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There’s a sense of cruelty that looms over Aerion like a shadow that is taking over he body. So perhaps this is how she dies.
There’s a madness that is destined for her thatchas always been in her blood. So perhaps this is what has befallen her.
She’s back again in the damned tourney. After she broke the puppeteers’s fingers and after the stupid gigantic oaf of a knight had bloodied her head.
Matted with blood was the crown of her head and she gingerly touches it with her finger. A familiar thing she knows by heart, a regret that she would never admit because of her pride.
Awareness comes back slowly to her like slow tides on the beaches in Dragonstone. She was sat overlooking the dingy room of the Ashford Castle. That much she was aware as she twitches her nose. She’s still dressed in breeches and an overcoat, not yet had she donned her dresses, and looking back, had she even carried one for the tourney to begin with?
Aerion would not be swayed about the tourney. She will join. She will joust. She did not expect a her brand of cruelty had tickled her in an unexpected moment and decided to take the reins of her lacking moral sense and decided to murder a horse.
Horrifying. But terribly her.
At least— the her from before. When she had been younger. She did not expect her callousness and Targaryen madness had ended up killing her own dear Uncle.
“Aerion!”
She turned, a dizzying thing, her head had been bashed in by the hulking oaf, and now her—
Father. Maekar.
She squinted her eyes. Was this how royal blood die? Re-living the worst bouts of your life play by play. But this feels too… real. The throbbing in her head feels worse, it has not subsided at all. In fact, it has gotten even worse. She’s seeing her father’s disappointed face and it felt like a blessing. She missed her father.
It has been years since he’s been disappointed in her. After Lys— Maeker seemed to have hardened, barely did he care of his kids that aren’t Aegon. He barely sees her, and wears the face of a stone in sight of her.
The disappointment felt like a blessing compared to his ignorant and derisive manner.
“Father…” she tests the water. Younger. She sounded younger. She notes her Uncle Baelor who stared her down with his mismatched eyes, a touch of curiosity, while Maekar openly stares at her with worry.
Alive. Still alive.
What in seven hells.
She stares at her hands— not wrinkly, young and barely blemished by flames, scars, burn scars or wildfire and whatever horrors that had befallen her and had she inflicted upon herself.
So it was true.
Aerion struck the table as she stood in a surprised manner. Mouth hanging open and taking in, truly taking in the scene before her— because by the Gods—
She’s truly was back to before—
—
She had vomitted. Everything. Everything in her stomach. She knows not anymore whats gushing past her lips, she notes with disgust— that made her wants to vomit again.
For a sickening moment she thought her father might lose his temper because she seemed like a women with a child— but Aerion’s well aware she’s untouched and there is a massive wound in her head and the realization that shes back again alivealivealivealive was causing her to barf her innards yet once again in front of the whole occupant—
Consisting of her father, her uncle, the useless oaf and her bald brother. There’s a few other occupants, a Maestar perhaps. Daeron was god knows where and Valarr was probably playing nice prince who is the balm to every calamity his dreadful cousins bring.
In the life that she had lived, the one where she had died, the before, she had not vomit.
A difference. A change. Because she was back. Another dizzying thing that dawned on her that she could change things. She could save her uncle Baelor— could save her stupidly handsome cousin, her former would be husband— could save Daeron and well—
She shuts her eyes.
“Daugher you are not well— I told you we should’ve wait ‘till—“
“Quite alright father.” she snaps— even through her shock, her sharpness and bite never left her. Good.
“Aerion.” This time it was her Uncle Baelor heavy tone, a reprimand. Another time she would’ve bristled and snaps— but he’s seen his death in the card she deslt so carelessly.
“Let us move quickly, then.” She briskly said, blinking in the dimming lights. What hour could this be. She barely remembers. The pounding in her head is still hindering her. But one thing was sure. One thing was true.
The trial of Seven can never happen.
That had been the beginning of every downfall.
With heaviness and disdain— she stupid oaf might have to stay with his balded brother.
