Three years of constant back and forth from the Vale was a thought Rhaenyra never had until she arrived with Aerion the first time around.
The skies of the Vale felt colder despite the long summer that the Seven Kingdoms had been experiencing over the years, winter has yet to come and yet there was a comfort that the princess could not describe despite being mounted on her dragon.
The loud screech of the she-dragon Silverwing as she and her rider flew higher, there was a genuine joy in Aerion's voice whenever they went flying. As if he had experience the very escape that they Targaryens only grew to love the moment they take their first flight — the tranquility of the divine peace that no other than their blood have the privilege to receive so long as they were born on the right side of the coin, for not every Targaryen spawn had the right to bond with beasts as magnificent as their dragon counterparts.
"Dohaerās, Silveregon." One of the dragonkeepers they brought from the capital heeded the moment that the young lordling of Runestone climbed down from his saddle, his hand gently caressing the silver scales of his companion.
"Dramatic, isn't she?" Rhaenyra couldn't help but let out a laugh as she removed her riding gloves after dismounting from Syrax.
"She's become even more so since I brought her out to the Vale more often," Aerion responded in their ancient tongue. Runestone had no dragonpit to house two she-dragons; they rest beneath the caverns of the ancient seat of the Bronze kings — surprisingly warm upon entrance — and the more the dragons made it their temporary home, the more the Lords around the Vale became curious if the future Lord of Runestone would house his future Targaryen wife with a seat fit for a Bronze King now that the king has sired a son named Aegon.
Silverwing screeched, not wanting to go back inside the cavern.
"Mārogat, Silveregon," Aerion responded to the beast's whines in high valyrian, as the dramatic beast would nudge his hand with her head, "we have tomorrow to touch the skies again."
The old dragon gave a low growl as she reluctantly followed the dragonkeepers inside Runestone's caverns. The younger Syrax, on the other hand, showed no such protest as she simply nudged Rhaenyra's shoulder with enough strength to slightly to have the princess lose her footing before following Silverwing and the dragonkeepers into the caverns with a sense of eagerness of roasted livestock that the Vale had prepared for them.
Rhaenyra couldn't help but let out a chuckle as she watched their two companions retreat into the dark caverns. "You spoil her too much, Aerion." Rhaenyra pointed, "Syrax obeys out of affection."
"Silverwing does obey out of affection," Aerion argued, "it just so happens that she enjoys hunting her food more than being brought some."
"What are you insinuating?" Rhaenyra asked.
"Syrax is spooooiiiilllllleeeed." Aerion dragged along.
The princess let out a laugh, swatting Aerion's arm with one of her riding gloves as they began to walk down the pathway back to Runestone alongside with a few guards in their detail. "Syrax is anything but spoiled!"
"She does not hunt like most dragons we have, you have dragonkeepers serve already slaughtered sheep!" Aerion chuckled as he removed his riding gloves, "We slaughter them, throw it by her snout, and she roasts the thing in dragonfire and demands praises like a cat being given a mouse rather than catching it herself. Silverwing on the other hand, prefers the sport of it — and hunts her own food like any sensible dragon."
"Speak ill of my dragon again, and I will make sure she sings into your bedchamber window by dawn, Aerion Targaryen," Rhaenyra warned with a delighted smile reaching her eyes as they entered the castle grounds, servants and guards bowing in respects to the royal couple. The cold winds of the Vale felt welcoming despite its harsh colder atmosphere, entirely different from the salted warmth of Dragonstone or the scorching scents of King's Landing. Here, in the vast opens, the air felt clean.
"My mother wouldn't be very delighted to see a dragon or two flying around her castle, Rhaenyra. Have mercy on my poor head." Aerion couldn't help but shook his head at the notion. Runestone had always been an ancient yet stubborn place where the bronze is not only the colors of this prideful house, but a reminder of their ancient roots that came along with its stone and immovable mountains.
For three years of her frequent visits, Rhaenyra had began to appreciate what her Uncle Daemon could not when it came to the Valemen. That despite the whispers of the lords and ladies down South, those of the more northern parts of Westeros whisper more of their oaths. What began as a simple royal courtesy to the Heir to the Iron Throne visiting her mother's kin with the company of her royal cousin, turned into something deeper than respect at face value.
