Somewhere within the dream world…
"You know who I am, don't you, Aeonar?"
Aeonar kept his gaze firmly locked onto the apparition of the young Targaryen, who remained standing with his back turned towards him. This young man, with his flowing silver hair glinting in the dim light faintly blanketed by the snow clouds, seemed to embody the true potential of House Targaryen when wielded to its the specter did not turn to meet his eyes, a question hung in the air, demanding to be answered, a silent plea that resonated with the weight of unspoken he did not initially recognize the young man, the moment he inquired about his identity, an inexplicable clarity began to unfold in Aeonar's mind when he asked about his identity. The Young Dragon recognized that voice even though the specter's physical form remained a mystery to him; it was familiar yet so foreign simultaneously. The timbre was calm, patient, almost soothing, and wise, yet there was an undercurrent of warmth and vulnerability beneath the was a voice that danced on the edges of his memory, a melody woven into the fabric of his past, yet just out of reach.
But it didn't take long for Aeonar to realize that this young man looked exactly like him in more ways than one. The contours of his face were strikingly familiar, almost an echo of his former self. His mannerisms—every subtle gesture and flick of the wrist—seemed to reflect Aeonar's movements. The way he stood, with an air of quiet confidence, and his shoulders relaxed when he spoke all combined to form a vivid picture. With each detail he observed, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, revealing a connection that was impossible to ignore.
No… It-It can't be."Y-Yes… You're my son," Aeonar said in a voice barely above a whisper.
As Aeonar extended his hand, the ghostly figure dissipated into nothingness, like specs of dust swept away by a gentle breeze. The air around him felt charged as if the very fabric of reality had shifted in that brief moment. Yet, just as the last remnants of the apparition faded, he soon felt a hand placed on his shoulder. When Aeonar turned to look, he was met by the sight of his eldest son and heir to the throne, Jaehaerys. He looked slightly older, more firm and regal in appearance, but still very much intelligent. Yet, it was his eyes that captivated Aeonar the most—a depth that spoke of trials faced and lessons learned. Despite the maturity that cloaked him, he still radiated patience and wisdom that belied his youth, a reminder of the potential that lay within him. Aeonar was overwhelmed by a sense of confusion; in that fleeting vision, it seemed as though the prophecy regarding the Prince That Was Promised and the fate of House Targaryen did not pertain to him or the bastard pretender Aegon the Elder but instead pointed to Jaehaerys Targaryen himself.
Aeonar was engulfed by a wave of confusion; the visions that had haunted him for so long now seemed to shift and reshape before his very eyes. He had always believed that he was destined to reclaim House Targaryen's glory. Could it be that the whispers of fate that was once promised to him had been misinterpreted all along?As he looked into his son's eyes, Aeonar saw not just the reflection of his ambitions but a flicker of something greater—a destiny intertwined with the fate of humanity itself.
"It's all a story."
Aeonar's attention was immediately captured by the sound of another distinctly familiar, feminine voice reaching out to him. He pivoted once again, glancing over his shoulder, and there she was—the unmistakable silhouette of Helaena Targaryen. A wave of disbelief washed over him. How could this be possible? He had locked her away in the dark confines of the cells in the Red Keep. What was she doing here, manifesting before him in this surreal vision of a seemingly ominous future? The air around him crackled with otherworldly energy as if the very fabric of reality was bending to accommodate her presence. Helaena's hair flowed like liquid silver, cascading down her shoulders, and her eyes, usually dulled by despair, sparkled with an intensity that pierced through the fog of his confusion. She stepped closer, her voice a melodic whisper that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the dream.
"Helaena?" Aeonar spoke.
"And you are but one part in it," Helaena continued. "You know your part. You know what you must do."
Jaehaerys gave a slow nod. "It's not too late, father," he said, as his apparition slowly began to transform into something—or someone—else, "to be different… thanhim."
