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Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) & Rhaenyra TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Jacaerys VelaryonAerion Targaryen & Lucerys VelaryonHarwin Strong & Rhaenyra Targaryen & Laenor VelaryonAerion Targaryen & Aegon II TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Aemond "One-Eye" TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Helaena TargaryenDaemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen
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Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceTime TravelThe Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen EraI've fallen victim to the TikTok edits of twins Jace and AerionAerion Targaryen vs The GreensDragon Dreams (Questionable)Dark HumorUnreliable NarratorNo Beta We Die Like Aerion (The First Time)Dragon Dreams (Literal)
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Published:2025-12-18Updated:2026-07-25Words:386,215Chapters:37/?Comments:7,001Kudos:6,014Bookmarks:1,626Hits:246,098
Burn Them All
Anonymous
Chapter 12: The Flame is Always Green.
Summary:
Aerion endures a meeting with the Queen Who Never Was and makes a tactical decision. There is still a great deal of crying involved in the aftermath (he is mercifully not a participant).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The satisfaction of leaving Aemond and Cole standing in the corridor warmed Aerion for exactly the length of time it took to walk from Aegon's reeking chambers to the more familiar, salt-scrubbed halls near his family's quarters. By the time Ser Steffon's shadow fell into step beside him again, the warmth had guttered out, leaving only the familiar taste of spent fury and the persistent ache in his thigh.
He had handled Aegon. He had handled Aemond. He had, in the King's hall, handled the Queen and the Hand. It was all handling. Containment. Pushing broken pieces into new, less inconvenient configurations. The work was endless, and it left him feeling like a mason constantly repairing a crumbling wall with increasingly dubious mortar.
Ser Steffon cleared his throat. "My prince."
Aerion didn't break stride. "What."
"Your… intervention with Prince Aegon. The King's peace is delicate. A public disturbance, even within a chamber…"
"There was no disturbance," Aerion said, his voice flat. "A goblet slipped. Prince Aegon is resting. He will be present at the next meal." He glanced sideways at the knight. Ser Steffon's face was carefully neutral, but his eyes held a glint of assessment. "You are not required to report every hiccup, Ser. Only the ones that threaten my mother."
"My duty is to your safety, my prince. Which includes the safety of your position. Fires, however small, draw attention."
Aerion's mouth shifted toward a smile and failed to become one; it hung there like a scar. Fires, he thought, and felt a hot laugh scrape the back of his throat. Fires draw attention. How tragic for a family that keeps handing him tinder and acting surprised when it lights.
"Noted. Consider the fire out."
They turned a corner, and the air changed. The damp smell of the older stone gave way to the cleaner scent of beeswax and lemon oil—the halls maintained for the royal family. Ahead, the door to Luke's chamber was flanked by two Velaryon guards in seahorse-crested helms. They straightened at his approach.
"Prince Aerion," one said, bowing his head. "The Princess is within with Prince Lucerys."
Aerion stopped. He hadn't been heading there, not consciously, but his feet had carried him to the one fixed point in his spinning world. Luke.
"And my brother? Jacaerys?"
"With them, my prince."
Aerion nodded once, as if this were a matter of household arrangement. He stood close enough to hear the faint murmur through the oak. His mother's voice: low, steady, the voice she used when she refused to crumble. Jace's replies: earnest, too quick. No sound from Luke. That silence pressed harder than Aegon's slurred laughter ever could.
He could go in. He had every right. He was family.
But the thought curdled in his gut. He saw it perfectly: his mother would turn those tired, searching eyes on him, wanting something he could not shape—comfort, hope, a son who wasn't made of knives and schemes. Luke would be propped on pillows, a small figure drowning in linen. The bandage would be fresh, a stark white blasphemy against his skin. Jace would be a hunched, guilty shadow by the bed, his every movement screaming I should have stopped this.
His leg throbbed, a hot spike of protest.
He could not go in there. Not now. Not with them there, watching, needing. He would say the wrong thing. He would look at Luke and see only the ruin and his own furious helplessness would leak out like pus from a wound. He would poison what little quiet they had.
"Tell the Princess I attended to the matter of Prince Aegon's absence. It is resolved." He turned away before the guard could fully acknowledge the order, the movement stiff. "I will be in the library."
Ser Steffon fell in beside him. "The library, my prince?"
"Is there an echo in this corridor, Ser?" Aerion snapped, then immediately bit the inside of his cheek. Idiot. He's just a man following orders. Your orders. Stop snarling like a dog. He forced his tone into something approximating civility. "I require a book on wardship laws. And the economic treaties between the Crown and the Free Cities during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator."
If Ser Steffon found the request odd, he didn't show it. "Of course."
The truth was, Aerion didn't specifically require those books. He required the solitude of the library. He needed to be somewhere his mind could work on problems with clear edges—succession law, trade imbalances, the logistical nightmare of suddenly removing Otto Hightower's network from every minor office in the capital. These were puzzles with solutions. They did not bleed. They did not look at him with one remaining eye, waiting for a comfort he could not shape.
They moved down the corridor. Aerion's mind, ever treacherous, slipped past the guards, and into the room he had fled.
Coward, he told himself with a sweet, venomous contempt. Fine prince you are. Brave in corridors, brave with goblets and threats. A bandage sends you running like a spooked mare. He kept walking. He kept the mask smooth. That, too, was a kind of cowardice.
And what could he do at the bedside anyway? Stand there and stumble through another legend? Offer some thin comfort that would curdle on his tongue? He was no balm. He was heat, and heat belonged in a forge—anywhere save a sickbed where it could scorch the air and make everyone choke.
Then he stopped.
From the direction of the family wing came a sound, a voice, raised. Baela. Then Rhaena's softer, pleading tone, trying to smother it.
Aerion's jaw tightened. He had no patience for girl's squabbles, for their noisy grief over a ruin they had helped to make. The image rose before him, unbidden and cruel: Luke's pale face, the stark linen where an eye should be. Luke had paid for their recklessness, for their childish pride. Aerion had not forgotten. He would not forgive.
He turned toward the sound.
Ser Steffon shifted behind him, a subtle realignment of weight. "My prince?"
"A detour," Aerion said, voice flat.
He found them in a small antechamber off the main corridor—a room meant for waiting ladies or squires, furnished with a bench, and a window slit that showed a sliver of churning grey sea. Baela stood in the center, her small fists clenched, tears streaking furious tracks through the dust on her face. Rhaena hovered beside her, one hand on her sister's arm, her own eyes red-rimmed but dry.
"—won't go back there!" Baela was saying, her voice cracking on the last word. "I won't! He'll be there! He'll look at us and he'll know and I hate it!"
"He's a ward now, Baela," Rhaena said, her voice strained. "Grandsire will see to it. He won't be allowed to—"
"He's still here!" Baela shouted, jerking her arm away. "He's in our house! After what he did! After he— he hunted us!" Her breath hitched, a ragged, ugly sound. "He had a knife, Rhaena. He meant it."
Aerion leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, a casual intrusion. Both girls startled. Baela's tears seemed to burn hotter, fueled by the shame of a witness. Cry louder, he willed silently. Let the whole keep hear the cost of your bravery. Rhaena's posture went rigid, a different kind of defense. The quieter one, the more dangerous. She watched, she learned. She would need breaking too, one day.
"Prince Aerion," Rhaena said, dipping into a curtsy that was all sharp angles and no grace.
Baela just glared, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. "What do you want?"
Aerion considered her. What did he want? He wanted her silence. He wanted her to understand, in her marrow, that every sob was an insult to Luke's pain. He wanted a world where their mistakes did not cost his brother pieces of himself.
One day, a cold thought coiled in the back of his mind, I might be forced to wed one of them. Rhaena, likely. The idea was a physical revulsion, a future where he'd have to touch the hand that helped steer Jace into that dark. But that day was not today. Today, they were tools, and frightened tools were useless. He needed them steady, and pointed away from his family. He needed Baela's hysterics contained before they infected the household like a weepy rot.
"You're loud," he said.
Baela's chin lifted. "I don't care."
Of course you don't. You never care about the consequences. You just act, and others bleed for it.
"You should." He pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the room. "Your noise carries. It tells every passing servant that the daughters of Prince Daemon are afraid of a boy who has been gelded of his power."
"I'm not afraid!" The lie was so transparent it was almost pitiful.
"You are," Aerion said, matter-of-fact. "You're afraid of a boy who is currently less a prince and more a piece of furniture your grandfather has been asked to store. You give him power by fearing him."
