Aerion eyed the castle ahead. Beside him, Baelor stood tall, chin raised, his young eyes studying the stone walls with a cool, unreadable expression. His eldest wasn't exactly impressed—and Aerion didn't particularly mind. This castle wasn't meant for Baelor anyway.
Baelor was the eldest. The throne would likely fall to him.
A shiver ran down Aerion's spine at the thought, a flicker of resentment tearing through him—shameful, but impossible to ignore.
He had to admit it: his ambitions hadn't died with his marriage to Rhaenyra. The dreams still came—of legions beneath his banner, a crown resting on his brow, and the Iron Throne beneath him.
Footsteps approached. Vaeron came striding toward the two princes, bowing his head in greeting to the Valyrian blood before him. Aerion rolled his eyes and stepped forward.
"Vaeron," he said, voice warmer than his expression, "how have you been?"
He turned toward the path leading to Crow's Point, the maester and Baelor falling into step behind him. The young, platinum-haired maester gave the boy a brief, silent nod as they walked.
"I've been well, my prince. Thank you for asking," Vaeron said, his tone casual as his eyes flicked over Aerion. The prince was dressed in fine black silks, stitched with threads of deep purple. A familiar Targaryen ring glinted on his finger, and his sword hung steady at his waist.
Baelor's eyes swept over the castle as they approached the grand entrance.
"Kepa, is Aenar really going to inherit… this?" he asked bluntly.
Aerion only shook his head slowly, though his own gaze lingered reverently on the rising walls of his keep.
"Yes, he will," he said simply. "But by the time he takes it, it'll be far grander."
That much was true. The estate was completely exempt from taxes—until it's fit for a prince. Those had been Viserys's exact words. And while there was still a long road ahead, it had come a long way since Aerion first set foot here.
Aerion was proud, he always had been of Crows Point.
Slowly, the trio made their way toward Aerion's solar. Baelor had been there many times before, yet every visit left the castle feeling different—changed somehow. This time, the walls seemed thicker, the stonework reinforced. More Brightflame banners hung from the high beams, and the guards they passed wore new armor, polished and sharp, the sigil stitched proudly into their cloaks.
Vaeron continued to ramble about the state of the lands, his voice a steady hum beside them. Baelor listened, eyes flicking to the details he couldn't ignore. The land, it seemed, was thriving—richer by the month. The coffers had never been fuller, and the city beyond the walls grew with every moon.
People were moving here.
Staying.
Settling.
Suddenly they got to his fathers solar, Vaeron quickly leaving with a muttered excuse. Baelor eyed his father as they entered the solar, he still didn't know why he was here.
Usually when they visited Aenar was always here.
Which made sense, because it was going to be Aenars castle.
A loud warble echoed from beyond the stone walls—Gaelithox. The dragon's voice rolled through the halls like distant thunder. Baelor smiled faintly. The great beast had always been gentle with him. He couldn't wait to claim his own mount. To soar through the skies, a dragon beneath him, wind screaming past his face. The thought pulled a grin across his lips.
Even still, a question lingered behind the smile.
Why was he here alone?
His eyes wandered across the solar—the one part of the castle that never seemed to change, no matter how much the rest of it grew. Artifacts of his father's life sat where they always had. A red ribbon, a favour from some long-forgotten tourney, draped lazily over a shelf.
A sword leaned against the wall—worn, not ancient, but used. His father's first. The leather grip was cracked, the steel dulled by time.
In the far corner stood a tall bird perch, empty now. It had once belonged to Grock, his father's crow, but the creature had taken to Dragonstone in recent years. He never came back.
And then, as always, his gaze found the thing that drew it most.
An ancient crown.
"What is that?" Baelor asked, surprised he'd never done so before as his eyes ran across the ancient design. It was a bronze spiky crown, shining brightly as a beam of sunlight seemed to pierce it.
Aerion's eyes shifted to the crown, his eyes widening slightly as if he'd forgotten it was there. The older man blinked, old memories of the Mudd Kings castle running through his mind.
"An old relic. I found it years before I even married your mother," Aerion said casually as he sat behind the large wooden desk in his solar. His eyes never left the ancient crown, and Baelor's eyes never left his father.
"Have you ever worn it?" Baelor asked, watching him almost eagerly.
Aerion snorted, tapping a finger gently against the desk. "Of course I have—" He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "—I even had a knight kneel for me." He finished with a grin, his eyes gleaming.
Baelor almost gasped. The maesters had drilled the rules into his head, and that was the last thing you ever wanted to do.
Unless you wanted to lose your head.
"That's treason…" Baelor whispered shakily. "You—you can't just…do that…what about Grandfather?" His father only smirked, almost carelessly, Baelor wasn't used to this side of his father.
"What about him?" Aerion questioned, his mind racing, he could teach his son a lesson here.
But would it take?
Baelor swallowed, his eyes lingering on his father as old bedtime stories flickered through his mind—tales of treason, of mad kings, of oaths broken in fire and blood. The lessons from his mother and maesters echoed louder than ever.
"You…you sound like a usurper," he said, almost shakily, careful not to let it sound like an accusation.
Aerion only shrugged, the fine black silk of his sleeves flowing easily with the motion. His mind drifted back—to youth, to foolish dreams and hungers he'd never quite buried.
"If I hadn't married your mother…" he said, shrugging again, this time slower, heavier.
"I'd have made a good one."
A long moment of silence passed.
Baelor's eyes lingered on his father's—bright violet. Everyone always said they looked alike, save for the hair. His father's dark, his own a bright shining platinum.
"Would…you have fought Grandfather?" he asked, quieter now.
Aerion tilted his head. "I'd have waited for him to die," he said easily. "By then I'd be far richer. I'd have worked my way through half the courts in the realm, whispered in enough ears to have the Lords naming me in their sleep. I'd have Gaelithox of course. I'm not sure who I would have married…"
He trailed off, voice low and thoughtful—like it wasn't the first time he'd mapped it all out in his head.
A shiver crept down Baelor's spine. For the first time, he found himself wondering—would his father ever try to take the throne from Mother?
The thought filled him with shame. But he couldn't help it.
Aerion shook his head suddenly, snapping himself out of the daydream. "But alas," he said with a grin, "I married your beautiful mother, so I get the best of both worlds. A wife I love, and a crown."
He stood, the movement casual, confident—like the idea of power was just another comfort.
Baelor couldn't help it. He pushed, just once more.
"But…you won't be king?" he asked, hesitance threading through his voice.
His father only smiled—that same easy, careless grin. The one Baelor was beginning to question.
"I'll be king regent," Aerion said with a shrug, as if the words meant nothing at all.
But his fathers eyes had drifted—drawn to the crown resting quietly on the shelf, its bronze spikes catching the afternoon sun.
And in those violet eyes, something shifted.
And for a moment, Baelor wasn't sure if his father had ever stopped wanting the crown.
Or if he'd only been waiting.
—-
Aerions back!!! Thoughts on the chapter? Any ideas where you want the story to go next?