Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 5

Two months had passed since they arrived at Dragonstone.

The sea winds were strong, the skies gray and constant, and the halls of the ancient fortress echoed with unfamiliar quiet. Though Aenyra had admired the beauty of Dragonstone's wild cliffs and misty terrain when they arrived, it now felt like a cage. Cold. Distant.

Just shy of two weeks,  a raven came bearing the message of Ser Harwin Strong's death, everything shifted.

Aenyra had been sitting at her window, penning her usual letter to Aemond—just as she had every morning since their parting. They had written each other nearly every day, sharing how they spent their time, which books they were reading, and how much they missed each other.

But when her mothers cries were heard from her chambers down to the corridors she new something was wrong. As she stepped into her mothers chambers, seeing Elinda try and console a crying Rhaenyra along with a letter that had arrived lying on the floor. She picked it and and read the words inked in dark, —Ser Harwin Strong has perished in a fire at Harrenhal—not able  to read the rest, she crumpled and onto the floor.

She hasn't been herself.

And she hadn't written to Aemond since.

Unlike her mother or brothers, Aenyra did not grieve openly. She locked herself away in her chambers, drew the curtains, and let her sorrow swallow her whole. For two days, she did not speak. She barely ate. She cried until her throat ached and her body trembled from exhaustion.

Harwin Strong had not been her true father, not by blood—but he had loved her like one helped raise her in private like one. Protected her like one. He had tucked her into bed when Rhaenyra was too exhausted from court. He had lifted her into the saddle when she was too small to mount her pony. He had been her constant.

She had loved him.

And now he was gone.

But on the morning of the third day, something in her shifted. She sat up in bed, her eyes rimmed red, her hair tangled from restless sleep, and she remembered something.

His final words.

He had asked her mother to let Aenyra be trained—not just courtly lessons or refined sparring, but real combat. Real strength. "Let her become what the realm will never expect," he'd said.

With renewed purpose burning in her chest, Aenyra rose from bed, washed her face, dressed in her training leathers, and marched out to the sandy beach where Laenor was practicing with a knight.

The first day, her swings were clumsy. Her footing was unsure. Her fury made her reckless.

But she returned the next morning. And the morning after that. And every morning since.

⸻

"Decent," Laenor called out as he caught her blade with ease and twisted it from her grip, sending it clattering to the sand, "but not good enough. Don't hold back, Aenyra! You're stronger than this—fight like it!"

Panting, she picked up the sword, her arms trembling from the weight. She tried again, only for Laenor to block her swing effortlessly.

Frustrated, she threw the blade to the ground with a grunt. "It's too heavy! Every time I lift it, I lose my balance. But a knife's too small. I need something different."

Laenor paused, watching her carefully. He wasn't blind to what this was. The anger in her arms wasn't just from the sword. It was grief. It was everything unspoken, boiling just beneath her skin.

He stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on her head—her white hair damp with sweat, her cheeks flushed red with exertion.

"I know you're angry. I am too," he said softly. "We all feel his loss. Your mother. Your brothers. And you... you don't have to carry it all alone."