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| Author's Note:I've seen some people say that six,— and seven-year-old Aenys,— has a "trash personality" or that he's too noisy.
So, I'd really love to hear your honest thoughts,— what do you all think?
Because, from my perspective, I feel like his reactions have been pretty realistic for a kid, especially one who has never known higher 'responsibility' or duty.
You have to remember,— Aenys is a prince, and that's it. He's not in line for the throne (at least, not currently...).
He's good at studying, grows faster than most kids his age, but he barely interacts with other children outside of Rhaenys, Viserys, and himself. He's lived a privileged life, sheltered from hardship, with no real reason to mature beyond his years, besides 'enjoying' life.
So, what were you expecting? A child prodigy? A reincarnated mastermind? The adult, DaemonfuckingTargaryen in a kid's body?
Maybe some of you have been reading too many Chinese web novels where the MC is five months old and already ascended to the heavens and beyond.
At the end of the day, Aenys is a kid,— and a privileged one at that,— and I, a flawed 'Author'. But that's the whole point. His character needs to grow,— I need to grow,— and that journey is just beginning.
So let me know what you think,— your feedback is always appreciated,— and remember, your comments are what motivate me to write more.
*(Also, I know I am not perfect,— I can make mistakes, or be wrong about things. So please, be mindfull when writting a comment, and explain things like a normal person would. Thank you, kindly.)*
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- Aenys is 8 sunturns / namedays;
- Rhaenys is 9 sunturns / namedays;
- Viserys is 6 sunturns / namedays;
- Gael is 3 sunturns / namedays;
- Daemon is 2 sunturns / namedays;
- Aemma is 1 sunturn / nameday.
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- Cape Wrath, 83 AC / With Baelon Targaryen:
The sky above Cape Wrath stretched deep and ink-dark, scattered with stars like shards of diamond flung across velvet.
The sea beneath glistened faintly, restless and dark, whispering of a war to come. High above it all, like a silent shadow cast by the moon itself, Vhagar soared.
Despite her immense size and age,— an ancient terror of a dozen battles,— there was a strange, spectral quiet to her flight.
She cut through the night air like an owl gliding over the waves, swift and eerily soundless, as though the skies themselves dared not betray her passage.
Prince Baelon Targaryen sat astride her, cloaked in shadow and clad in dark, ash-hued armor forged to his form. It gleamed faintly in the occasional glint of moonlight, matte rather than mirrored,— designed for war, not spectacle. His silver hair was bound tightly behind his head, and his violet eyes,— sharp, unblinking,— scanned the black ocean below.
The wind whipped against his face, salt and cold, but he scarcely noticed. His focus was iron, honed razor-sharp for what lay ahead.
They were the three dragonriders that came to end a rising thorn in the flesh of House Targaryen,— a foolish Dornish attempt at rekindling a war long buried beneath ash and blood, again.
Baelon, alongside his elder brother Aemon and their father, King Jaehaerys, known in the far future as the Conciliator himself, had been chosen to extinguish it before it could grow into flame.
The moon hung low and full,— an exposed eye in the sky that might have betrayed them were it not for the heavy northern clouds drifting southward, cloaking their approach in darkness.
Baelon spared a glance behind him, and in that moment, a soft flicker of silver caught his eye. A glint of polished steel on a distant saddle,— Aemon on Caraxes, trailing behind. And further still, a golden shimmer,— his father astride mighty Vermithor.
He nodded to himself, lips tightening.
We are blessed tonight.
And indeed, the gods,— or fate,— seemed to favor them.
Not a single scorpion bolt whistled through the air to greet them, not yet. The enemy had not seen them. The dragons,— Vhagar, Caraxes, and Vermithor,— were uncannily silent, their wings beating only when needed, as if they too understood the weight of stealth.
Even Caraxes, that blood-hungry wyrm of flame and shriek, did not howl into the night.
It felt… orchestrated. As if the gods had set the board and stacked the pieces.
Or perhaps, Baelon thought, our claim is simply stronger this night.
Perhaps...
Perhaps the divine smiled upon their legitimacy, or perhaps this was the quiet before a storm. Either way, he would take the gift for what it was.
He leaned forward in the saddle, one gloved hand reaching down to rest atop Vhagar's warm, ancient scales. She rumbled faintly beneath him, her breath steaming in the night air.
"We finish this quickly." he murmured to her, a private whisper carried off by the wind.
"And we fly back to them. To her, to the boys. Agreed, old girl?" Vhagar's great eye rolled back toward him, slitting into a narrow, skeptical stare at the old girl comment.
Her maw curled in the faintest of huffs,— insulted, perhaps,— but not angered.
Her wings did not falter, and Baelon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Easy now. You're still the second fiercest thing alive." He ran his fingers over her spine, bracing himself.