"He took Luke's eye!"
"He did," Aerion agreed, his voice devoid of heat he felt. "And for that, he has been cut from his dragon, stripped of his pride, and made a guest in a house that despises him. He is a lesson now. Not a threat."
Baela stared at him, her mouth trembling. "You don't understand. You weren't there. In the dark. He was… he was like a shadow coming up the path. He smiled."
Aerion's blood went cold. He had seen Aemond's face in the hall afterward—the cold righteousness, the bruised pride. He had not pictured the smile. He filed the detail away where he kept knives.
"A shadow can be stepped on," he said, his tone not unkind, but utterly devoid of comfort. "Or walked through. Or ignored. It has no substance unless you give it yours."
Rhaena spoke then, her voice quiet but clear. "It's not that simple."
Aerion's gaze slid to her. "It never is. But pretending it's a mystery only makes it heavier." He studied her face—the quiet intelligence there, the grief held in check. Useful. "You have Vhagar."
Rhaena flinched. "I… I have her. Yes."
Aerion watched her for a moment and kept his face gentle. He could see the hunger in her: to be praised by someone whose opinion felt sharp enough to matter. He could feed that hunger. He could use it to pull her where he wished.
"Good," he said, quietly. "Remember what that means. You are a dragonrider. Aemond Targaryen is a boy on the ground, forbidden his mount, serving your grandsire. You walk them with the greatest living beast in the world answering your call. Your place in this house stands above his, whether he likes it or not."
He needed them to see Aemond as small; terror made him larger.
Baela made a harsh sound. "This isn't about who stands where. It's wrong. He's here and Luke—Luke—" Her voice faltered, and rage rushed in to fill the gap. "It's wrong that he still draws breath in our home."
What you mean, Aerion thought, is that it's wrong he breathes and you have to see it, that your guilt isn't allowed to fade. You want him gone so you can pretend you're innocent.
"Justice is a poor cook," Aerion replied. "It rarely serves a satisfying meal. It serves what is necessary." He watched confusion cloud their features. They craved blood, or tears, or a monster dragged through the square. "If his presence offends you, do not look upon him. If he speaks, do not answer. If he enters a room, leave it. You hold the power. He has none. Wield it."
Baela swallowed, her small body still trembling. "And if he—"
"If he threatens," Aerion cut in, his voice gaining a colder edge, "you tell your grandsire. You do not meet him alone in dark corridors. You are dragonriders. Conduct yourselves as such."
Baela's face twisted, guilt and anger warring beneath her tears. Aerion watched her and thought, One day you will understand the full price of your games. And you will pay it.
He turned to leave. His duty here was performed. He had given them princely counsel, wearing a mask of patience, of careful, almost-kindly authority.
"Wait."
Rhaena's voice held him at the threshold. He glanced back.
She was looking at him, her dark violet eyes grave. "Will it… be enough? What the King has done? Will it stop… all of this?"
Aerion held her gaze. Enough? Nothing was ever enough. A crown, a sentence, a severed eye, a wardship. Each thing only opened the way for the next wound. He kept that bitterness sealed behind his teeth and gave her the truth she had earned.
"No," he said. "It's a reprieve. A resetting of the board. The game isn't over. It's just entered a new phase." He saw the fear flicker in her eyes and felt a strange, grudging respect. She was brave enough to hear it. "But the rules have changed. And for now, the other side has lost its best players. Use the time."
He walked out, Ser Steffon falling into step behind him.
The Driftmark library was not as vast as the one in the Red Keep, but it was older, its shelves carved from salt-bleached driftwood, its texts smelling of vellum and a deeper, brine-tinged musk. It was a place of Corlys's world: charts and star maps, logs of voyages, genealogies that stretched back to the Dawn Age with a focus on sea routes and marriage alliances that brought ports.
Aerion crossed to the heavy table by the window and stopped. He did not sit. He stood with his weight on his good leg and fixed his gaze upon the grey churn below. The sea broke itself against the rocks in tireless argument. He preferred that violence.
Movement snagged his eyes, a dark splice against the dull sky. A raven, feathers oiled by mist, rode the wind along the cliff face before banking sharply. It landed on the outer ledge with a wet scrape of claws on stone. It cocked its head, one eye pinning him through the glass.
Aerion stared back.
A stupid, superstitious chill pricked the back of his neck.
"My prince." Ser Steffon's voice was closer than it should have been. He hadn't fetched the books. He'd planted himself near the door. "Shall I summon a maester? For your leg?"
"It's fine."
"You're favoring it."
"I'm thinking on it," Aerion corrected, still looking at the bird. He finally turned. "The books, Ser Steffon. "
This time, the knight moved.
Alone, the air in the room seemed to thicken. Aerion let his shoulders drop.
She wanted you. The idea of you. Fire.
Aerion's jaw tightened. He was not an idea. He was a fact. A fact that drank wildfire in one life and manipulated a dying king in another. A fact currently trapped in a body with a throbbing thigh and a soul that wanted to set the whole whining world ablaze just for some quiet.
Look at you, he thought, contempt sparking hot behind his eyes. A dragon of legend, hiding in a library because your baby brother's bandage makes your stomach clench. A terror of the court, undone by linen and the smell of poppy milk.
The door opened.
Aerion turned. It was not a servant, nor Ser Steffon with his armful of volumes.
It was Rhaenys.
She entered with the quiet authority of a woman who owned the space, which, as consort to its lord, she effectively did. Her gown was the colour of a storm at dusk, her silver hair a severe, plaited crown. She carried no book. Her sharp eyes found him immediately, pinning him to the spot as effectively as any spear.
"Prince Aerion." Her voice held no warmth, none of the softer tones reserved for Baela and Rhaena. This was the Queen Who Never Was, speaking.
Aerion straightened, his mask of composure snapping back into place. "Princess."
She stopped a few paces away, her gaze sweeping over him—the slightly uneven stance, the tense line of his shoulders, the faint smudge of soot, he realized with a flicker of annoyance, probably on his sleeve from Aegon's brazier.
"I understand you have been… settling accounts this morning," she said.
"Someone had to."
"Indeed." She tilted her head. "Your grandsire—Lord Corlys—and I have been doing the same. Though our accounts involve ledgers, ship manifests, and the names of every harbor master and tax collector from here to King's Landing who owed their position to Otto Hightower."
Weariness receded, burned away by a sharper, hungrier flame. Finally, someone speaking a language that doesn't involve sobbing. "And?"
"And it is a long list. Uprooting it will cause rot to surface. Rats will scurry. Small lords will panic, fearing for their positions. The realm's machinery, such as it is, runs on grease and favor. You have just drained the grease and declared the favor treasonous."
"So replace the grease," Aerion said, as if it were simple. Burn out the old, pour in the new.
Rhaenys's lips thinned. "With what? Your mother's love? Your father's charm? Daemon's restraint?" She let the absurdity of the options hang. "Loyalty must be built, or bought. We possess little currency for either. The King's judgment carved out a hollow. Nature abhors a vacuum, Prince Aerion. Something always crawls in to fill it."
Aerion took a step toward her, ignoring the protest in his leg. "Then we fill it. Before the rats decide to fill it with themselves. You said you were drawing a list. Let me see it."
Rhaenys gave him the same assessing look she'd given him in the Hall of the Nine. "Why?"
"Because I can be of use," he said, and it came out with a frustration that was too honest. He tried to sheath it in reason. "I know the court. I know the whispers. I know which of the 'rats' are greedy, which are fearful, and which are just stupid. I can tell you which ones will bend for a promise, which will break for a threat, and which need to be… removed."
"Removed." Rhaenys repeated the word without inflection. "You speak of lives, Prince Aerion. Not pieces on a board."
"They made themselves pieces when they took Hightower gold and spread Hightower lies," Aerion shot back. He heard his own voice and hated the heat under it, hated how it betrayed him. Calm on the outside, wildfire licking the ribs. "If we do not remove them, they will remain splinters in the realm's flesh. Festering. They will look at Aemond, warded here but still a prince, and think the old game is still playable. They will hear Alicent is on a 'pilgrimage' and plot her return. They will wait for the King to die and then test my mother's strength. We must make the cost of testing her… absolute."
He was breathing slightly faster now. He forced his shoulders to stay loose, his hands to stay quiet. Look composed, he told himself. Be useful. Be a knife with a velvet hilt.
Rhaenys was silent for a long time. The only sound was the distant crash of waves and the soft sigh of wind in the chimney. "Your assessment is not entirely wrong. Your grandsire and I have convened. We have had a… productive night."
