Dance of The Dragonwolf

Purple Eyes, Dark Crown

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Chapter 57, Chapter 58, Chapter 59, Chapter 60, Chapter 61, Chapter 62, Chapter 63, Chapter 64, Chapter 65, Chapter 66, Chapter 67, Chapter 68, Chapter 69, Chapter 70, Chapter 71, Chapter 72, Chapter 73, and Chapter 74 are already available for Patrons.

The morning sun painted Dragonstone in shades of gray and purple, the volcanic stone seeming to shift and move in the early light. Aenar Targaryen stood before his mirror, adjusting the black and red leather doublet that bore his house's three-headed dragon. His dark curls, so unlike the typical Targaryen silver-gold, were pulled back with a leather cord, though a few stubborn strands insisted on falling across his face.

His purple eyes – the only obvious mark of his Targaryen blood – were heavy with lack of sleep. The dreams had kept him tossing and turning all night, fragments of memories mixing together in a confusing whirl. He could still hear Lykard Martell's words echoing in his mind: "See you around...bastard."

How could he know? The question had plagued Aenar since word reached him of Lykard's involvement in Laenor's death. It wasn't just the reference to his past life – it was the way Lykard had said it, with the certainty of someone who knew exactly what they were talking about.

Aenar's hand unconsciously moved to his chest, though in this life, it bore no scars. The memories of another time, another life, were his alone – a secret he had never shared with anyone, not even those closest to him.

"My prince?" A servant's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Lady Kinvara awaits you in the Chamber of the Painted Table."

Aenar nodded, dismissing the servant with a wave. He pulled on his black leather gloves, each embossed with a red dragon on the palm, and strapped Dragon's Bone on his hip. The Valyrian steel dagger had been a gift from his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys.

The walk to the Chamber of the Painted Table gave him time to think. His boots echoed on the stone floors as he climbed the winding stairs of the Stone Drum. The question kept turning over in his mind: how could Lykard Martell know things that no one else could possibly know? What other secrets might the exiled prince be keeping?

The Chamber of the Painted Table was lit by both torches and the morning sun streaming through the eastern windows. The massive table itself, carved in the shape of Westeros, cast strange shadows across the room. Kinvara stood at the far end, her red robes seeming to glow in the mixed light.

"My prince," she greeted him with a slight bow, her ruby choker pulsing gently at her throat. "You seem troubled."

Aenar moved to stand beside her, his eyes drawn to Dorne on the painted table. "What do you know of Lykard Martell?"

Kinvara's expression remained serene, but her eyes sharpened with interest. "The exiled prince of Dorne? Not as much as I would like. He was sent from Sunspear nine years ago, though the reason remains a closely guarded secret. He spent time in the Free Cities, building connections, gathering information." She paused, studying Aenar's face. "And now we know he orchestrated the wildfire trap that killed Laenor Velaryon."

"That's all?" Aenar's fingers drummed on the painted table. "Nothing about his... connections? His sources of information?"

"Should there be?" Kinvara asked carefully.

Aenar turned to face her fully. "He knows things he shouldn't know. Things about me that no one could possibly know."

The priestess's eyes widened slightly. "What kind of things, my prince?"