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"Everyone thinks they are the Hero of their own Story."
The afternoon sun streamed through High Tide's tall windows, casting long shadows across the Myrish carpet where the carved table sat. Aenar studied the painted map of the known world stretched across its surface, his violet eyes drawn to the detailed rendering of Tyrosh.
Corlys Velaryon stood at the head of the table, his silver-gold hair bound back in a warrior's braid. His sea-green clothes, though fine, showed signs of recent wear – he'd clearly come straight from inspecting the fleet. To his right, Vaemond Velaryon's face was drawn tight with worry, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the table's edge.
Some griefs cut deeper than others, Aenar thought, watching Vaemond. In his past life as Jon Snow, he'd known the anguish of waiting for news that might never come.
Rhaenyra took her place beside him. She was wearing a dark and red dress, and she smiled gently at him, looking pleased with herself. Aenar knew how much the fight meant to her. Yes, she might have been wounded, but many soldiers had grown to respect the Princess because she put her life in danger to fight, and soldiers always valued courage and bravery. Across the table, Laena caught his eye briefly. Aenar could not wait for the day when their relationship was public, and he could hold her hand every time he wanted. Lord Corlys still didn't know about their secret relationship.
"My lords," Corlys began, his voice cutting through the murmured conversations. "While we've driven the pirates from the Stepstones, our victory remains incomplete." His hand swept across the map to rest on Tyrosh. "This is where our true enemy lies."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Lord Darke, his swordfish doublet straining slightly at the waist, was the first to break it. "Attack a Free City? I don't think is wise to start a war with Essos—"
"Would be considerable," Daemon interrupted, leaning forward with a look that reminded Aenar so much of Caraxes. "But so would continued raids on our shipping."
Vaemond's fist struck the table. "My son's ships should have returned two moons ago. How many more must we lose before we strike at the source?"
Aenar traced the painted waves between Tyrosh and the Stepstones. Memories of another war, another time of hard choices, surfaced in his mind. Sometimes the hardest battles are the ones we choose to fight, not the ones forced upon us.
"We've been fighting shadows," he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that had once led armies against the dead. "Killing pirates, burning ships – but the power behind them sits safe behind Tyrosh's walls, counting their gold while others bleed."
Lord Bar Emmon, young and eager to prove himself, shifted uncomfortably. "But the other Free Cities—"
"Will learn." Aenar moved several pieces on the map, creating a clear path from Tyrosh to Westeros. "Thus far, they've risked nothing but coins and criminals. Let them see one of their own fall, and they'll understand the true cost of threatening Westeros."
"Myr and Lys will never stand for it," another lord protested.
"They'll have no choice." Aenar's hand rested on Tyrosh's position. "We're not just taking a city – we're sending a message written in fire and blood." The words felt strange on his tongue, so different from the cold honor of his past life, yet somehow right. "Every port from Braavos to Volantis will know: attack our shores, and your walls will melt, your ships will burn, and your cities will fall."
Corlys smiled, that fierce expression that had earned him his reputation as the Sea Snake. "Well said, Prince Aenar. And I believe I can make this proposal even more attractive to our lords here."
Here it comes, Aenar thought, already suspecting what the Sea Snake would suggest. Politics and power, the game never truly changed, no matter which life he lived.
Aenar moved several carved pieces across the map, positioning them around Tyrosh's painted walls.
"Tyrosh's strength lies in its location," he explained, gesturing to the island's natural barriers. "Three layers of walls, each higher than the last, with the Archon's fortress at its peak. Their naval defense relies on a chain that can be raised to block the harbor." The memory of another harbor defense from another life flickered through his mind. At least there's no wildfire this time – yet.
Corlys leaned forward, his experienced sailor's eyes scanning the approaches. "The western harbor is shallower, less defended."
"Because they rely on the reefs," Daemon added, a predatory smile playing across his face. "Any captain who doesn't know the safe channels will lose their ship."
