Daemon Targaryen

Daemon heard his son's voice from the other side of the room, interrupting his concentration while he was in the midst of trying on his new clothes for the upcoming feast. As he stood in front of a full-length mirror, scrutinizing every inch of his attire, his son's voice penetrated the room, "Father, is the king angry?" The question lingered in the air, and Daemon paused for a moment, wondering why his son would ask such a question at this particular moment.

Daemon's thoughts were consumed with the upcoming feast. He was not one to fuss over his attire, but this was no ordinary occasion. Lyanna's family was hosting the event, and as the mother of his son Aenar, she held a special place in his heart. Daemon knew that the impression he left on her family could have far-reaching consequences, for they could become powerful supporters of his son's future endeavors. With this in mind, he carefully selected his attire, opting for a tailored doublet of deep crimson velvet. He paired it with a crisp white shirt and black breeches, completing the ensemble with a pair of polished leather boots.

The North, while it might not be the strongest kingdom in Westeros, was still a valuable ally.

"What makes you think that?" questioned Daemon, his deep voice resonating through the room. He stood tall, his broad shoulders encased in a sleek black tunic that was adorned with intricate red threads that resembled the scales of a ferocious dragon. Daemon's purple gaze flickered to his son, who was trying on his clothes, lost in thought as he considered his response.

"He didn't seem happy when Aunt Gael arrived," Aenar pointed out as he was trying out the clothes his mother had given him. His attire was nothing less than royal, with the finest silk material adorned with intricate patterns that were a testament to the craftsmanship of the finest weavers in the Seven Kingdoms. It was evident from the very first glance that Aenar was not just another nobleman but a Prince of House Targaryen, with a bloodline that was traced back to the legendary dragons of old. The silk fabric flowed around him, shimmering in the light of the chandeliers

As Aenar reminisced about the time when Gael greeted the King after she arrived, he couldn't help but recall the disapproving look on the old king's face and the unmistakable undertone of displeasure in his voice as he made it clear that he was not pleased with his daughter's absence during his arrival. Despite not insulting Gael outright in public, the King's demeanor and tone spoke volumes about his dissatisfaction, leaving Aenar to wonder if the lack of Gael's presence was the cause of his father's discontent. Perhaps the King felt that Gael's absence was a slight to his authority, or maybe he simply missed his daughter's company and was disappointed that she was not there to greet him.

Aenar couldn't help but wonder if the king would allow Gael's descendants to have their own dragons someday. He knew that the Velayrons had been granted dragons through Rhaenys, and while it was a great honor, it could also become a problem if other Houses found ways to gain Dragon Riders through marriage. Aenar couldn't shake the feeling that too many Houses with Dragonriders could lead to potential enemies in the future, and he knew that the king would have to carefully consider this matter to ensure the safety and stability of the realm. Perhaps there would be a way to limit the number of houses with dragons, or maybe there would be a need for a new system entirely to keep the balance of power in check.

Daemon stood in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection with a slight weariness in his eyes. He was trying on a necklace made of pure silver and felt its weight against his neck. The necklace had a unique design with a dragon's head designed at the end, which immediately caught Daemon's attention. The carving of the dragon head figure was so intricate and detailed that it almost looked like a real dragon head breathing silver flames.

As Daemon examined the necklace more closely, he noticed the red hue on the dragon's head, which made it look more realistic and alive. He couldn't help but feel impressed with the craftsmanship and artistry that went into creating such a piece of jewelry. It was as if the dragon was alive and breathing right in front of him. He knew that this necklace would be the perfect accessory for the upcoming festival

When it came to his grandfather, Daemon avoided talking about him, King Jaehaerys - a man who was known for his stubbornness and pride. Jaehaerys' decisions were final, and changing his mind was an almost impossible feat. Not even his wife, who was known for her persuasiveness, could sway him most of the time. It was as though Jaehaerys' will was set in stone, unmoving and unshakeable.

As a young boy, Prince Daemon would often sit at the feet of his grandmother Alysanna, listening intently as she regaled him with stories of their family's past. One such tale that always captured his imagination was about his grandfather, who Alysanna claimed was even more stubborn than their family's dragon, Vermithor. But that wasn't the only secret that Alysanna shared with her curious grandson. She whispered to him that she believed his grandfather was actually a Dragon in human form, possessing all the power and ferocity of the mighty beasts that roamed the skies. Daemon chuckled slightly; he used to believe her stories and would beg the king to turn into a Dragon.

