Chapter Text
195AC
Aerion ran, and ran, and ran. His chest heaved with every desperate breath, and his small legs shook beneath him, muscles straining against the uneven ground of the Kingswood. The scent of damp earth and pine needles filled his nose, mixing with the sweet tang of salt carried from the Narrow Sea beyond the cliffs. His side throbbed sharply with each bounding step, and yet he pressed on. He had to reach her. He had to catch her. He had to hold onto her before the world, with all its rules and constraints, tore them apart.
They had planned this. For weeks, the two cousins whispered in secret, mapping out the moment when the servants and guards would turn their attention elsewhere, perhaps to gossiping maids, or to the pomp of some minor feast in the castle halls, and they would seize the freedom they craved so much.
He glanced at her, and his heart swelled. Daelyra ran beside him with a grace that defied her age. Her hair, silvery as fresh snow, streamed behind her in the wind, catching golden flecks of sunlight. Her eyes shone with a fierce joy that matched his own.
The wood was a dangerous place, laden with beasts and the monsters of mankind that nobody wished to stumble upon, but he would protect her. They needed to run away, so they could be together. Mother never let them play together anymore, saying it was far too improper. But what was improper about cousins sleeping in the same bed, sharing a breath and marvelling in each other’s presence? What was so improper that they would forbid them from entering each other’s chambers?
He had often dreamed of their future, of their private home far away from the rules of King’s Landing, a palace built just for them. They would have silver-haired children, dragons who bowed only to them, a life untouched by the stifling gaze of their parents. The visions came to him unbidden, flashes of what might be, and they made his heart pound with longing. Each step carried him closer not just to Daelyra, but to that future, and he clung to it with all the desperation of a boy who had glimpsed eternity and wanted it for himself.
Daelyra ran fast, right beside him, and Aerion had been proud of her. She was so quick now, no longer the small child struggling to keep pace with him.
They felt free; he felt content, and the grin on Daelyra’s face told him she was rather enjoying herself, marvelling in the way she cut through the tall grass, the towering trees shielding her from the Kingsguard. Her lilac eyes were as light as a blooming lavender flower, his own mirroring hers, though his were slightly darker. His hair was just as white, though shorter than hers. They ran, their clothes and cloaks billowing behind them, the wind and the force of their speed making the fabric thrash against their small bodies.
Aerion outstretched his hand toward her and, of course, she grabbed onto it without a second’s hesitation, her mouth stretching into the biggest smile Aerion had ever seen. He suddenly felt an urge in his delicate heart to never let go of her hand, so she would smile like that all the time.
“My prince, princess!” a voice called from behind them, making the cousins whip their heads around at the same time, as if programmed to move in perfect simulation, only to see a Kingsguard close on their tail, running after them in his heavy armor with three other guards behind him. The white-haired duo squealed in unison, gripping each other’s hands tighter in a desperate attempt to stay close, not to lose one another amidst their fleeing.
“Please, my prince, my princess, it’s dangerous!” one of the Kingsguard called after them, which only made them giggle louder.
They darted out of the woods, finally feeling the sun on their pale porcelain skin as the trees no longer managed to block its golden warmth from their gaze. The grass beneath their feet seemed to push them forward, nudging them not to stop, urging them to believe in themselves.
Running, running, running.
Aerion could swear he had never been happier, holding her warm and gentle hand, so soft and devoid of calluses, unlike his own, which were beginning to form from all the showmanship and relentless practices in knighthood. He wanted to hold onto her hand forever, only him and him alone.
“Princess!” someone yelled.
Aerion looked back to see Uncle Baelor’s form approaching them, and like the Kingsguard, he too was running. The heir to the Iron Throne was running after his daughter and his troublesome nephew. Worry adorned his face, which did not carry even a glimpse of Valyrian features; he was Dornish through and through. It was a miracle he had a daughter as flawless as Daelyra with a beauty that was unmistakably Targaryen.
“We can’t allow them to catch us, Lyra!” Aerion yelled over the wind, over the rustling of their feet against the fresh grass and soil, over the frantic shouts of their Kingsguard and parents. His dark violet eyes met Daelyra’s lighter ones, and he knew what they needed to do. It was as though they were connected through their eyes, their minds forming into one.