For what's to come, he thought. And what may follow after.
He dared not name it aloud,— but in his chest, a quiet prayer took shape. That this would be swift, that his father would return, that his brother would not fall.
And most of all… that he would see his son again, with both sword and honor unbroken.
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- The Red Keep, Several Hours Before / With Aenys Targaryen:
The courtyard was bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning, yet it felt no warmer than the coldest crypt to Aenys Targaryen.
He stood beneath the shadow of the massive stone battlements of Maegor's Holdfast, small and silent, his silver-blond hair tousled by the wind.
Around him, the Red Keep stirred with restrained purpose,— guards tightening saddles, stablehands rushing with feed and water, banners fluttering softly from parapets high above.
It was the kind of day that looked like any other from the outside. But to Aenys, it felt like the world was coming apart.
He had tried to be brave.
Truly, he had.
He had not cried at breakfast, he had not begged his mother to make his father stay, he had even stood tall when his Viserys asked where 'their Kepa' was going and told him calmly, 'To do his duty.'
But now, as the moment came, as the dragons readied their wings and the three men climbed into saddles of steel and leather, something broke inside him.
He kept his eyes low, staring at the worn stones beneath his boots, willing himself not to weep. The silence between him and his father stretched like a taut rope, about to snap.
"Do you truly have to go, Father?" He asked, the words barely louder than a whisper.
His gaze remained fixed on the ground, as he could not bring himself to look at his father, the man wrapped in armor and duty.
Baelon sighed, not in frustration,— but in something heavier.
Resignation.
Pain perhaps.
They had had this conversation before. Too many times, perhaps. But never on the morning of war.
Baelon dropped to one knee beside him, gauntlets creaking faintly. With two gloved fingers, he gently lifted his chin until their eyes met.
It was a tender gesture,— unexpected, and all the more precious for it.
"Tell me, son." Baelon asked quietly, his voice a low murmur beneath the bustle around them, "What is the duty of a prince of the realm?"
Around them, the world prepared for battle.
Behind Baelon, Aemon was already mounted atop Caraxes, red wings twitching restlessly. High above, the distant rumble of Vermithor echoed as Jaehaerys circled once, waiting, before touching down behind Aemon and Caraxes, looking at them intently.
But Baelon did not rush.
He did not move, he remained, utterly still, with his hand beneath his son's chin and his gaze holding his.
Aenys swallowed, for he knew the words, had recited them before. But now, they burned in his throat.
"To protect the realm," he answered slowly, "And its people… from all threats." The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. They sounded hollow, as though spoken by someone else,— some page or squire in a lesson chamber. Not a boy about to watch his father vanish into the sky, perhaps forever.
A sob threatened his chest, and he clenched his jaw until it passed.
Baelon exhaled softly, almost smiling,— but the sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable. He shook his head,— not at his answer, he knew, but at his own helplessness.
At the burden all Targaryens bore.
"That's right." Baelon said at last, voice low.
"Not the whole answer, but close enough. You understand the heart of it… as I knew you would." Aenys's lip trembled at the warmth in his father's voice. That softness,— the rare kind that only emerged when no one was looking,— threatened to undo him more than any speech.
Baelon continued. "So you understand why I must go, don't you, son?"
"I do." Aenys replied, his voice firm this time, but it was a lie. Or half of one. He understood the why, but not the need,— not the terrible ache of watching someone you love take wing into danger while you remain rooted to stone.
He nearly added more,— his fears, his dreams, the tears that refused to fall,— but then caught sight of his grandfather's expression. King Jaehaerys, stoic and sharp-eyed, watching from the height of Vermithor's back.
No emotion, and no indulgence.
So Aenys swallowed the storm inside.
"I understand." he repeated. Baelon didn't believe the words, not truly. But he heard the effort behind them,— the strength it took to say them,— and nodded.
"Look at me, Aenys." he said gently, and he obeyed.
Baelon leaned in closer, his brow nearly touching his son's. "I will come back to you. To your mother, your brothers. I swear it! Besides, Vhagar will see me home,— you have my word."
Aenys tried to smile, but it was the kind of smile that only covered fear. "I know."
Baelon saw the lie,— but let it pass.
"Now." he said, rising to his full height, "I need something from you."
Aenys straightened, as if summoned to attention. "While I'm away, I need someone strong in the Red Keep. Someone to protect your mother and your siblings. Someone to be the defensive and protective dragon in the den, while the other dragons are at war. Can you be that someone, Aenys, for me?"
The weight of it settled on his shoulders like a cloak. Not a child's request,— but a prince's charge.
He looked up at his father,— at the man in dark armor with eyes like firelight,— and nodded slowly. "I can." he said. "I promise."