Aerion's pulse gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. Productive. They had decided things. Without him. He kept his face a mask of polite interest. "I am glad to hear it. The realm will need clear direction."
"It will," Rhaenys agreed. She fell silent for a moment, her gaze was piercing. "Your uncle Aemond. What is your assessment of him now? Not as the boy who maimed your brother. As a piece on the board."
"He has pride," Aerion said, his voice low. "This humiliation will not dull it. It will twist the edge. He will spend every hour here plotting how to reclaim his dignity, to prove he is not diminished. His dragon is an extension of that proof. Separating him from Vermithor is the only wise part of his sentence. It leaves him with nothing but his own resentment to polish."
He needed her to see he was not just a child burning with spite. He was a weapon that could be aimed. He could handle this. He could be of more use than just another grieving brother haunting a sickroom. Rhaenys had to see it. She had to let him do something.
Rhaenys listened, her expression unreadable. "And how would you manage such a piece?"
"You don't manage a blade like that," Aerion replied coldly. "You keep it sheathed, in a locked chest, and you throw the key into the sea. Or you break it over your knee before it can be turned on you." He paused, then added, "Since breaking him is not currently an option, you make the sheath his entire world. You give him meaningless tasks. Let him rot in lessons on tides and tariffs. Let his pride starve on a diet of monotony until it turns in on itself. Make long, grey years his only companions."
The silence that followed was profound. Ser Steffon, behind him, was so still he might have been part of the stone wall.
Rhaenys's eyes held his, and in their depths, he saw a deep, weary recognition. "A harsh prescription."
"The wound was harsh." A splinter of the night's fury—Luke's choked sobs, the stark white of the bandage—threatened to crack his voice. He crushed it.
"It was," Rhaenys acknowledged, then looked him in the eyes. "Your mother believes your place is at her side. That you need to learn the workings of the court from the center."
Naturally. Aerion waited for more.
"I believe," Rhaenys continued, her voice dropping into a confidential tone that excluded even the vigilant Ser Steffon, "that a mind like yours, trained only in the reactive politics of survival and vengeance, is a danger. Fire needs a forge. Power needs a foundation more solid than spite."
She leaned in slightly. "Your grandsire and I have proposed that you remain here, on Driftmark. As an apprenticeship."
Remain here.
Here, on this damp rock, with the resentful ghost of Aemond haunting its halls.
Not in King's Landing. Not at her side.
For a heartbeat, the old wildfire madness roared. It was not Rhaenys before him, but the stern, disappointed face of Maekar Targaryen. The taste of shame, of being too sharp, too strange, too much. He sees it. She sees it. The madness. They all see the crack in the vessel, the heat that warps the steel. Maekar sent his embarrassing son away. Now she will too. She knows what you are, and she is throwing you from the tower before you can leap.
Pressure gathered behind his eyes. His fingers curled, nails biting his palms.
Then his own colder voice cut through the fire. Idiot. Fool. Rhaenyra is not Maekar. He knew this. He must know this. She had held him while he shook. She had fought for him, with him. She would not discard him like a broken tool. If she agreed to this… it was not a dismissal. It could not be. It was ... a strategic repositioning. She believed this would benefit him. She had to.
He forced the wildfire back into its pit. His face smoothed into a blank, polite inquiry. "An apprenticeship," he echoed, his voice stripped of all heat. "In what particular arts?"
"In all the arts that do not burn," Rhaenys said. "The ledger and the ledger-book. The ship's manifest and the harbor tax. The loyalty of sailors and the patience of stone. How to rule lands and people, not just terrify enemies. How to build rather than break." Her gaze was unyielding. "And, perhaps, how to manage a rival under your own roof without resorting to rhymes or threats that every servant can hear."
The last was a direct hit.
Aerion's mind was a whirlwind, calculating angles.
Driftmark was the Velaryon power base, and the gateway to the Narrow Sea. To learn its secrets from Corlys and Rhaenys themselves… that was not nothing. It was the kind of power Otto Hightower had understood. It was the foundation Rhaenys spoke of.
And there was Aemond. A problem left in his lap. A chance to apply his "enforcement". To truly break a blade, as he'd said, through the slow, grinding weight of irrelevance.
He looked up at his grandmother, meeting her assessing stare with one of his own. "And if I were to… consider such a proposal. What would be my first lesson?"
For the first time, something akin to approval flickered in Rhaenys's stern face. "You have already begun it. You assessed a threat. You proposed a method of containment, albeit a brutal one. The next lesson is to understand the cost of that containment. Every guard assigned to watch him, every resource spent to keep him idle, is a resource not spent strengthening your own position. To rule is to allocate scarce resources—gold, time, attention—toward growth, not just toward neutralizing threats."
She paused, letting the lesson sink into the quiet library air. "Your task, should you stay, would be to design a regimen for Prince Aemond that drains his will with the least possible drain on Driftmark's treasury and your grandsire's attention."
Aerion held her gaze for a long moment. Then he gave a single, slow nod. "I would need to review the household accounts. And the duty rosters for the guards."
The ghost of a true smile touched Rhaenys's lips. "They will be made available to you. After you have eaten a proper meal, and after you have reported to your mother. She will have… thoughts on this proposal."
"Understood," Aerion said. He bowed again, slightly deeper this time. Acknowledgment of a teacher, not a grandmother.
Rhaenys studied him a moment longer, then turned to leave. At the doorway, she paused, her hand on the frame. She looked back, her expression unreadable.
"Aerion."
He looked up from the table, the sea at his back.
"The dragon dreams," she said, her tone shifting. "Do they show you a future?"
It was the question he had been waiting for, the one everyone who knew of his "gift" eventually asked with a mix of dread and hunger. What do you see for me? For my enemies? But she was sharper. She asked for him. What did the cursed child see for himself?
His mind, always a step ahead, scrolled through possibilities. He could give her a useful lie. A vision of glory—a dragonrider of unmatched power, a hand of steel beside his mother's throne, a conqueror. He could give her a warning—a shadow of betrayal, a fall from grace, something to keep her vigilant and reliant on his interpretations. He could give her nothing, cloak himself in the mystery of the blood, and watch her frustration.
Yet her eyes held his with a steadiness that refused easy tricks. She would know a lie.
He could give her truth. A truth she would inevitably, beautifully, misunderstand.
He allowed his gaze to grow distant.
"In the future I see for myself," he said, each word deliberate, "I always die in fire."
He paused, letting the starkness of it hang in the library's quiet. Ser Steffon, by the door, had gone still. "The flame is always green."
He saw it—the minute reaction. A flicker in her eyes. A slight, involuntary tightening at the corner of her mouth. Horror, he thought with a savage inner heat. Good. Green. Hightower green. A death tied to their enemies, a grim prophecy of future vengeance. Let her choke on that.
"It is the first dream I ever had," he continued, his gaze turning inward. "I have had it… forever."
He did not lie. The memory of the wildfire was his first memory of this life—the searing, exquisite pain, the screaming, the golden conviction of transformation, the final, agonizing failure. It played behind his eyes each night. It was the taste in his mouth upon waking. It was his first dream.
He looked back at her, his violet eyes clear and empty of all deception. He had handed her a fundamental truth about Aerion Brightflame.
Let her make of that what she would. Let her think it a grim prophecy of a future conflict, a warning from the gods about the Green's vengeance. Let her think it the source of his relentless drive—a boy racing against a fiery death sentence.
It was all those things. It was none of them. It was simply the bedrock upon which he was built.
He looked back at her, his expression one of resigned simplicity. "The path to it… that, the dreams do not show. Only the end. The flame is always green."
Rhaenys watched him. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Her sharp mind, he knew, was turning the revelation over, examining each facet, searching for the hook, the lesson, the political angle. She would find none. Only the stark, personal doom of a boy.
Finally, she nodded. The assessment was complete. The tremor in her hand was gone, but her posture had a new rigidity.
"Then we shall have to ensure," she said, her voice low and carrying the full weight of her resolve, "that your waking path is long, and that any fire you meet is of your own making, and a cleaner color."
With that, she left.
Aerion stood alone again, the sea moving beyond the glass, the echo of green flame licking at the edges of his mind. He had handed her a key forged from his own death, and she would try to use it to lock him into safer choices and cleaner fires.
A grim smile touched his mouth.
Let her try. He had already survived the end she feared. If she wished to save him from it, she could exhaust herself in the effort. It might even make her kinder in the doing.
