Somewhere within the dream world…

Aeonar spun around at the sound of his name echoing through the air, only to find a familiar face he hadn't seen in over thirty-two years. Even if this were merely a specter of his past that felt both distant and achingly close simultaneously, he found himself unable to look away. Before him stood the hauntingly familiar figure of his late paternal grandfather, Prince Baelon Targaryen. His face was tinged with profound sorrow as if he bore the weight of unspoken words; his long, silken Valyrian hair cascaded just past his shoulders, framing a face that, despite the gentle creases around his mouth, barely hinted at his age. Yet, he appeared timeless, as if he had stepped from the pages of history itself. With his hands hung limply at his sides, Baelon gazed intently at Aeonar, a connection bridging the chasm of time and was as if he were searching for something within his grandson.

"Grandfather…?" Aeonar breathed with disbelief and longing, his voice barely a whisper, the word escaping his lips like a prayer. The sound felt foreign yet familiar, a bridge to a time when he was a young child of six. His grandfather looked just the same as he remembered.

Baelon's gaze softened, and he nodded slowly, the sorrow in his eyes deepening. "Aeonar, my boy… You've grown up," he said."Though I have long since departed from your life, the bonds of blood and spirit are not easily severed from those who watch on from the other side." As Baelon moved beyond the apparition of Daemon, who had dissolved into the air like a mirage slipping through the refined grains of sand, a more profound sense of melancholy washed over him. "But I can't look past this, grandson. The things you've said, what you've done…"

Aeonar's instincts surged into high alert the moment he caught sight of his grandfather brandishing a broadsword in his hand. With Blackfyre firmly in his grasp, Aeonar instinctively retreated a few paces with a practiced grace, quickly adopting the Knight's Dance fighting stance—a defensive posture that spoke of years of training and preparation of a warrior prepared for battle, half-expecting the Spring Prince himself to make a move. The situation was undeniably perplexing; Aeonar grappled with the surreal notion that in this enigmatic void, where shadows of the past intertwined with the present, the specters of those long departed could emerge to confront him like silent witnesses. It was a realm that defied logic, a place where time seemed to fold in on itself, allowing the living to face the shadows of their ancestors. He felt convinced that within this realm, any movement posed a serious threat. Aeonar and Baelon stood toe-to-toe for a while, neither making a move. For a tense interval, Aeonar and Baelon remained locked in a standoff, their eyes locked in a fierce contest of wills. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the distant echoes of memories that lingered in the air. Neither was willing to initiate an attack, each waiting for the other to make the first move, the weight of their shared blood and history hanging heavily between them. However, when Baelon slowly elevated the point of his sword and directed it toward his grandson, the gesture was both a challenge and a warning. Aeonar's heart raced, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he tightened his grip on Blackfyre, the familiar coolness of the hilt a comfort amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

However, Baelon willingly dropped his weapon without hesitation, letting it slip through his fingers. And for a split second, Aeonar's concentration broke. In that brief moment, his focus wavered, his eyes fixated on the shimmering blade as it vanished into nothingness, swallowed by the air like a whisper lost in the wind. The sudden absence of the weapon left a void in the atmosphere, a silence that seemed to stretch and thrum with unspoken tension. Unbeknownst to him, this distraction allowed Baelon to close the distance between them with surprising speed for a man of his years, his movements fluid and deliberate. With a swift motion, he reached for Blackfyre and closed his hand around the hilt before disarming Aeonar, slipping the Valyrian steel bastard sword from his grandson's fingers as if it had never belonged to him. Startled by the sudden turn of events, Aeonar quickly whirled around, ready to defend himself, but before he could regain his footing or formulate a plan, he found himself enveloped in a firm embrace from Baelon, the warmth of his grandfather's body grounding him.

"Wha…?" Aeonar froze, unable to comprehend the situation unfolding before him. His initial instinct was to resist and free himself from Baelon's grip, but for some reason, he couldn't move. His body refused to obey. The embrace took him by surprise, evoking a sensation he hadn't experienced since his grandfather's death nearly three decades ago. It felt… comforting. Baelon enveloped him in his arms like a shield, providing a sense of security and comfort in a world that often seemed daunting.

"Your eyes… they're a different color. I've seen it before. I know you're hurt," Baelon whispered, his voice steady and calm—the words wrapped around Aeonar like a protective cloak, soothing the tumult within him. "But it's over now. Let it go, my grandson. It's long past due for you… to know when to lay down your arms. And put an end to the fighting."