As the ethereal figure of Jaehaerys gradually dissipated into the shadows, it morphed into a far more ominous presence, casting a shadow that seemed to darken the very air around it. This new entity bore a striking resemblance to a bull, embodying the essence of raw power and dominance. Its physique was nothing short of imposing, characterized by broad shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of the world, a thick neck that spoke of unyielding strength, and massive arms that could crush stone with ease. Towering above all, this figure radiated an aura of formidable strength that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. As the figure loomed, the air crackled with tension, a palpable reminder of the ferocity within. It was none other than King Maegor I Targaryen, infamously known as 'Maegor the Cruel,' a name that echoed through the annals of history, forever etched in the minds of those who dared to remember him as a ruler whose reign was marked by bloodshed and tyranny, a man whose very presence instilled fear in the hearts of his shadows danced around him, twisting and writhing as if they were alive, drawn to the dark magnetism of his presence. Each step he took resonated like the thunder of hooves on stone, a reminder of the relentless force he embodied.
Aeonar took a cautious step back; his senses heightened, and every nerve tingled in anticipation of an impending fight against Maegor. The air around him crackled with tension, each heartbeat echoing in his ears like a war drum. Suddenly, a thunderous, guttural roar reverberated through the emptiness, a sound so primal it seemed to shake the very fabric of reality, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. The once gentle snow clouds morphed into ominous storm clouds, dark and swirling as if the heavens themselves were responding to the chaos below. They unleashed a torrent of brief, blinding flashes of lightning that illuminated the darkened sky, each bolt revealing the stark contrast between light and shadow, good and evil. Accompanied by the resonant growl of thunder that rolled like a war drum, the atmosphere crackled with electric intensity, heightening Aeonar's alertness even further. The delicate snowflakes that had once danced gracefully through the air transformed into a swirling tempest of ash and soot, blanketing the ground in a grim shroud that whispered of destruction and despair. Beneath his feet, the once-sturdy marble floor began to fracture and splinter, fissures snaking outward like the veins of a dying beast. With a deafening roar, the ground erupted, releasing a torrent of molten magma that bubbled and hissed as it surged forth from the cracks, casting an eerie glow that flickered like the last breaths of a dying star. The heat radiated outward, a stark contrast to the cold that had enveloped the realm moments before, and Aeonar could feel the ground tremble beneath him, a warning of the chaos that was about to if the situation couldn't worsen, a colossal dragon slowly rose from behind the Iron Throne, its scales and wings a deep, obsidian black that shimmered ominously in the sporadic flashes of lightning. The creature's eyes glowed with an otherworldly fire, piercing through the gloom and locking onto Aeonar with an intensity that made his blood run cold. Its immense wings unfurled with a sound like thunder, casting a suffocating darkness that enveloped all who dared to stand before it. The shadows stretched and twisted, rendering them mere silhouettes against its overwhelming presence as if the very essence of fear had taken form.
"Balerion…"
It was none other than the legendary Black Dread himself, Balerion—the largest and most powerful Targaryen dragon in living memory, a creature whose name reverberates through the annals of history, and the last to have ever been born in Old Valyria before the cataclysmic event known as the Doom destroyed House Targaryen's ancestral homeland. The tales of his fiery breath—from the Burning of Harrenhal to the Field of Fire—and unmatched ferocity were whispered in hushed tones around flickering hearths, and his shadow loomed large over the history of Westeros, casting a pall of fear and reverence wherever he soared. Just by his size alone, Aeonar's previous assessment of Balerion was significantly off; he had estimated the dragon to be a mere 376 feet in length, but that was a gross understatement, a miscalculation that belied the true majesty of this colossal beast. No, the Black Dread was much,muchbigger. In reality, Balerion, at the pinnacle of his strength, was a mindblowing 557 feet long, a length that dwarfed even the most towering of modern castles. He stood at an impressive height of 498 feet, his massive form casting a shadow that could envelop entire armies. His wings, when unfurled, spanned an incredible 1,114 feet, creating a thunderous sound that echoed across the skies and sent flocks of birds scattering in terror and cast a shadow that could engulf entire towns whenever he passed overhead. This raises the question: how? How could Aeonar have so drastically misjudged the size of this legendary dragon? Not even Vhagar or Vaelor could hold a candle to the sheer magnitude of Balerion! Though mighty, their wings paled in comparison to the Black Dread's, and their fearsome flames could not rival the inferno that Balerion unleashed upon his foes.
"Dracarys," Maegor commanded.
