Dance of The Dragonwolf

Between Lives and Deaths

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Chapter 63, Chapter 64, Chapter 65, Chapter 66, Chapter 67, Chapter 68, Chapter 69, Chapter 70, Chapter 71, Chapter 72, Chapter 73, Chapter 74, Chapter 75, Chapter 76, Chapter 77, Chapter 78, Chapter 79, and Chapter 80 are already available for Patrons.

The wind howled across Winterfell's battlements, carrying with it the promise of death. Rhaenys stood at the highest point of the castle, her Targaryen features sharp against the grey northern sky. Below, thousands of men prepared for what might be their last battle, their torches flickering like desperate stars against the growing darkness.

She turned as Aenar approached, his footsteps nearly silent on the frost-covered stone. His eyes, red as fresh blood, met hers – a reminder of the price they'd all paid to reach this point. The cold didn't seem to touch him, though his breath formed clouds in the frigid air.

"You shouldn't be up here alone," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much death. "The storm's getting closer."

Rhaenys pulled her cloak tighter. "I needed to think. To remember."

"Memories are dangerous things," Aenar replied, his gaze turning northward. "Especially now."

"Take care of yourself out there," she said, reaching for his arm. "We can't lose you. Not now."

A bitter smile crossed his face. "I should be the one warning you, Rhaenys. You haven't seen what he can do. What they all can do." His voice dropped lower, haunted. "The Night King's storm isn't like anything you've ever faced. It blinds dragons, freezes men where they stand. His ice spears..." He paused, swallowing hard. "They pierce dragon scales like they're parchment."

"I'll be careful," she promised, but the empty look in his eyes told her he barely heard her. She knew where his mind had gone – to that terrible day.

The memory of his daughter's death hung between them like an invisible wall. Such a tiny thing she'd been, with Daenerys's silver hair and Aenar's long face. Gone now, like so much else they'd lost.

"Aenar," she whispered, stepping closer. "I know no words can heal this wound, but—"

He cut her off with a sharp gesture. "Then don't bring her up."

Instead of speaking, she pulled him into an embrace. For a moment, he remained stiff, but then his arms wrapped around her, holding on as if she were an anchor in a storm. She felt his shoulders shake, though whether from cold or grief, she couldn't tell.

"When this is over," she murmured into his shoulder, "when the dead are truly dead and the Night King is nothing but a memory, we'll find happiness again. All of us. But if something happens. Aenar, please take care of our Aelyssara. Please."

Aenar pulled back, his face a mask of careful control. "I will,"he said simply, then turned and walked away toward where Cannibal waited, the massive black dragon's green eyes glowing in the growing darkness.

Rhaenys watched him go, guilt gnawing at her heart. He'd never said it – would never say it – but she knew he blamed her, at least in part, for Rhaella's death. If she hadn't insisted on bringing House Martell into the alliance, if she hadn't trusted in old loyalties and family ties...

"I thought Uncle Oberyn's love for my mother would be enough," she whispered to the wind. "I thought blood would mean more than vengeance."

She'd been wrong. So terribly, fatally wrong.