"Precisely why we start there." Aenar placed black pieces representing their fleet in a wide arc. "Lord Corlys, your ships will approach from the east at dawn, drawing their main fleet. Meanwhile, a smaller force will use the channels you've mapped through the western reefs."
"Bold," Vaemond muttered, though his eyes showed approval. "But their walls—"
"Will matter little against dragons." Aenar added with a smile. "Cannibal, Vhagar, and Caraxes will attack from three directions. The wildfire breath will force their ships to scatter, breaking their defensive line."
Rhaenyra straightened in her chair, her eyes bright with anticipated battle. "Their scorpions?"
"Minimal threat if we strike at dawn." Aenar caught Laena's gaze across the table. "The rising sun will blind their gunners, and the smoke from the first attacks will do the rest."
"The city itself will be harder," Lord Celtigar observed, dabbing his brow with a silk handkerchief. "Urban warfare is costly."
"Which is why we won't fight street by street." Aenar moved several pieces representing ground forces. "While the naval battle rages, select teams will infiltrate through the western sewers. My soldiers have mapped them extensively." He didn't mention how many had died obtaining that information.
Daemon tapped the map where the Archon's fortress stood. "The Tyroshi hire the best sellswords in Essos. They won't break easily."
"They fight for gold," Aenar countered, remembering lessons learned beyond the Wall. "We fight for blood. Once the outer walls fall and they see three dragons overhead, their courage will follow their coin."
"When will we strike them," Lord Bar Emmon asked, young face eager.
"Two weeks," Corlys answered before Aenar could. "The moon will be dark, and our forces are nearly assembled."
Laena rose from her seat, her dark dress rustling as she moved to the map's edge. "There's another advantage we haven't discussed." Her voice carried the same steel as her father's. "Tyrosh controls the dye trade across two continents. Taking the city means taking their trade routes, their connections." She traced a line from Tyrosh to various ports. "We wouldn't just gain a fortress – we'd gain an empire of commerce."
Aenar watched her, admiring how she'd matured from the girl he'd first met into this shrewd woman. Their secret relationship had only deepened his respect for her mind.
"The lady speaks truth," Lord Celtigar said, suddenly more interested. "Their dye markets alone would fund a dozen fleets."
"And their location," another lord added, "controlling the shipping lanes..."
Corlys raised a hand for silence. "Which is precisely why we must consider its governance carefully." He met Aenar's eyes. "The city will need a strong ruler after its conquest. Someone with the blood of Old Valyria, who understands both warfare and trade."
The room grew still. Aenar felt the weight of every gaze, remembering another time he'd been offered leadership he hadn't sought.
"My lords," Corlys continued, his voice carrying to every corner, "upon our victory, I propose we name Prince Aenar Targaryen as King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh."
The declaration hung in the air like smoke after dragonfire. Aenar kept his face carefully neutral, though his mind raced with implications. Another crown, another burden – but perhaps this time I can build something lasting.
"A king needs a strong council," Daemon said into the silence, his tone making it clear he expected a prominent role.
"And a reliable fleet,"
Rhaenyra's face showed carefully controlled surprise, while Laena's expression remained unreadable. But Aenar caught the slight tremor in her hand as she gripped the edge of the map table.
"We're getting ahead of ourselves," Aenar said firmly. "First, we take the city. Then we can discuss crowns." He turned back to the map, moving pieces to demonstrate the next phase of the assault. But he could feel the room's energy had shifted – they were no longer planning a mere military campaign, but the birth of a new kingdom.
At least this time, he thought grimly, the crown comes with dragons.
"What of Dorne?" Laena's voice cut through the strategic discussion like Valyrian steel. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the back of her chair. "While we plan our assault on Tyrosh, they sit secure in their towers, celebrating my brother's murder."
The rage in her voice stirred something in Aenar's blood – memories of another life, of Oberyn Martell and a Princess's screams. He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the present.
Corlys moved to stand beside his daughter, his weathered hand resting on her shoulder. "Once Tyrosh falls, we control who sails the Narrow Sea." His voice carried the cold certainty of a death sentence. "Myr and Lys will face a simple choice – abandon their alliance with Dorne, or burn."