And kindness, Aerion thought with bitter amusement, could be as useful as cruelty—when it belonged to someone else.
The walk from the library to the family apartments was not long, but the corridors of High Tide seemed to stretch and warp.
Ser Steffon followed at his customary distance. Aerion's thigh answered every step with a steady throb.
An apprenticeship.
A regimen for Aemond.
A cleaner fire.
They had spoken of him in that council they had. Let them think he was being placed. A dragon did not get placed. A dragon chose where it slept.
He found them in the solar adjacent to Luke's sickroom. A small fire burned low. Bread and cheese sat untouched, drying at the edges. Fruit lay bruised where someone had taken a bite and set it down again, appetite lost to worry.
Rhaenyra stood near the hearth, hand on the mantel, face turned three-quarters into the flame. The fire gilded the bones of her cheek, the line of her jaw. When she looked up, the look struck him—relief first, then fear, then love, all stacked into a composure she had learned as a girl and sharpened as a woman. He could name each feeling.
Laenor sat by the door that joined to Luke's chamber. He offered Aerion a strained smile. Jace was pacing by the window, a restless energy vibrating off him. He stopped mid-stride when Aerion came in, his gaze searching.
Daemon, of course, looked at ease. Daemon always looked at ease. The room always adjusted around him. He sat in a high-backed chair, one leg hooked over the arm. In his hand an apple. In the other a small dagger. He peeled the fruit in a long, unbroken ribbon, letting the curl fall in spirals toward the floor. He did not look up at first, but the corner of his mouth held a quiet amusement.
Daemon knew.
"Aerion," Rhaenyra said, her voice softer than he expected. She straightened, leaving the hearth's warmth. "Come in. Sit. How is your leg?"
"It bears weight," Aerion replied. He stayed in the doorway a heartbeat longer than needed. He refused to limp in like a chastened boy. "Luke?"
"Sleeping again. The maester gave him a mild draught. The pain… it comes in waves." Laenor's voice was rough. "He asked for you earlier."
Jace flinched, a fresh wave of guilt and protectiveness crossing his face. "We were here. We're always here."
"I know, sweetling," Rhaenyra murmured, her gaze flicking to Jace before returning to Aerion. "We have much to discuss. The King's judgment was the start, not the end."
"I assumed as much," Aerion said. He moved at last, crossing the room with careful steps and lowering himself into a stiff-backed chair opposite Daemon. He kept his spine straight, refusing to show the relief of being off his feet. Ser Steffon took up a post just outside the open door.
"Your grandsire and grandmother," Rhaenyra began, folding her hands in front of her, "along with Prince Daemon and I, have been formulating the path forward. The realm cannot be left to gasp in the vacuum left by Otto Hightower's arrest."
Daemon made a soft sound, a scoff disguised as a sigh. "Formulating. Such a gentle word for pulling teeth and twisting arms." His eyes flicked to Rhaenyra. "Still—we got it done."
"The first necessity is the Handship," Rhaenyra ignored him with the ease of long practice. "We cannot leave it open for a moment longer than necessary. The council… we are in agreement that Lord Lyman Beesbury should be offered the position."
Aerion's mind instantly retrieved what it stored: Beesbury. Master of Coin. Old. Loyal to the institution of the crown. No teeth, but a long memory. A caretaker. It was a good move. He gave a small nod. "A prudent choice. He will not dream beyond his ledgers."
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed slightly, as if surprised by his immediate approval. "Yes. Precisely. His appointment will signal stability, a return to the… orderly governance of King Jaeherys's later years."
"It will signal that the King is so enfeebled he needs a man who remembers Jaehaerys to remind him how to rule," Daemon drawled, examining the spiral of apple peel dangling from his blade.
"It will signal continuity," Rhaenyra corrected, a sharp edge entering her tone. "And it creates an opportunity. With Lord Beesbury as Hand, I will… involve myself more directly in the daily workings of the small council. I will learn the mechanisms of the realm from the center. The grain reports, the tax rolls, the judicial appointments. The things I was never truly taught."
Aerion listened. It was a good plan. The right plan. His mother, the heir, finally being groomed to rule. He pictured her at Beesbury's elbow, learning patience from an old man while men twice her age watched for weakness./p>
A door was closing. Not on him, perhaps. Between them.
"That is wise," he said again, his voice flat. "You must be the Hand in all but name before you can be the Queen in truth."
Rhaenyra blinked, derailed again, her expression shifting. She had expected quarrel. She had expected pleading. Something she could answer with love.
Instead she had gotten agreement, and it left her with no footing.
Daemon finally glanced up. His eyes caught Aerion's for a moment—amused. He took a bite of apple, slow.
"There is more." She took a step toward him, and her voice softened. "Aerion, my fierce boy … "
Aerion kept his face still.
He looked at her and waited.
Say it. Spit it out. Let's be done with the pageantry.
She saw his stillness and her resolve seemed to waver for a heartbeat. "Your grandsire, Lord Corlys, and Princess Rhaenys… they have made a proposal. For you."
Jace stopped his pacing entirely, his whole body going taut. "What proposal?"
Laenor looked up, his expression pained. Daemon finally glanced over, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
Rhaenyra's gaze never left Aerion's. "They believe… and after consideration, I have come to agree… that you would benefit from time away from the immediate… pressure of King's Landing. Away from the court, and the Red Keep's poison. They have offered to take you on as an… apprentice. Here. On Driftmark."
Jace broke the silence first, his voice cracking. "What? No! You can't—he can't stay here! With him?" He flung a hand in the general direction of wherever Aemond was being kept.
"Jace," Laenor said, a gentle warning.
"No! It's not fair! He's ours! He belongs with us! With Mother, on Dragonstone, or in King's Landing! Not… not stuck here learning about tides and… and fish!" Jace's face was flushed, his eyes bright with angry, betrayed tears. The idea of separation, now, after everything, was clearly a visceral horror to him. Aerion was his strange, terrifying anchor. The thought of that anchor being left behind on this grim island was unthinkable.
Rhaenyra turned to Jace, her expression agonized. "Jacaerys, please. This is not a punishment. It is an opportunity. Your brother… he sees the game too clearly for one so young. He needs to learn the board itself. Not just the pieces. He needs to learn responsibility, stewardship. How to build, not just how to… dismantle."
"He can learn that with us!" Jace insisted, his voice rising. "I need him! Luke needs him! Who's going to… to think of the rhymes, and see the things we don't?" His plea was naked, raw.
Aerion watched them. He kept his face smooth. They could pour their hearts into the room; he would not spill his. He had already heard Rhaenys's lesson. He had already agreed. He had already carved his own terms.
He let the moment stretch until it began to hurt.
Then, when Rhaenyra faced him again—eyes begging, pleading for understanding—he spoke.
"Oh," he said, the single syllable cool and clear. "I know."
Silence.
Rhaenyra stared. "You… know?"
Aerion nodded once. "Princess Rhaenys informed me in the library. She outlined the rationale. The necessity of learning the foundations. The management of rival pieces under one's own roof. It was… sound."
Shock moved through them. Rhaenyra looked wrong-footed. She had braced herself for a fight, for tears, for that hard, ugly fury he had shown in the hall. She had not prepared for him to accept it before she finished speaking.
Daemon's mouth curled, pleased in a way that made Aerion's skin itch. "Outmaneuvered," he purred, biting into his apple. "I did try to tell you. He's a sly little creature."
Laenor's stare fixed on Aerion, unsettled. "She… she just told you? And you… agreed?"
"I weighed it," Aerion corrected. He shifted in his chair, careful with his leg, careful with the weakness of showing any care at all. "Driftmark is the seat I will one day inherit. Understanding its wealth, its fleet, its people, from the ground up is not a waste of time. It is also," he added, his gaze sliding to Jace, who looked utterly bewildered, "a position of strength. We will have a loyal base of power separate from, but allied with, the Iron Throne. A second pillar. If the court turns foul again, you won't have all your weight balanced on one beam."
Jace's anger faltered, confusion taking its place. "But… you'd be here. Alone. With him."
Aerion's mouth pulled into something that did not deserve to be called a smile. "Alone?" He looked at the room, then back at Rhaenyra, and let the word carry its own judgment. "No."
He turned fully to his mother. His voice took on a steadier edge. "My agreement is conditional."
Rhaenyra, still off-balance, nodded slowly. "Name them."
