Chapter Text
Aerion
"Such queer buildings," Aerion said. "If only you dreamt, cousin."
The other night, Aerion had another one of his dreams. He was soaring through the skies, wings flapping, of some unknown, distant land where the summer sun never set and blistered men's skin until they were red and raw. The buildings were carved from clay bricks stacked on top of each other in strange arrangements. He flew over a busy port with many ships docked at its harbor. Sand swept through the land, and giant statues of a winged monster with a woman's head and a bird's body were erected throughout the city.
Beside him was his cousin, Valarr. Whether he heard or not, he did not show; he kept his focus trained ahead. It had been six days since they all left for Ashford for the lord's daughter's nameday. Prince Baelor, Hand of the King, had made his way from King's Landing to Summerhall with his envoy so they may all travel together.
"Do you suppose Daeron and Egg have made it to Ashford?" Valarr questioned.
Aerion scowled. "They are of no concern of mine."
He found each of his siblings to be a failure. Daeron was a drunk, Aemon was a coward, Daella was soft-spoken, Aegon was annoying, and Rhae was still a mere toddler.
"Never mind then," his cousin replied. "We shall find out soon enough. Ashford draws closer. Let us continue our journey in peaceful silence."
Aerion glared at him. Despite tolerating Valarr, his cousin irritated him. A dragon does not concern itself with the weak. Let his brothers struggle; their shortcomings were not his burden to bear.
Ashford Castle was within view after some time riding. Soon enough, they crossed the drawbridge, entering through the outer gates. Aerion's nose scrunched up. The smell of the yard was offensive; a mire of dung, rot, and beastly aromas overwhelmed his senses.
Do the Ashfords have no shame in allowing such foulness to fester? Aerion thought. It reeked terribly; he'd burn the whole place down if he could.
Trumpets suddenly rang out throughout the castle, followed by the shouts of the castle herald.
"Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable, Baelor Targaryen, Firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne."
More fanfares followed.
"... And his brother, Maekar," The herald added lamely as if an afterthought.
Aerion's father and uncle had already dismounted from their steed, following their escort into the inner walls of the castle. Valarr nodded his head towards the stables. Aerion followed, his own steed's hooves clacking in unison with Valarr's.
He was studying his surroundings when the sight of one stable servant nearly made him fall off his horse. He donned a mottled green cape around himself, a tunic frayed from frequent wear, and breeches caked with dried dirt. Most notably, he was a giant oaf of a man—a walking tower.
Aerion's back straightened as he rode closer. "Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse," he commanded.
The oaf cleared his throat. "I'm—I'm not a stable boy, m'lord."
He dares to speak back?
Aerion's attention piqued. He looked down from atop his horse. Gazing back were the most radiant blue eyes he had ever encountered. For a moment, Aerion was at a loss for words.
"Not clever enough?" he managed to say, trying to regain his composure.
"Um..." the oaf stammered.
He's simple, Aerion surmised, A serving boy, no more, no less.
"Well, if you can't manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench."
He sighed and swung his cape around. He looked back, expecting the oaf to help him down or run off to fetch him some wine, anything to prove his worth. But he continued standing there, gaping.
Seeing he wasn't going to receive any help, Aerion shook his head. He lifted himself off the horse, boots kicking through the air.
"Oh, m'lord pardons."
Aerion rolled his eyes. What is it now?
"I'm—I'm no serving man, either. I have—I have the honor to be a knight."
A knight? Had he heard that right? He didn't look like a knight.
He turned to face the brute. Now that he was closer, he could get a proper look. His eyes roamed from top to bottom. Tall, strong, and big. He licked the corner of his mouth.
"Oh... well..." Aerion's lips pursed.
As large as he looked, such raggedy attire was unbecoming for a knight, especially of his enormous stature. A shame, he had the build of a knight, but he carried himself so lowly.
"Knighthood has fallen on sad days," he settled.
He turned, tight-lipped, shaking his head. Off in the distance, Aerion noticed Valarr watching him with an amused smile as other lords close by were whispering amongst each other. Aerion sauntered over, his boots dirtied from the muddy path.