With a deep breath, Aeonar leaned into the embrace, feeling the tension in his body dissipate, only to be replaced by a sense of safety he hadn't realized he craved. The scent of his grandfather—earthy and familiar—filled his senses, grounding him in the moment stretched, time seeming to pause as he absorbed the lesson hidden within the embrace. For a brief instant, seeing Baelon once more made Aeonar lose all awareness of his surroundings. The feelings that had gnawed at him—pains of betrayal, the disappointment in those failing to meet his expectations, the uncertainty of the future—began dissipating like mist in the morning sun. When Baelon finally released him, he studied his grandson's expression: the vivid crimson curls framing Aeonar's limbal rings gave the illusion that his eyes were bleeding, a darker hue of red that spoke of deep-seated darkness in his heart. It was as if the very essence of his struggles had manifested in that gaze, reflecting the chaos that had once consumed him. But where there was once madness and insanity, now lingered a profound confusion and internal conflict.

Baelon's eyes, deep and knowing, held a glimmer of understanding. He had seen this turmoil before and had weathered similar storms in his own youth. "Keeping your feelings bottled up the way you have, locked away for years, and holding on to past grudges do you more harm than good. Where it would be seen as an act of self-preservation, you will only end up hurting those around you who care for you," he explained. "It happened long before you and your sister were born."

Aeonar said nothing.

"Sour Sam once asked whether I was mad or brave as a boy. Hitting Balerion on the snout with a mere stick. 'Baelon the Brave' was what they called me." Baelon then turned to his grandson. "However, despite what others have gossiped behind my back, the only one who understood me was Aemon. He was our father's heir as well as his Master of Laws and Lord Justiciar. But for me, he was my older brother… and my best friend. Wherever he went, whatever he did, we always did things together."

"What are you getting at?" Aeonar inquired.

Baelon took a deep breath. "When Aemon died on Tarth, killed by Myrish pirates, all I wanted at the time… was to avenge him. And make those who murdered my brother suffer for what they've done. The sensation first starts out as a little cramp in the back of our skull, like an unbearable itch you can't take care of. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Aeonar raised his hand and absentmindedly rubbed the back of his head, reminding him where his twitching sensations first began. The sensation started as a subtle, almost imperceptible tingle at the base of his skull, gradually intensifying into an incessant twitch that seemed to emanate from within.

"However, it wasn't just generations of House Targaryen intermarrying to keep our Valyrian blood pure. No, a trauma on a greater scale that can affect us all—be it the relentless grip of stress, the sting of betrayal, the weight of lingering grudges, or sorrow stemming from the pain of loss—that determines whether a Targaryen will go mad. Such outside factors, whether compounded for days, months, or years, can take their toll on even the best of us. What you believed you knew about the Targaryen madness was only a small portion. Outside factors are only a portion of the cycle that contributes to whether a Targaryen is born a great statesman or a madman."

Aeonar attentively listened to Baelon's elaboration on the complexities surrounding the infamous Targaryen madness; what Baelon shared was not merely a recounting of known history; initially, he had thought he grasped the essence of the phenomenon, believing it to be a straightforward consequence of House Targaryen's lineage. However, hidden revelations hinted at layers of understanding previously unconsidered. The interplay of madness and greatness within House Targaryen was not merely a byproduct of their ancestry; it was a complex tapestry woven from the threads of their history, culture, and the very essence of their Valyrian lineage. The longstanding practice of incestuous marriages intended to keep their Valyrian bloodline pure and the numerous factors both outside and in that played a potential role in determining their fate. While meant to fortify their claim to the Iron Throne and maintain their connection to the dragons, their ancient traditions and customs had inadvertently sown the seeds of madness within their ranks as the genetic repercussions began to manifest themselves in various yet unpredictable ways; they were a dynasty marked by the duality of their existence—greatness shadowed by the specter of madness. But it was not just the blood that dictated their fates; various external and internal influences loomed large, each capable of significantly impacting their destinies. The weight of history, the pressures of power, the constant threat of political intrigue, and the shadows of personal loss all conspired to exacerbate the fragile mental states of those who bore the Targaryen name.

