Chapter Text
Aerion felt like a trussed-up cow being prepared for auction.
The thought was terribly undignified, especially considering the hours of preparation that had gone into making him look every inch the prince he was supposed to be. Servants had fussed over him from dawn until he had nearly lost his patience, adjusting every fold of fabric, every jewel, every strand of hair until there was nothing left to improve. Normally, he would have adored it. He had always enjoyed the attention that came with being a Targaryen prince: the whispers, the admiration, the careful hands ensuring he looked nothing short of magnificent.
Today, however, all the finery felt like a cage.
His gown was breathtaking. He knew that much. He had chosen it himself, after all, refusing the suggestions of half a dozen attendants who thought they knew better what a prince should wear. The base of the garment was made from the finest black silk, so dark it seemed almost like polished obsidian, the fabric flowing elegantly around him with every step. Across the silk were intricate patterns of gold embroidery, each thread catching the light like molten metal. The designs curled over his chest and sleeves in delicate Valyrian-inspired motifs. Flames, dragons, and ancient symbols of his house, reminding everyone who looked upon him exactly who he was.
A Targaryen.
The red outer layer only heightened the effect. Rich crimson fabric rested over his shoulders and fell behind him like the wings of some great dragon, lined with enough weight to make the garment move with a regal grace rather than simply hang from his frame. It was a colour chosen deliberately, one that complemented the silver-white of his hair and made the violet of his eyes seem even brighter. He knew what people saw when they looked at him: the pale beauty of old Valyria, the unmistakable mark of the dragonlords.
He looked like a prince. He felt like prey.
Gold adorned him everywhere. Rings decorated his fingers, each one carrying the sigils and gemstones of his family. Chains of gold rested against his throat and chest, ruby accents scattered throughout the pieces like drops of blood against the precious metal. The jewels had been chosen carefully to match his gown, to make him appear more intimidating, more untouchable.
Instead, he felt as though they were simply making him easier to display. The only thing that gave him any comfort was the dagger strapped securely at his waist. His favourite blade.
The hilt was familiar beneath his fingers, a small reminder that despite the layers of silk and jewellery, despite the servants and expectations and the endless rules surrounding him, he was still a dragon. He was not some ornament to be traded between noble houses. He was not some helpless maiden waiting for a husband to claim him.
He was a dragon. And dragons had claws.
Even the collar around his neck, however, served as a reminder that today he was expected to play a role he had never wanted.
As was customary for an unwed and unmated omega of noble birth, Aerion wore a collar. He had refused the heavier, more elaborate options his attendants had presented, declaring them far too gaudy and far too uncomfortable. Instead, he had selected a delicate piece of black leather that rested snugly against his throat. It was elegant rather than restrictive, softened by fine craftsmanship and decorated with small rubies embedded into the material. The gemstones formed gentle patterns that mirrored the embroidery on his gown, making the piece appear less like a symbol of vulnerability and more like another piece of royal jewellery.
But he knew what it represented. A declaration that he was still unclaimed. Available. The thought made his jaw tighten.
No amount of gold, no amount of jewels, no amount of careful grooming could disguise the fact that everyone in the castle knew exactly why he was dressed like this. He was not descending into the great hall for a celebration or a feast.
He was being presented.
And despite everyone fussing around him, something he normally would have revelled in, he could not shake the cold knot of dread twisting in his stomach. Descending the stairs into the great hall with his father beside him did not give him the opportunity to run. Not that he hadn’t considered it. More than once.
Maekar’s grip around his wrist made certain that any such attempt would end before it began. His father’s hand was firm, almost painfully so, like a vice keeping him in place. Aerion glared at him, thoroughly unimpressed by the lack of trust. As though Aerion had ever caused trouble before. Well. Perhaps that was not entirely true. But he was furious. Entirely and completely furious.
His grandfather, King Daeron the Good, had decided that strengthening ties with the Iron Islands was necessary. The realm needed their ships, their support, their loyalty should another Blackfyre rebellion threaten the Seven Kingdoms. Aerion understood the logic, of course. He was not an idiot.
But understanding something did not mean he had to like it. His uncle Baelor, heir to the throne, had decided the best solution was a marriage alliance. And somehow, impossibly, that solution had become Aerion’s problem.
For three years his father had presented him with suitor after suitor, each one supposedly more suitable than the last. Lords, knights, wealthy heirs, all carefully chosen men who had been told that marrying a Targaryen prince was an honour. Aerion had made certain they reconsidered. He was rather proud of that, actually.
Some had been scared away by his temper. Others by his sharp tongue. A few had simply realised that Aerion was not the obedient, sweet-natured omega they had hoped to acquire. He had never pretended otherwise. He was difficult. He knew he was difficult.
But he was also a prince of House Targaryen. Why should he settle?