With the first few months stretching over the years, King Viserys' court continued whisper on the mere idea that was slowly forming as a reality no matter how hard the old king was brushing it off: that one day the colors of court will become Hightower Green and Gold rather their traditional Targaryen Black and Red.
Runestone, for the better part of it, had turned into something else entirely for the young princess. It had become a comfort that there are kingdoms that do indeed remember.
"I can hear it," Aerion said as they continued further into the castle.
"Hear what?"
"You thinking," there was no escaping how Aerion is as observant as he is. "You can tell me. Is it about Aegon's nameday?"
Aerion could have sworn her expression grew sour the moment the words came out of his lips. Some worries were heavier than the burden she was already carrying on her shoulders, and Aerion could only do so much for her. They both knew that. "The older he gets, the more the whispers grow louder," Rhaenyra admitted in a quieter tune, "Otto Hightower looks at me as if I am nothing more than a temporary placeholder until my father changes his mind. How long until he has no more use of me?"
"Do not speak such nonsense, Rhaenyra. The King loves you—"
"He loved Daemon as well, and look what happened." Rhaenyra spoke the very truth the both of them had ignored for years until this point. That Rhaenyra was named heir over Daemon not because the King loved her more or that the King believed her to be a better ruler in the future, but out of spite.
Aerion stopped his tracks from the foot of the ancient stairways of his castle, looking up at Rhaenyra with a glace she knew all too well.
"Aegon is a baby," Aerion responded. "You are not a woman of questionable birth. You are Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys first of his name and Queen Aemma Arryn, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. Those lords who whisper of a babe to replace you are nothing more than lesser men — the Lords of the Vale know where their loyalties lie and the Lady Jeyne Arryn has made that abundantly clear. The blood of the Vale runs through our veins, we are the blood of Conquerors. Do not think too little of yourself."
"You make it sound so simple," Rhaenyra whispered as she felt her shoulders tense.
"Because it is simple," Aerion replied as he took a step closer to his betrothed, closing the distance between them as he intertwined his fingers with hers giving her a light squeeze, "Rhaenyra, I understand that you feel that your odds may be against you but as of the moment. My mother may curse my father's blood in my veins, but men who charge beneath the banners of House Arryn will answer your call to war if time comes. The men of the Vale does not break their oaths, not for the Hightowers and most certainty not for a babe who cannot even piss on a chamber pot. We will march to victory in your name and your name alone. Please remember that."
There was a heavy silence that surrounded the both of them, with the sound of the distant whistles of the mountain gales. The princess looked down at their intertwined fingers, feeling the contrast between the coldness of the Vale and the warmth of his touch. A sigh escaped her lips as her thoughts went back to the mere idea of her half-brother's second nameday in the next few moons.
"It sounds like treason," Rhaenyra admitted, brushing her thumb against the knuckles of his hands, "you speak certainty of war when my father still lives and wears the crown of the Conciliator."
"Mayhaps," Aerion agreed, but he did not pull away. Not from her. Never from her. If anything, his hold around her hands tightened, "Viserys refuses to see what everyone else does… that he did not pave the way for peace but rather, is planting the seeds of war in a realm he inherited. The honor and goodwill of the lords of the realm… his faith in Ser Otto is misplaced if he believes that the peace will remain long after he is dead and gone. You and I know that honor in itself is nothing more than mere words to men who think they are above just because you were born a woman."
Rhaenyra lifted her gaze towards Aerion, there was a solemn look in his eyes. The ones where she knew he found himself in deep thought of the situation and yet could not read what thoughts were dancing through his mind.
"Viserys had named you heir before the Lords of the Realm," he continued, his voice sounding like a whisper for her ears and her ears alone. "He had them kneel at your feet and swore their oaths in the presence of their new and old gods, from Dorne to the Wall… the South may not their oaths closely, but here in the Vale those words are carved through the very souls that does not easily erode when the weather changes."
Three years she head heard Aerion's constant tales of his childhood in the Vale, and in the past three years she watched it all. Watched how the men of House Royce move in precision and disciplined movements, how the men of House Arryn wore their armor unbothered by the bitter cold of the mountains. Listened the tales from her mother's kin with the bluntness that rivaled the sharpness of a Valyrian steel sword.