As Baelon recounted the same harrowing experience, grappling with similar dark urges following the tragic death of his brother Aemon, how he somehow came back from the brink of insanity after the Myrish Bloodbath on Tarth, Aeonar's perception of Baelon shifted significantly. The image of a once-great man, now haunted by the specters of grief and madness, was a stark contrast to the innocent view he had held of his grandfather when he was just six years old. But now, as Aeonar listened to the weight of Baelon's confessions, he began to see the cracks in that facade. If Baelon wrestled with the same sinister impulses that had plagued their ancestors, it raised a profound question: how had his grandfather managed to break free from the grip of such a curse?What inner strength had allowed him to resist the siren call of madness that had claimed so many of their kin before them until now?The answer was not it was sheer willpower, ormaybe it was the strength of his relationships with those close to him.

Aeonar could not understand. What did his grandfather have that he didn't? "Huh. So, I suppose that it was all for nothing. After all this time, after everything… my coin landed on the wrong side," he muttered bitterly.

Baelon shook his head. "No. You had ample opportunities to turn your life around, my boy," he replied, "but you refused them and instead held on to a deep, personal grudge that was allowed to fester for too long. It was like picking at a wound that had trouble healing until it was no longer treatable."

"What are you talking about?!"

"While your mother's fate was tragic, it was unavoidable. No one could have predicted it. If we had…" Baelon slowly turned his head over his shoulder, glancing at Aeonar, "Do you think things would bedifferentif certain events hadn't happened? If fate had flown in what you believed was fair?"

Before Aeonar could utter a word, he was startled by a noticeable uproar in the distance. The sounds of laughter and joyous chatter floated through the air, arousing his curiosity. As he turned to investigate, he was met with a scene that felt both nostalgic and surreal: a younger version of himself alongside Alicent, Rhaenyra, King Viserys I, and… Queen Aemma—his father and mother. The joy radiating from them was palpable, a stark contrast to the weight of his current reality. However, there was a subtle yet significant distinction. The younger Aeonar and Alicent held their toddler, Jaehaerys. He giggled as he played with a small wooden dragon, utterly unaware of the weight of legacy that loomed over him. Alicent, her face aglow with maternal pride, was visibly pregnant with their second child, her hand resting protectively on her belly as if to shield the life growing within her. King Viserys stood nearby, a gentle smile gracing his features as he watched his grandson play. Aeonar felt a pang of regret; he had often taken for granted the moments spent with his father, the lessons imparted in quiet conversations. He wished he could turn back time to savor those fleeting instances.

But it was the sight of Queen Aemma, her gentle hands clasping those of the small child beside her, that sent a shiver down Aeonar's spine. The child, with tousled hair and a curious gaze, bore an uncanny resemblance to him. Aeonar was taken aback, struggling to comprehend what he was witnessing. Could this be his younger brother, Baelon? The very child who had tragically passed away just hours after his birth? The sight of him, so full of life, sent a jolt through Aeonar's mind, raising a torrent of questions. Why was this vision manifesting now? Was it a cruel trick of fate or perhaps a glimpse into a reality he had yearned for the entire time? As the scene unfolded, Aeonar felt a swell of emotions—longing, grief, and an overwhelming nostalgia. The image of a united, loving family—alive and thriving—was almost too much to bear, a stark contrast to the loneliness that had often enveloped him. As he observed the scene unfold, he found himself transfixed, unable to tear his gaze detail was etched into his memory—the way Alicent's hair caught the light, the way Rhaenyra leaned in to share a secret with Jaehaerys, the way King Viserys beamed with pride as he watched his family. It was a moment suspended in time, a snapshot of joy that felt both achingly familiar and impossibly distant. He wanted to reach out, to touch them one more time. But he couldn't. That part of his life was either gone now.

"Father… Mother…" Aeonar whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the joyous cacophony.Alicent, Rhaenyra…"Why? Why show me this?"

"You can't hide what's in your heart, my boy," Baelon explained. "I know how much family meant to you. I understand that. All too well. You were only a young man when all you wanted was taken from you. Seventeen." His face then frowned. "But all this will mean nothing for the next generation of Targaryens if the cold beyond the distant north threatens to engulf the world in an endless winter."

Aeonar's body tensed, a sudden rigidity overtaking him. The cold beyond the distant north… this ominous warning was not new to him; it had first been imparted to him when he was merely ten years old, shortly after his father had bestowed upon him the title of Prince of Dragonstone, and again when he himself conveyed the same ominous prophecy to Rhaenyra during their conversation at the foot of Balerion's skull before he chose to isolate himself across the Narrow Sea. Every word, every syllable of that prophecy, was etched in his memory.

«Just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men beginning with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this Great Winter comes, all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne.»