"Leaving Dorne isolated," Aenar added with a predatory smile. "Vulnerable."
"Then we strike," Laena said, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. "And House Martell burns."
Lord Crab cleared his throat. "Your pardon, my lords, but we must think beyond immediate vengeance." He glanced nervously at Laena before continuing. "The Dornish houses are fiercely loyal to House Martell. Destroying them completely could spark generations of rebellion."
"What would you suggest?" Aenar asked quietly, though he already knew. He'd played this game before, in another life.
"For long-term stability—" the lord began.
"You want a marriage." Aenar's voice was flat. "Someone from House Targaryen or Velaryon to wed a surviving Martell. To bind the wounds with blood."
The lord nodded, either brave or foolish enough to meet Aenar's gaze. "It's worked before. Even the Conqueror eventually made peace with Dorne."
"Peace?" Corlys's laugh was as bitter as winter. "You suggest I give my daughter to the murderers of her brother? I'll burn in the Seven Hells first."
Laena's face had gone pale with fury. "I would sooner wed a corpse."
Aenar moved to the window, looking south toward Dorne. The memories of both lives warred within him – the honor of Jon Snow against the fire of his Targaryen blood. But some crimes demanded fire and blood.
"House Martell will be destroyed," he said, his voice carrying that quiet certainty that had commanded armies. "Not just as vengeance, but as an example." He turned back to the assembled lords. "You worry about Dornish loyalty? Good. Let them remember what happens when you kill a dragon. Let them tell their children's children about the fate of House Martell."
"The smallfolk—" someone began.
"Will bend the knee or..." The words tasted like ash in his mouth, so different from the man he'd once been. But that man had died in the snow, and dragons didn't show mercy to their enemies.
Daemon looked at his son; he looked troubled. Several lords shifted uncomfortably, but none dared speak against three Dragonriders united in purpose.
"Then it's settled," Corlys declared. "First Tyrosh, then Dorne." He looked at his daughter, his expression softening slightly. "Your brother will be avenged, sweet girl. House Martell will learn that the fury of dragons and seahorses combined knows no bounds."
Laena nodded, her composure returning though her eyes still burned. Aenar caught her gaze briefly, seeing in it the same cold rage that filled his own heart. They would have their vengeance, and all of Dorne would remember why the words of House Targaryen were Fire and Blood.
Corlys
The sun's dying light painted High Tide's stone walls in shades of amber and gold. Corlys stood at the chamber window, watching his fleet's shadows stretch across the harbor waters. He'd removed his formal coat, though he still wore the silver seahorse pendant that marked him as Lord of the Tides.
"King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh," Rhaenys said from her seat by the hearth, her voice carrying that familiar edge of skepticism. She was still in her riding clothes, her silver-streaked dark hair loose around her shoulders. "You've grown fond of the boy."
Corlys turned, studying his wife's face in the firelight. Even after all these years, she could still catch him off guard with her directness. "He's a quick study. Natural instinct for the sea, once he got his sea legs." His lips curved in a slight smile. "You should have seen him last week, handling the wheel in that storm—"
"Oh, spare me the sailing stories." Rhaenys's violet eyes flashed. "A month of teaching him to sail and suddenly you're ready to crown him?"
"He's more than earned it." Corlys moved to pour them both wine. "The strategy for taking Tyrosh—"
"Was clever, yes." Rhaenys accepted the cup but didn't drink. "Too clever, perhaps. Have you considered that might be cause for concern rather than celebration?"
Corlys settled into the chair opposite her, loosening his collar. "You're determined to distrust him."
"And you're determined to ignore what's right in front of you." She leaned forward, firelight catching the rubies in her dress. "He's not doing this for Laenor."
"He's fighting alongside us—"
"Against Dorne." Rhaenys's laugh was sharp. "Tell me, husband, did you never wonder why Daemon's boy carried such hatred for House Martell? Even before our son's death?"
Corlys's hand stilled on his wine cup. "What do you mean?"