They were nearing a cliff. They had only one choice: to stop and hand themselves over to the Kingsguard, and then be punished for misbehaving.
As if coming to a silent conclusion, they both nodded, their grins mirroring one another. Even though they were nothing but mere cousins, they looked so much alike they were often mistaken for sister and brother– twins, even. The same upturned straight noses, the same full lips, the same sharp eyes, the same silver hair. So the expression of mischief mirrored perfectly between them.
“On the count of three?” Aerion asked, gripping her gentle hands tighter, unwilling to let go.
Daelyra nodded once, her grin toothy now. “On the count of three, cousin,” she spoke, her honeyed voice barely reaching his ears through the wind.
“One,” Aerion counted.
“Two,” Daelyra laughed.
“And three.”
And with that, two Targaryen blood, two dragons, two of the same soul, they jumped, with mirroring grins upon their faces, off the cliff and straight into the Narrow Sea, their hands still clutching each other for dear life, never breaking eye contact.
They were happy because they were together.
And that was all that mattered.
✶✶✶
They had been punished, of course they were, after being dragged from the sea by frantic guards, their screaming parents and maids ashore, none of them tearing their wide, horror-filled eyes away from the two floating heads of white.
“Have you lost your mind?!” his father screamed at him once they were ashore, dragging his son away from the fussing maids with rough hands, while Daelyra was fussed over by the rest of the party. Of course, they thought he was a cruel monster who acted on impulse and dragged the precious pearl of the realm down with him.
Aerion preferred it that way. She was perfect, unmistakable, unblemished, and just perfect. As his father screamed in his face for his crude actions, while his clothes and long hair dripped steadily onto the sand, Aerion didn’t even register that Maekar was so furious he looked ready to throw him back into the Narrow Sea. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on trembling Daelyra, her clothes just as soaked as his, her hair plastered to her head and face, and her skin so pale it nearly blended with her silver hair.
Baelor was yelling too. Not as openly as his white-haired brother, but the brunette of the two had a clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and pursed lips, unmistakable signs of fury barely contained. Without sparing his father a glance or excusing himself from his presence as was customary, Aerion turned on his heel and started toward Daelyra with forceful steps, the demands of his father for him to come back slipping past him in a blur, as though the roar of the sea itself had swallowed them whole.
He vowed he would protect her, did he not? He would not let anyone, not even the heir to the Iron Throne, hurt her.
Aerion quickly approached them, stepping between Baelor and Daelyra and shielding her from her father’s wrath. Her small hands immediately wrapped around his waist, clutching his soaked tunic with all her might, as if begging him not to leave her, not to abandon her, but to save her. Her head pressed against his back, and suddenly Aerion had no worry in the world except protecting her. He could not care less that his lips were turning blue from the cold, or that his thoughts felt numb beneath the weight of his wet, freezing hair, or that his bones had begun to shudder violently in his body because of the icy sea and the colder wind blowing straight through him, making everything feel harsher and more unforgiving.
He widened his protective stance, pried one of Daelyra’s hands gently from where it clung to his tunic so he could hold it in his own, and turned the bravest expression he could muster toward his uncle.
“It was my fault, Uncle,” he spoke, and despite his young age, his voice was velvety and steady, carrying a confidence that did not match the tremble in his limbs. His mother often spoke of him as a future negotiator. “Do not be angry at her, I pulled her toward the sea,” he continued, and when he realised everyone was staring at him, and that his uncle’s expression was not even close to forgiveness, he decided that showing regret would serve him better. He lowered his head and fixed his gaze on his uncle’s polished leather boots.
“Forgive me, Uncle,” he murmured, holding his breath as he waited for the man to throw one or two harsh words at him and then go on about his day, as fathers and uncles so often did after anger had been spent.
What he did not expect was Baelor’s hands to seize his shoulders with bruising force and tear him away from the girl’s embrace, making both silver-haired children yelp in shock, which was followed immediately by a scream of terror.
“No!”
“You are not permitted to see each other anymore,” Uncle Baelor demanded, dragging the boy away as he thrashed and struggled against the iron grip, trying to break free and run back to the crying Daelyra, who was being restrained by her maids.
“Daelyra!” he screamed, just as a second pair of hands seized him, replacing his uncle’s hold and guiding him firmly back toward his father’s tent.