Baelon smiled, and this time, it was real.
"Good lad." He reached forward and placed one last kiss on Aenys's forehead. Then, with a final embrace for his wife, he mounted Vhagar.
Aenys stood beside his mother and the rest of the targaryen family, watching the dragon wings unfold like great, living sails.
One by one, they rose,— Caraxes first, hissing and coiling like a serpent; Vermithor next, vast and regal. And then Vhagar, ancient and immense, carrying his father into the sky.
Within minutes, they were gone,— nothing but shadows moving against clouds.
And still Aenys stood, unmoving, fists clenched at his sides.
He did not cry.
Not because he had no tears, but because he now knew what it meant to be a prince of the realm more-so than ever before.
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- Back With Baelon, In The Present:
The clouds had thinned, and moonlight spilled across the sea in a shimmering arc, silvering the dark waves below, and revealing the Dornish fleet for what it was,— a thorned serpent slithering across the water, its sails billowing crimson and gold, its hulls filled with spearmen, archers, and scorpions primed for blood.
War drums echoed faintly over the ocean winds, steady and deep, like the heartbeat of defiance.
Baelon had no love for war, though he bore it well. Vhagar beat her wings low and wide, gliding down with the patience of an elder predator.
Her scales caught glints of moonlight, and when she turned, she looked like a falling star of ash and brass. Baelon leaned forward, hand steady against the ridge of her spine.
The wind lashed his hair beneath the black helm, and he narrowed his eyes.
Aemon was already banking left, Caraxes cutting a cruel silhouette against the clouds,— thinner and faster, the Blood Wyrm dove like a swordpoint, his crimson wings tensing and flexing.
Jaehaerys soared above, guiding Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, who was slower than Caraxes, but commanded the skies like a mountain with wings.
There were no horns, no calls, no grand declarations of fire and blood.
Only the quiet, shared oath between three dragonriders, bound not just by family and duty,— but by centuries of Valyrian wrath that the Dornishmen would never understand until it scorched their sails and sank their pride.
Baelon tensed in his saddle, and Vhagar roared.
It was not a sound, but a force.
A cathedral of fury breaking loose from her lungs, shaking the air itself.
Below, the Dornish fleet wavered. The drums stuttered, and scorpion bolts launched skyward in blind panic, desperate to strike shadows they could barely see.
But they had waited too long.
Baelon felt the heat build beneath him as Vhagar sucked in a gust of cold night air,— and then she exhaled.
The inferno was not gold, nor orange,— but pale and ghostly, like the fire of old bones burning. It struck the main ship of the Dornish fleet dead-on, and in seconds, the vessel was consumed. Sails burst like parchment, wood split and howled, and men screamed, and were silent just as fast.
To the left, Caraxes shrieked and spiraled, twining through the chaos like a red lash.
He slammed into a ship's mast, snapped it clean in two with his claws, and dragged the wreckage into the sea as Aemon guided him with sharp precision. The Blood Wyrm's fire danced quicker,— more vengeful than Vhagar's deep, rolling wrath.
Above them, Vermithor's wings boomed once, twice, before he descended with measured dominance.
Where Vhagar struck hard, and Caraxes darted like a duelist, Vermithor crushed. He landed atop the largest warship like a titan from the old tales, claws digging into the deck. His rider,— the Old King,— raised his head, and flame rolled from the Bronze Fury's mouth like molten death.
Baelon watched it all unfold from Vhagar's back, heart pounding not with fear,— but with remembrance.
The weight of his son's small hand in his, the trembling voice that had said "I promise."
Come back to me, that voice had said without saying.
And he would, he had to.
"Dracarys." Baelon commanded for the first time in a great while, voice low, and the skies above Cape Wrath answered in fire.
The Dornishmen, valiant as they were, had brought too little steel and far too much pride.
Their scorpions were poorly positioned.
They hadn't expected a night attack,— hadn't thought the sky itself would betray them. And within moments, the fleet was broken. Ships half-turned to flee, others listed in the black water, burning.
And yet Baelon did not rejoice, war was never meant to be glorious.
He had seen too many charred bones in his lifetime. Too many widowed women in the halls of Dragonstone, casualties of wild dragons and bandits.
But he had promised Aenys, and Baelon Targaryen kept his word.
As Vhagar circled higher, surveying the shattered remains of the fleet, Baelon exhaled.
The worst was not yet behind them.
The Dornish had dared a fourth war,— and even in victory, such defiance came with consequences. But for this moment,— this single breath of sky and flame and silence,— Baelon allowed himself to believe that he would return home.
To his sons, to his wife, to King's Landing and the rest of his family.
To the promise he made then.
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|| Fire & Blood ||
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