"I've watched him. The way he speaks of Dorne, of the Martells specifically." Her fingers drummed against the armrest. "That hatred didn't start with Laenor. It was there before, simmering under the surface."
"Perhaps Daemon—"
"Daemon wasn't one to fill his head about Dorne, all he cares about is placing his son on the Throne. Hating Dorne would not help him on that." Rhaenys's voice was poison. "No, this comes from somewhere else." She rose, pacing to the window Corlys had abandoned. "Laenor and Aenar were never close, yet suddenly, he's leading a war for vengeance in our son's name?"
Corlys frowned, memories of recent weeks floating to the surface. The boy's knowledge of Dornish weaknesses, his detailed plans for their downfall... "Why would he hate Dorne before Laenor's death?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Rhaenys turned back to him, her face half in shadow. "There's something strange about him, Corlys. Something..." She shook her head. "I can't put my finger on it, but it's there."
"You're seeing shadows where there are none."
"Am I? Then explain his obsession with their destruction. The way he speaks of House Martell as if they'd personally wounded him, long before they touched our family."
Corlys stood, moving to join her at the window. Below, torches were being lit along the harbor walls. "Even if you're right, what does it matter? His hatred serves our purpose. The Martells will fall, Dorne will burn, and our son will be avenged."
"And that's enough for you?" Rhaenys turned to face him, close enough that he could see the grief in her eyes. "To be someone else's tool for revenge?"
"We're using each other, my love." He touched her cheek gently. "That's how the game is played."
She leaned into his touch for a moment before pulling away. "And is that why you've been spending so much time with him? Teaching him to sail, showing him our trade routes?" Her eyes narrowed. "Or are you perhaps thinking of a more permanent alliance?"
"What do you mean?"
"Don't play coy, Corlys. I've seen how Laena looks at him." A hint of protective fire entered her voice. "And don't tell me you haven't noticed."
Corlys was silent for a long moment, considering his words carefully. "I would have never agreed to it. I wanted our daughter to marry Viserys, but the fool decided to spit on my face and marry the Hightower girl. Now, we need to find a worthy husband for our daughter. Our daughter could do worse than a king."
"A king of rocks and pirates," Rhaenys scoffed. "If he lives long enough to wear the crown."
"He will." Corlys's voice held absolute certainty. "I've watched him, too, Rhaenys. The way he commands, the way he thinks..." He paused. "Sometimes he reminds me of—"
"If you say Daemon, I swear by all the gods—"
"No." Corlys shook his head. "Someone older. Wiser." He turned back to the window, watching the first stars appear over the darkening water. "Sometimes when he speaks, I could swear I'm listening to someone who's commanded armies before, fought wars before."
"He's seven-and-ten."
"And yet." Corlys shrugged. "Call it a sailor's instinct. There's more to that boy than we know."
Rhaenys was quiet for a long moment, studying her husband's profile in the dying light. "You really believe in him."
"I believe he'll help us destroy our enemies." Corlys turned to meet her gaze. "Isn't that enough?"
"For now." She moved to the hearth, adding another log to the fire. "But remember, my love – dragons aren't meant to be tamed. Not even by the Sea Snake."
Corlys watched her, remembering the fierce young girl who'd first caught his heart with her dragon's spirit. "I'm not trying to tame him. Just... point him in the right direction."
"And when he's done burning our enemies?" Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "What then?"
"Then we'll have a strong ally on the Stepstones, and perhaps..." He smiled slightly. "A goodson who understands the value of sea power."
Rhaenys gave him a look, a look of anger; he didn't understand why she would be angry with him.
"Just promise me one thing." She finally said, looking like she wanted to say so much more, but something stopped her.
"Anything."
"Keep watching him. Closely." Her face grew serious. "There's something in his eyes- he is dangerous."
Corlys nodded, wrapping an arm around her waist as they both gazed out at the darkened harbor. "We'll watch, and we'll wait. And in the meantime..." He smiled grimly. "We'll let him burn our enemies to ash."
