is…!"
The Young Dragon swiftly scanned his surroundings, a wave of recognition washing over him like a gentle was an event Aeonar knew all too well; one etched into his memory with vivid was when King Viserys and Queen Aemma had hosted a grand tournament celebrating Aeonar's fifteenth nameday. The memory flooded back to him with vivid clarity: his friends' congratulatory claps on the back, how happy and proud his mother and father were of him, the thrill of being the center of attention, and the raucous cheers that had erupted when he had been called forth to receive his honors. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the laughter of noble lords and ladies, the clinking of goblets, and the distant sounds of knights clashing in the lists. The tournament was not just a celebration of his birth but a momentous occasion that marked Aeonar's recent appointment to the Small Council as the crown's first official Master of Whisperers since King Maegor the Cruel's consort Queen Tyanna of the Tower served in an acting weight of that position had felt both exhilarating and daunting, a double-edged sword that came with the promise of power and the burden of responsibility, the responsibility of wielding knowledge and secrets that could shape the very fate of the realm.
This was the same day father appointed me to the council. Aeonar gazed over the tournament grounds; his mind flooded with memories of how they appeared thirty-eight years earlier. The field was bustling with activity as the newest knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Erryk, and his twin brother, Ser Arryk Cargyll, participated in the joust. They were joined by notable figures such as Lord Lyman Mallister of Seagard, Ser Vaemond Velaryon of Driftmark, Lord Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End, and Alicent's brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower.
However, his uncle, Prince Daemon Targaryen, was also the undisputed champion of every tournament he participated in.
Aeonar's hand moved almost automatically to a familiar area on the back of his head, where his fingers gently glided over a scar that had been stitched long ago and had since lost its vividness. The texture of the scar reminded him of a time when pain and glory intertwined, a physical testament to a moment that had forever altered the course of his life. As he did so, memories flooded back to the tournament initially meant to honor him, a grand event that had tragically ended in disaster.
Daemon…you did this to me.
The then-fifteen-year-old Aeonar had stood at the center of it all, a champion in the making, his heart swelling with pride and anticipation. He could still hear the crowd's roar and feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. But as the tournament progressed, the atmosphere shifted. The first few matches had been exhilarating, each clash of swords ringing out like a symphony of steel. Aeonar had fought bravely in the mêlée, his movements fluid and precise, winning bout after bout and earning the crowd's admiration as he defeated the Cargyll twins, Erryk and Arryk, before participating in the joust.
When Aeonar took his place upon the steed, lance gripped firmly in one hand and shield in the other, he had already bested numerous knights and several lords to advance to the final tilt—where he faced the champion: his uncle, Daemon. The crowd, a sea of vibrant colors and eager faces, roared enthusiastically, their cheers echoing off the castle's stone walls that loomed in the background. Children perched on their fathers' shoulders while ladies in elegant gowns waved handkerchiefs, their voices rising in a chorus of encouragement for their favored competitors. Back then, Aeonar remained blissfully oblivious to the underlying tension brewing beneath the surface, having never thought to gaze into Daemon's gaze to discern the simmering tension beneath the surface. The celebration and camaraderie would soon begin a fierce battleground rife with rivalries and long-held grudges between the two. When the Master of Revels finally signaled the start of the contest, both Aeonar and Daemon, clad in striking black-scaled armor adorned with glimmering rubies and intricate red niello designs on their dragon-emblazoned helms, lowered their lances and charged, their steeds thundering across the ground, hooves pounding like war drums. Yet, as they collided, Daemon seized the moment and caught Aeonar off-guard; he thrust his lance forward with a precision born of years of experience; the tip struck Aeonar's shield with a resounding thud and ricocheted upward with a violent force and struck his nephew squarely on the head. The impact was jarring, a sharp crack that silenced the crowd for a heartbeat. The force of the blow, combined with the momentum of their charge, sent Aeonar reeling. Violently dislodged from his steed, the world around him blurred, and time seemed to slow down, his body twisting and turning as he fell. With a bone-jarring thud, he crashed to the ground, landing directly on the top of his ground seemed to shake beneath him, a harsh reminder of the unforgiving nature of combat. Pain exploded in his skull, a blinding flash that consumed his senses. In that instant, the world around him faded to black, and he succumbed to an immediate loss of consciousness.