"First," Aerion said, holding up a finger. "Ser Steffon Darklyn remains as my personal shield. His loyalty is to me, not to the Kingsguard's rotation. He stays."
"That can be arranged," Rhaenyra said, relief softening her features. A simple request. She could grant this.
"Second." Aerion's voice stayed level. "Prince Lucerys leaves Driftmark with you. With Father. With Jacaerys. When you go, he goes."
The room tightened around the words. Aerion kept his face smooth anyway.
Laenor found his voice, weary. "The King ordered Luke to remain. As part of Aemond's… penance."
Aerion's mouth twitched. A punishment that uses my brother as a nail. Out loud, he gave them reason, polished and sharp. "Luke is injured. He needs Dragonstone. He needs to be close to his dragon. Distance from this house's… lesson."
Rhaenyra's gaze searched him, looking for the child beneath the argument. Aerion held her off with composure, because if she saw the truth—that he could still smell blood when he closed his eyes—she would try to soothe him, and soothing made him feel murderous.
Rhaenyra and Laenor exchanged a look. After a moment, Rhaenyra nodded again, slower. "Very well."
Aerion didn't let himself breathe. He didn't let them have the satisfaction of thinking they'd granted mercy. "There is no 'very well' with hidden caveats," he said, voice steady as stone. "It is yes, or it is no."
Daemon gave a low chuckle, which made Aerion want to throw something at his face. "Gods, he even negotiates like a miserly Pentoshi magister. I'm almost proud."
Rhaenyra shot him a quelling glance and he leaned back as if he'd been tugged by an invisible leash. She looked back at Aerion. "Very well. I will speak with the King."
"Third," Aerion continued, a new edge entering his voice. This was the crucial one. "After the vow renewal in King's Landing—after every lord in Westeros has bent the knee to you anew—Father," he looked at Laenor, "will come here. To Driftmark. To stay with me."
Laenor's breath caught. He looked from Aerion to Rhaenyra, his face a canvas of surprise and dawning, painful understanding.
"Aerion…" Laenor began, his voice thick.
"It is not a request born of sentiment," Aerion lied smoothly, cutting him off. He couldn't say the real reason. Instead, he said, "You are the Lord of the Tides's heir. Your seat is here. Your firstborn," a gesture to Jace, "will be with the Princess, learning the realm. Your second," a point at his own chest, "will be learning the ways of this one. It is fitting that you be here to oversee both. To bridge the gap. To ensure that the lessons of the sea inform the strategies of the throne, and vice versa."
Rhaenyra was staring at him, her eyes searching his for the truth behind the logic. She saw only steely resolve. "Your father's place is at my side," she said, but the protest was weak. How could she, who fought so hard for her sons' legitimacy, deny a request that bolstered that very legitimacy?
"His first duty is to his house," Aerion countered. "And his house needs its lord at its heart, especially now, with a Hightower prince as a ward. His presence will be a statement. The Velaryons are not merely allies; they are the foundation. He must be seen ruling here."
Laenor was looking at Aerion with an expression of such profound, wounded gratitude that it was almost uncomfortable. He saw the strategic sense, yes. But he also heard, or thought he heard, the son who wanted his father nearby. The son who, despite everything, preferred his company. It was a misreading, but a useful one.
"I… I would be honored," Laenor said, his voice rough. He looked at Rhaenyra. "The boy is right, in a way. Jace will have you, and Daemon." He said the name with a careful neutrality. "Luke will need us both, but he can travel. Aerion… should not be left to navigate my parents alone. Nor Aemond."
Daemon's smile slipped. Not fully, but enough to show teeth beneath it. His eyes sharpened on Aerion, the amusement thinning into appraisal. He had not expected that move. Aerion felt a mean satisfaction bloom and kept his face blank.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she looked at Laenor, a world of shared history and unspoken compromises in her gaze. Then she looked at Aerion, her fierce, impossible boy.
"Is that all?" she asked quietly.
"For now," Aerion said. He didn't voice the final condition that sat in his heart: If I ever decide this cage is not to my liking, I have Silverwing. And Silverwing does not ask for your permission to leave. And Ser Harwin will take me in if I need to go.
"Then we are agreed," Rhaenyra said, the words a surrender and a blessing all at once. She walked forward and crouched before his chair, putting them at eye level. She reached out and took his hands in hers. "You will learn, my love. You will learn the weight of a ship and the value of a harbor. You will learn patience. And you will write to me. Every week."
"I will," he said, because it was easier than arguing.
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering. "My fierce, clever boy. You are my pride."
The moment was too intimate, too soft. Aerion tolerated it, his hands lying still in hers. When she pulled back, he saw her eyes were shiny.
Jace finally broke from his frozen stance. He marched over, his face set. "If he's staying, then I'm staying too. For a while. Until he's settled. Luke can come when he's better. We're not leaving him here alone."
Aerion looked at Jace, at his brother's stubborn, fearful, loyal face. Something that wasn't entirely annoyance flickered in the cold pit of his stomach. "Your place is with Mother," he said, but the edge was dull.
"You are the heir. The firstborn. Your place is beside her, learning to be a king. My place," he gestured vaguely at the stone walls around them, "is here, learning to be a lord. To be the rock you can rely on when you sit that ugly chair. Do you understand?"
Jace sniffed, his breath hitching. He searched Aerion's face, looking for the lie, the trick. He found only that familiar, unblinking certainty. "You'll write?" he asked, his voice small and pathetic.
"Ravens exist," Aerion said, the barest hint of dryness returning to his tone. "And I will visit. It is a short flight for Silverwing."
Jace swallowed hard and gave a miserable nod. He understood, even if he hated it.
Daemon uncoiled himself from his chair, tossing the apple core into the fire where it hissed. "Touching. A family reunion on a damp rock. Meanwhile, the rest of us have a realm to secure." He walked over to Rhaenyra, his presence immediately altering the atmosphere, making it charged, dangerous. "You have your heir, your spare, and your wildfire all neatly parceled out, niece. Don't forget the wolves still at the door."
"I am not forgetting anything, Daemon," Rhaenyra said, standing to face him, her momentary softness hardening once more into regal resolve.
"See that you don't." Daemon's gaze slid to Aerion. "As for you, apprentice. Try not to burn down the shipyards while you're learning to count coppers."
Aerion met his look evenly. "I'll confine my fires to the appropriate hearths, uncle."
Daemon barked a laugh, then with a last, unreadable glance at Rhaenyra, he strolled out of the solar, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Aerion watched the doorway a moment too long. He could still feel Daemon's attention lingering there, a handprint on the room. He thinks he's the only dragon in any sky, Aerion thought.
Laenor let out a breath he had been holding. Jace dropped into the chair beside Aerion as though his bones had gone loose. The brave set of his jaw cracked; exhaustion spilled through. He leaned forward with his hands clasped, staring at nothing.
Rhaenyra kept her gaze on the empty doorway for another heartbeat, then turned back to her sons. The Princess returned, all iron and measured voice.
"He speaks truth in his own ugly way," she said. "We won today, but victory rots when it's left unattended." She drew in a breath, steadying herself. "The oath renewal must be… unmistakable. Every lord who wavered must stand before me and speak my name aloud. They must see my line beside me. They must see strength."
Her eyes moved from Jace to Aerion. "You will both stand with me when they swear. The realm will look upon Rhaenyra Targaryen and her trueborn sons, and they will understand what it costs to deny us."
Jace nodded, his jaw set with determination. Aerion dipped his chin. He understood pageantry.
"For now," Rhaenyra said, her voice softening again, "rest. Be with Luke. Let this… new path settle." She looked at Aerion, her expression a complex tapestry of love, fear, and hope. "You have chosen wisely, Aerion. I believe that."
He didn't answer.
Laenor moved to the sideboard and poured four cups of watered wine. He brought one to Jace, one to Aerion, and kept one for himself, leaving the last for Rhaenyra. He raised his cup, his hand trembling slightly.
"To family," Laenor said, his voice thick. "However strange and terrifying it may be."
Jace managed a weak smile and clinked his cup against his father's. Aerion looked at the cup in his hand, then slowly, deliberately, lifted it and touched it to Laenor's with a soft clink.
"To family," Jace echoed.
Aerion said nothing. He took a sip. The wine was sour on his tongue, but the gesture was done. The pact was sealed. He was staying.
Rhaenyra watched him with a look too open. The firelight caught the wet shine at her lash line.
"I will miss you," she said. The words broke a little on the end. "Every day."
Aerion's throat tightened.
"I know," he said.