“No, Father, please, Aerion!” The girl’s sobs reached his ears, sharp and broken, and they made him thrash even harder against the hands holding him.
“Let me go!” he shouted, shoving at whoever held him, twisting in a sudden, desperate movement that forced their grip to loosen from his shoulders long enough for him to dart forward, his wet boots slipping against the trampled grass. But he could not go far. He was only a boy of ten; he could not possibly fight off grown kingsguards hardened all of their training.
That realisation struck him with a cold dread deeper than the sea had been, and his struggles faltered for half a heartbeat as strong hands wrapped around his waist and lifted him bodily from the ground, carrying him toward the tent as though he weighed nothing at all.
“Daelyra! Do not cry, Princess!” he screamed, straining and twisting in their hold so he could catch even a glimpse of the nine-year-old girl’s pale figure beyond the blur of bodies. “I will become strong and kill them all!” was the last thing he shouted, his voice tearing from his throat and carrying over the wind, sweeping across the meadow and reaching every listening ear before he was pushed roughly into the tent where his father awaited.
Aerion had always been protective of the girl. They had been practically attached at the hip, inseparable in a way that amused some and unsettled others, but that day could have been marked as the moment his devotion shifted into something darker and forbidden. What had once been innocent loyalty slowly shifted toward possessiveness, and what had once been a child’s simple love began to twist into something perilously close to obsession.
***
Baelor Targaryen and Maekar Targaryen had managed to keep the two young dragons apart for only two moons. During that time, while Maekar and his family resided in Summerhall, Aerion endured harsh discipline. His days were filled with learning High Valyrian, reading, attending business with his father, and training with a sword.
Every time a bead of sweat trickled down Aerion’s brow, his thoughts began counting down the nights since he had last seen her. They couldn’t even exchange letters; any mention of the girl, any attempt to write to her, was met with flames that reduced his words to crisp ashes. Trying desperately to remain calm, Aerion forced himself to behave; to be the sweetest, most humble boy imaginable, so that one day his father might relent and allow them to see each other again.
Of course, it was impossible to keep two cousins, two people bound by the same blood, apart for long. At last, it was time to travel to King’s Landing, and Aerion practically vibrated with excitement. He could not remain still. His leg bounced incessantly, and he pestered Daeron, his older brother, with the same question over and over: “Will we arrive soon?” The older boy eventually had to run every time Aerion approached.
The moment they arrived in King’s Landing, Aerion darted ahead of everyone, heedless of the pleas of his maids and guards to proceed carefully. It was dangerous, reckless, and thrilling all at once.
To Aerion’s young and humble mind, the Red Keep was a horrid place. It reeked so foully that he had to cover his nose, only able to breathe freely once he passed through the gates of the castle and laid eyes upon Daelyra, of course.
He could scarcely remember a life without her.
He could not remember life without any of his cousins or his brothers, yes, but Daelyra was different. She existed in every memory, every happy, childlike moment that had once made him smile, the soft pink memories he treasured, and now, just thinking of her made his heart ache with longing.
The moment he saw her, entering the room with her brothers and maids, Aerion’s heart skipped a beat, toppling over itself in his chest, but he remained stoic and serious. They needed to see that they were… more behaved now, to earn the chance to play again. Daelyra, his sweet and clever princess, mirrored him perfectly. She greeted everyone as if duty demanded it from a princess, then seated herself between her brothers, listening as their family spoke, answering only when directly addressed, and occasionally stealing glances at Aerion.
Aerion could read her like a book. He could tell she was just as eager to play with him as he was with her. Her small hands toyed with the folds of her skirt, and she chewed her lip nervously, betraying her excitement.
When Maekar and Baelor excused everyone from the room to attend to business, Aerion and Daelyra rose slowly, careful not to draw attention to themselves. But as they were about to step over the threshold, Baelor’s stern voice froze them in place.
“Daelyra, Aerion…”
The youngsters turned around, sheepish expressions on their faces, and spoke at the same time: “Yes, uncle?” “Yes, father?”
Standing side by side, both with long silver hair, lilac eyes, and ivory skin, clad in their house colours of black and red, they looked so alike that even Baelor paused mid-sentence, glancing between them. The heir to the Iron Throne wondered whether he had made a mistake by reuniting them or whether keeping them apart all this time had been cruel.
