Fire and Blood

Chapter 141: The Prophecy ― Genuine Desire

Somewhere within the dream world...

Aeonar spun around at the sound of his name echoing through the air, only to find a familiar face he hadn't seen in over thirty-two years. Even if this were merely a specter of his past that felt both distant and achingly close simultaneously, he found himself unable to look away. Before him stood the hauntingly familiar figure of his late paternal grandfather, Prince Baelon Targaryen. His face was tinged with profound sorrow as if he bore the weight of unspoken words; his long, silken Valyrian hair cascaded just past his shoulders, framing a face that, despite the gentle creases around his mouth, barely hinted at his age. Yet, he appeared timeless, as if he had stepped from the pages of history itself. With his hands hung limply at his sides, Baelon gazed intently at Aeonar, a connection bridging the chasm of time and longing. It was as if he were searching for something within his grandson.

"Grandfather...?" Aeonar breathed with disbelief and longing, his voice barely a whisper, the word escaping his lips like a prayer. The sound felt foreign yet familiar, a bridge to a time when he was a young child of six. His grandfather looked just the same as he remembered.

Baelon's gaze softened, and he nodded slowly, the sorrow in his eyes deepening. "Aeonar, my boy... You've grown up," he said. "Though I have long since departed from your life, the bonds of blood and spirit are not easily severed from those who watch on from the other side." As Baelon moved beyond the apparition of Daemon, who had dissolved into the air like a mirage slipping through the refined grains of sand, a more profound sense of melancholy washed over him. "But I can't look past this, grandson. The things you've said, what you've done..."

Aeonar's instincts surged into high alert the moment he caught sight of his grandfather brandishing a broadsword in his hand. With Blackfyre firmly in his grasp, Aeonar instinctively retreated a few paces with a practiced grace, quickly adopting the Knight's Dance fighting stance-a defensive posture that spoke of years of training and preparation of a warrior prepared for battle, half-expecting the Spring Prince himself to make a move. The situation was undeniably perplexing; Aeonar grappled with the surreal notion that in this enigmatic void, where shadows of the past intertwined with the present, the specters of those long departed could emerge to confront him like silent witnesses. It was a realm that defied logic, a place where time seemed to fold in on itself, allowing the living to face the shadows of their ancestors. He felt convinced that within this realm, any movement posed a serious threat. Aeonar and Baelon stood toe-to-toe for a while, neither making a move. For a tense interval, Aeonar and Baelon remained locked in a standoff, their eyes locked in a fierce contest of wills. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the distant echoes of memories that lingered in the air. Neither was willing to initiate an attack, each waiting for the other to make the first move, the weight of their shared blood and history hanging heavily between them. However, when Baelon slowly elevated the point of his sword and directed it toward his grandson, the gesture was both a challenge and a warning. Aeonar's heart raced, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he tightened his grip on Blackfyre, the familiar coolness of the hilt a comfort amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

However, Baelon willingly dropped his weapon without hesitation, letting it slip through his fingers. And for a split second, Aeonar's concentration broke. In that brief moment, his focus wavered, his eyes fixated on the shimmering blade as it vanished into nothingness, swallowed by the air like a whisper lost in the wind. The sudden absence of the weapon left a void in the atmosphere, a silence that seemed to stretch and thrum with unspoken tension. Unbeknownst to him, this distraction allowed Baelon to close the distance between them with surprising speed for a man of his years, his movements fluid and deliberate. With a swift motion, he reached for Blackfyre and closed his hand around the hilt before disarming Aeonar, slipping the Valyrian steel bastard sword from his grandson's fingers as if it had never belonged to him. Startled by the sudden turn of events, Aeonar quickly whirled around, ready to defend himself, but before he could regain his footing or formulate a plan, he found himself enveloped in a firm embrace from Baelon, the warmth of his grandfather's body grounding him.