“The puppet show was a slander to the Targaryen name— slaying dragons, your mind has gone mad, it is the same as slamdering the king, the royal family.” She begins venomously, “The dragons were fucking horrendous— none should had the misfortune to gaze it once again.” She notes the coin pouch in her side, easily unlatching it and throwing it to the oaf who gaped. “To fix the horrendous art, and change the story line.”
Aerion was greeted with silence.
She spares a glance to stupid Aegon who was staring at ger with disbelief. His mouth isn’t quite hanging open yet like the monstrosity of a hedge knight, but it was close. Aerion clicked her tongue at the sight of her brother’s indignity.
“And you!” She thunders instead, pointing at the Knight who had harmed her. “How dare you lat a finger om the Royal Blood. Made me draw blood. You must be grateful and kneel that I am a true warrior myself.” She blabbers, steeling a glare at the hedge knight. She walked around the table to stand before him. “Your insolence and idiocy had nearly caused my brother harm. You have no awareness of anything of the royal family and hierarchy.”
“Enough!” Aegon stepped forward, “It’s not his fault!” He screeched, the Hedge Knight moved, and tried to hold back his young squire.
“Egg!” he said in disbelief and fear, glancing once again to Aerion. She’s not quite sure what was happening behind her but there was movement.
His brother was teary eyed and finally looking like the young boy he is, gone was the facade of an aloof squire with too much knowledge. “It’s your fault! It’s always your fault!”
It shouldn’t have torn at her heart like dragon claws— but it did. Her brother who was gone too soon, as tragically as she did, bringing down his own bloodline. Aerion tasted bitter ashes in her mouth and regret. The boy does not know how deep her love for her family can run.
“Aegon!” Maekar cuts in. “Son, silence yourself—“
“My lord— Uh, My Highness— Your, Highness. He must not. mean that, that is—“ The Hedge Knight blubbers in. Their voices overlapped for a moment— her father and the oaf, and for a ‘moment Aerion want to stare in disbelief because this idiotic giant tried to talk over Maekar— something her Uncle barely had the guts to do in a glad day.
She wonders about the hedge knight. What he had that inspired such loyalty from her distant brother. And what her brother did to inspire such bravery from the Knight. The. again her brother sure did looked a hapless lost egg. Quite literally. One that might just cracked if given quite the right smashing.
“I decide whether your head roll or not!” Aerion cuts in imperiously. Her head was still painful and the shoutings didn’t help. “You’ve nearly put my brother in such peril— believe me the next time it happens I will be the one to separate that watermelon you call head away from your body. To avoid such instances— surely my dear Uncle can train you properly.”
“My highness—“
“Aerion—“
“Niece.”
She ignores Baelor. The dread and heartache settling at his voice— it has ben years since she’s head him, if she turns and stare at her uncle she might just crack. And Aerion need jittery be another spectacle, thank you very much.
Aerion stares at the Knight squarely. She has nothing but contempt and disdain for this man. Memories come rushing, of what could’ve happened, till the end. She became omniscient after her death and sees the destruction her brother brings. This stupid Knight was not able to protect sweet Aegon. She must invest know for later. Swallowing her pride felt like swallowing a galon of wildfire— worse because she did not die, she must bear the shame.
The doe eyed man seemed stunned and perplexed. She wants to barf.
“You jest.” Her brother cuts in accusingly— hope shines in his eyes and Aerion craved for a drop of affection in his brother’s look that seemed to be absent for— well, forever when it comes to her.
Bile rises in her throat.
“Uncle, you may do as you wish with this oaf.” She settles. “After that, you—“ She glares at the fake knight, “—can go and fuck off to your rotting hedge.”
Aerion leaves quickly with flair, ignoring the calls for her and her throbbing head. Her mind had one thing only—
She needs to fine Daeron.
—
It’s astounding how no one actually came running for her as soon as she had left.