“Behave,” he said sternly, before waving them away. The children bowed and darted out of the room, hand in hand, as if no time had passed since they had last been together. Beside him, Maekar sighed and massaged his brow.
“These kids are going to make my hair turn grey,” he muttered, prompting Baelor to turn to him with a raised brow.
“Your hair is already grey, dear brother,” Baelor replied, a mocking smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at his brother’s hair of Targaryen white, laughing softly under his breath at his own jab.
✶✶✶
“As your prince, I command you to let me see her!” Aerion’s voice echoed down the stone corridor of King’s Landing as he stood before the heavy oak door of Daelyra’s chamber, having already spent ten long minutes attempting—and failing—to argue with her maid and sworn shield, neither of whom so much as shifted from their posts.
“My apologies, my prince, but we have a direct order from Prince Baleor not to let anyone into the princess’s chambers,” her maid, Elenei, replied in an infuriatingly gentle tone. She attempted to sound reassuring, yet her softness did nothing to temper the frustration steadily building within him. Aerion cared nothing for orders in that moment; he needed to see Daelyra.
“The maesters are unsure what caused the princess’s illness. It could be dangerous,” Elenei continued, and Aerion barely restrained the scream that threatened to tear from his throat.
His temper, irregular and demanding, was often the reason he was called spoiled. But what was he demanding now? He asked for nothing unreasonable; he only wanted to see Daelyra. She was sick and weak, and she needed him there beside her, needed his presence to lend her strength and comfort in whatever darkness had taken hold of her.
That night, after watching Elenei finally depart and retreating to his own chambers to wait, Aerion remained alert and restless. When the guard at her door was replaced by another and the hallway outside lay momentarily deserted, he seized the fleeting opportunity; in the blink of an eye, he darted toward her chambers, his breathing deep and ragged as he slipped inside and carefully pulled the door closed behind him. Pressing his ear against the wood, he listened intently for any sign that his intrusion had been detected, but only the distant groan of a knight’s armour echoed faintly through the corridor. With a slow, steadying sigh, he leaned away from the door and turned at last to take in the quiet stillness of her chamber.
Daelyra’s room was grand, as befitted a princess; silken drapes fell heavily over the tall windows, delicate tapestries adorned the walls, and faint candlelight cast warm golden hues across the polished floor. She lay upon her bed, wrapped in layers of blankets, her hands resting lightly against her stomach. Her face was drained of colour; her cheeks, once pink and lively, now matched the pallor of her skin. Her lips, usually the soft shade of strawberries, had faded until they were nearly the colour of her hair. She seemed suspended somewhere between sleep and fevered stillness, a fragile, unmoving figure that made Aerion’s heart tighten painfully in his chest.
He lowered himself onto a small wooden stool beside her bed, unable to tear his eyes away from her weakened form. Her pale eyelashes rested against her cheeks, her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and her lips were slightly parted as though each inhale demanded effort. Leaning closer, Aerion caught the roughness in her breathing, a jagged rhythm that sounded as if something invisible obstructed her lungs.
Aerion’s nervousness multiplied tenfold, his chest tightening with every shallow breath she drew as he struggled to understand what had happened to her, what could have caused such sudden frailty in Daelyra, who had always been a creature of light and movement, always smiling, always playful, always lovely. Now she appeared like a ghost of herself pale, delicate, almost unreal. But, despite that, as a quiet sigh escaped him at the sight, he could not deny that some souls were unfairly beautiful even in such fragile states. He had always known, even as a boy, that Daelyra would grow into a remarkable woman, strong and breathtaking, someone worthy of admiration and reverence, and he had wanted more than anything to grow strong and handsome himself, so that perhaps one day she would truly notice him, perhaps one day she would come to love him.
For though he was a prince, she was the first daughter of the heir to the Iron Throne, while he was merely the second son of the king’s fourth son, and the distance between those distinctions was not insignificant. So what did he truly have to offer her beyond his admittedly ridiculous good looks, his charm, and the protection he could vow to provide? There seemed to be nothing else of tangible value, nothing else capable of turning her heart toward him, and all he had ever truly wanted was to stand at her side at all times, simply to exist within her world, offering whatever small comfort or strength he was able to give.