I can still feel it after all these years, Daemon. I never forgot that. I never forgave you for that.
The scar on the back of Aeonar's head was a testament to that fateful encounter—a reminder of the blow that had sent him crashing to the ground, the world spinning around him as chaos erupted. In the aftermath, the cheers had turned to screams, and the vibrant colors of the festival had bled into a grim tableau of confusion and murmurs of remembered being told by Grand Maester Mellos once he regained consciousness of the chaos that ensued—the panic, the cries for help, the rush of squires as they rushed to his aid. The tournament, once a celebration, had devolved into a horror scene, with competitors and spectators scrambling, trying to make sense of what just happened.
"Father, mother, Rhaenyra, Alicent… they never left my bedside for a week, wondering if I would ever awaken. For a while, I initially thought the same. How wrong I was."
« The king was enraged with his brother for what he's done. Queen Aemma was beside herself, dreading what would happen to her children as any attentive mother would―you and Rhaenyra. From that day onward, you and your uncle were constantly at each other's throats despite your father trying to keep the peace. But neither you nor Daemon made it any easier on him. »
"He was always too soft and too kind when it comes to family, but he was the king, so whatever he said, goes," Aeonar shook his head. "But in the end, it never even mattered."
« Still, that never stopped you and Daemon from doing as you pleased so long as it aligned more with your ambitions. Even until the end, neither of you would fully reconcile. You only cooperate if it is against a common enemy. »
"Beatrice Peake, her sons, the bastard would-be usurper Aegon Waters and the kinslayer Aemond Targaryen, her father Lord Unwin Peake, the traitor Larys Strong, and all who stood with them in their treason. And before that, the Triarchy at the Stepstones. Plot against the king and undermine the crown's authority, and I will pay it back with fire and blood."
« Ah, so it creates a cycle of revenge and retaliation. But it will always be the next generation who has to suffer the consequences. »
"Be silent!" Aeonar snapped, trying to block out the voices mentally. "I ensured my children would always be ready should the time come to fight!"
« And yet two of your sons are dead. Killed in a war that no one wanted. How many more have to die before you're satisfied? »
"Until none dare defy the rule of House Targaryen again! What they want is irrelevant! The moment they murdered my boys, the foolish malcontents dared to not only enter the dragon's lair but have the gall to provoke it!"
« So you still haven't learned a thing? Very well. »
Just as Aeonar was about to utter a word, an overwhelming force seized him again, yanking him from his current position and thrusting him into yet another mysterious dimension. The air around him shimmered with an otherworldly energy. Where was this ethereal entity taking him to now?! Was it a test, a punishment, or something far worse? As the vibrant scene of the tournament dissolved into an abyss of darkness, the crowd's noise faded into a haunting silence, leaving only the echo of his own heartbeat in his ears. The colors faded, and all that remained was an oppressive silence that pressed against him like a heavy shroud.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Aeonar fought against the relentless tug, feeling as if his very sinews were being stretched to their limits in all directions. It was as if invisible hands were grasping him, pulling him through a tunnel of swirling shadows and flickering lights. The sensation was akin to being pulled through a narrow tunnel, the walls of which were lined with the whispers of forgotten souls, each one vying for his attention, each one a fragment of an untold story. The sensation ceased in moments, and he found himself crashing face-first onto the unforgiving, frigid surface of the Red Keep's throne room. "Ompf!" he grunted. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and he lay there for a heartbeat, disoriented and gasping. Aeonar lay there momentarily, the cold stone beneath him starkly contrasting the warmth of the sunlit arena he had just left behind. As he pushed himself up, the grandeur of the throne room came into focus, its high ceilings and ornate decorations looming above him like the watchful eyes of past Targaryen kings.
I'm… I'm back in the Red Keep."All right, knave! Whatever game it is you're playing, this isn't funny anymore! By order of your king, I demand you release me!"
Aeonar glanced around, taking in the opulence of his surroundings, but he had a distinctive feeling that he was not alone. Shadows danced in the corners of the room, and the flickering torchlight cast eerie shapes that seemed to whisper secrets of their own. The Iron Throne stood before him, the seat of power forged from the blades of Aegon the Conqueror's fallen enemies, melted down by Balerion the Black Dread, and bent into shape by Aegon's or what had brought him here? What purpose did this ethereal entity have in mind for him? Questions swirled in his mind.