She can feel the stares following her silently. Whispers going about and Aerion could not give a single fuck. She’s lived with whispers before. She’s had greater and dire consequences before— one that killed her uncle and after it all seemed to be ripping at the seems to unravel the great tapestry that is their house.
Gods.
She was far away from the camp area and tourney space. Knows well enough stupid Daeron would be looking a body of water to stare at. By the creek, she spotted the gead of blonde hair.
Pain and anger coursed into one as she run forward, stumbling until she reached her stupid, stupid, stupid brother—
“You!” She accused bitterly, pushing him until the man stumbles.
She’s livid and ridden with guilt, suffocated with grief and drowning in regret.
“What in the conquerer’s—“ Daeron turned glaring before his face melts in surprise.
“How could you!” She snaps hysterically, and Aerion wonders how maddening and insane she must look now. “You died before me!”
—
Daeron despises the Gods— be it the Seven Gods or the Old Valyrians Gods.
Because of them—Daeron sees her death.
He sees his mother’s death first, and there was naught that he can do about. He sis strange things. Eerie and terrifying.
Then he sees her death.
His beloved dear Aerion brought death to her lips and drank it whole with utter surety and bliss. It was a dream that plagued him when Aerion reached 10 summers of age.
And now she tells Daeron of a trial that had yet to happen and perhaps never shall happen, how Aerion doomed their family, killed their Uncle, she cried about a sickness that ended her beloved cousins, his death, father’s death, Aegon’s death, his sister’s withering away, Aemon’s loneliness and the death of their family line.
She cries, and cries and cries and Daeron’s heart breaks each time.
Such burden must she carry? He hated the Gods for the miserable life Aerion had to lived before. He hated the Gods for now burdening her with such purpose. He hated the gods for giving him the prophetic dragon dreams that seemed more like a curse than a blessing. He hated that he can only dream and do nothing. He hated the gods.
He hated them. With every tear pouring from Aerion’s lilac eyes Daeron cursed the Gods more, and more, and more— chanting it like a prayer in his head.
He embraces his sister as he embrace that perhaps, this time, the dragon dreams he had was a gift that might lessen the burden the Gods has bestowed upon his sister this second chance.
He hates the god a little less.
—
Here’s the thing.
Aerion had been holding her cup of wildfire. Maegor was somewhere in the castle, safe and well protected— from the world and her mind. They’ve taken him away from her, and Aerion had no company but herself.
After two miscarriages her husband has long given up and Aerion’s too hard to handle in bed. It was hard forcing her down. After all— she is a dragon.
And to fully transform— what more can one do besides consuming liquid fire. She might breathe fire after this. There wasn’t any doubt about it.
His father wasn’t there to stop her. Daeron’s dead. Aemon’s wherever the hell he is. Her sisters are well off with better husbands. And Aegon—
She scowls. Whatever. The little shit can do as he pleases. Soon, after this, after drinking liquid fire, her father might actually look at her again— commend her for her bravery, a valorous act. Aemon perhaps will come home to witness her greatness, her ascendence to dragon-hood. And just perhaps Aegon might look at her and not only see the other crazy and broken half of Daeron.
Without a second thought, and only the burning need to be once again— loved, she swallowed it whole.
—
That’s when things had gone strange.
The fire consumed her from within and for a moment Aerion was certain that the heat embracing from inside was not a changing— it was death. The embrace from within and swallowing her whole. This must not how a dragon feels when they call upon their fire— she thinks faintly.
A broken sob— or a laugh bubbled up her throat, blood bursting out of her mouth. Was this how she dies? By her own pride and mistaken belief!
Until she becomes omniscient. She’s there— but she isn’t. She wonders is this how Daeron feels when he blubbering about his strange dreams.
Aerion sees the aftermath—
No one mourns her. The realm seemed to be gladdened that the crown princess was no more. Her father mourned her— Aegon did not come to her funeral at all. And the. She sees the after, sees the death and destruction and, and—
—
Daeron’s eyes has soften. This Aerion noticed. It was the same way he had looked at her when they were younger.