Aeonar looked up at Balerion, whose wide-open mouth started to emit a dark flame with a swirl of reddish glow, a foreboding sign of the inferno that was about to be unleashed. The air around them crackled with tension, the very atmosphere thickening with the heat radiating from the Black Dread. Aeonar's heart raced as he felt the ground tremble beneath him, the Red Keep's stone columns seeming to shudder in anticipation of the impending destruction. With a powerful motion, the Black Dread arched his neck back, the muscles rippling beneath his obsidian scales, before lunging forward with a ferocity that sent tremors through the ground. In that heart-stopping moment, Balerion unleashed a torrent of his terrifying dragonfire, a seething wave of heat and fury that surged forth like a living entity. The flames roared with a life of their own, twisting and writhing as they sought out their that split second, Aeonar's survival instincts kicked in; he quickly raised his arms in an attempt to shield himself as Balerion's flames circled and consumed him and every stone column around the visage of the ruined Red Keep. But the searing flames of Balerion enveloped him instantly, spiraling around him like a malevolent serpent. The dragonflames roared and crackled, a cacophony of sound that drowned out all other noise, filling the air with the scent of scorched earth and ash. The heat was unbearable, a scorching embrace threatening to sear his soul. The world around him was transformed into a hellscape, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning stone and charred remnants. The ancient stone columns that had stood sentinel for centuries crumbled under the onslaught, their proud forms reduced to nothing more than dust and ash, scattered by the relentless fury of Balerion's fiery ground trembled beneath the weight of the dragon's power, and the sky above darkened as if the heavens themselves recoiled from the scene below.
Aeonar felt the heat sear his skin, a reminder of the dragon's overwhelming power that seared his skin and filled his lungs with acrid smoke. The Red Keep's pillars and structures were not spared either. They crumbled under the onslaught, their surfaces cracking and splintering as the fire consumed them, sending shards of rock flying in all directions.
As Aeonar shut his eyes firmly tight, everything went silent.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Aeonar slowly regained consciousness in the serene godswood of the Red Keep, a place that once felt like sanctuary during his youth. Unlike the haunting memories of the shattered throne room and the specters of Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys, and Helaena that had plagued his mind, this moment was filled with the gentle sounds of birds chirping their symphonies. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, and the radiant warmth of the sun overhead wrapped around him like a comforting embrace—an enchanting atmosphere contrasting entirely with the darkness of his earlier visions. He noticed that his head rested comfortably on someone's lap, yet he remained still, savoring the tranquility that enveloped him. The soft rustle of leaves whispered secrets of peace, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to forget the burdens of the past. As he turned his gaze upward, he was met with the tender sight of Alicent, her features illuminated by the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. As he turned his gaze upward, he was met with the tender sight of Alicent, her features illuminated by the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. Her eyes were fixed on him with warmth and affection that could make his heart swell. On one hand, she held a copy ofTen Thousand Ships, its pages worn and was a cherished ritual from their youth, a symbol of their bond when they first embraced their love; it was a nostalgic echo of their early days as a couple, a time when dreams felt boundless, and the weight of the world had not yet settled upon their shoulders. The sight of her, so engrossed in the tale, brought a rush of warmth to his chest. How could it be? The warmth radiating from Alicent, her very presence a balm to his weary spirit, felt like a miracle amidst the storm of his thoughts. After everything they had endured—the betrayals, the losses, the relentless struggle for power, and the growing familial distance—how could his beloved Alicent Hightower regard him with such unwavering affection even if he was a shell of his former self?
"Ñuha prūmia…? (My heart…?)" Aeonar said in disbelief, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Shhh. It's all right, my love," Alicent hushed with reassurance, placing a delicate finger on Aeonar's lips. "It's just me."
"How? Alicent, why…?"
"Even if we're far apart, our fates have always been intertwined. Yours and mine and Rhaenyra's. It's been like this ever since we were children. I know you more than you know yourself. In your attempt to block out the pain, you shut everyone else out. But in doing so, you isolated yourself from us. We only want to help you, Aeonar. Yet we can't if you won't let us."
"I… but our boys…"
"Aeonar, I know that you're in pain, just as I am," Alicent said gently, "but lashing out at those who have wronged you—whether it's justified or not—will not bring Daeron or Viserys back to us."
More ghostly specters started to form around them: their immediate friends and family members.