Daemon
The door to Kinvara's chambers yielded silently to Daemon's push. Inside, the air was heavy with exotic incense, and dozens of red candles warmed the chamber; it felt like walking into a furnace. The Red Priestess stood by her window, her silhouette outlined in moonlight. The silk of her red robes clung to curves that had tempted lesser men to madness.
"Prince Daemon," she purred, turning to face him. Ruby droplets glinted at her throat, catching the candlelight like drops of fresh blood. "Have you come to look into the flames?" A knowing smile played across her full lips. "Or perhaps something else catches your interest tonight?"
Daemon let his eyes drift over her form, appreciating the view even as he dismissed it. In his younger days, he might have taken her up on the offer. But something more urgent drove him here tonight.
"The flames," he said, keeping his voice controlled. "I need to see again."
Disappointment flickered across her face, quickly masked. "R'hllor shows what he wills," she said, moving closer. Her perfume carried hints of smoke and spice. "The flames can't give you the answers to all of your questions, not even those of the Prince of the City."
"Then let's hope your god is in a generous mood." Daemon's smile held no warmth.
Kinvara studied him for a moment, then gestured to the hearth where flames leaped and danced. "As you wish, my prince."
Daemon approached the fire, feeling its heat on his face. Behind him, Kinvara's soft footsteps whispered across the floor as she drew near enough that he could feel her presence at his shoulder.
"Look deep," she whispered. "Let the flames fill your vision. Let them show you what you need to see."
At first, there was nothing but fire, beautiful and meaningless. Then the flames seemed to part like a curtain, and Daemon's breath caught in his throat.
He saw Aenar – but not Aenar. The face was his son's, yet older. The eyes were different – dark instead of violet. This shadow-Aenar cradled a body in his arms, a girl with dark hair and a pale throat torn open. Blood stained the snow beneath them both.
No sound reached Daemon's ears, but he saw the man's lips move, forming a name he'd never heard: "Arya."
The vision dissolved into ordinary flame, leaving Daemon's heart racing. He stepped back, almost colliding with Kinvara.
"What did you see?" Her voice was.
Daemon turned away from the fire, his mind struggling to make sense of what he'd witnessed. "I saw... something impossible." He paced to the window, needing distance from both the priestess and her flames. "A man with my son's face, but not my son."
"The Lord of Light shows us many truths." Kinvara followed. "Some clearer than others."
"Don't give me riddles, woman." The edge in his voice would have sent most people scurrying for safety. Kinvara merely smiled.
"What frightens you about what you saw?"
Daemon's hand went instinctively to Dark Sister's hilt. "I am not afraid."
"No?" She reached out, almost touching his face but stopping just short. "Even the fiercest dragon can fear for its hatchlings."
The truth in her words struck deeper than he cared to admit. Daemon turned back to the window, looking out at the night-dark waters of the Narrow Sea. "He's my son. Mine and Lyanna's." His voice dropped lower. "But lately..."
"Yes?"
"His mother's fire ran cold as ice – Stark blood through and through." Daemon's fingers drummed against the windowsill. "But Aenar... the North in him seems to be fading. Every day he grows more..." More like me, he didn't say.
"Perhaps what you saw was not what is," Kinvara suggested, "but what might have been. Or what might yet be."
Daemon pushed away from the window. He'd had enough of cryptic promises and dancing flames. "Keep your mysteries, priestess. I have wars to plan."
"Running from truth doesn't make it less true," she called after him as he reached the door.
Daemon paused, hand on the latch. "The truth is, he's my son. Whatever else he might or might not be, that much I know."
"Do you?" Her voice carried that damnable knowing tone again. "Then why do you keep coming back to look in the flames?"
He left without answering, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him. The corridor's cooler air helped clear his head, but couldn't erase what he'd seen. That face – his son's face, yet not – and that name...
Arya.
Who was she? What did it mean? Why did his son had dark eyes?
Daemon strode through the darkness toward his own chambers, his footsteps echoing off stone walls. Behind him, the red glow from Kinvara's room seemed to mock his retreat.