Later, after Laenor had gone to sit with Luke and Jace had drifted into a doze by the fire, Aerion remained awake in his stiff chair. He looked out the window at the darkening sea, the first stars pricking the violet-grey sky.
He watched them and felt the old pull of green flame behind his eyes. Driftmark would be his forge, Rhaenys had said. Rhaenyra called it wisdom. Daemon called it ledgers.
Aerion called it a cage with a door he would open when he pleased.
In his mind, he began drafting another letter to Harwin Strong.
Ser Harwin,
The balance has shifted.
I am to remain on Driftmark as an apprentice to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. It is a strategic posting. Father will join me here after the vow renewal in King's Landing. You should ensure your position at Harrenhal is secure. Strengthen your ties to the Riverlords who are loyal to my mother.
And remember your promise. Stay away from fire.
The morning of departure rose without a sun. Mist crept in from the Narrow Sea and clung to High Tide. It was a quiet, muffled day, appropriate for endings.
In the courtyard men loaded chests and crates onto wagons that would ferry them down to the waiting ships at the dock. Horses stamped, their breath pluming in the chill. The Velaryon household moved with efficient solemnity.
Two ships waited in the mist-shrouded harbor below: the grand royal vessel Queen Alyssa, her sails furled against the damp, and the sleek, familiar form of the Seahorse, the Velaryon ship that would carry Rhaenyra's household to Dragonstone.
King Viserys was a bundle of furs and velvet propped in a wheeled litter, his face the color of old parchment. Grand Maester Orwyle fluttered at his side like a nervous moth, adjusting a blanket, checking a pulse. The crown still kept his head upright. His eyes, milky and exhausted, tracked the movements of his family as they assembled to bid him farewell.
Beside him, incongruously neat, stood Aegon. He was clean, his silver hair brushed to a shine and tied back simply. He wore a dark blue tunic, unadorned, and a cloak of grey wool against the mist. He stood very still, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the middle distance where the mist swallowed the sea. He did not fidget. He did not slouch. He looked, for the first time Aerion could remember, like someone had told him what a prince was supposed to look like and he was, for this moment at least, trying it on. The absence of wine-smell was almost jarring. So he can do it, Aerion thought, meanly. He just never cared to.
Helaena stood a little apart from her brother, her own stillness of a different kind. She was wrapped in a soft dove-grey cloak, her hands tucked into its folds. Her eyes were wide and watchful, taking in the mist, the damp cobbles, the way the gulls cried like lost things overhead. She looked present, which was somehow more unsettling. Presence sat strangely on her. Aerion disliked it. It meant she might see him.
Aerion stood with his mother, his father, Jace, and a still-pale but upright Luke, whose good eye was wide with a mixture of relief and anxiety. Luke leaned against Jace, who had an arm around his shoulders in a careful, protective grip. Laenor's face was a mask of strained courtesy, his eyes shadowed. Rhaenyra was a pillar of black, her expression composed, but her hand, where it rested on Luke's other shoulder, was white-knuckled.
Daemon leaned against a stone archway, already in riding leathers, Dark Sister's hilt rising over his shoulder. He watched with an expression of detached amusement. He had announced he would follow on Caraxes once the royal party was underway. "The air on dragonback is clearer," he'd said, his gaze sliding to Rhaenyra. "I'll see the rats into their cages in King's Landing and have the Tower of the Hand aired out by the time you arrive." He was giving her space, or claiming his own. With Daemon, it was always both.
Corlys and Rhaenys stood as the lords of the hall, seeing their kingly guest off. Rhaenys's gaze was sharp, missing nothing. Corlys's posture was one of grim satisfaction.
The absences spoke louder than any goodbye. Otto and Alicent Hightower had already been boarded onto the Queen Alyssa in two different locked cabins. Ser Criston Cole stood behind Aegon and Helaena, white cloak bright against the damp, face set into a hard stillness. He remained by the King's order—guarding the royal children home.
Aemond was nowhere to be seen. His goodbye, such as it was, had been a private, stiff affair with his father and siblings.
"Come, then," Viserys's voice rasped. He beckoned with a trembling hand. "Let us not draw this out. The damp is… disagreeable."
They moved forward in the awkward dance of farewell.
Rhaenyra went first, bending to kiss her father's cheek. "Safe journey, Father. We will prepare the household on Dragonstone and join you in King's Landing in a few days."
Viserys's hand came up, patting her arm with affection. "Yes. Yes. You have much to do. Dragonstone first. Assemble your household. Come to the city as the Princess of Dragonstone should. We have… we have much to set right." His eyes, for a moment, cleared slightly, finding hers with a desperate, proud intensity. "You did well, Rhaenyra."
It was vague praise, for enduring, for not breaking. But Rhaenyra accepted it with a dip of her head, her throat working. "Thank you, Father."
Laenor offered a stiff bow. "Your Grace."
Viserys's gaze slid over him, a flicker of something complex—gratitude for the performance in the hall, perhaps, or pity for the role he played. "Ser Laenor. Look after them."
"Always, Your Grace."
Jace stepped forward next, bowing deeply. "Grandsire."
"Jacaerys," Viserys said, and a real warmth touched his ruined voice. "My brave boy. Your brother leans on you. Be his strength." His eyes drifted to Luke. "And be gentle with him."
Jace, earnest to a fault, nodded so hard his hair fell into his eyes. "I will, I swear it."
Luke's turn was hardest. He shuffled forward, his steps still tentative. He tried to bow, but the motion was lopsided, awkward with his new lack of depth. Viserys's breath hitched. He reached out, not to Luke's face, but to his hand, and clasped it between both of his own. They were two broken things holding on.
"Lucerys," the King whispered. "My sweet boy. The sea air will heal you. And you have your dragon. Remember that. A dragon is not less for having one fierce eye. It sees what matters."
It was a clumsy comfort, but it was meant. Luke's good eye filled with tears, but he blinked them back fiercely, giving a jerky nod. "Thank you, Grandsire."
Then it was Aerion's turn.
He stepped forward, the dutiful mask already in place: solemn eyes, respectful dip of the chin, hands clasped neatly before him. He bowed, perfectly measured. "Your Grace. I wish you calm seas and a swift journey."
Viserys studied him with that same weary, sharp look from the morning meal. Did it hold? the gaze seemed to say. Did my spine last? It was a cruel thing, asking a child to confirm the King's courage.
"Aerion," Viserys said. His voice dropped, becoming almost confidential. "You will remain here. With your grandsire. And the Princess Rhaenys."
"Yes, Your Grace," Aerion said, his tone flat, agreeable. "Princess Rhaenys has… spoken to me of the value of an education in the foundations of the realm. I am grateful for the opportunity." The words were ash in his mouth, but they were the correct ashes.
Viserys's milky eyes searched his face. He found only polished calm. For a moment, he seemed almost disappointed. Then he gave a slow, weary nod.
"Good. Learn from them. They are… they are what kept this kingdom afloat while I…" He trailed off, his gaze going distant. He rallied, focusing on Aerion with sudden intensity. "The dreams. You will write to me. Of any… any new visions. Do you understand? No matter how small."
"Of course, Your Grace," Aerion lied smoothly. "I will send word of anything of import."
Satisfied, or too tired to probe further, Viserys patted his hand where it rested on the litter's edge. "My bright boy," he murmured. His attention slid away to Orwyle's fussing. The audience ended.
Aerion stepped back without letting the mask slip. Across the yard, Daemon caught his eye and gave a slow blink—mockery, or a private signal that meant whatever Daemon wanted it to mean. Aerion held the stare until his uncle looked away first.
The focus shifted then, from the king to the other departing princes. The atmosphere grew less formal, more awkward. Jace and Luke murmured stiff farewells to Aegon and Helaena, a mumbled exchange of "safe journey" and "take care" that meant nothing and everything. Laenor offered Aegon a nod that was almost sympathetic, and Helaena a gentle, "Be well, princess."
Then Aerion was pushed forward again, placed where everyone could watch his face for cracks.
Helaena waited for him first. She looked up, and her clear, strange eyes held his without blinking. Aerion felt the scrape of it under his skin. He hated being seen by people who did not blink.
"Aunt," he said, the word feeling odd.
"The fly has left the web," she announced, her voice a soft, singsong ripple in the yard's noise. "But the web remembers the shape of the struggle. It's a hole now. A nothing-shape."
Aerion looked down at her. He had braced for more talk of beetles or whispering moths. This was different. This was almost… coherent. And sad. "Holes can be mended," he said, surprising himself with the attempt.
