helping out the blacks

132 AC – Dragonstone

Point of View: Aenar Targaryen

Aenar sat by the open window, the sea wind stirring the long strands of his silver hair. Before him, the young twins—Baela and Rhaena—sat cross-legged, their eyes wide with wonder as he spoke. It was a rare moment of peace in a world teetering on the edge of war.

The girls spoke eagerly of dragons, of their dreams and fears and their bond with the creatures they had grown up around. Baela was bold, her questions sharp and spirited. Rhaena was quieter, thoughtful, always listening a moment longer before she spoke.

Aenar mostly listened, nodding now and then, his aged face marked by the faintest of smiles. But every so often, when a name or a place stirred some long-buried memory, he would answer with a tale—half warning, half wonder.

He had just finished recounting a journey through Essos, describing the shadowed ruins of Valyria and the shimmering domes of Volantis, when the door opened.

A guard stepped inside, breath short, eyes urgent. "Lord Aenar," he said, bowing slightly. "The Queen's council is convened. They request your presence at the Painted Table."

Aenar nodded. "Of course," he said, rising slowly to his feet. His joints protested with sharp cracks and deep aches, but he did not wince. Not in front of the girls.

"Will you tell us more after?" Rhaena asked.

"If I still have breath," he answered with a playful wink to his young girls.

The Painted Table Room

The walk through Dragonstone's halls was slower now. The keep was colder, darker, and filled with the sounds of preparation—armor being fitted, weapons sharpened, dragons stirring in distant chambers. War had settled into its bones.

As Aenar entered the map room, the familiar sight of the Painted Table spread before him—Westeros carved and colored in ancient detail, its lands now stained with tokens of blood and fire.

Rhaenyra stood at the head of the table, her expression hard as obsidian. Lords and knights gathered around her—Corlys Velaryon, gaunt but unbroken; Maester Gerardys with scrolls clutched in hand; Ser Erryk Cargyll, armor polished, face grim.

All eyes turned as Aenar stepped into the room. Some nodded in respect. Others offered tight, cautious glances. A living relic of another time. A shadow of Maegor the Cruel.

But he still had use. He still had fire.

Rhaenyra gestured to an open seat beside Lord Corlys. "Uncle," she said with measured warmth. "We're glad you could join us."

Rhaenyra's hand rested on the table's edge, fingers twitching beside the carved tower of King's Landing. "The Greens are moving. We've had word—Aegon means to strike at Rook's Rest. He sends Ser Criston with the army… and Prince Aemond is not far behind."

That name—Aemond—hung in the air like smoke. The dragon-killer. The kin-slayer.

"They want the castle," said Maester Gerardys, "but they want something more: to draw out one of our dragons. Perhaps you, Your Grace."

"They'll get their wish," Rhaenyra said coldly.

Corlys leaned in. "We can't afford a misstep. Rook's Rest guards the northern approach to the Crownlands. If it falls, the Blackwater will be theirs."

Aenar looked down at the table. At Rook's Rest. At the little dragon figurine now placed beside it—Meleys.

"Will Rhaenys go?" he asked.

"She's already preparing," Rhaenyra replied.

Aenar exhaled slowly. "Meleys is but fierce. Rhaenys… is smarter than most men I've ĺet. If anyone can hold the skies she cam"

"She may have to face Vhagar," Ser Erryk said gravely.

Silence.

Aenar leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly.

Rhaenyra looked across the table, her voice quiet but hard as steel. "This war will not be won on coin or council. It will be won in the sky."

The council was breaking apart now—lords shuffling from the Painted Table, voices hushed and urgent as they spilled into stone corridors. War was in motion. Rhaenyra lingered, exchanging words with Corlys and her son.

Aenar sat in silence, eyes still fixed on the little wooden dragon that marked Rook's Rest.

He hadn't moved since the meeting's end.

"She's strong," a voice said behind him, low and familiar. "But not invincible."

Aenar turned slowly.

Rhaenys Targaryen stood in the doorway, cloaked in dark riding leathers. Her hair was pinned back, her posture straight, her eyes sharp as a falcon's. A warrior queen.

He gave her a thin smile. "Neither are we."

She stepped into the chamber, her boots echoing on the cold stone. "They need Meleys."

"They'll get more than they bargained for," Aenar said . "They expect one dragon. Not two."

Rhaenys studied him for a moment, lips pressed in a faint line. "You're too old for this," she said gently.

"I'm too old not on my death bed" Aenar replied, rising stiffly to his feet before coughing. "I've lived too long"

There was a silence between them, old as memory. These two Targaryens, both weathered by time and fire, both haunted by ghosts and bound by blood.

"Meleys can outfly Vhagar," Rhaenys said softly. "But only if she's not alone. I might… I might need you."

Aenar gave a dry laugh. "Now that's a first."

"I mean it," she said, stepping closer. "Balerion may be old, but he's still Balerion. Even Vhagar would hesitate at his shadow."

Aenar placed a hand on the table, leaning over Westeros. His fingers brushed the Crownlands, near where Rook's Rest sat—so small, so fragile.

"My father burned cities," he said quietly. "Built his throne on corpses. I swore I would never be like him."

"You're not," Rhaenys replied.

He looked up at her, eyes pale and clear. "But if this realm is to survive, it must burn again."

She nodded once. No ceremony. No grand words.

Just understanding.

Later That Day – The Dragonmont

The sky over Dragonstone burned orange with the dying light. Aenar stood before the great maw of the cavern, the wind tugging at his cloak. Far above, a roar echoed—Meleys taking to the sky in a graceful arc, wings catching the wind like sails.

And then came the deeper sound—older, heavier. A rumble of ancient power.

Balerion.

Or what remained of him.

The Black Dread was a shadow of the monster that once helped forge the realm, his scales dulled, wings tattered at the edges. But his eyes still burned, like dying coals refusing to go cold.

Aenar stepped forward.

"We fly again," he whispered.

The old dragon lowered his head.

Nightfall – Above the Narrow Sea

Two dragons cut across the clouds, one crimson and proud, the other black as midnight, their riders cloaked in silver and shadow.

Rhaenys and Meleys soared ahead, swift and sleek like a sword unsheathed.

Aenar and Balerion followed, slower, heavier—but there was weight in their flight, a promise carved from fire.

Below, the shores of Rook's Rest came into view. Campfires flickered around the castle like a ring of teeth.

And somewhere beyond, Vhagar waited.

Aenar turned slightly in his saddle his old bones aching with pain.

They were old man and dragon but he rather go out with fire and blood.