He's my son, he told himself. He didn't know who that man in the flames was, but it mattered not. Aenar was his son, his and Lyanna's son.
Lyanna, the name still brought memories. He could still remember the first time he met her. He had been dismissive and annoying, and sometimes, he wondered how Lyanna had not slapped him the first time they met.
Lyanna, I promised you our son would be happy; I will keep my word. Our son will be happy. I don't know what I saw, but it does not change anything. I will not let our son make the same mistakes I made. He should be better than me—better than us.
The night air carried the salt of the sea as Daemon made his way to the Dragon Field, his mind still churning with the vision from Kinvara's flames. Moonlight silvered the grass, and in the distance, Cannibal's massive form loomed like a mountain of black scales. The dragon paid him no mind, focused on whatever prey had caught his attention in the darkness.
But it was the sight near Caraxes that stopped Daemon in his tracks. A flash of white fur – Ghost. The direwolf sat beside the Blood Wyrm as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and stranger still, Caraxes seemed completely at ease with the wolf's presence.
"What in seven hells?" Daemon muttered, approaching carefully. Caraxes lifted his head in greeting but made no move to chase the wolf away. In fact, the dragon's usual aggressive posture was notably absent, replaced by an almost protective demeanor toward the direwolf.
Ghost turned to face him, those unsettling red eyes reflecting the moonlight. There was something in that gaze that made Daemon's earlier unease return – a profound sadness that seemed too human for a beast.
"Why aren't you with your master?" Daemon found himself asking, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice. He'd never been particularly close to the direwolf – that had always been Aenar's domain. Yet now...
He reached out slowly, letting Ghost catch his scent. The wolf allowed the touch, leaning slightly into Daemon's hand as he stroked the thick white fur. It was then that Daemon realized something that should have been obvious before: he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Ghost with Aenar.
"When did you two grow apart?" he wondered aloud. Caraxes rumbled softly, as if in response. The dragon's eyes, usually filled with battle-fury, held an almost melancholic gleam.
Ghost made a low, mournful sound that seemed to carry all the sadness of the North in it. The sound struck something in Daemon's chest, reminding him painfully of Lyanna. She'd had that same connection with the creatures of the North, that same ability to speak without words.
"You miss him," Daemon said, continuing to stroke Ghost's fur. "The boy he was." The words came unbidden, surprising him with their truth. Ghost's eyes met his, and for a moment, Daemon felt as if the wolf was trying to tell him something crucial.
The vision from the flames flickered through his mind – that other face wearing his son's features, those dark eyes that had seen too much. Ghost whined again, and suddenly Daemon wondered if the wolf saw it too, the changes in Aenar that everyone else seemed to miss.
"He's inside," Daemon found himself offering. "Would you like to see him?" He wasn't sure why he was speaking to the direwolf as if it could understand complex speech, but something in those red eyes made it feel right. "Though I suspect you already know where he is. You always know, don't you?"
Ghost's ears twitched, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he settled more firmly beside Caraxes, as if he'd found some comfort there that he couldn't find elsewhere. The dragon curved his long neck, creating a protective barrier around the wolf.
"You're choosing dragons over wolves now?" Daemon asked, a strange ache in his chest. "Like him?"
Daemon shook his head, trying to clear it of such fanciful thoughts. "I'm starting to sound like that red witch," he muttered. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that Ghost's presence here, with Caraxes instead of Aenar, meant something important.
The direwolf rose suddenly, padding a few steps toward Daemon before stopping. Those red eyes fixed on him again, and Daemon had the distinct impression he was being judged. Whatever Ghost saw in him must have satisfied something because the wolf gave a soft huff before walking past him and silently running towards the castle.
Aenar
Salt-laden wind whipped across Driftmark's cliffs as Aenar stood at the edge, watching waves crash against the rocks below. The sea's violence matched the storm in his heart. He closed his eyes, and immediately her face appeared – as it always did in his quiet moments.
Rhaella. His daughter. So small she'd fit in the palm of his hand, silver curls, and eyes that never opened.