As Daemon reflected upon the Good Queen's words, he couldn't help but acknowledge the underlying truth. Despite his grandfather's stubborn nature, he was a skilled politician with a talent for winning over the masses. Jaehaerys's unwavering dedication to his duties as king often took precedence over his familial obligations, leaving his loved ones feeling neglected and unimportant. In Jaehaerys's mind, Westeros was above all else, including his own family, a belief that Daemon found disheartening. Nonetheless, despite his reservations, Daemon couldn't deny that Jaehaerys was a good ruler, even if he was a terrible family man.

"Your great grandfather is the King, Aenar." Daemon reminded his son before turning to face his son; as he turned to face his son, he couldn't help but feel a swell of admiration for the young man standing before him, dressed in opulent attire that seemed to exude elegance and power. Adorned in black fabric that hugged his frame perfectly, the rich material was accented with a striking red outline on his shoulder that added a regal touch to his ensemble. With his open sleeves and commanding presence, Aenar radiated a sense of confidence and authority that was fitting of a true prince. Daemon knew Aenar would leave a good impression on everyone in the hall.

As Daemon approached his son Aenar, he walked with purpose, his boots clicking against the polished marble floor of the room. He came to a stop just a few feet away from his son, his eyes scanning the room before he knelt down in front of him. Aenar looked up at his father, his face filled with curiosity and wonder.

Daemon's hand reached out and gently rested on Aenar's shoulder, the warmth of his touch causing Aenar to turn his attention to his father. "Being King means that those below you should show you respect. In the king's eyes, his daughter not being there to greet him once he arrived was a sign of disrespect." Daemon explained.

Aenar's brow furrowed in understanding as he absorbed his father's words. "I see," he said softly. "I will remember that, father."

"Always remember that people will search even for the smallest crack. They will find it and expand it. They will use that information to take a step higher on the ladder. When you're in front of other people, you should hide your emotions."

As Daemon placed both hands on his son's shoulder, "People shouldn't be able to tell what you're feeling. It's important never to show public hostility towards the king. You should use words to hide your intentions, like hiding your sad face behind a happy mask." Aenar seemed deep in thought; his brows furrowed as he considered his father's words.

Aenar understood that in the dangerous game of politics, one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death.

"Kepa, what about the common people?" Aenar questioned with a much more mature tone than that of a four-name-day boy. Daemon sometimes wondered where that maturity came from, but he was proud of his son nonetheless.

"Common people don't hold much power when it comes to the power we have, we have Dragons, and our word is Law. Targaryens are Gods amongst Men. Dragons are the reason why we are Kings. Everyone knows that commoners don't care about politics. They only care about endless Summer and food in their belly. If you achieve that, they will hold you in high regard no matter what. They have their own little importance. Remember that." Daemon spoke seriously; Aenar nodded with a small smile, and his father, Daemon, hugged him tightly. In response, Aenar quickly returned the loving embrace, wrapping his little arms around his father's broad shoulders.

Looking at his father with a playful grin, Aenar whispered, "Don't forget the promise you made to take me, Laena, and Rhaenyra to the wall," his voice dripping with mischief. Daemon chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement, as he pulled his son closer and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

As Daemon reluctantly pulled away from his son's warm embrace, he stood up with a smile, his large hand still lingering on the boy's soft hair. As he playfully ruffled the strands, Aenar giggled and tried to shy away, but his father knew all too well that his son was simply indulging in their usual game of affectionate banter. With a twinkle in his eye, Daemon chuckled as he watched his son's face light up with joy.

As Daemon made his way back to the full-length mirror. With a subtle hint of interest in his voice, he inquired, "How is your time with Laena and Rhaenyra?" His son's face lit up, and he eagerly began recounting every detail of their adventures. From the moment they had met up in the morning to the time they had spent exploring Winterfell, his son regaled him with every step they had taken. And then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, his son revealed that they had even managed to sneak into the bakery and steal some delicious cookies. Daemon couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of his son's escapades, imagining him tiptoeing around the bakery, trying not to make a sound.