His horse, Brightfyre, whinnied loudly, his hooves thumping against the ground. The sounds of smashed crates echoed throughout the area, followed by cries of pain. Aerion smiled; he did not need to look back to know his horse's misdeeds.
"Who is he?" his cousin asked.
"Merely a simple hedge knight, no more," Aerion responded coolly.
Valarr's eyebrow rose.
"I know it, aye," Aerion continued. "Him, a knight? I share your doubts, cousin."
"Looks like your simple hedge knight has brought your unruly horse to heel."
Aerion risked a glance back. His hair stood on end. Not only was the brutish oaf handling and petting his horse, but both Ser Roland and Ser Donnel of the Kingsguards were talking to him.
"Does something trouble you?" Valarr asked.
Aerion shook his head in annoyance. He waved his cape and hastily walked away, not before Ser Roland noticed him passing by. Of course, he would. A sly smile slipped across the Kingsguard's face. Aerion scowled back, not breaking eye contact with him as he left.
He passed through the gate, entering the inner bailey of the castle. A serving girl with a pitcher brimming with wine was making her way through the courtyard. Aerion stopped her.
"You, maid, take me to my chambers."
The girl traced his face before landing atop his head. Her eyes widened.
"Of—of course, my prince." She nodded her head, leading the way.
They crossed the courtyard, passing many lords and servants before arriving at the keep. Inside, they meandered down corridors and walked up flights of winding stairs. By the third level, she led him through more halls until they reached a closed oak door.
"Your bedchambers, my prince."
She held it open for Aerion to enter. Not to his surprise, it was dull and unremarkable. Stone walls all around with barely any ornate decor except for a few candelabras. A large wooden table stood by the chamber's window; pen, quill, and parchment lay bare and ready as expected. A matted rug was sprawled across the stone floor, plain white wool dampened by the cold draft coming in. The bed was equally abysmal; its canopy was made up of wooden blocks with offensively plain orange bed curtains.
Aerion scrunched up his nose at the obscenity of it all.
"Girl, the colors of House Targaryen. What are they?" he asked.
"R—red and b—black, my prince," the serving girl stammered.
"Red and black," Aerion repeated. "Does this chamber bear any red and black among its walls?"
"No, my prince."
"I did not deem you all so wanting in your duties, yet it seems my expectations were far too generous. Have a servant change the bed curtains at once. Replace this pitiful rug with something more tasteful. And where are the royal banners? Is this any way to welcome the House of Dragons? I ought to have heads for this shit, miserable assembly."
"A—apologies, my prince, I will see to it your chambers are to your liking."
The girl was about to head out. Aerion's tongue scraped the roof of his mouth. Horse riding for most of the day left him parched.
"Leave the pint and fetch me a goblet," Aerion said.
The girl stopped in her tracks. She turned around, her lips tight. Her hands shook slightly, much to Aerion's amusement.
"P—pardons, my prince," she replied hesitantly. "The pint is for filling the cups of lords and ladies attending the gardens."
"Have I not spoken plainly enough? Leave the pint and fetch me a goblet," he growled as did his stomach. He had also not eaten since arriving at Ashford. "And fetch a bowl of walnuts."
"At—at once, my prince!" She left the pint on the table before leaving.
Aerion stared out the window, hands clasped together. The cool, steel touch of his dagger's pommel pressed hard against his skin. The girl soon returned with a goblet in one hand and a bowl of walnuts already cracked in the other. Aerion waved her off to dismiss her. He was busy basking in whatever sunlight he could, as a dragon should to keep itself warm.
Once she left, he poured himself a drink, taking small sips while watching the courtyard bustle with activity below. He snacked on a few walnuts, making sure to leave room for supper. There was a feast to be held in the Great Hall to herald the first joust of the night.
A knock on the door broke him out of his thoughts. "My prince, your belongings have arrived," a raspy voice called out.
Aerion walked over. Several Summerhall servants were lined up outside carrying his chests filled with clothes, armor, and other possessions. In the far back were the Ashford servants bidding his accommodation requests.