Daemon once said how much he loathed the Vale. How a kingdom with nothing but a pile of rocks and sheep more fuckable than their women would do nothing for him, mainly due to his bitter disdain for his bronze bitch of a wife. But Daemon Targaryen only saw what the Valemen refused to give him. He never bothered to look deep into what they protected — what their future could hold. And that future was currently holding her hands… and how warm Aerion's felt.
"Come now, before your ladies fret too much for your disappearance again," Aerion smiled, the kind of smile that she felt that was reserved for her and only for her. As her hands were wrapped around his arms, the young lord guided her through the familiar halls he had missed so dearly. Even when their visits frequented more than their time in the Red Keep, the coldness of the Vale did not bother her as much as she initially thought it would.
"You speak as they often fuss," Rhaenyra could not help but chuckle in response.
"They do fuss," Aerion answered, "most especially Lady Elinda since Lady Fell has left your service."
"Then you and Elinda have a very similar trait," Aerion didn't dignify that with a response. But Rhaenyra could see it at the corner of her eye, how his lips slightly curved upward and his eyes had a glimmer of happiness in the exchange. He did not deny it, and yet, the mere look in his eyes confirmed it.
Princess Rhaenyra had three remaining ladies-in-waiting in the past few years since Alicent Hightower had become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Lady Alora Fell had left the Princess' service to perform her duties of Lady of Fellwood of the Stormlands. King Viserys had attempted to encourage his daughter in replacing the ladies that she had lost, but the princess often brushed the idea aside.
"Three would do," she would say. It was a contrast to what her great grandmother, the late Queen Alysanne had — fifteen ladies-in-waiting at her service from all across the realm. Rhaenyra's mother, the late Queen Aemma Arryn, had a total of seven ladies-in-waiting. All who have been dismissed since the new Queen had wed the King. Queen Alicent, on the other hand, had a retinue of ten primary ladies-in-waiting and companions.
Aerion himself did not know as to why his bride-to-be was insistent of only having three ladies at his service. He attempted to ask a few times over the years but Rhaenyra provided him with the same answer as she did her father: "Three would do."
Three years of being betrothed and still no wedding bells in sight. Rumors have spread in the capital that perhaps Prince Daemon's son often found refuge in another woman's arms, hence why he's often in the comfort of Runestone. A common acceptance of a young man of his rank — who doesn't have a bastard here and there?
And yet, Rhaenyra has heard of other rumors of herself — that she, as a princess of her station had a different mind entirely. That, perhaps, she harbored hopes of wedding her betrothed's father instead, Prince Daemon, or as some claimed. And Aerion was having none of it whenever they found themselves in the viper's nest in the Red Keep. She didn't realize it at first. How Aerion's hand was always at her lower back, close to her waist as they spoke with a noble or the king. How sometimes he would play the tip of her hair whenever company was around, how his lips lingered longer whenever he kissed her hand, at times — her palm.
But in the comfort of solitude, Rhaenyra would find herself in his presence — reading the same historical records that they have interest in. They would speak, debate about the conquerors. She would learn basic tactics as to why certain battles were won or lost. She found Aerion's passion for the histories endearing — most especially when he would take the tools his grandsire would have hidden for war. How he would place every piece where the writings say they were, and he would explain with every aspect to the battle, have his own interpretations as to why the lords or their strategists would choose this and that. How his hands moved in more animated movements with his eyes glimmering in the mere joy of it like he was a little boy.
She had imagined it at times… what their children would look like. Would one of them have this same passion for the histories? Would their eyes sparkle just as as Aerion's? Had he ever thought about it? That they would one day have children of their own.
"You look troubled," were Rhaenyra's first word to the lordling, Alfered bowed to greet the princess where as Aerion's eyes were on the piece of paper in his hands with servants fussing around packing for their lord. Both brows raised upward, a habit of disinterest that he had inherited from Daemon.
"We ride the morrow, everything must be prepared swiftly," Aerion answered without even lifting his gaze to the princess.
"Your concern is the nameday?"