He leaned forward and took her hand in his, enclosing it between both of his own as he felt the shocking chill of her skin, and he tried desperately to press warmth back into her fragile fingers; yet it was a cold night, and his own hands were scarcely warmer than hers. Frustration surged through him, and so he rose abruptly to his feet and hurried to the fireplace, thrusting his hands toward the flames until the heat bit into his palms and the warmth burned almost painfully against his skin. Only when he could bear it no longer did he return to her side, kneeling before her once more and pressing those heated hands over hers, gently massaging her fingers and palms as though he could command the blood to move more swiftly through her veins, as though he could summon life back into a body that seemed, for the moment, to have forgotten it.
He did not leave her side after that, not until she was fully well again.
Even after he was discovered the following morning by a startled maid who had come to check on the princess and found Aerion asleep upon the small wooden stool beside her bed, his head resting against her sheets and his hands still clasping hers as though he feared she might vanish if he let go, they attempted to warn him away. They told him it was dangerous, that he could not linger in her presence in such a manner, that he must respect the rules and obey the orders given to him; but Aerion could see no reason to comply, for he had already abandoned his studies, neglected his training, and even forgotten his meals—unless Elenei herself was persistent enough to coax him into eating—because there was no priority greater than remaining near Daelyra.
Most of the time, he slept on a stool with his head resting on the bed, next to her legs. But sometimes, he would sit beside her upon the bed, reading quietly from a book until sleep overtook him accidentally, only to be shaken awake by a panicked maid insisting that he must leave immediately.
Eventually, someone intervened and punished him, and they were formally forbidden from sleeping in each other’s beds, declared that such closeness was improper; yet it mattered little to Aerion, for he continued to sit there day after day, hour after hour, content simply to remain close to her, even if it meant enduring scolding, danger, or discomfort. There was no other place he wished to be than at her side, offering himself as a constant presence in a world that had suddenly begun to feel unbearably fragile.
But there was one night when they broke that rule and, mercifully, were never discovered.
A thunderstorm had swept across the sky that evening, the wind howling through the corridors and the rain striking the castle walls with such violence that each crash of thunder seemed to split the heavens apart and shake the very stones beneath their feet. Daelyra lay trembling in her bed, tears streaming silently down her face as she struggled to calm her breathing amidst the deafening roar that surrounded her.
“Ser Corwyn?” she called, her small voice trembling in the darkness, yet no answer came, and so she slipped from her bed, her bare feet meeting the freezing stone floor, each hurried step sending a sharp chill through her toes as she crossed the chamber toward the door. Her tiny hands struggled against the heavy oak, which resisted her efforts and refused to yield easily.
“Ser Corwyn?” she tried again once she had pulled it open just enough to peer into the corridor, but there was no one waiting outside, and the princess frowned in confusion, wondering where her sworn shield could possibly have gone. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, and then a thunderclap so violent that it seemed to shake the very bones of the castle tore through the sky, making her small body convulse and forcing a frightened cry from her lips that echoed down the halls.
Without pausing to think, she snatched up her slippers and darted out of her room, leaving the door ajar behind her as she fled down the storm-lashed corridors. Her little feet carried her swiftly toward Prince Maekar’s family wing, where the princes and princesses resided whenever they were in King’s Landing, far removed from Summerhall. The rapid patter of her footsteps striking the stone floor was swallowed by the relentless roar of thunder that pursued her through every turn and archway, until at last she reached a chamber she knew far too well.
Without knocking or announcing herself, she ran into the room and climbed onto the bed in a rush of frightened urgency, quickly slipping beneath the covers. Her frantic movements caused the figure beneath the blankets to groan softly and stir from sleep.
“Lyra?” Aerion murmured, his voice thick with drowsiness, his eyes half-open and heavy-lidded, long fair hair tousled in every direction from restless slumber.
“I was afraid… may I sleep here?” she asked, scooting closer until only inches separated them, striving not to tremble openly before him as another deafening crash of thunder split the sky and bathed the room in a sudden flash of white light. “Please?” she added in a softer tone, desperate to ensure he would not attempt to reason with her or send her back to her own chambers.
Little did she know that Aerion Targaryen, from the very day of his birth, had never possessed the strength to deny her anything. He never would.