"Soon," he whispered to the wind, his fingers brushing the Valyrian steel dagger at his hip. "I'll make them pay for what they did to you. Then you can rest." His jaw clenched. "Then we all can rest."
The memory shifted, and suddenly, he was remembering Daenerys's screams echoing through the Red Keep. Her voice was hoarse, demanding to know where their daughter was. The way her face had crumbled when he told her, how she'd beaten her fists against his chest until exhaustion took her.
Oberyn took everything from him, and now he would destroy House Martell to the ground. Kill every single one of them.
A soft nudge at his shoulder broke through the dark thoughts. Pure instinct took over. His hand flew to his dagger as he spun, only to freeze at the sight of familiar red eyes gazing back at him.
"...Ghost?" The name felt strange on his tongue as if he'd forgotten how to speak it. Only then did the realization hit him – when was the last time he'd seen his direwolf? Days? Weeks? The time seemed to blur together, lost in plans of conquest and revenge.
The white direwolf stood before him, massive as ever, his fur gleaming like fresh snow in the dying light. But there was something different in those red eyes – a sadness, a wariness that hadn't been there before.
"Where have you been, old friend?" Aenar reached out, and Ghost hesitated for just a moment before stepping forward. That brief hesitation felt like a knife to the gut. They had never hesitated with each other before, not in any life.
Ghost made a low, mournful sound before pressing his muzzle against Aenar's chest. Then, as if deciding something, the direwolf stretched up and licked his face – just as he had done countless times beyond the Wall, in that other life that sometimes felt more dream than memory.
Aenar buried his fingers in Ghost's thick fur, suddenly aware of an ache he hadn't known he was carrying. "I've missed you," he admitted softly. "Though I didn't realize it until now."
Ghost's eyes met his, and Aenar saw something in them that made him pause – a sadness, yes, but also something like resignation. As if his old friend could see the changes in him better than he could himself.
"You've been with Caraxes," Aenar said, catching the dragon's scent in Ghost's fur. "Strange company for a direwolf." He tried to make it sound light, but there was an accusation hidden in the words. Why choose a dragon over me?
Ghost's only response was to press his head against Aenar's chest, just above his heart. The gesture was so familiar it hurt – a reminder of countless nights beyond the Wall, when Ghost's presence had been the only thing keeping madness at bay.
"Things will be different soon," Aenar found himself promising, though he wasn't sure what he meant. "Once I've dealt with the Martells—"
Ghost pulled back slightly, a low whine escaping him. There was something almost reproachful in his gaze.
"They have to pay," Aenar insisted, the familiar anger rising again. "For Rhaella, for Daenerys, for Laenor, for all of it."
The direwolf's ears flattened, and he took a step back. Aenar felt the distance between them like a physical wound.
"Ghost..."
But the direwolf only watched him with those knowing red eyes, as if seeing past the prince he'd become to the man he used to be. The man who'd once put duty before vengeance, honor before hatred.
A gust of wind caught Aenar's cloak, making it snap like a war banner. Ghost's fur ruffled in the breeze, and for a moment, he looked almost ethereal – a spirit of the North, come to remind him of everything he was letting slip away.
"I can't go back," Aenar said softly. "That man died in the snow. The man who sought out Ned Stark's honor is dead."
Ghost made no sound, but his gaze seemed to say, Then who are you now?
Aenar had no answer. He reached for Ghost again, but the direwolf sidestepped his hand. There was no aggression in the movement, only a gentle refusal that somehow hurt worse than any rejection.
"Will you stay?" Aenar asked, hating the note of pleading that crept into his voice.
Ghost looked at him for a long moment, then turned and padded silently away, his white fur fading into the gathering dusk like morning mist. He paused once, looking back with those ancient red eyes, before disappearing completely.
Alone again, Aenar turned back to the sea. His hand found his dagger's hilt, its familiar grip offering cold comfort. The waves below continued their endless assault on the rocks, and somewhere in their crash and fury, he thought he heard his daughter's cry.
"Soon," he promised again, but this time, the word tasted like ash in his mouth.
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