"No more must you grieve, son," King Viserys acknowledged, breathing heavily. "Don't dwell on what might have been. Learn from my mistakes." The former King of the Seven Kingdoms took the form of a sick, dying manwith a gaunt face and a missing eye, similar to his physical condition when the royal family held its last supper with him. Taking the crown from his head, Viserys dangled it from his fingers. "I never told you this, but... I never wanted to be king. I didn't ask for it. But the Great Council made that decision for me. I was right not to want it. All that pain wearing a crown… it crushes whoever wears it. I realized I placed such a burden on you when you were too young. I named you Master of Whisperers because I believed, at the time, you were ready for the responsibility. I understood now that I expected too much."
"No," Aeonar shook his head. "No, father, you… you did what you thought was best. You carried on our great-grandfather's legacy, preserved the Seven Kingdoms, and kept the realm at peace for 29 years." He momentarily diverted his gaze from them. "It was I who failed."
"It's too easy to obsess over 'what-ifs' or 'what could have been.' These thoughts will always be there to eat away at you if you let them. Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go. It is time for you to forgive yourself," Baelon suggested. "You have such a long road ahead of you, my boy. You still have a family who need the husband, father, and grandfather they know you are."
"You struggle to come to terms with the events beyond your ability to predict or control," Rhaenyra implied. "The past is the past. Let it go before you're lost to the madness forever. Be innocent and clear."
Aeonar shook his head again. "How can you say that? I'm not innocent!" he denied.
"Father, that's not the whole truth," the ghost of Viserys stepped forward, his voice filled with understanding. "We always wanted to believe in the goodness within you. Mother, our brothers, our sister—we all held onto that hope. Life has never been easy for any of us, yet you instilled in us the importance of family and supporting one another through difficult times. Those are the lessons you and mother taught us, and they have always stayed with us whether it's in life or in death, father."
The ghost of Daeron materialized. "There's no need to use our deaths as an excuse to be someone we know you're not!" he said confidently, wearing his usual cocky grin. "So, come on! Turn that frown upside down and be our dad again! Come on, we know you can do it!"
"You've suffered enough, father," Aegon remarked.
"We know you've been plagued by nothing but pain and misery for everything that's happened, father, but understand that it was never meant to be," Jaehaerys suggested. "Let this final trial serve as a reminder that it's never too late to learn how to forgive yourself, as we had forgiven you all this time. So don't forsake yourself. Let it go. You are more than this."
The ethereal figure of Queen Aemma hovered softly, her translucent form radiating a warm, motherly glow that Aeonar cherished deeply. A gentle, tender smile graced her lips, reflecting the deep love she had always shown him. As she extended her delicate hand toward him, it seemed to shimmer with a gentle light, inviting him to bridge the chasm between their worlds. "Come, my darling boy. It's time for you to come home with us," she said.
Aeonar remained still within the enigmatic void. Shadows flickered around him, ethereal remnants of his past, present, and uncertain future. Familiar faces materialized, their expressions of longing as they reached out toward him, even though they existed in an intangible space beyond his grasp. As he exchanged hesitant glances with each apparition, the emptiness around him began to transform. It shimmered and pulsed, illuminating his surroundings with a warmth that rivaled the sun's brilliance. "I… I don't… I only meant…" he stammered, his voice trembling under the weight of unfulfilled words, before the brilliance enveloped him entirely, and the world faded to a blinding white.
The Riverlands — Near Harrenhal…
Aeonar lay motionless after colliding with the weirwood tree; his state of unconsciousness was evident to all who beheld him. The air was thick with tension, the aftermath of the collision hanging like a heavy fog over the clearing. Following the impact, the erratic movements of his body ceased as if the very essence of life had been momentarily snatched away. The once vibrant energy that had coursed through him was now replaced by an unsettling stillness, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded. Gradually, his hand, which had been smeared with the tree's sap—a viscous, glistening substance that seemed to pulse with a life of its own—began to descend. The sap clung to his fingers, a testament to the violent encounter, glimmering in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. As if in slow motion, his hand fell, tracing a path through the air until it finally came to rest against the tree's gnarled roots, which twisted and turned like ancient serpents burrowing into the earth. All that broke it was a simple movement… and a quiet sound.
"*GASP!* *huff* *huff*"
The blood-red ringlets around his limbal rings gradually dissipated, returning to their normal white. And his pupils… had slowly returned to its pale lilac hue.
Chapter End
Author's Note: Well guys, this ends the visions Aeonar was undergoing. With his eye color returning to its original color, how do you think his journey will affect the story altogether? What was your take on this arc before we delve back into the big stuff?