Daemon was pleased to hear his son was spending a good time with both Laena and Rhaenyra, a part of him couldn't help but imagine his son once he grows up; he could already imagine him, a powerful prince, with Cannibal behind him, As he envisioned Aenar's future, Daemon couldn't help but think of the importance of his son's future bride. While there were many eligible maidens of Westeros around Aenar's age, none of them could compare to the status and value of a dragon rider.

His father had told Daemon that The King wanted his son married to Rhaenyra, while Queen Alysanne wanted to marry Aenar to Lady Laena. Daemon understood the reason behind both of them.

Daemon felt his anger boiling on the surface, but he quickly calmed down once his eyes fell on his son, who was looking at his new tunic; Daemon knew Rhaenyra would be a perfect match for his son; he didn't know anything about Lady Laena, and her being Rhaenys's daughter didn't help it. But Daemon knew Lady Laena could be a dragon rider in the future, making her worthy of Aenar's affection and bride.

Daemon had been wrestling with his thoughts about his son's future for what seemed like hours, unable to shake off the weight of his worries. Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the door swung open without warning, and in walked Lyanna. The mere sight of her caused his tension to dissipate instantly, and he felt a wave of tranquility wash over him. As she glided towards him, it was as if all the beauty in the world was encapsulated in her being, and he couldn't help but be taken aback by her radiance.

She was wearing a striking figure in a dark-red gown. The intricate stitching of the Stark Direwolf on her chest was a subtle nod to her family, while her choice of colors, black and red, paid homage to her Targaryen husband. The flowing fabric of her gown was all black, except for the striking part around her arms that was a deep, rich red - a bold statement that demanded attention. With each step she took, the hem of her dress swished elegantly across the floor, and the soft rustle of fabric filled the room.

Despite the bold Targaryen hues, the silver Stark sigil on her chest was a reminder that she was still Lyanna of House Stark.

Lyanna was carrying a small dark box made of wood; Slowly, she placed it on the nearby table, her delicate fingers tracing the intricate carvings that adorned its surface. With a satisfied smile, she turned her attention to her husband, eager to show off her new dress that had taken her weeks to perfect. As she stepped forward, she couldn't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement, wondering what her husband would think of her latest creation.

As she approached him, Daemon's eyes lit up, and his lips curved into a warm smile that made Lyanna's heart skip a beat. Without wasting any time, Daemon spun around to get a good look at the dress Lyanna was wearing. The dress was beautiful, and it hugged her curves in all the right places.

"Lya, you look beautiful," Daemon said sincerely, his voice filled with love and admiration. "I don't know what else to say," he continued, taking his wife's hand, her soft hand sending shivers down his spine. Lyanna blushed at his words, feeling her cheeks turn a deep shade of pink. She knew that she had chosen the perfect dress for their date night, and seeing the way Daemon looked at her made her feel confident and loved.

Lyanna's voice was soft as she spoke the words, "You look handsome, my dragon prince," and her hand gently went through his arm as she gazed into his piercing purple eyes. Daemon couldn't help but feel his heart race at the sight of her, and he knew that he would always be captivated by her beauty. As they shared a small kiss of love, he felt his body relax and his mind drifts away from his duties as a prince. However, his moment of bliss was short-lived as Lyanna pulled away, leaving him almost growling in disappointment. He knew their little boy was in the room with them, and he couldn't risk causing a scene in front of their young child.

As they spun around, their eyes met with the sight of Aenar, who was standing in front of the expansive window of the bedchamber. The window perfectly framed the breathtaking view of the vast and snowy lands that lay beyond the formidable walls of Winterfell, while the half-moon that hung in the sky cast a serene and mystical blue glow over everything outside. It was as if the world outside was frozen in time.

Lyanna stood in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on the little figure of her son, Aenar. She called out to him gently, her voice soft and warm, "Aenar, come here. Sweetie." At the sound of his mother's voice, the little boy's head snapped up, and he looked at her with big, curious eyes.

Without wasting a moment, Aenar ran towards his parents as fast as his little legs could carry him. Lyanna quickly got down on her knees to meet him at eye level, and she opened her arms wide to embrace him. His small frame collided with hers, and she hugged him tightly, feeling the warmth of his tiny body against hers. As she pulled away from the embrace, Lyanna gestured towards the small wooden black box that was sitting on the nearby table.

