Fire and Blood

Chapter 142: The Prophecy ― Acceptance

Somewhere within the dream world...

"You know who I am, don't you, Aeonar?"

Aeonar kept his gaze firmly locked onto the apparition of the young Targaryen, who remained standing with his back turned towards him. This young man, with his flowing silver hair glinting in the dim light faintly blanketed by the snow clouds, seemed to embody the true potential of House Targaryen when wielded to its fullest. Though the specter did not turn to meet his eyes, a question hung in the air, demanding to be answered, a silent plea that resonated with the weight of unspoken truths. Although he did not initially recognize the young man, the moment he inquired about his identity, an inexplicable clarity began to unfold in Aeonar's mind when he asked about his identity. The Young Dragon recognized that voice even though the specter's physical form remained a mystery to him; it was familiar yet so foreign simultaneously. The timbre was calm, patient, almost soothing, and wise, yet there was an undercurrent of warmth and vulnerability beneath the surface. It was a voice that danced on the edges of his memory, a melody woven into the fabric of his past, yet just out of reach.

But it didn't take long for Aeonar to realize that this young man looked exactly like him in more ways than one. The contours of his face were strikingly familiar, almost an echo of his former self. His mannerisms-every subtle gesture and flick of the wrist-seemed to reflect Aeonar's movements. The way he stood, with an air of quiet confidence, and his shoulders relaxed when he spoke all combined to form a vivid picture. With each detail he observed, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, revealing a connection that was impossible to ignore.

No... It-It can't be. "Y-Yes... You're my son," Aeonar said in a voice barely above a whisper.

As Aeonar extended his hand, the ghostly figure dissipated into nothingness, like specs of dust swept away by a gentle breeze. The air around him felt charged as if the very fabric of reality had shifted in that brief moment. Yet, just as the last remnants of the apparition faded, he soon felt a hand placed on his shoulder. When Aeonar turned to look, he was met by the sight of his eldest son and heir to the throne, Jaehaerys. He looked slightly older, more firm and regal in appearance, but still very much intelligent. Yet, it was his eyes that captivated Aeonar the most-a depth that spoke of trials faced and lessons learned. Despite the maturity that cloaked him, he still radiated patience and wisdom that belied his youth, a reminder of the potential that lay within him. Aeonar was overwhelmed by a sense of confusion; in that fleeting vision, it seemed as though the prophecy regarding the Prince That Was Promised and the fate of House Targaryen did not pertain to him or the bastard pretender Aegon the Elder but instead pointed to Jaehaerys Targaryen himself.

Aeonar was engulfed by a wave of confusion; the visions that had haunted him for so long now seemed to shift and reshape before his very eyes. He had always believed that he was destined to reclaim House Targaryen's glory. Could it be that the whispers of fate that was once promised to him had been misinterpreted all along? As he looked into his son's eyes, Aeonar saw not just the reflection of his ambitions but a flicker of something greater-a destiny intertwined with the fate of humanity itself.

"It's all a story."

Aeonar's attention was immediately captured by the sound of another distinctly familiar, feminine voice reaching out to him. He pivoted once again, glancing over his shoulder, and there she was-the unmistakable silhouette of Helaena Targaryen. A wave of disbelief washed over him. How could this be possible? He had locked her away in the dark confines of the cells in the Red Keep. What was she doing here, manifesting before him in this surreal vision of a seemingly ominous future? The air around him crackled with otherworldly energy as if the very fabric of reality was bending to accommodate her presence. Helaena's hair flowed like liquid silver, cascading down her shoulders, and her eyes, usually dulled by despair, sparkled with an intensity that pierced through the fog of his confusion. She stepped closer, her voice a melodic whisper that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the dream.