When the dawn came, Aenora Targaryen was brought along with it. Her birth was the beginning of her story, but also the end. She was the princess of light and dreams, soon the queen of fire and destruction. She was a child of light—once the warmth of the sun embraced her, and then it transformed into the fury of fire. Her presence was both a blessing and a harbinger, illuminating the path to both glory and devastation.

How sad it is, the way the world is plagued with metaphorical beginnings and tireless endings.

When her blood stained the sand and the heavens wept, Aenora Targaryen left her children with a kingdom torn asunder, a family broken by grief and betrayal, a wounded dragon, and a lost Prince. The question fell upon them: would they lay down their swords, bend the knee to Aegon the Usurper and his crippled mother, or would they continue the fight for their mother's throne? The whispers of war grew louder each day, demanding an answer, and the embers of their house smoldered with the promise of either ruin or rebirth.

For three long years, the remnants of the family lingered on Dragonstone, their dragons perched as silent sentinels upon the mountains. The question of the future remained unanswered, leaving a shadow of grief hung over them. Isolated from the realm, they were equally estranged from one another. 

Waves crashed ceaselessly against the black shores, as if echoing the turmoil in their hearts. Aegon the Usurper, wary of the dragon power and ancestral fury, kept his armies at bay. Yet, the isolation became its own prison, a fortress of stone and sorrow. Seclusion was both their shield and their torment, for it kept the world at arm's length but did nothing to mend the heartache within.

They hid not only from the grasping hands of their enemies but from the grief that threatened to unravel them. Grief for their mother, for their shattered legacy, for what they had lost and what they feared they might never regain. And so, the children of the Queen hid themselves away, their fires dimmed but not gone. They waited for a sign, a spark, or a storm to wake them from their dens of mourning.

Daemon destroyed his family, but in the end, his greatest ruin was his own wife. He loved her, he was certain of that. In the quiet hours of the night, when only the wind whispered through the empty halls, he would curse the gods who had stolen her away, and curse himself all the more for driving her to her fate. Not a day passed when he did not long for her, for her laughter, her voice, her touch that had once made him feel everything. But the gods are cruel, and their justice sharper than steel. 

Daemon knew the truth, no penance could absolve him, no act of grief or repentance could reunite him with her. Not even if he took his sword to his heart or knelt before Daemian, allowing his son to drive a blade through his throat as he deserved. The gods would not allow him into the same heavens as Aenora, not after the betrayal that stained his soul. He was doomed to wander the living world, haunted by memories of her, by the echoes of a love he had cherished but failed to protect. In his heart, he carried her name like a wound that would never heal.

Peace had become a stranger to them all, a faint and mocking memory. They lived in torment, each carrying a burden too great for their young hearts to bear. Rhaemax roamed the shores and cliffs of Dragonstone, searching endlessly for his twin brother. Was he alive, or had death claimed him too? The not-knowing was a blade in his heart that twisted with every passing day. 

Bluefyre had returned battered and torn, making it that much harder to believe the Prince could still be alive. He had not moved from the pit since his return, his wings were now folded in defeat. The dragon's silence mirrored the ache in Rhaemax's soul. 

Daemian bore his grief like a crown of thorns. Anger burned within him, a fire that threatened to consume all in its path. He saw guilt in every face, treachery in every hand, and swore the realm would bleed for his mother's death. To him, no one was innocent, not the lords who sat in their gilded halls nor the peasants who toiled in the fields. His vengeance was a storm waiting to break. 

Aeva's fury burned no less fiercely, but she locked it away behind the doors of her chambers. She refused to speak, burying herself in silence as though it could shield her from the weight of loss. Her isolation was a wound that deepened each day, leaving her helpless. 

Aedith, barely five-and-ten, found her solace in Rhaenys. She took on the mantle of parent, though the burden was too heavy for her slender shoulders. They clung to each other in their grief.

Dragonstone had become a tombstone, its walls echoing with the silence of her family.

Lydia and Emely resided in a house not too far from the castle. The wind that swept across the cliffs carried the weight of history, and with it, the silence of their grief. Lydia never blamed Daemon for Aenora's death—she knew Aenora wouldn't place the blame on him, but the sight of him, was more than her heart could bear. He was a reminder of the only family she ever had. The very air between them felt heavy, suffocating, as though the past hung over them like a storm cloud. She avoided him and the children, unable to find the words, or the strength, to face him. 

Emely was distraught by the death of her Queen. It struck her like a dagger to the heart, leaving her hollow and uncertain. She had always been the quieter one, standing on the periphery, but Aenora's passing had torn through her with a force she hadn't anticipated. She had seen the bond between Lydia and the Queen—knew the depth of their shared love—and yet, even for her, the loss was all-consuming. The world felt colder, darker, as if the sun itself had faltered in its course.

Like Daemon, Rhaenyra turned the blade of guilt upon herself, carving deep into what remained of her soul. There was little left of the woman who Aenora loved so deeply. Now, all that lingered was a hollow shell, consumed by grief and self-loathing. The memory of her sister pressed upon her heart like a thousand stones, each one sinking deeper with every day.

Her sons, too, were lost, cast adrift in a world that no longer seemed to care for their lives. Rhaemax had taken it upon himself to be their protector, though the weight of the task was heavy on his shoulders. Jacaerys shadowed his older cousin, following his every step, not out of blind devotion but out of a desperate want to fix what he had not broken. He did as much as the Prince would allow, in his determination to find his brother—it was a silent plea to restore the broken pieces of their family.