The oiled dark wood that constructed the box was smooth to the touch, and it was evident that the craftsman had taken great care in its construction. The Targaryen sigil, a three-headed dragon, was masterfully carved in the center of the box, while the Stark sigil, a direwolf, was delicately etched into the bottom. The box's outline was a rich red color that added a regal touch to its appearance, with a small keyhole that opened the box.

Lyanna fished a small key out of her pocket and carefully inserted it into the keyhole, turning it slowly until she heard a satisfying click. With a deep breath, she lifted the lid of the box. The first thing she saw was the smooth and luxurious silk that lined the box's interior, its delicate folds catching the light and shimmering like liquid silver. But her eyes were quickly drawn to the object resting on top of the silk: a stunning silver necklace, its intricate design sparkling in the room's dim light.

Slowly and carefully, she lifted the stunning silver necklace from its cushioned interior, admiring the way the light from the flickering candles danced across the intricate, delicate metalwork. She turned to her little boy, watching her wide-eyed, and held the necklace out for him to see. The boy's face lit up with wonder as he gazed at the glittering piece of jewelry.

"Aenar," Lyanna spoke with a gentle smile, her voice laced with memories, "this necklace that I wear was given to me by your grandmother on my wedding day to your father." She reached behind her neck and unclasped the delicate chain, holding it out for Aenar to see. Watching the wonder fill his eyes, she continued, "It has been passed down through our family for generations." Aenar reached out cautiously to touch the intricate design, his fingers grazing the smooth surface with reverence. Lyanna's heart swelled with pride, knowing that one day, this precious heirloom would be passed down to him.

"Now, I want you to have it," Lyanna spoke in a soft tone, handing over a small, intricately designed necklace to her son, Aenar. Lyanna felt a bittersweet pang in her heart as she gave it away. "And one day, when you find the woman you love, you will give it to her," she continued, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She couldn't help but think of her own mother, who had been stubborn and flawed, but whom Lyanna loved all the same. As he looked into her eyes, he could feel her sadness and pain, and without any words being exchanged, he knew exactly what she needed. As if he could read her mind, he leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, hoping his small gesture of affection would bring comfort and solace to his mother's heart.

"Better, Muna?" Aenar asked hopefully; Lyanna chuckled softly at her son's eagerness, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss on his forehead before enveloping him in a warm, tight embrace. As they hugged, Lyanna whispered softly into his ear, "Much better, my little dragon," causing Aenar's cheeks to flush with embarrassment as he tried to hide his smile. Feeling her son's embarrassment, Lyanna gave him one final kiss on the cheek before releasing him from their embrace.

Aenar gently gripped the silver necklace in his small hands; the end of the necklace had the Stark Sigil attached to it; Aenar felt his eyes welling up with tears as he put the necklace around his neck, the cold silver chain touching his naked neck sent a small shiver in his small body, while he was still young, he already loved the necklace.

"It's beautiful, mother. I will always wear it," promised Aenar, his voice filled with genuine gratitude and admiration as he gazed upon the delicate necklace clasped in his hand. The piece was a stunning work of art. Overwhelmed with emotion, Aenar threw his arms around his mother, enveloping her in a warm embrace that felt like home. At that moment, his heart felt like it would burst from his chest, his eyes brimming with tears that threatened to spill over.

Later

House Targaryen and House Velayron were adorned in their finest attire, adding to the already grand ambiance of the castle. As they made their way through the long corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoed against the stonewalls, creating a symphony of sound that could only be heard in Winterfell. The torches lined the walls and flickered, casting shadows that danced across their faces, adding an eerie yet enchanting effect to the already mesmerizing setting. The smell of freshly cooked meats and baked bread wafted through the air, making their stomachs growl in anticipation of the feast that awaited them.

Aenar was walking beside his parents, Nyra had wanted to walk with him, but Viserys explained they could sit near each other after the feasts started, but when they arrived in the Hall, they should be with their respective families.