She still spitting fire at him— accusing him, in anger and in grief, all in fluid high valyrian.
She’s not quite sure what she was saying anymore until her brother pulled her into his embrace that quiets her. Only then she noticed she had been crying because her brother’s disgusting tunic was wet.
Embarrassing. She did not cry.
“You smell like alcohol.” She said bitterly instead after a beat.
“That’s a certain familiarity you must miss.” Daeron mused, both of them slouched on the damp grassy, pants soaked and muddy.
The silence had not been stifling, and Aerion embraced her brother. She misses him dearly. Misses the younger them, when they had been— well, grounded. When Maekar’s fists and shouts weren’t a daily occurence.
“I dreamed of you.” Daeron whispered. “A fire erupted in your core and it swallows you whole. You laughed— but you cried too. You seemed to frightened, sister.”
Aerion was still quiet.
“And it frightened me too— deeply. You do not get scared.”
“And yet, look at me now.” She murmured snottily.
Daeron hold her shoulders, moving back to let go of their embrace, a slight disappointment settles in her bones as Daeron simply looks at her. His eyes for once clear of the effects of alcohol and he looked soft— exactly like her older brother all those years ago.
“Look at you now.” He agrees, taking in the sorry sight of her wounded face, teary and reddened lilac eyes, chopped and messy silken hair. A gentling smile pulled in the corner of his lips. “Haunted— just as broken and bitter, still mad in the head and cruel—“
Aerion fumed and made a move to strangle the man but Daeron’s hold was firm on her shoulder.
“— but kinder. Thoughtful. Wary. Living through hardships and harsh realities does that to you. You’ve regrets that eats you whole, but you now are a herald of change. All for the better. That cup of liquid fire tempered you.”
“My doom brought me my salvation.”
“You’ve lived through pain, sister. The fear of might’ve been brings caution that my save us from doom. The Gods have chosen you for our great family.” Daeron said softly.
“You’re the ones with prophetic dreams.” She accuses angrily, and yet her heart was warming at her brother’s words. It still feels like a sentence to death. The burden she must carry was heavy and terrifying. She’s glad that ger older brother is still there, when she needed him most, just to hold her hand so she might feel less frightened.
Daeron snorts, “Nightmare more like. Not all of those I understood, but after this- after what has happened to you, well… It does not seemed as terrible. There’s a chance of change in face of intervention.”
She stares at ger brother’s lilac eyes. “I was dead.” She whispers dreadfully. “Now I’m…”
“Dragons do not rise up from the ashes.” Daeron settles.
“Nor do humans.” She mutters.
“Then that makes you quite something else.” Daeron agreed, “But alas, my sister is still what you are.”
—
Valarr found the eldest two of Maekar’s children huddled together near the stream.
The Guards had mentioned something about Aerion storming out off the castle to god knows where. He hadn’t been too keen on following his cousin, busy placating the puppeteering troops and other fellow Knights because of the disaster that Aerion constantly brings.
That was until his father had approached the girl puppeteer and handed her a pouch of coins— one that Valarr notice belomds to Aerion.
“The play was beautiful, or so my Nephew says.” His father begins with a calm voice. “I regret the actions my niece had done that have terribly cost you, and to compensate that she has given you a sum of earning.” Baelor said.
Valarr blinked.
He handed the pouch to the gril who was still shaking— she peered in side the pouch and she shakes even more terribly.
“Your highness, this it too much—“
“The Princess insists.” Baelor cuts in, a peculiar look was settled on his face as if he himself could not belief what he was saying. “She said that some things can be changed, perhaps the puppets and the material, and perhaps the storyline.” Baelor continued on, this time a firm look settled on his features, one that calls Valarr to stand straighter.
This time, the girl and res of the troop frozen, before they kneel and apologized frantically.
“The actions my niece has taken was regrettable and brash, but the message she sent is not lost. I do not agree with her actions, but i too would condone a story that might insinuate the fall of my house. Then again a play is just a play, surely it has no double meanings.”
