Fire and Blood

Chapter 143: I Won't Leave You

The Riverlands - Near Harrenhal...

"*GASP!* *huff* *huff*" Aeonar suddenly inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping open instantly as if awakening from a deep slumber. The world around him came rushing back in fragments, a kaleidoscope of sensations that felt familiar yet so foreign. He had no clear idea of how long he had been out of it, but he could sense that time had moved on, evidenced by the rustling leaves stirred by the wind and the ominous clouds looming overhead, dark and heavy like a shroud. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and impending rain, a stark reminder of nature's relentless march. The air rushed into his lungs, invigorating yet overwhelming, tasted of moisture and decay, and he tried to stand up, pushing against the ground for support. The soil felt cold, muddy, and wet beneath his palms. However, as he tried to stand, he struck his head harder than anticipated against a low-hanging branch, a sudden jolt of pain radiating through his skull. The impact left him feeling dizzy and disoriented as if the very fabric of reality had shifted around him. "Ngh!" he groaned, the sound barely escaping his lips. A loud ringing filled his ears, drowning out the symphony of nature that surrounded him. His head throbbed with a heavy ache, his vision swam in and out of focus, the world around him a hazy blur of greens and browns, and every sound seemed wrapped in a thick blanket of muffled confusion. The rustling leaves transformed into a distant murmur, birds chirping became a faint echo, and even the gentle rustle of the wind felt like a whisper from another realm.

As Aeonar lay there, struggling to regain his bearings, fragments of memory began to flicker in his mind like the dying embers of a fire. Faces, places, and moments danced out of reach, teasing him with their familiarity. He could almost grasp them, but they slipped away like grains of sand through his fingers.

« If you wish for House Targaryen to stand against the cold, completely intact, you must first learn to let go... and accept the truth. »

« It's not too late, father, to be different... than him. »

Aeonar swore he was on the verge of losing it again. Everything he experienced in his unconsciousness felt incredibly real as if his mind had become more vivid. He saw visions and the ethereal forms of those he knew-people from his past, present, and even future. All of it was overwhelming. With a deep breath, he focused on the sensations around him. The cool earth beneath his palms, the scent of damp moss mingled with the air's crispness, and the distant rumble of thunder hinted at an approaching storm. Each detail anchored him, pulling him back from the precipice of confusion. He blinked rapidly, willing his vision to clear, but the blurriness and almost deafening ringing in his ears still hit.

All the Young Dragon could do was crawl.

With his fingers sinking into the damp earth, Aeonar painstakingly dragged himself toward the shoreline of the Gods Eye. Each movement felt laborious as if the very ground beneath him conspired to hold him back. His body felt very heavy, and his hands struggled to find purchase on the slick surface with mud and moisture. Yet, despite the overwhelming fatigue, he continued to pull himself forward, inch by agonizing inch. As Aeonar neared the water, the rhythmic lapping of the waves beckoned him, a siren call that both soothed and tormented his weary soul. Then, he saw his reflection shimmering on the water's surface. The vibrant blood-red ringlets that had once encircled his limbal rings had faded, returning to their original milky-white hue. His signature pale lilac tones, once a source of rarity and captivation, had reemerged, but they felt like mere echoes of the person he once was, a shell of his former self.

It's not the same...

However, what struck Aeonar most was the expression on his face, distorted and fragmented in the rippling water. It was a visage marked by profound pain, an overwhelming sense of loss, and deep grief from the deaths of his father and two of his sons that seemed to seep from his very pores. He felt utterly shattered, as if the pieces of his soul had been scattered across the winds of fate, leaving him a hollow shell of the person he used to be. Everything he had fought tirelessly to achieve-the family he had desperately tried to preserve, the ambitions he had nurtured with such fervor-was gone, scattered like ashes in the wind.