After years of mourning, all hope began to fade. Rhaemax, despite it being his birthright, was not ready to rule—nor did he wish to. He was a boy torn between the echoes of a lost legacy and the burden of a throne that only reminded him of all that had been lost. As they all began to accept the cruel reality, one by one, their wounds festered, untouched and unhealed. 

The silence between them became a breeding ground for darker things. Grief, once a sharp and obvious pain, had seeped into their souls like a disease, spreading through them, corrupting everything it touched. The weight of their collective sorrow was more than they could bear, and yet they bore it in silence, each one retreating further into themselves, afraid of the truth they might see if they dared speak aloud. 

Pain ignored by silence was no battle, no war fought with swords or fire. It was a slow, insidious enemy that allowed no victors, no champions.

After all hope had seemed to be lost the night grew brighter, the wind shifted, and with it, something stirred—a spark, faint but undeniable. For the first time in years, something flickered to life within the family, though none could yet name it. They were summoned to the great hall, and though no one truly wished to gather, the call was unspoken but understood. One by one, they trickled in—Lydia and Emely, Rhaenyra and her sons, Daemon, Rhaemax, Daemian, Aeva, Rhaenys, and Aedith—each entering with their own sorrow.  

The air in the hall was filled with despair, and hate, and a sadness that could not be shaken. There was no warmth here, no comfort to be found in each other's presence. They were strangers to one another now, united only by the blood that ran through their veins, but even that seemed to have lost its meaning.

Ser Berys, the Queen's sworn guard, stood at attention, his face a mask of solemnity. He had seen enough loss, enough uncertainty, to understand the weight of this moment. But even he, for all his years of service, could not hide the sorrow in his eyes as he greeted the family. There was no flourish, no words of comfort. Only a silent acknowledgment of what had passed and what could never be undone.

But then, with a voice that rang clear in the heavy air, he spoke a name—a name they had all silently agreed to never utter again.

"Prince Jaelyx Targaryen," he announced, stepping aside to reveal a figure they had all but forgotten, or perhaps wished to.

The room froze. A wave of shock swept through them like a cold gust, making jaws drop and eyes widen in disbelief. There, standing before them in the flickering candlelight, was Aenora's second-born son—the boy who had been thought to have been lost to them forever, the prince they had thought vanished into the books of history. His presence in that hall was an affront to the quiet peace they had settled into, a jarring reminder of what had been, and what they had all tried to leave behind.

The weight of the moment was almost too much to bear, and yet, as they stood there, blinking in the half-light, something stirred in their hearts. Hope—fragile, fleeting, and yet undeniably present—began to bloom once more, though none dared speak it aloud.

To say he was different would be an understatement, no, a lie. He no longer resembled the boy they had once known—young and full of life. Instead, he stood before them as something else entirely: a stranger, a faint memory of the boy he had once been. His face was cold, the skin drawn tight over the sharp bones of his jaw, marred with the scars. He had grown stronger, leaner, the softness of youth replaced by the reality of the world. The innocence that had once gleamed in his eyes had vanished, and yet, in the depths of his eyes, there remained something undeniably familiar. His mother's eyes.

He was a ghost of himself and a ghost of Aenora. She had birthed him, had loved him, and yet, now, he was a specter of the woman. Her legacy, twisted and broken, lived on in the boy before them, but it was a legacy that seemed only to darken with each passing moment.

And for a fleeting moment, the room held its breath, caught between the return of something long thought dead and the painful truth that perhaps, not all things should return from the grave.

As Jaelyx approached his family, the air in the hall thickened with a mix of disbelief and tension. One by one, he went to them, his steps slow, measured—each one carrying the weight of the years that had passed. First, he found his sisters. Without hesitation, he wrapped them in an embrace, pulling them close, it had been far too long. He had missed them most of all, the bond they shared as children, before the world had torn it all asunder.

Then, his brothers. They stood taller now, hardened by time, but for just a fleeting moment, their guards faltered. In that brief, fragile instant, they allowed themselves the mercy of touch, the brief comfort of a reunion. It was a rare thing in this new world they had built, to let down the walls they had spent years building, and yet with Jaelyx before them, they did so, if only for a breath. But it was not enough.

And finally, Jaelyx turned to his father. Daemon did not expect it, nor could he have prepared himself. His son, the boy who had always been Aenora's favored—this son now approached him with an unfamiliar solemnity. He thought that'd be his end. He would not have blamed Jaelyx if the boy had struck him down right there, right then. He would not have stopped him, either. But instead, Jaelyx reached out and embraced him. The touch was warm, firm, and though Daemon was caught off guard, the shock of it did not feel unwelcome. It was an offering, a bridge being slowly rebuilt between them.

As his son pulled away, the warmth lingered only for a moment before the walls of silence rose again. Jaelyx's hand moved to his belt, and from it, he drew a folded letter, offering it to Daemon. He wished, in that instant, that his father could understand him the way his mother had, to read his thoughts and feelings with a glance, to know what words could never escape his lips. But Daemon was not his mother, and Jaelyx knew too well that he would never be able to understand him that much. He sighed inwardly, and then, he finally spoke.

"This war is not finished."

The words hung heavy in the air, and though Jaelyx had spoken them as simply as if he were stating the weather, they carried with them the weight of an empire, the promise of blood. Daemon looked down at the letter, his eyes flickering with something—regret, maybe, or the grim acceptance of what was to come. For even in the shock of his son's return, he knew one truth with a certainty that burned in his bones: this war, the endless cycle of vengeance and bloodshed, was far from over. And the past, like a relentless tide, would continue to wash over them all, whether they were ready for it or not.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

AUTHORS NOTE

Um, Merry Christmas? Call me Santa Claus
cause I'm back b!tches.
To Death Or To Glory coming 2025.