“Of course,” he replied gently, settling back against his pillow and shifting just enough to make space for her beside him. He pulled the sheets securely around them both before slipping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her beneath his chin, holding her close as the storm raged mercilessly beyond the castle walls.
Gradually, as Daelyra’s trembling eased beneath the steady warmth and quiet protection of her cousin’s embrace, sleep claimed them both, and the two young dragons rested safely and comforted in each other’s presence.
✶✶✶
Aerion had always been a jealous and possessive child. He never liked to share his belongings, whether they were toys, wooden swords, polished daggers, or even the people he counted as his own. He could barely tolerate the fact that his parents’ attention was divided among his siblings as well, for he wanted it entirely to himself. He wanted his father to praise only him, to look upon no other son with pride; he wanted his mother to kiss his temple and whisper that he alone was the child who made her proud.
But most of all, he had wanted to be Daelyra Targaryen’s entire universe. He wanted her smiles to belong to him alone, her tears to fall only into his hands, her happiness and her sorrow to be things she shared with no one else. He never liked it when she had friends, and he despised the sight of her playing with other children, her laughter ringing out for someone who was not him. He even resented her parents, for they so often summoned her away, stealing her from his side with duties and affections that he believed should have been his to claim.
He hated her older brother, Valarr, whom she seemed to adore, for there was a brightness in her eyes whenever she looked at him, a shine that Aerion noticed all too well and could never quite endure.
Yet the sharpest jealousy he had ever felt took root the day her little brother, Matarys, was born.
The boy had hair the colour of honey and eyes as blue as the sea, and the moment he was placed into young Daelyra’s waiting arms, the babe had grinned up at his sister with innocent delight, clutching at her silver-gold hair and fisting the strands in his tiny hand. The princess had laughed softly as she gazed down at him, pinching his plump cheek and pressing kisses against his round, rosy face with unguarded affection.
Aerion had watched that tender exchange in silence, and within his chest there had risen such a surge of fury, such a wild and possessive anger, that had she not been cradling the infant so carefully in her arms, he might have done something unthinkable in that reckless, burning moment of childish rage, like throw him out of the highest tower of the castle.
Daelyra became deeply attached to her little brother, treating him almost as though he were a treasured doll meant solely for her affection. She carried him whenever she was permitted, fed him whenever his maids allowed it, and remained at his side from morning until night, hovering over him with an attention that seemed endless.
Aerion felt a blinding jealousy take root within him, and after three long weeks of being nearly abandoned, replaced by a wailing infant who could not possibly love her with the devotion Aerion believed he alone possessed, something inside him fractured.
It was not his fault, for the maids had been careless enough to leave Aerion alone with little Matarys when Daelyra stepped away briefly to relieve herself. Aerion had stood there beside the cradle, staring down at the small, sleeping figure, while restless thoughts crowded his mind, whispering and urging him toward something he did not fully understand yet felt compelled to obey.
They told him that if the boy were gone, everything would return to the way it had been; Daelyra would rest her affections where they belonged, and he would have her back without a small, squirming child between them, without a creature who cried endlessly and did not seem to understand that tears were a sign of weakness. Aerion knew, because his mother had often told him, that he himself had never been a crier. Even as a babe, before he could comprehend the world, he had been strong. He had been a warrior.
A true dragon.
Unlike this little thing now staring up at him with wide eyes, the colour of the sea waves.
Without allowing himself time to think, he lifted a pillow and lowered it over the babe’s face with a dreadful gentleness. The child began to thrash in confusion and distress beneath the weight, small limbs flailing helplessly, and Aerion held his breath as though the entire world had narrowed to that single, terrible moment.
Yet the gods were not on his side, it seemed.
Just as the babe’s movements began to weaken, Daelyra returned. Aerion moved swiftly, removing the pillow and dropping it behind the cradle before she could see what he had done. But something must have betrayed him, some flicker in his expression, some shadow in his eyes, because the babe suddenly let out a piercing cry that shattered the stillness of the room.
The princess rushed forward at once, gathering her brother into her arms and pressing him tightly against her chest, shushing him softly as she rocked him back and forth in an attempt to calm his frightened sobs. Yet even as she murmured soothing words, her gaze drifted toward Aerion again and again.
And for the first time in her life, Daelyra looked at him with something unfamiliar.
Doubt and fear.
For that look alone, Aerion hated little Matarys more.