"Not this one," Helaena said with serene certainty. "Some holes are meant to be. They let the light through different." She reached out for his hand. Her fingers were cool and dry as they closed around his. The gesture was so simple, so devoid of courtly affectation, that Aerion froze, unsure how to reclaim his hand without causing a scene.
"You're staying in the web," she stated, studying their joined hands. "In the sticky part. With the other angry fly."
"Aemond's a wasp," Aerion corrected, his voice stiff. "Not a fly."
Helaena smiled as though he'd said something amusing. "Wasps build paper houses. They buzz very loudly. But winter comes for them too." She looked up, her gaze clearing for a startling moment, sharp and direct. "Don't let the buzzing fill up your own house, Aerion. It's a small sound, in the end. And you have better sounds to heed. "
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then released it and turned away. Aerion watched her go, his hand tingling where she'd touched it.
He disliked the feeling. He disliked her kindness.
He was still sorting that irritation into a neat box when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Aegon standing there, hands shoved into his cloak pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. He looked… nervous. And sober.
The orderly hair, the clean clothes, the clear, if tired, eyes. He smelled of soap and the sea mist.
"So," Aegon said, his voice low. "You're really staying here. In the damp."
"It appears so," Aerion replied.
Aegon shook his head, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. It wasn't his usual mocking grin. This was smaller, more genuine. "Seven hells. And I thought I was getting the shit duty, trailing back to that stuffy city to watch them lock Mother away in a sept and pretend it's holy." He let out a short breath. "At least I have Sunfyre. You're stuck here with him." He didn't need to name Aemond. "Poor you. Now I'll only have his charming company on feast days, and you get him all to yourself."
The joke was weak, but the attempt was there. An offering.
Aerion studied him. "You look… different."
Aegon's cheeks flushed, a sudden, surprising wash of pink. He looked away, scuffing his boot on a damp cobble. "Well. One must make an effort. For the king. For the… departure." He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and missing. "Can't have the realm's princes looking like they slept in a brewery, can we? Even the disappointing ones."
Aerion's mind, always categorizing, filed the blush away as a point of unexpected vulnerability. He decided to test it. He tilted his head, letting his gaze sweep over Aegon from head to toe in an obvious, assessing look.
"You almost look like a prince," Aerion said, his tone deliberately bland, devoid of mockery.
Aegon's blush deepened, spreading to the tips of his ears. He looked mortified, and then, oddly, pleased. He ducked his head, a silver strand of hair falling free of its tie. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Aerion felt a strange pang. Aegon seemed a particularly clumsy, fragile animal trying to stand on legs it had never used. He had no frame of reference for this Aegon—sober, trying. It was unnerving.
Aerion did not like how that thought softened anything in him.
"Don't fall off Sunfyre," Aerion said finally, falling back on their old, reliable script.
That got a real, if shaky, smile. "I won't. And you… try not to drown Aemond in a tide pool. However tempting it may be." Aegon's smile faded. He looked at Aerion, his eyes serious. "He'll hate you more for this, you know. Being left here, under your family's thumb. It'll fester."
"I'm counting on it," Aerion said, cold and simple.
Aegon stared at him for a long moment, then huffed a laugh that was mostly air. "Of course you are." He shifted his weight, looking suddenly awkward again. "Well. I suppose… I'll see you in King's Landing. In a moon or two. For the… oath thing."
"The renewal of fealty to the Crown Princess," Aerion supplied, crisply. "Yes."
"Right. That." Aegon nodded. He seemed to want to say something else, his mouth working. Finally, he just stuck out his hand.
Aerion looked at the offered hand, then back at Aegon's flushed, earnest face.
He thought of Helaena's cool fingers. Of his mother's white knuckles on Luke's shoulder. He thought of how many hands in this yard wanted to hold him, or bind him, or use him. Then he took Aegon's hand.
Aegon's grip came firm. Dry palm.
"Safe journey, Uncle," Aerion said.
"Don't let the ledgers bore you to death, Nephew," Aegon replied, and there was a ghost of his old, teasing lilt in it, but softer.
He released Aerion's hand, gave one last, unreadable look, then turned and walked towards the litter where Helaena was already seated, serene and watching the mist. He climbed in beside his sister without looking back.
The final goodbyes were a blur. The King's litter was lifted by strong guards. The small procession—a few wheelhouses for the royal children, wagons of belongings, a contingent of Velaryon guards and Kingsguard—began to move, winding its way down the slick stone path towards the docks, where the Queen Alyssa waited, its sails furled, a dark shape in the mist.
Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jace, and Luke stood watching until the last cart vanished into the grey. Daemon pushed off from his archway and sauntered over to Rhaenyra. He leaned close, his voice for her ears alone, but Aerion, standing just behind, caught the low murmur.
"I'll see the rats into their cages in King's Landing," Daemon said, his eyes on the ship. "Then Caraxes and I will pay a visit to a few holdfasts in the Crownlands. Remind some forgetful lords where the wind is blowing from." He glanced down at her, a smirk touching his lips. His hand came up to the necklace made of Valyrian steel at her throat—a gift from him, Aerion knew. He adjusted it minutely, his thumb stroking the ruby red crystal. "I'll be in the city ahead of you. Try not to miss me too keenly."
Rhaenyra's gaze remained on the mist-shrouded ship, but her chin lifted imperceptibly under his touch. "Try not to start any wars before I arrive."
"Only little ones," he promised, his tone light. His gaze flicked past her to Aerion for a moment.
Do not kill that boy.
The words surfaced in Aerion's mind, clear and cold as the previous day's sea air. The memory unfolded behind his eyes.
The afternoon before the departure, the corridors of High Tide were a river of muted activity. Aerion walked with a purpose that was mostly spite, his leg a dull, accusing ache with every step. Daemon fell into stride beside him as if they'd agreed to meet, his pace a lazy match for Aerion's furious stomp.
"I'll be leaving Baela and Rhaena here," Daemon said, conversational. "With their grandsire. And grandmother."
Aerion's stride hitched for a fraction of a second. He didn't look at Daemon. "Why."
"Corlys and Rhaenys are their blood. It's fitting. And it means you'll have them here." A pause, deliberately light. "Along with your other… guest."
Aerion stopped and turned his head, a venomous glare. "I don't want them."
Daemon's smile was a sharp thing. "I am not in the business of giving you what you want, nephew. I'm going to be busy in King's Landing. I can't mind them."
"Then let them go with my mother," Aerion snapped, resuming his walk faster.
"Rhaenyra is not my wife," Daemon pointed out, his tone deceptively mild. "I can't just leave my daughters with her."
Aerion whirled on him, the fury bright and immediate in his violet eyes. "You wish to," he accused.
Daemon's hand shot out, not to strike, but to land heavily on Aerion's shoulder, stopping him in front of a narrow window that overlooked the churning grey sea. The contact was firm.
"You will not be cruel to them," Daemon said, his voice dropping from its lazy cadence into something flatter, harder. "They are your allies here. Do not forget that."
Aerion tried to shrug off the grip, but it was like trying to shift stone. "I don't need allies. I'll be busy."
"You'll be a ward under Rhaenys's thumb," Daemon corrected, his gaze boring into the side of Aerion's face. "I wasn't in favour of this… apprenticeship. But since you've decided to stay, you will listen to her. You will learn."
"Don't try to advise me," Aerion snarled, trying to twist away. "You're not my father. I already have one too many of them."
In one smooth motion, Daemon's hands gripped Aerion under the armpits, and hoisted him off the ground. Aerion gave a grunt of surprise, legs kicking air, as Daemon deposited him squarely on the deep stone ledge of the window. The sudden elevation brought them eye-to-eye. Down the corridor, a guard turned, gave them an odd look, and then pointedly looked away.
"Look at me," Daemon made the world small enough that Aerion had to.
Aerion glared, breathing hard through his nose. "What?"
"Do not kill that boy."
Aerion's jaw tightened. He looked away, out at the sea. "I have no intention—"
"Do not kill him, Aerion," Daemon cut across him. "His debt is not to you. It is to Lucerys. When Lucerys is old enough, and if he wishes it, that will be his right. His vengeance. Not yours. And your mother will not start her reign with you wearing kinslaying on your hands."
The injustice of it flared white-hot behind Aerion's eyes. He snapped his gaze back. "He owes a debt to me as well."