"Get on with it," Aerion snapped.
It would take a moment for his chambers to be properly readied. Growing bored, he left his chambers. As dreary as this place was, he'd rather stroll around the castle than stay cooped up all day. Servants and maids bowed their heads as he passed. Aerion smugly smiled at such subservience.
He walked up a flight of winding stairs, nearly making it to the top. He hardly had time to react before colliding with a great weight. He reeled back from the impact, catching hold of himself. Such clumsiness will not go unpunished.
Anger rising in him, he bared his teeth. His breath caught in his throat as the same pair of radiant blue eyes from earlier stared right back at him.
"You absolute lout," Aerion berated. "Are you truly so dense to not percept the path in front of you?"
"M'lord, forgive me," the oaf stuttered. "I did not—"
"Prince," Aerion corrected coldly. "You are to refer to me properly as 'my prince'."
The brute stared at him. "R—Right, pardons, my prince."
"What is your name?" Aerion demanded. If he was going to keep running into him, he may as well become acquainted with the oaf.
"Ser Dunk."
"That is a stupid name."
"Ser Duncan the Tall."
"As if that favors any better," Aerion scoffed. "What business do you have allowing entry to these parts of the keep? These chambers are for highborns and royals alone, or have your wits abandoned you?"
"I had hoped to curry favors from Prince Baelor. He has vouched for me to enter the tourney lists."
A shiver ran down Aerion's spine. He may have to face this oaf in a jousting match. Brawny, he was, and, admittedly, marvelously colossal. Absolutely singular. A formidable foe.
Aerion let out an amused huff. "Many skilled knights are entering this tourney, many of them from noble houses. Make no mistake that they will go kindly on you." He stepped closer, lifting his chin, and tapped a finger hard against the hedge knight's chest. "I'd wager they would each seize the chance to take out the giant first."
The brute straightened himself, his chest growing wider as he did. "Then let them try as they might."
Tingles spread throughout Aerion's body. He swaggered back, his gaze fixed on the beast. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek.
He turned on his heels, his cape trailing behind, though he stopped halfway down the corridor. He spun back to face the hedge knight.
"There is a feast for those entered into the tourney at evenfall," Aerion called out, his hand drumming the pommel of his dagger. "I am to be there."
He glared at those big blue eyes, challenging them, before storming off.
♛ 𓆩𓄋𓆪 ♛
The Great Hall at Ashford Castle was abysmally lacking compared to Summerhall. Its sad, damp stone walls and pathetic furnishings left little vibrancy. Like his chambers, the banquet tables and dining chairs were wooden blocks, lacking any ornate designs.
Aerion waltzed through the hall. Tonight, he donned an elaborately tailored outfit: a black, onyx coat that layered towards one side of his body; a crimson sash cut across his chest that bled into a long cape trailing behind one shoulder; and a three-headed dragon brooch made of Valyrian steel fastened proudly upon his chest. To match, he wore black, fitted, woolen breeches and leather boots that reached to his thighs. Underneath it all, he wore his chainmail tank, the metal clawing into him as if they were dragon scales protruding from his flesh.
He stepped onto the dais where a long table covered in white cloth and a decorative orange surnape stood. On one end, Lord Paul and Lady Clarice of Ashford sat with their daughter, Lady Gwin, who was closer to the middle.
Aerion took his place at the other end of the table alongside his father, while his uncle and cousin sat close to the girl. A few seats by him were vacant; his brothers must not have made it to Ashford yet. Clear vexation was written across his father's face, Aerion noticed.
Aerion's brows furrowed as tourney participants pooled in, slowly filling the banquet tables below him. This was how it ought to be, knights and lordlings with barely a penny to their name beneath them. Beneath him.
Among the crowd, Aerion caught sight of that oaf of a man. He grabbed his goblet, placing it by his lips but refusing to take a sip. He breathed in deeply, drinking in the fruity aroma of the wine as he hawkishly watched the hedge knight take a seat at the very back of the Great Hall. Aerion tsked.