"'Hen ñuha ānogar māzigon Kivio Dārilaros…' ('From my blood will come the Prince That Was Promised…')" Aeonar began.

"'…se zȳhon kessa sagon Vāedar Suvio Perzo.' ('…and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire.')" Baelon finished. "It is the same prophecy my father, King Jaehaerys, told me after Aemon died and I became his heir. I, myself, had passed on what I learned to Viserys before my death. And it was the same lesson he taught you as you did with your son." Placing a hand on his grandson's chest, he continued. "But if you wish for House Targaryen to stand against the cold, completely intact, you must first learn to let go… and accept the truth."

Baelon, without pausing for a response from his grandson, forcefully pushed Aeonar into what appeared to be an endless abyss before being engulfed himself. The sensation of falling was disorienting, a dizzying spiral that seemed to stretch forever, the air around them thick with an oppressive darkness. A bewildered Aeonar thrashed and kicked as he was pulled downward, his instincts screaming for him to fight against the unseen force that dragged him deeper into the void. He felt like he was going to drown!

Yet, amidst the chaos of his descent, a series of visions surged before him, vivid and overwhelming: a cavernous space, the air thick with an ancient, earthy scent. At the center of this vision was an ancient weirwood tree, its gnarled roots twisting and curling like the fingers of a giant, nestled within a cave far to the North. The tree's bark was a deep, rich red, and its leaves shimmered with an ethereal glow. Beneath its sprawling branches, the exact mysterious figure he had encountered earlier appeared, his skin as pale as milk and marked by a prominent red birthmark on his face and neck—wrapped in its roots as if he were part of the very essence of the tree itself—with crows perched on his shoulders, their beady eyes glinting with intelligence. They cawed loudly, their voices echoing in the cavern, a cacophony that seemed to resonate with the fabric of the world around them. Suddenly, one of the crows took flight, revealing a third eye situated in the middle of its forehead.

However, the chilling sight of humanoid ice creatures with their gaunt, mummified bodies glistened in the cold light, each pair of glowing blue eyes piercing through the darkness. They advanced relentlessly to the south, a chilling army of the undead, their movements synchronized and deliberate as if driven by a singular, malevolent will. The air around them crackled with an unnatural chill, and the ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble in fear, the very earth recoiling from their presence.

The landscape was a graveyard, littered with the remains of a slain and disfigured dragon, its once-majestic form now a grotesque shadow of its former that had shimmered like jewels were now dulled and cracked, and the great wings lay torn and tattered, a testament to the ferocity of the battle that had unfolded this fallen titan were the scattered remains of valiant soldiers from every noble house of the Seven Kingdoms, their fallen bodies strewn across the frozen ground like discarded playthings. The banners of House Stark, Lannister, Baratheon, Arryn, Tully, Tyrell, Martell, and Targaryen lay tattered and torn, fluttering weakly in the icy wind, each a testament to the fierce loyalty and bravery of those who had fought and perished in this grim tableau.

Amidst this chaos, Aeonar's gaze was drawn upward, captivated by a striking red comet blazing a fiery trail across the sky. It shone like a fiery sword, cutting through the darkness and illuminating the scene below with an otherworldly glow. The comet's tail shimmered with hues of crimson and gold, casting an eerie light that danced upon the fallen as if the heavens were witnessing the carnage below.

Below it, three dragon eggs, encased in flickering flames, radiated an otherworldly warmth that seemed to defy the chill of the surrounding air. The fire danced at the shells, casting flickering shadows across the ground, hinting at the power contained within. Each egg was a promise of rebirth.

Lastly, a naked Targaryen woman sat amidst a mound of ash and soot, her pale skin glowing softly in the comet's light. Her long, silver hair cascaded around her shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight, framing her face with an otherworldly beauty that seemed untouched by the horrors surrounding her. She cradled three chirping dragon hatchlings, their tiny forms alive with the promise of rebirth. The hatchlings, with their iridescent scales shimmering in hues of green and bronze, cream with gold, and black with scarlet red.

«Only the best are gifted with the power of a dreamer, ancestor. Now, it's time for you… to open your eyes.»

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"Gah!"Aeonar inhaled sharply, drawing in a deep breath that seemed to fill his soul. The vivid images imprinted in his consciousness were no longer mere fables or fanciful tales he had once dismissed. He recalled his father's countless recountings of these visions, but now, witnessing them unfold before his eyes, Aeonar felt the fragments of understanding coalesce within him. These were not just dreams; they were the dragon dreams, the same prophetic visions that Daenys Targaryen possessed, foretelling the Doom that destroyed the Valyrian Freehold. If Aegon the Conqueror himself had the power of a dreamer, then the Valyrian steel dagger that hung at Aeonar's side was a cryptic message meant for the eyes of his future heirs, translating it from language that only they would understand.