That was as much as a warning as it was an apology. And Valar wonders how much of his father’s word were true.
Perhaps his uncle knocked some sense into his daughter or knocked her hard enough that he was the one saying things— then again Maekar would never let anyone who’s hurt his brood go unscathed.
His father sent him a glance, one that clearly said— walk with me, and Valarr followed dutifully, clad in his coat and still carrying his sword at his waist. He’s long since discarded his armor, dressed down yet still alert, a mirror of his father.
They walked in silence for a while, to the direction of the jousting fields, before his father speaks.
“Your niece had been the one to request as such.”
That trully stopped Valarr at his tracks. His dual colored eyes blinked,
“You jest.” He decides.
Baelor seemed amused as he was troubled, “I wish I had, son. A curious thing your cousin is. She requests the Hedge Knight to be trained by me along with the King’s Guard. She had nit called for blood. I thought my brother might’ve passed out.”
Valarr did not hide his surprise at all, not worried about losing composure in front of only his father. Momentarily he was at loss for words, as his father too had been. He gathered his wits before speaking some truth he believed in when it comes to his first irl-cousin.
“Her moods changes like the tides as if she were a Velaryon— but she’s never been merciful.” On a good day Aerion was like a whirlpool, sucking everything into her destruction, including her own family. “She’s too— cruel.”
She’s a dragon who burns herself— no scale to protect herself.
His father hummed, and continued to observe him.
“She was not always like that.” He said gently, “I remember when Aerion had been a young dragonling, when she was still betrothed to you, prickly as ever but still a glad child nonetheless.” he shrugs.
Valarr pursed his lips. The ring on his finger felt too heavy to bear at the mention of his former betrothed . His thought wandered to his pregnant wife back in Dragonstone. He recalls her kind face and all he could picture was a young face framed with the silvery cascades and bright lilac eyes that always concealed a bout of sinister deepness.
“She’s long gone.” Valarr whispered.
He did not notice his father’s still contemplative gaze at him. A firm hand was in his shoulder, grounding, and kind.
The quietness of the moment was shattered as his Uncle Maekar appeared with commotion, he seemed equal parts tired and harried, his lips upturned in his constant frown since his beloved lady wife had died. As his eyes landed on them, the man marched with intention, dollowed by a scant of guards.
“Brother.” He breathed.
“Maekar. You seemed troubled.” His father observed.
The younger brother of the two had his eye twitching and Valarr worries for a moment that Maekar might just hit Baelor. He’s always troubled when it come to his children.
“Is there anything I can help you with Uncle?” Ever noble Valarr interrupted.
“Yes, my nephew. It seemed that yet once again my children have escaped me.” He deadpans, annoyance curling in his features but also— worry. True worry that had been present since little Aegon had gone away and landed himself as a measly squire to some un known man.
Truly it was his luck that the man he squired for had been kind and merciful— not unlike the disgusting men Valarr knows thirst for more in the sight of a youngling so small such the likes of his cousin.
“Aegon has gone again?” Baelor frowned.
Maekar sighed, “No. My two eldest.” He muttered, before his eyes, so similar to Aerion landed on Valarr. “Would you be a good nephew and look for your wayward troubling cousins?” he said tiredly, looking older than Baelor.
Valarr had always respected his uncle. The angill of house Targaryen. His hand is firmer when compared to Baelor, less compassionate and more pragmatic. He rarely let his feelings cloud him or shown in his features. So truly whetever has transpired earlier had been enough for his uncle to look so openly concerned.
Curious.
He spares a glance at his father who node, the eldest of the three already clasping his hand in his brother’s shoulder.
“Of course Uncle.” Valarr answered.
“Thank you son.” Maekar mutters.
With a subtle bow, his feet moved to look for his once upon a time future wife and his once upon a time beloved brother in arms.
—
That had been the conversation that had led him to his current predicament.
At a glance the twi seemed just like commoners huddled for warmth in the sticky air of Ashford meadows. He wouldn’t have noticed the teo figures were his next of kin if it had not been for Aerion’s tuft of hair.