Cupbearers bustled in, eagerly filling the cups of lower guests with wine. Soon enough, serving maids in plain brown and white rushed in, setting plates of tender beef, steamed vegetables, and loaves of bread along the tables.
One serving maid walked past the long hall of banquet tables. Unlike the other maids, she donned an orange gown under her white apron. She placed a plate of roasted venison, ham, and beef in front of Aerion, all of which were thickly coated in gravy.
Aerion lifted his chin defiantly. "Return this. Have them send one that's thick, rare, and bloody. I refuse to have it any other way."
The serving maid's eyes widened in horror. Aerion raised an eyebrow and waved her off as if she were a pesky fly. She nodded silently, picking the plate back up.
His father sighed. "For fuck's sake, boy, I did not raise you as if you were an animal," he chastised. "Bloody rare, my ass."
"If we are to attend this... feast... let it be done with pride befitting the Blood of the Dragon."
Maeker pinched the bridge of his nose. "Must you always cause a scene?"
Aerion shrugged. "Is our presence not already a spectacle alone?"
The serving maid returned with a plate of rare beef. Blood was pooling at the bottom of the dish. His father threw one last disapproving look before turning back towards Baelor.
Aerion picked up his cutlery before catching a glimpse of the oaf staring at him. He stared back, their eyes locking across the Great Hall. Realizing he had been caught, the oaf broke his gaze, reverting his attention to the food in front of him. Aerion brought his goblet up for a sip, the smallest hint of a victory smirk breaking through.
Lord Ashford rose from his chair. The hall became quiet as he held up his cup.
"My lords, ladies, and honored guests," he opened. "Tonight, we are graced by the presence of the Blood of the Dragon beneath my roof." He turned to Prince Baelor. "To House Targaryen—may their reign endure for many years to come."
The hall took a sip in honor of the Dragon House. Before long, Lord Ashford raised his cup again, this time turning towards his daughter.
"And now, to my daughter, on the day of her name, may the Seven continue to watch over her for all her days to come."
Another sip from all. Joyous celebration broke out soon after. The hall became filled with music, laughter, and cheer.
Aerion paid no mind to the festivities around him; he would not stoop to the same raucity as these lowerborn men. He sipped his wine, ate his bloody rare meat, all while sneaking glances at that towering fortress of a man, listing all the different ways to best him.
♛ 𓆩𓄋𓆪 ♛
Supper came and went, and soon the first night of jousting was starting. Aerion, his uncle, and his father took their seats in the raised royal stand among other highborn nobles. Aerion rubbed his hands together in excited anticipation; the stands offered the best vantage point to view the tourney field.
A few knights had already come and gone. Their names meant nothing to Aerion; he only cared for the blood they spilled. The harder they fell, the more entertaining it was. This was his feast, the brutality of men.
Before long, he spotted his older cousin entering the field atop his horse. He rode in his armor. Dull and humble, it mostly was. The only remarkable pieces were the extravagant cloak with lightning streaked across it and their House's sigil proudly emblazoned red across his chest.
The herald stepped onto the podium. "Prince Valarr of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone," he announced.
Aerion slumped into his chair, letting out a bored sigh. In every tourney, no knight dared to unhorse the Young Prince. He was second-in-line to the Iron Throne, after all, right behind his father.
"Helm," Valarr shouted as he made his way to the starting line.
A valet immediately ran towards the Young Prince to hand him the armored headpiece. Valarr placed it upon his head, then spurred his horse to move. The crowd riled at that.
A blood less round. Aerion tossed his head and tsked; he already knew who would come out as champion. Just as he did, he caught a glimpse of that unmistakable tower standing erect among the rest of the peasantry.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
Immediately, the dragon prince stood upright in his seat. The sudden change in demeanor caught his uncle's attention, who wordlessly raised an eyebrow. Besides his uncle, his father also turned to face him, frowning.
Keeping a straight face, Aerion cleared his throat while fixing the imaginary wrinkles of his cloak. He turned back towards the tourney.
Once the trumpet blew, the horses were off, galloping on each side of the tilt towards each other. Valarr kept a stiff posture; he was far too rigid in an actual joust. A consequence of constant coddling, no doubt. Aerion could not imagine his own father cosseting him and his siblings.