Daemon held his stare, unwavering. After a moment, he gave a single, slow nod. "You can punish him. While he is here, under your eye, in your domain. You can make his life a long, grey misery. I expect you will. But you will not kill him. His debt to you is not greater than his debt to Lucerys."
The unspoken law of it hung between them. Aerion's glare didn't soften, but he held Daemon's eyes. Finally, after a tension that seemed to still the very air in the corridor, he gave a nod of acquiescence.
Daemon mirrored the nod. Then his expression shifted, the sternness giving way to something almost… sympathetic. He leaned in a fraction closer.
"This," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the distant crash of waves, "will not bring you any joy. Staying here. Watching ledgers gather dust. Pinching Aemond like a nursemaid disciplining a brat. You and I…" He glanced out the window, towards the unseen horizon. "We are not made for this. For ledgers and laws and slow, careful punishments."
He looked back, and in his eyes was a grim kinship.
"Dragons breathe fire. They do not plant trees."
Now, on the misty quay, Daemon considered him with that familiar blend of appraisal and amusement. He said nothing aloud. The look was enough.
Then he was striding away, his black cloak blending into the mist, heading for the cliff path that led to the cave where Caraxes was lodged.
And then it was just them, and the waiting Seahorse.
Rhaenyra came to stand beside Aerion, slipping her arm through his. "They seemed… calm," she murmured.
"They're in shock," Aerion corrected, his voice low. "The cage is open, and they don't know how to fly. Only where to perch." He paused. "Aegon almost looked like he could be something. If he wanted to be."
Rhaenyra glanced at him, her expression complex. "And you? Are you in shock?"
He met her eyes. "No," he said, and it was the truth. The shock was gone. "I have duties."
A small smile touched Rhaenyra's lips. "Of course you do." Her hand tightened on his arm, a mother's grip that fought to become a chain. "Aerion… this is not punishment. You must know that."
"I know," he said. He knew what it was. A move. A wise move. It still felt like being set aside.
"Rhaenys is the finest mind in the realm," Rhaenyra pressed, as if trying to convince herself. "And Lord Corlys… there is no better lord to learn from. The power of the throne rests on ships and trade as much as on dragons. This is a gift."
"It is a tool," Aerion amended. "I will learn its uses."
She searched his face, looking for the hurt, the anger she expected. She found only a chilling practicality. It seemed to worry her more than any tantrum would have. "Write to me. Every week. Tell me of these lessons."
"I will," Aerion vowed.
Down at the docks, calls rose and fell. The Queen Alyssa's sails—three heads on field of black—took the damp wind. The hull shifted, slow and ponderous, sliding into the channel until the mist began to swallow it. A ghost ship carrying a ghost court.
Rhaenyra released Aerion's arm and pulled him into a swift, fierce embrace. Her cheek pressed to his hair; her grip held hard enough to bruise if she'd been stronger. "My fierce, impossible boy," she breathed. "Learn well. But don't forget who you are."
Who am I? A prince with fire in his bones and no room to spill it.
He kept all of it behind his teeth. He bowed his head and gave her the words a son should give.
"Safe journey, Mother."
She nodded. Tears shone and stayed in place. Then she turned away and stepped into command, calling orders for the Seahorse, forcing the yard to move around her will.
Laenor lingered a moment longer. He looked tired, and sad, and proud. "You did well today," he said to Aerion, the words simple and heartfelt. "With the goodbyes. It was… well done." He hesitated, then added, "I'll write. From Dragonstone. And from King's Landing. Before you know it, I will be back."
Aerion inclined his head, a small, stiff motion.
Laenor's hand hovered—almost a touch to Aerion's shoulder—then thought better of it. He knew Aerion disliked it. He turned and went.
He went straight to Luke. Gently, he pried his son from Jace's careful hold. "Come, lad," he murmured, his voice warm against the damp chill. "Let's get you settled where you can see the waves." He lifted Luke into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Luke's small hand fisted in Laenor's sea-green tunic.
From his new perch, Luke looked down at Aerion. He managed a small, wobbly wave, his good eye wide.
Jace crossed the wet stones in two quick steps and caught Aerion in a hug that had no polish to it—arms tight, shoulders rigid, the kind of grip that said mine. Aerion went still.
Jace pulled back only enough to press his forehead against Aerion's. For a heartbeat they breathed the same cold, briny air. Jace's voice dropped to a whisper.
"If you don't want to stay," he said, words stumbling over urgency, "you only need to take Silverwing. Just—just fly to us. Dragonstone. King's Landing. Wherever we are. You hear me?"
Aerion's throat tightened at the softness he refused to name. His mind spat a bitter laugh at him—Look at you, pretending you're carved from stone while your brother offers you a door. He kept his face blank anyway, kept his eyes steady, let none of the heat show.
He nodded once.
Jace's arms squeezed again, hard enough to bruise if Aerion had been softer. Then he let go and stepped back, blinking fast.
Then they were moving. Rhaenyra cast one final, lingering look at Aerion—a look that held a thousand unsaid encouragements, and a mother's love, sharp as a blade. She touched her fingertips to her lips, then turned and followed Laenor and Luke toward the waiting ship, her black skirts whispering over the wet stones.
Jace fell into step behind her, a small, straight-backed shadow.
Aerion stood perfectly still as the mist swallowed them: first Laenor's broad back, then the top of Luke's dark head, then Rhaenyra's silver hair, and finally Jace's rigid shoulders. The sounds of their departure faded into the pervasive sigh of the sea.
And then he was alone. Or nearly so.
He stood in the center of the courtyard with Corlys a solid, watchful presence at his right shoulder, and Rhaenys a more evaluating one at his left.
Corlys cleared his throat. "Well," he rumbled. "That's that."
Rhaenys looked at him, her expression unreadable. "The ledger for the guard rotations is on my desk in the study. The one with the green binding. You may begin there. I will join you shortly to discuss your… proposals for resource allocation."
No sentiment. Just the next task. Relief crawled through Aerion.
"Yes, Princess," Aerion said. He bowed, first to Corlys, then to her, and turned, walking back into High Tide.
The great doors closed behind him, shutting out the mist and the sea and the ghosts of the departed. The hall within was dim, lit by flickering torches that fought the grey daylight.
He did not go to the study immediately. Instead, he climbed instead, step by step, leg aching with each rise. He passed the closed door that had held Luke and Jace. He passed his mother's rooms. He kept going until he found the narrow winding stair that led to the little balcony over the cliff.
He pushed the door open. Mist rushed in, clinging to his hair and lashes.
Aerion gripped the stone balustrade until his knuckles paled. He breathed in salt and damp and felt something in him strain against the ribs that held it.
He let the mask loosen—only here, only where no one could steal the sight of it.
His breath came out in a sharp, shuddering gasp that was almost a sob, but there were no tears. His chest locked tight around too many hungers: fury that his mother had turned away, satisfaction at the game placed in his hands, a raw, stupid ache where Luke's wave had landed and Jace's forehead had pressed, a bizarre, aching hollow where Aegon's blush and Helaena's hand-hold resided, and under it all, the ever-present, green-tinged memory of fire.
Notes:
guys.
GUYS.
I don't know what to tell you. I sat down to write a funny bit about a crazy little guy being reborn into the dance and terrorizing the greens with pigeons and nursery rhymes. It was meant to be silly.
Instead I have spent the last month in the deepest, most unhinged psychological and emotional trench warfare with this stupid-ass family.
How did we get here. HOW. One minute Aerion is giving Alicent a beetle box, the next minute Viserys is carving out the rot with a rusty spoon and I'm crying at 2 AM because Aegon just wants to fly his pretty dragon and Jace is trying so hard to be a good son, and HELAENA, MY WEIRD LITTLE BUG GIRL.
And Aerion. My little psycho. my beautiful, toxic, wildfire-soaked gremlin. You were supposed to be funny. You were supposed to be a vessel for crack. But you looked at Luke's bandage and your tiny, evil heart broke, and now MINE IS BROKEN TOO.
This stupid-ass family has me in ACTUAL SHAMBLES. I'm haunting my own Google doc.
I did not sign up for this level of emotional investment. I blame George R.R. Martin for creating this horrible, beautiful world and then leaving the windows open so I could crawl in and make everything worse (and somehow, also a little better? maybe?).
Thank you for reading this descent into madness. Thank you for the comments that make me cackle and the ones that make me clutch my chest. You are all enablers of the highest order and i love you for it.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go stare at a wall and think about what Aerion is going to do to Aemond now that they're roommates. Pray for me. (Pray for Aemond?)
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