As they pushed the doors open, the sound of their creaking hinges echoed through the hall, and the scent of burning firewood and roasted meat filled their nostrils. The room was filled with the sights and sounds of a great feast, with banners of the great houses of the North hanging from the rafters and the sound of laughter and merry-making ringing in their ears.

The Herald's voice echoed through the grand Hall of Winterfell, commanding the attention of every Lord and Lady present as he announced the arrival of the King. "Everyone Rise for King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, lord of the seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," the Herald declared with a booming voice, causing a wave of murmurs and whispers to ripple through the crowd. As the lords and ladies stood up from their seats, their eyes were drawn to the imposing figure of King Jaehaerys, whose silver hair and piercing violet eyes shone brightly against the stark backdrop of the Northern stronghold. Lord Stark, who had been sitting at the high table with an air of quiet authority, rose to his feet with the others, his eyes fixed on the Targaryen monarch with a mix of respect and wariness.

"Queen Alysanne of House Targaryen, and The Crown Prince Baelon of House Targaryen." The Herald announced as the Crown Prince strode confidently forward, his chest held high, his every move commanded the rapt attention of the many Northern Lords gathered in the great hall.

Many wanted to see the King, but everyone wanted to see the man who would rule The Seven Kingdoms after The King's Death. Prince Baelon made sure to present himself in the most flattering light possible. His robes were impeccable, his hair was perfectly coiffed, and his posture was regal and commanding. He knew that all eyes were on him, and he relished in the attention. As he made his way through the hall, Prince Baelon couldn't help but notice the way that some of the ladies were looking at him. Their eyes burned with a fierce desire, and he could sense the lustful energy pulsing through the air.

Prince Baelon's hand almost reached out to grab his wife's hand, to feel her soft and warm hand once more, but the reality of her absence quickly set in. As he tried to hold back his tears, Prince Baelon realized that nothing could ever replace the love he had lost. Despite the overwhelming support and affection from those around him, Prince Baelon felt a deep sense of loneliness and emptiness that seemed to consume him. The memories of his wife flooded his mind, reminding him of all the moments they shared together and all the dreams they had hoped to achieve.

As Lyanna Stark made her way through the crowded hall, her presence drew the attention of many Lords of The North, who couldn't help but speak in hushed tones as they whispered amongst themselves. Some looked at her with admiration, marveling at her beauty and grace, while others displayed a hint of displeasure. Amidst all the mixed reactions, one lord of House Karstark stood out from the rest, pointing at Aenar, who was walking beside his father.

As Young Prince Aenar Targaryen walked into the grand hall, his steps were measured and confident, his head held high with pride, and his chest puffed out, displaying his royal heritage with grace and poise. The flickering candles that lined the walls cast an ethereal glow across his features, illuminating his striking purple eyes, which shimmered like amethysts in the candlelight. As he made his way through the throng of northern lords, he could feel their eyes upon him, scrutinizing every move. It was then that the lords noticed the Stark necklace that adorned his neck, a symbol of his respect for the North and its people. This small gesture did not go unnoticed, and Aenar felt a sense of pride and satisfaction as he was met with nods of approval from the gathered lords.

The Northern Lords were pleased to see that Prince Aenar was showing he wasn't just a Targaryen; he was also a Stark, a boy of the North.

With a grand procession of noble lords and ladies trailing behind them, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne made their way through the brilliantly decorated hall, their hands tightly joined together to symbolize the unbreakable bond they shared.

As they approached their opulent table draped in rich, embroidered fabrics, King Jaehaerys gallantly stepped forward to pull out a chair for his beloved queen, allowing her to sit comfortably as they prepared to dine. All around them, the courtiers settled into their own designated seats, their eyes fixed on the regal couple at the head of the table.

As Laena walked towards the feast, she could feel her heart sinking in her chest as she saw that her seat was placed next to her pesky younger brother, who seemed to take great pleasure in teasing her at every opportunity. She had been looking forward to sitting next to her cousin Aenar, but luck was not on her side today. As she took her seat and scanned the room, she noticed with envy how the Lucky Rhaenyra was sitting right next to Aenar, laughing at something he had whispered in her ear. Laena tried to resist the urge to groan out loud, but it was nearly impossible with her brother's constant annoying comments about how she secretly loved Aenar.