"You look lost."
Aeonar pivoted sharply to behold a spectral figure that resembled his uncle Daemon, perched regally upon the Iron Throne. Dark Sister lay casually across Daemon's lap, its Valyrian steel blade glinting with a sinister sheen that seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and the crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator rested comfortably atop his head. The crown of his great-grandfather, a symbol of wisdom and peace, felt out of place in the hands of a man known for his fiery temperament and ruthless aspirations. It seemed to mock the very notion of conciliation as if it were a trophy claimed by a conqueror rather than a ruler seeking peace. The juxtaposition of the crown's historical significance against the backdrop of Daemon's spectral presence was jarring, a reminder that even the most noble of legacies could be twisted by ambition and greed. This haunting vision suggested that Daemon had been plotting to usurp his nephew's throne. It echoed the treachery of Maegor the Cruel, a name that sent shivers down the spines of those who knew the history of House Targaryen.
It was when the Faith Militant uprising coincided with King Aenys announcing the betrothal of his children, Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaena, nearly a century ago. This declaration drew the ire of the High Septon, spiritual leader of the Faith of the Seven, who publicly denounced the incestuous unions and customs of House Targaryen, labeling their long-standing tradition of marrying within the family to maintain the purity of their Valyrian bloodline as sinful and corrupt, and called upon the faithful to rise against what he deemed a perversion of divine vehement denunciation resonated deeply with the faithful, inciting the Faith Militant—the zealous military arm of the Faith of the Seven sworn to uphold its tenets—to take up arms across the realm against them and their supporters. Knights, peasants, and fervent believers took up arms, driven by a righteous zeal to cleanse the land of what they perceived as the Targaryen blight. The uprising quickly gained momentum as towns and cities across Westeros erupted violently, with the Faith Militant leading the charge. The once-unassailable power of House Targaryen began to wane as the conflict escalated into a brutal civil war, pitting brother against brother and friend against streets ran red with blood, and the cries of the faithful echoed through the halls of power.
Amidst this tumultuous period, King Aenys became increasingly isolated and besieged by the chaos surrounding him. The weight of the crown became unbearable, and he was compelled to seek refuge on Dragonstone, the relentless stress and anxiety of his precarious situation took a severe toll on his health. Despite the presence of skilled maesters, Aenys's condition deteriorated, and he ultimately succumbed to his ailments, leaving the realm in a state of uncertainty and despair. However, when Maegor learned of his brother's death, he flew across the Narrow Sea atop their father's dragon, Balerion, and returned to Westeros from exile with a singular purpose: to claim the Iron Throne for himself, a prize he believed was rightfully his, usurping Prince Aegon and ruthlessly eliminating all who dared to stand in his way.
"You," Aeonar snarled, raising Blackfyre at the apparition. "Get off my throne."
Daemon chuckled. "I've tolerated you for years because you were Viserys's son. But, now that he's gone," he said as he descended the Iron Throne, "I don't see any reason to take back what was mine. Look at it this way: I'm doing you a favor. The throne is a seat meant for a conqueror, not a young, inexperienced boy."
"Your brother named me his heir when I was 10, and you know it! You still couldn't overlook that you were replaced, disinherited, bumped further down the line of succession, knowing that the Iron Throne would forever be beyond your reach, Daemon." Aeonar sneered, grinding Blackfyre against Dark Sister. "Must wound your pride, hmm? It hurts, doesn't it?"
"Hmph. Words mean nothing…" Daemon ground Dark Sister against Blackfyre, "unless you have what it takes to back it up."
"Oh, I assure you, I've got more than that."