She’s cut it since Lady Dyanna’s death. Shirt like men, messy curls. He knows Maekar has been livid about it, that his eldest daughter looked more like a warrior compared to his inebriated heir. But it must’ve grown linger since, the curled locks framed her face prettily and Valarr despises the Gods for creating a creature so perfect and pleasing such as Aerion.
No matter how she looks Valarr was certain he’s never gazed upon something more gorgeous.
A hint of guilt crept in his heart at the thought.
“Cousins.” he hissed, deciding to approach this with less compassion and more iron.
Twin faced looked up and this time he noticed the similar features between his cousins that screamed Maekar Targaryen. Daeron had a loose arm around Aerion who was slumped against him, gone was the bravado and the facade of a princess. He wonders how many might interpret this as Targaryen queer traditions—
But he knew better.
Still a hint of annoyance at Daeron’s arm around Aerion crept up his chest. Not the time, Valarr thought, sighing.
“Your father is losing his mind looking for you.” he decides, not unkindly but nit kind either.
“Cousin.” Aerion muttered, the big lilac eyes looking up at him with—
Grief. Longing. Regret. Affection.
A look to intimate that cousins most definitely do not share.
Valarr wanted to look away before he focused more, curiosity that had been deep seated in him got the better of him at the sight of the teary eyes. That affection— that he kept close and guarded in his heart, the one reserved only for the eldest princess of summer hall bubbled up without mercy, bursting like a dam.
“Valarr.” Her voice carries his name like a damning sentence.
It overcomes every annoyance, anger, disappointment and resentment Valarr had catered for his former future wife. A dream long gone and buried.
She’s never looked at him that way— before today. Even when they were younger she’s never looked at him with such intensity and affection. She’s never called his name as it was something precious either.
Something must’ve happened.
It didn’t take him another second to kneel over his cousins. His own body shielding the two away for might be onlookers. He was about to ask before Aerion maneuvered around, her left arm snaked around Valarr and she pulls him into the embrace. Now the three were huddled together in a tight and awkward embrace. There’s a warmth there, one he had no longer feel for quite some times.
The warmth was like a kindling fire. Not the consuming fire destruction that his family usually are.
He glanced at Daeron— who seemed to be already staring at him intently, baring his soul.
“She had a very terrible dream.” Darron murmurs.
“I saw our death— I saw— I was—“ Aerion choked on her words. Her grip tightened on Valar’s back, and as easily as it had been he pulls her close and press his cheeks to the crown of her head.
“Hush now.” He murmurs to her hair.
If Aerion cried Valarr wonder who should he hurt. The great Brightflame who carries herself more as a warrior than a princess— now shaking like a leaf in her brother’s arm as if she had been a young girl. She’s muttering again, and shaking, and Valarr rubs her back, arms circling around the younger body.
“It’s alright.” He murmurs. “It’s alright…”
Her arms circled, innocently, and Valarr didn’t smell a hint of malice or manipulation that usually graces Aerion like a cloak. This time only fear, regret and desperation. His arms tightened around her accoridngly, just as desperate. He truly eanted to comfort her he notes in surprise.
When he looks up to the night sky, Darron was staring down at him.
He wonders when the elder of the siblings had extracted himself from the intimate and quiet embrace.
How calm and serene Valarr feels with his arms around Daeron’s most dear younger sibling.
How natural it was for dragon to embrace another dragon.
—
Daeron sees a path— the way Aerion had.
The two of them, they need to plan to ensure their future, the future of house Targaryen. The return of the Dragons and the future prince that shall bring peace to the realm.
Tonight Daeron will let his little sister grief for the life she had lived and died.
After all the seeds of a better future had unknowingly been planted quite innocently enough the moment Valarr wrapped his arms around Aerion, and in turn, Aerion’s gripping embrace around the older Targaryen, ignoring the former years of bitterness and animosity between them.
Guarding and protecting each other— one where the kindling fire might burn into something more.