Dante 101: Was the Helaena who appears to Aenoar is actually her?
—Yes and no; it's complicated
That implies that her dreams are connected to the Weirwood trees and the Old Gods, or just an illusion of her. Either she holds no anger towards the man who caused her grief, or the illusion is a way to make Aenoar feel like his actions are justified going forward?
—It's complicated
If Helaena is connected to the Weirwood network, just what is her connection to the Three-Eyed Raven?
—None
I noticed that the Orange kids weren't mentioned at all. Besides Helaena, who made a...whatever her appearance was there was zero mention of Aegon & Aemond. Yes they turned out to be horrible wretches but they weren't always like that. Not once, was there mention of anyone mentioning that if you did this with them, things would be different. And this brings up an unfortunate implication.
Was there no true chance for Aeonar to reconcile with his half siblings at all? Were they so unimportant that they couldn't get a mention on how things could've been different with them in this prophecy arc?
—No chance
Why did none of the other Targaryens on the Black side succumb to the madness, inspite of all that's happened?
—It varies, I guess
Even if Aeonar returns to his senses, the damage is already done. All he can do is patch things up as best he can.
No matter what he does, nothing will be the same anymore, no?
—Nothing will ever be the same for anyone
Was anything Aeonar saw in this arc real? Or was it all happening inside his head?
—It felt real
Will there be consequences for Aenoar hitting his head so hard against the Weirwood tree?
—Not at his best, if that's what you mean
Was Bloodraven satisfied with putting Aeonar back on the 'proper' path? Will he make any further appearances?
—That remains to be seen
Where is Alys now?
—Hidden deep in Harrenhal
Do you now have an idea of how many chapters this will end at?
—Honestly, no idea
C.E.W: So King Aeonar Targaryen has finally awaken from his little unconscious journey. There is still the concern with Vaelor to worry about. Not to mention Alys Rivers whose pregnant with Aemond's child as well as the garrison of Harrenhal to consider.
With Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar dead, the Caltrops have all but lost and the war is almost over. All that stands between the Blacks and total victory is Aegon the Elder. Aegon the Elder is just a disgrace member of House Targaryen, no dragon, no home, no family, no allies. Aegon the Elder's position is too weak to be considered a significant threat to the Blacks now.
Won't be long before the Riot in King's Landing begins, and the Shepherd will make his move. Larys Strong's remaining agents might take advantage of the chaos and sneak into the Red Keep to free Larys and perhaps Unwin Peake. They might even try to assassinate the family and might succeed with Otto Hightower but who knows.
Questions:
How long was Aeonar on his little unconscious journey?
—Two days
Has Cregan Stark and the Northern Host gotten any closer to Harrenhal?
—On their way
Will Aeonar start to show remorse for some of his actions like crushing Visenya's amulet? It was his grandfather Baelon's after all? Certainly regret how he treated Alicent among other people?
—Can't spoil anything
How much do the Blacks in King's Landing know about what went down at Harrenhal between Aeonar, Daemon and Aemond?
—Nothing yet
TruthOnlyReader: Aeonar madness seems to be over. What happened to his dragon? I know Caraxes and Vhagar are basically dead. But what about Aeonars?
—You'll see in the next chapter
randomdude24: The journey has ended, and it looks as if the Aeonar we met in the beginning has finally come back. Accepting the path laid before him and the unfortunate choices that shaped him. We will see if this has truly broken the Targaryen Madness hold on him or if this leads to some much worse. Overall, each chapter has helped Aeonar for better or worse, but i fear it's too late the damage is done. The lords of westeros might not accept him as the king. Unless he can prove to them otherwise. I'm looking forward to what comes next.
Questions,
I've been wondering about this, I only ask this because this is the character I hated the most. Ser Criston Cole, he was remembered as the best and worst of the Kingsguard in the main story. Will he be remembered any differently in this AU? If so, how?
—The turncloak who betrayed the crown, all the same
The Caltrops or whats left of them are dead, imprisoned, or forced to submission. Will the survivors try to justify the war they started even though they appear to have lost? If so, how?
—Some will, but that'll be revealed in future chapters
As the end comes closer, I imagine their will be changes to court, succesion, and the kingsguard to prevent something like the dance ever again. What kind of reforms will come?
—I'm still weighing my options