In mere moments, Daemon and Aeonar engaged in a fierce duel, their Valyrian steel swords ringing out as they collided in a symphony of clashing metal. The air crackled with tension, each strike a testament to their shared bloodline and the bitter rivalry that had festered over the years. Unlike the initial encounters of their rivalry, where Aeonar had often found himself outmatched and overwhelmed, this time, he was different. Aeonar had undergone rigorous training with the Lykirī Mēre, studying their history and martial arts, honing his skills to a razor's edge to ensure he wouldn't lose to his uncle again. He had trained relentlessly, pushing his body and mind to their limits, absorbing every lesson, every technique, and every strategy that could give him the edge he so desperately sought. Even in this ethereal realm, where the boundaries of life and death blurred, he was determined to exact his long-awaited revenge on Daemon. The memories of past failures fueled his resolve, each recollection a reminder of the pain and humiliation he had endured. As they exchanged a flurry of strikes, the clang of their swords echoed like thunder, each blow resonating with the weight of their shared history. Aeonar skillfully evaded the deadly arc of Dark Sister with enough time and seized the opportunity to swing Blackfyre with precision. The blade sang through the air, a whisper of vengeance, and in a swift motion, it severed Daemon's head from his shoulders. Time seemed to slow as Aeonar watched in grim satisfaction as his uncle's head tumbled across the ground,the expression of shock frozen on Daemon's face as it rolled across the ground. The body that had once been a formidable adversary crumpled beside it, lifeless and defeated. The crown, a symbol of power and legacy, fell to the floor with a dull thud, a poignant reminder of the cost of ambition.
"Haaa… Haaa… Haaa…" Breathing heavily, his teeth clenched in a mix of triumph and fury, Aeonar fixed his gaze on the apparition's fallen form, the weight of his victory settling heavily upon him. "Know your place… uncle. Haaa, haaa, haaa…"
"This is what you wanted from the start, was it not?"
"Wha…?!" Aeonar stood stunned as Daemon's severed head continued speaking.
"You killed me." Daemon's eyes turned to face him. "You're even more ruthless than I am, nephew."
"H-How is this…?" Aeonar stammered. Before he could speak, he heard another voice calling out from behind him as the main doors closed.
"Aeonar. My boy. What have you done?"
Aware of the familiar voice, Aeonar gradually pivoted to face the speaker. Before him stood a figure from his childhood, someone he had cherished deeply, yet who had passed away long before his time. "No. It… It can't be," he gasped.
Chapter End
Author's Note: Another peek into the past and Aeonar is forced to confront more of his inner demons. What did you guys think of the backstory that led to the rivalry between him and Daemon? And who do you think the surprise visitor is at the end? Find out 'til next time!
C.E.W: Nice explanation of how Aeonar Targaryen and Daemon Targaryen's rivalry hit critical mass, the truth is the rivalry was already underway since the day King Viserys publicly named Aeonar his heir and Daemon's envious gaze was quite clear. Nice combat, and how Aeonar cut Daemon's head off, although the part where he showed no remorse is quite alarming. Then again, Aeonar's madness knows no bonds which he made very clear when he endangered his son Aegon the Younger's life at the Battle of the Gullet.
My guess is, the person talking to him at the end of the chapter is Baelon the Brave. I imagine he's got some things to say to Aeonar. Estranging himself from his father, crushing Visenya's Medallion which he wore and then there's Vhagar's death.
If Aeonar overcomes his madness and dies before the war is fully over, here's an idea on what his last words should be, "If only people valued peace, happiness, and family, over greed, anger and vengeance... this world... would be a better place. Farewell'. Inspired by the last words of Thorin Oakenshield from Hobbit.
Questions:
Bloodraven does realize that Aeonar would not have fully succumbed to his madness were it not for the Caltrops attempting a coup? Aeonar had finally reconciled with his father, and realizing he was wrong to estrange himself from certain family members.
―It was only the beginning, but forcing Aeonar to understand that the Targaryen madness is indeed a real threat as well as factors that could serve as a catalyst to trigger it
I take it King Viserys didn't do much to punish Daemon for endangering his son's life at the Tourney?
―Banished him from court for a long time before they eventually reconciled for god knows how many times
Didn't Aemma and Rhaenyra feel angry at Daemon for endangering Aeonar's life?
―Yes, they did
randomdude24: This really explains why Aeonar hated Daemon, more than just some petty moral difference, but an incident that scared Aeonar for the rest of his life. But was it worth 20 years of bitterness and hate? Probably not.
If I were to guess the man talking to him, probably his grandfather Baelon. Maybe he can knock some sense into him
Questions,
Why is Bloodraven trying to make Aeonar see reason? What's his game in all this?
―Bloodraven at this time is currently unknown, but he appears to be trying to influence Aeonar in the historical direction he wants him to go
As Aeonar lays unconscious, will his enemies like the remaining Caltrops, The Shepherd, and whomever else, make their move against him and his supporters?
―You'll see