"Please, everyone, sit," his voice boomed, echoing off the walls of the vast chamber. Despite his old age, the King's voice still carried the weight of authority, resonating with a deep, timeless wisdom that had been honed over decades of ruling the Seven Kingdoms.

As if under a spell, the crowd fell silent, their eyes fixed on the aging monarch who had guided them through many trials and tribulations. One by one, they followed his command, sinking into their seats with a reverential hush. Yet even as his subjects settled around him, King Jaehaerys remained standing.

As he stood before the assembly of nobles and highborn ladies, the Lord of House Targaryen spoke with a voice that resonated with pride and happiness. "My Lords, My Ladies, My Family," he began, "we are gathered here today to celebrate a momentous occasion, the joining of two great houses - House Targaryen and House Stark - through the marriage of my daughter, Princess Gael Targaryen, to Lord Rickon Stark. The union of our houses will not only strengthen our bonds but also create a lasting peace that will ripple throughout The Realm for generations to come." The King's eyes sparkled with joy as he looked upon his daughter and the young Lord Stark, who stood beside her, his eyes fixed upon his bride.

"This marriage," he continued, "is more than just a union of two people; it is a symbol of hope and unity for all the Seven Kingdoms. Let us remember this moment together, not just today, but for the rest of our lives." As his words trailed off, the hall erupted in applause, a thunderous sound that echoed throughout the grand chamber, a celebration of a new beginning for House Targaryen and House Stark and a promise of a brighter future for The Realm.

Aenar remembered a little of what he had read about King Jaehaerys a long time ago; he was still seen as the best King Westeros ever had. Aenar didn't know much else, it had been too many years since he had read about Targaryen History, and despite his status, the majority of the books only covered the Dance of the Dragons and The Blackfyre Rebellion in Details.

The moment the guests settled in their respective seats, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation, and the tantalizing aroma of sumptuous food filled the air. Within minutes, the feast began, and the table was brimming with an array of delectable dishes, ranging from succulent steaks to mouth-watering seafood and fragrant herbs and spices. The clinking of glasses filled with chilled beers and fine wines echoed around the room as the guests raised a toast to the occasion and the company of each other. The room was alive with laughter, chit-chat, and the clinking of cutlery, and everyone was relishing the delightful experience of indulging in the exquisite food and drink that was everywhere around them.

Rhaenyra sat down at the dinner table, her mouth-watering as the savory aroma of the roasted chicken wafted toward her. She picked up her fork and knife, cutting a small piece of chicken, and brought it to her mouth with the utmost care, ensuring that she didn't make a mess while eating.

Aenar's attention turned to his uncle sitting near their table; Beside him sat a woman, her beauty radiating like the sun on a clear day. Aenar assumed that she was his uncle's wife. However, his attention was quickly drawn to the three young boys sitting beside them. They were the sons of his uncle, Benjen, Brandon, and Elric Stark. All three had inherited the signature Stark features, with dark hair and piercing grey eyes that seemed to gaze right through you. However, Elric was different from his brothers. He had mismatched eyes, one as grey as his father's and the other as white as milk. At first, Aenar assumed he was blind in that eye, but as he watched Elric interact with his family, he noticed the boy could see perfectly fine with it.

Rhaenyra's voice was barely above a whisper as she leaned closer to Elric, her eyes fixed on his strange, milky-white gaze. "What is wrong with him?" she asked, her tone laced with equal parts curiosity and fear. As she studied him more closely, she wrinkled her nose in disgust, unable to shake the feeling of unease that had settled over her. Elric's white eye seemed to follow her every movement, almost as if it was studying her just as intently as she was studying it.

"Don't talk like that, Nyra." Aenar chided her; Rhaenyra gave her cousin a look of betrayal as if he said the wrong thing; before Aenar could defend himself, they both heard a chuckle from Elric, who turned his head to face both of them from his seat.

"Not the first time you have seen mismatched eyes, Prince Aenar." Elric suddenly spoke, his eyes focused on Aenar; Elric was clearly three years older than Aenar.

Rhaenyra, with a curious expression on her face, had boldly questioned Elric, "Have you drunk too much milk? Is that why your eye is white?" She had been pointing directly at Elric's eye, which had been an unusual shade of white. Despite the seriousness of the question, her words had earned a chuckle from Elric, who had an uncanny ability to find humor in the most unexpected situations. He had moved away a strand of his long dark hair from his face.