Yet, despite his improper stance, Valarr managed to land a blow that unhorsed his competitor, some knight Aerion had already forgotten. Down into the muddy ground his opponent went. Cheers once again rang throughout the tourney field
Among the crowd, the giant stood. He seemed a little green, squeamish perhaps, even queasy, to all that was going on. Aerion's eyes narrowed, a wicked smirk slowly spreading over his face. A virgin, this hedge knight was, to the world of tourneys.
Good.
♛ 𓆩𓄋𓆪 ♛
Far too little blood was spilled, much to Aerion's disappointment. A bore, the majority of the tourney was, leaving Aerion wanting to return to his bedchambers. Thank the Seven, the first night of jousting concluded shortly.
The crowd dissipated, and all the highborn folks made their way down the steps from the royal stand. The royal family, along with other guests, made their way into the castle keep. Ahead of the procession was his uncle and father alongside their host. Aerion followed closely behind with the Kingsguards trailing the cape of his cloak.
Once inside the keep, his uncle stopped abruptly, with the rest of his small ensemble also coming to a halt.
"A wonderful feast and start of the tournament. I thank you, Lord Ashford, for inviting us into your home."
"Please, it is you and your family that have graced our halls," Lord Ashford replied.
"Now that we are gathered, perhaps it is time for us to discuss more important matters in private, should your strength remain at this late hour."
"Fret not, the hour of the eel has yet to approach. I would be delighted to talk business."
"Valarr shall attend us before long. In whatever matters I am occupied, I see that he shares the responsibility. Brother, will you also join us?"
Prince Maekar's jaw clenched. He paused before replying. "My other two sons are still missing. I will send Aerion in my stead as I search for them."
"I would much rather retire to my chambers," Aerion said.
"Boy, you dare not speak with such insolence to your uncle or to me," his father scowled.
Prince Baelor raised his hand. "No need to worry, I found no offense. It has been a long and tiresome day." He turned to the closest Kingsguard beside him, Ser Roland.
For fuck's sake, Aerion thought. He would think twice not to.
"Ser Roland, escort Prince Aerion to his chambers, and return once finished," Prince Baelor commanded.
Seven hells.
Before he could protest, his uncle had already turned his back, giving out orders to the other Kingsguards.
Ser Roland swaggered his way beside him. Aerion faced the knight, keeping a cold, stone face. Ser Roland bit his bottom lip, a mischievous look on his face. Aerion shook his head as he turned towards the winding flight of stairs with the Kingsguard following closely behind.
They passed through many halls in silence, though Aerion could tell the Kingsguard was eager to accompany him to his chambers. The heavy, loud footsteps right behind his own were telltale signs of growing impatience.
They reached the wooden oak door to his chambers. Ser Roland stepped forward to open the door for him.
"My pretty prince," he bowed. "Your... bed... chambers."
Aerion dismissively waved his hand. He didn't have the patience to deal with him. They shared only one spontaneous night together, as Aerion had with the other six Kingsguards with each visit to King's Landing. He assumed Ser Roland would eventually fall in line like the others, but it seemed the knight became even more infatuated with the prince as the months passed between them. Back at Summerhall, Aerion often received letters from him; he'd quickly burn them all without bothering to read any.
Ser Roland spoke up once more. "I have oft thought of our last... rendezvous. I venture to ask, what is the nature of..." He gestured between them. "... Us?"
Aerion stopped in his tracks. "Ser Roland, must I remind you of your place?"
Ser Roland leaned forward, whispering into Aerion's ear, "My place is on top of you, my prince. And, your place, as I recall quite fondly, was under me, taking my huge cock."
Delicious shivers ran down his spine, but he would not deign to fuck the same man twice. It had been an urgent need at the time, and the knight had quenched his thirst enough.
"Careful playing with fire, lest you get burnt," he sneered, coldly measuring him from head to heel. "Return to my uncle, I have no use for you." He struck the door shut, leaving the Kingsguard standing.