"The Stepstones," Aerion corrected. "Regardless of what His Grace has claimed, we are at war with the Triarchy and my father doesn't seem keen on returning home unless he has the Crabfeeder's head."
"And?"
"He has asked if I wanted it," Aerion finally looked up to see Rhaenyra's bewildered eyes at his words, "a jest, Rhaenyra."
"You are much fortunate that I am fond of you or I would feed you to Syrax."
"Syrax will simply nudge my shoulder and ask for sheep as she always has, princess," Aerion smirked as he gave the letter to Alfered to burn, "and before you ask if my father has called for help, no, he has not. He would sooner die than to do so, especially to his son."
"Then why does he write?" Rhaenyra asked as she took a seat on his chair, curious as to why Daemon wrote to his son or what he has written to his son.
Aerion never once told her of Daemon's letters until now. And the first thing he did once he was finished reading was to ask his right-hand man to burn it for him.
"He sends his love," a sarcastic remark once again. He will never tell her why or what. It was the only secret he wishes to keep for himself.
"You're not helping yourself," Rhaenyra pointed out. As her eyes met Alfered's, who in turn gave a small bow, excusing himself from the room to give the two Targaryens the privacy that was necessary — as the Kingsguard stood outside of Aerion's door for their princess.
"Helping myself with what?"
"By constantly keeping tabs on your father," she said, meeting his gaze as he stood before her, "I know you worry for him. But spying on him will not make you feel better."
"You don't know that," there it was. The defensive tone Aerion had whenever she attempted to speak about his father. As much as Daemon often denies assistance when necessary even from the crown, Aerion had an annoying habit of denying the habit of spying on his father.
"I'm no fool, Aerion. I notice it more than you realize." Aerion operates behind closed doors. A habit he had developed during his stay in the Red Keep that he brought to Runestone.
"It's not spying, Rhaenyra, it is merely vigilance," Aerion's voice became sharp, somewhat cold, distant — putting more onto the defensive edge of his tone. "If my father wins the Stepstones, he will crown himself king."
"The King has his small council, Aerion," Rhaenyra reminded him with her purple eyes fixed on him, "you don't need to shoulder your father's burden, most especially here at Runestone."
"I am not carrying his burden!" The lordling snapped, turning around so quickly pacing around the room with his temper showing more and more like Daemon. That's what Rhaenyra saw, the temperament of Daemon Targaryen before her eyes. He couldn't look at her at that moment, she knew that. "You can't possibly think that I am doing this out of some… some… childish longing? That I worry for him? I do not worry for Daemon Targaryen, he's more trouble that he's worth!"
"Aerion—"
"No!" Aerion took a sharp turn towards her, his hands clenching into a fists as the words continue out of his lips, "you do not get to sit there and look at me with pity! You do not know what it is like being is son! I'm no longer a frightened boy waiting by the window for his father to return from war! I am not worried he will die in the Stepstones, he's Daemon Targaryen, he's too difficult to kill! I do not care if he comes back! He left, Rhaenyra! He left!"
There it was. The crack that she had been waiting for. The words she had been waiting for him to admit ever since Daemon ran off to war.
Daemon left him.
He had chosen his dragon and the promise of war over his own son, even now that he is of age, Aerion continued to constantly deny that he cares for his father no matter how absent Daemon had been in his life.
Aerion massaged his temple, finally realizing where this had been going. The silence had never felt so loud in their ears until they heard the heavy clinking shift of the armor of the Kingsguard that were outside his door. His chest rose and fell heavily, his deep violet eyes grew wild with a fire that burned entirely too hot for a man who clamed he didn't care. Rhaenyra just sat there on his chair, quiet as her eyes watched him not out of anger, but with a silent understanding that only she could see.
Aerion was never one to raise his voice. He raved on like some sort of madman just to prove to her that Daemon meant little to nothing to him, and in doing so, Aerion simply exposed himself further to his bride-to-be. The very bleeding wound that his father had left behind.
A son simply wanting his father to care for him.