As he gradually rose to his feet, Aeonar found himself back in the Red Keep's throne room. Yet, the atmosphere was starkly different; the once grand hall now felt desolate, as if it were laid bare to the elements, with delicate snowflakes drifting down from a leaden sky, blanketing the cold stone floor.

"Aeonar…"

Aeonar turned. Someone else was calling him again.

"Aeonar…"

Aeonar shifted his gaze to the sides and noticed a young man standing with his back turned towards him. The figure bore a striking resemblance to a young Targaryen himself. His long, silver hair cascaded down to the middle of his back, catching the light in a way that made it appear almost ethereal, shimmering like moonlight against the backdrop of the dimly lit throne room. The young man was adorned in flowing silver robes that seemed to dance around him, each movement causing the fabric to ripple like water under a gentle breeze. The robes featured an intricately embroidered black yoke on his shoulders, showcasing a bronze dragon with gold scales on each side of the yoke and dark leather boots that were polished to a shine, completing his regal appearance. However, as Aeonar's eyes traveled upward, he was met with the sight of a golden crown decorated with the sigils of the Great Houses resting upon the young man's head—the very crown of his great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and his father, King Viserys the Peaceful.

"You know who I am, don't you, Aeonar?"

Chapter End

Author's Note: As we near closer, Aeonar sees his grandfather Prince Baelon the Brave one more time. As he elaborates further about the Targaryen madness and shows his grandson of what he truly desired and might've been, what do you think Baelon was trying to teach Aeonar? And as expected, Baelon shows Aeonar visions of the threat of the White Walkers and Daenerys Targaryen with a newborn Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion. Think all three could be related to Vaelor? And who is this figure standing with his back toward Aeonar? Guess away!

Dante 101: I think that Baelon was trying to teach Aeonar that it's not all about him. He has family, who cares for & loves him. Don't focus on what you lost & focus on what you still have. Don't let your past rule you & dictate your actions. You have to let go of the past & move on.

Is that what he's trying to teaching him?

―Yes

What is one word you would use to describe Aeonar's final fate?

―Tragic

What did you think about in S2 in general?

―Mixed because of how it differentiates between the show and the books

i) Who was your favorite character & why.

―Rhaenys Targaryen 'cause why not? She's the Queen Who Never Was, and a badass for taking on two dragons by herself.

ii) Who was your least favorite character & why.

―Aegon (because he's an idiot), but mostly Aemond (not because he's complex, but rather becomes more vicious as each episode goes on)

iii) Favorite episode & why.

―"The Red Sowing" because I finally got to see Vermithor

iV) Least favorite episode & why.

―"Regent" because what happened in Daemon's vision at Harrenhal was beyond messed up.

randomdude24: Despite the delay, it was well worth the wait. Seems like Baelon is able to some degree get through to Aeonar and show him what the madness can do to a man. Baelon himself nearly lost his mind to it after his brother died, but also showed Aeonar what could have been.

Despite the somewhat bittersweet moment, Aeonar has seen a possible future, the long night the death of everything a future that could be. At the same time, a glimpse of a what is to come through Daenerys good or bad.

As first his next visitor, I have 2 guesses King Jaehaerys, his great grandfather, or his son Jaehaerys on the iron throne as a young man.

Questions,

If you were to connect this to Trial and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper, what would Daveth think of Aeonar as a King?

―A precautionary tale of how the Targaryen madness publicly became known; that even good intentions have flaws and even Targaryens are as flawed as everyone else instead of what they projected themselves as

With Aeonar going through this journey, will Jaehaerys be called upon to serve as the Prince Regent in his fathers place? Since they have no knowledge of whether he's alive or dead

―Can't spoil anything

Aegon has been MIA for a while. Thanks to Larys, but why haven't those who are hiding him just offered him up to save their own lives?

―Truth is, they don't know where he is

Another question regarding Aegon: What makes him believe he can win this war and the iron throne? He seems like a liability at best

―Psychologically, he can't; he's just too broken to even care

Last question, you doing alright? I'm sure you have good reasons for taking a break from writing this last chapter.

―Truth is, I was having a mental breakdown due to personal reasons. I'm still trying to include as many chapters as I can.