"My mother told me that when I was an infant," he began, his voice laced with humor, "I fell on a pool with milk, and when they pulled me out, my eye had become like this," he said, pointing at his white eye. Rhaenyra's eyes widened, and she leaned in, clearly interested in the story. Aenar rolled his eyes playfully, but he couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of Rhaenyra's reaction.

"Your Grace, this is not the first time you have seen someone like me, right?" Elric questioned, with a knowing smile, as if he already knew the answer.

"How can you tell?" Aenar asked, dodging the answer, his voice slightly wary.

As if Elric could read his mind, he raised his arms to show that he wasn't armed and was "harmless," "Usually people gaze at me, your grace, you did, but I could see in your eye that this is not the first time for you," Elric explained, as he used his left hand to grab a fork and eat a piece of roasted chicken with potatoes, and onions.

Aenar looked away from Elric; he remembered the only other person he had met with Mismatched eyes, Shiera Seastar. He vividly remembered the way her eyes sparkled with an otherworldly charm, one iris a mesmerizing shade of green resembling the lush grasslands, while the other was a deep blue reminiscent of the inky night sky.

Aenar had never laid eyes on a woman as stunning as Shiera. Her beauty was undeniable and left him breathless every time he saw her. The way she spoke was like music to his ears, and every word that left her lips sent shivers down his spine. Her voice was smooth, passionate, melodic, and sweet like honey. He had dreamed of her many times. Whenever they were in the same room, Shiera would always look at him with a knowing smile on her lips, as if she somehow knew what was going on in his mind. Aenar was convinced that she could read his thoughts, and Shiera would always look at him as if she somehow knew that he had dreamed of her the previous night.

As Aenar sat lost in his own thoughts, reminiscing about the past and contemplating the future, he suddenly felt a gentle poke on his arm. His mind immediately came back to the present moment, and he turned to find Elric looking at him with a playful grin on his face, holding a fork in his hand. "Where were you, your grace?" Elric questioned with a hint of humor in his voice, knowing full well that Aenar had been lost in his own world. Aenar couldn't help but chuckle at his antics; Elric's gesture earned a glare from his mother.

"Elric, don't poke the prince with your fork," Lady Margaret chided her son with a deadly glare, but Elric seemed unbothered by her antics; Lady Margaret quickly turned her attention to Aenar, who chuckled in amusement.

"Forgive my foolish son, your grace," the lady apologized almost pleadingly, her voice soft with concern. "He doesn't know any better." Aenar, however, quickly shook his head to show that there was nothing for her to worry about, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

"I'm alright, My Lady. Apology accepted," Aenar said dismissively; Elric could not help but show a triumphant smile on his face, which made his mother feel infuriated and filled with the desire to strike that grin from his face.

As the feast went on, Elric and Aenar started a conversation about sword fighting and the North, about the lands and the different kinds of animals that could be found in the mountains surrounding the North. Eventually, the conversation turned to the hunting that would take place tomorrow morrow.

"Tomorrow, at the break of dawn, Prince Baelon and our beloved King have arranged a grand hunting expedition that will include almost every lord gracing this very hall," he exclaimed with a gleam in his eye. Aenar couldn't help but feel intrigued by the proposal, and as he looked around, he noticed that every cup, jug, and even the plates used in the high table of the hall had the Stark sigil carefully carved into them.

Aenar briefly remembered when Robert had first arrived in Winterfell and had gone hunting the following day with Lord Stark and the majority of his household. The crisp autumn air had been alive with the sounds of galloping horses, barking hounds, and enthusiastic chatter as they traversed the rugged terrain searching for prey. Upon their return to the castle, the shocking news had spread like wildfire - Bran, the young and innocent son of Lord Stark, had been viciously pushed from the window, plunging him into a coma.

Aenar felt a sudden surge of memories floods his mind like a bolt of lightning. In his mind's eye, he saw his loyal direwolf, its thick fur glistening in the snow, leading a pack of fierce Direwolves through the frozen wasteland. The crunch of the snow beneath their paws echoed in his ears, and he could almost feel the icy wind whipping at his face.