Rhaenyra watched him close his eyes shut with the realization of shame before him. Perhaps it was all finally too much to him — the mere thought of everything being bottled up inside of his heart finally aching to the point where he allowed his emotions to get the better of him. Despite being the one who suggested to Viserys to send his father to war, the princess had recalled the last time Aerion had spoken to his father.
How Daemon was ashamed that Aerion was not his son. That he was Rhea Royce's son. Never his. But hers.
Slowly, Aerion let out a long heavy sigh. Opening his eyes again with the harshness of his earlier gaze gone. There was this stillness in his eyes that Rhaenyra couldn't explain. A sense of quiet, raw vulnerability that she rarely saw. His hand ran through his silver hair, resting his forehead in his palm for a brief moment before he could finally look at her in the eyes.
Shame. He felt ashamed.
"Please… Forgive me," he murmured, his voice nothing more than a mere whisper as he looked down at his own trembling hand before folding it behind his back. He was doing it again in her presence, pretending that it didn't affect him, forcing himself to regain his composure and put on the mask that was Aerion Targaryen. "That was… poor behavior on my part, princess, I let my temper get the better of me. I apologize for raising my voice."
There it was, the quiet tension on his shoulders as he so desperately try to pull his composure as if he was raising a shield for a wall. Rhaenyra slowly stood from his chair, the heaviness of her skirt's silk rustled in the quiet room breaking the very stillness that has found them.
Aerion kept his gaze down on the stone floor, hands clenching behind his back as he stood as one expected of a prince's son — proper, stern, a lord who owed the proper distance between himself and his princess. A man who stepped out of line. And yet, Rhaenyra closed the distance between them with no sense of hesitation — there she was standing before him with a quiet concern.
"There is no need for titles when it is just you and I behind closed doors, Aerion," she said softly.
And like any other dragon, Aerion's pride refused to look up. "I spoke out of turn—"
"Look at me, Aerion." A soft command possessed by the very unmistakable authority of a princess of her station.
Aerion hesitated before he lifted his eyes to meet hers. The burning fire that had consumed him moments ago were gone, replaced by the quietness of a lingering yet unspoken grief of a son who spent his day trying to prove that he was nothing like his father. Rhaenyra extended her hand, lightly rouching the side of his cheek with her fingers. Aerion once again closed his eyes, leaning to her touch as if it was the only warmth that his skin would welcome.
"You don't need to carry so much," she whispered, her thumb softly brushing across his jawline. "I do not want you to wear the mask in front of me just so you can pretend that his absence doesn't hurt you. Do not hide it from me, Aerion. You never have to hide it from me."
Aerion closed his eyes, leaning further into her palm as if it was a quiet surrender that he would never give himself anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaenyra was the only solace he needed in this world for freedom.
"He doesn't deserve it," Aerion muttered. The low bitter tone with the raw truth that he could not accept deep inside of his heart. "I do not wish to give him the satisfaction of a single thought."
"Perhaps not," Rhaenyra murmured as she stepped closer, leaving no space between them. "But he is not here. I am. You are here with me, not him."
As she leaned forward on her toes, Rhaenyra cupped his cheek with her other hand and softly pressed her lips against his.
The sweet long lasting kiss provided him a sense of firm ground in the midst of his storm like a silent anchor. With a long, trembling exhale against her lips, Aerion's stiff posture finally gave way. His fingers dug into the fabric of her gown as if he were anchoring himself to the only real thing in his life, his arms wrapped around his waist, pulling her close to him.
When Rhaenyra slightly parted her lips, she fueled by the lingering adrenaline and the profound relief of simply having her in his arms. Aerion kissed her back with a sudden desperate tenderness that his lips found trailing from her mouth down to the curve of her jaw, resting his forehead against her neck as his breath warmed her skin.
"Rhaenyra…" he spoke with a low, rough murmur against her neck wanting more.
She brushed her fingers into his silver hair, tilting his had back up so she could look into his eyes. Dark, unfocused and entirely consumed by her.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered her promise.
Aerion did not need to answer with words. He closed his mouth over hers once more, this time deeper, guiding her gently until her back met the sturdy edge of his desk, pushing aside the parchment and ink that no longer mattered. With his hands moving to the ties of her bodice, while her fingers undoing the buttons of his doublet as everything else around them faded completely into the background.