Eventually, however, even Maekar had admitted defeat. There were no more acceptable candidates left. No more noble houses willing to risk their heir on Aerion’s impossible standards. And Baelor had seized upon that admission immediately. The heir to the throne had suggested that Aerion marry the heir of the Iron Islands. Aerion had objected. Vehemently.
He had argued. He had protested. He had reminded everyone involved that he was a prince of the blood, and not some bargaining piece to be handed over whenever politics demanded it. None of it mattered. His father had been unable to refuse Baelor. His grandfather, the king himself, had declared the match an excellent idea. And that had been the end of it.
Now Aerion was being marched toward the great hall like a prize awaiting inspection. He scowled as the doors grew closer. Apparently, the Ironborn Lordling had already arrived and was currently inside greeting the king and the court. Aerion cared very little. In fact, he already had a plan. He would frighten him away. Just like all the others.
He had no intention of giving up the comfortable life he currently enjoyed. He was a Targaryen prince. Perhaps only the second son of the fourth son of the king, but still a prince. He had been raised surrounded by luxury, power, and the knowledge that his blood was among the most ancient and revered in the world.
Why would he marry someone beneath him? Someone without the blood of the dragon? Someone who was not even from one of the great mainland houses, but from the harsh, distant Iron Islands? No. This would not do. Not at all.
The great wooden doors swung open with a deep groan, the sound echoing through the vastness of the hall as every conversation died away. The heavy hinges seemed to announce him before he even stepped inside, ensuring that every eye turned toward the entrance.
Aerion refused to lower his head. He kept his chin lifted, shoulders straight, and expression carefully arranged into one of cold indifference. If they wanted to stare, then let them stare. He would give them something worth looking at. The gold woven into his black silk caught the light as he walked, the rubies at his throat and wrists gleaming like drops of fresh blood. His silver-white hair fell over his shoulders in carefully arranged waves, the colour almost unnatural beneath the torchlight, and he knew the effect it created.
The court knew it too.
Most of them had long since learned better than to openly gawk at him. They knew the prince’s temper, knew his sharp tongue, knew that a careless comment or lingering stare could earn them a cutting remark they would not soon forget. But Aerion barely noticed them. His attention was not on the courtiers whispering behind fans or the nobles pretending not to watch him. It was on the man standing at the base of the dais.
The Ironborn Lordling.
The rest of Aerion’s family had already been arranged perfectly, as though they were part of some grand portrait meant to impress foreign guests. His grandfather’s court surrounded the throne with all the carefully practiced elegance of royalty, each member of the family placed exactly where tradition demanded.
Baelor stood tall and composed, every inch the future king. One hand rested firmly on Valarr’s shoulder, the other on Matarys’s, a quiet reminder of both his authority and his role as their protector. His expression was calm, almost unbearably calm, as if this entire situation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Aerion hated that. He hated how everyone seemed determined to accept this as inevitable.
When his gaze shifted toward his younger cousins, Matarys looked away almost immediately, suddenly finding something fascinating about the stone floor. Aerion almost smiled. At least someone had enough sense to look uncomfortable. Valarr, however, met his stare.
His cousin’s face remained neutral, giving away nothing. But Aerion knew him well enough to notice the slight tension around his eyes, the small indication that Valarr understood exactly how much Aerion despised this entire arrangement. Aerion looked away first. Not because he had lost. Simply because there were other people who deserved his attention. On the opposite side of the dais stood his siblings.
His eldest brother, Daeron, immediately looked uncomfortable when their eyes met. The prince winced, actually winced, before quickly turning his attention elsewhere. Aerion almost scoffed. Typical. Daeron had always been far too gentle, far too willing to avoid conflict. Pathetic, really. His sisters were easier to read.
Both looked torn between sympathy and relief. Aerion knew exactly what they were thinking. They pitied him for being forced into this situation, but they were also grateful it was not them standing there in silk and jewels, about to be judged as a potential bride.
Aerion could not blame them.
He would not wish this humiliation on anyone. Except perhaps the Ironborn Lordling.
His gaze deliberately passed over Aegon. There was no point looking. He and his youngest brother had never gotten along, and Aerion saw no reason to pretend otherwise now. Whatever expression Aegon wore, whatever opinion he held, Aerion did not care enough to find out. Instead, he returned his attention to the reason he was standing in the middle of the hall.
The Ironborn Lordling was taller than Aerion had expected. Not impossibly tall. Not some giant of a man like the songs exaggerated. Aerion had seen men far larger in the training yards and among the knights of the realm. But the Lordling still carried himself with a solid presence, with the kind of physical strength that came from a life very different from Aerion’s own.
He looked like someone who worked with his hands. Someone who knew hardship. Aerion immediately disliked the thought. The man was rugged, in the way some people might have found appealing. His features were sharper than Aerion had expected, weathered rather than refined, with the unmistakable look of someone shaped by harsh winds and salt air. He had a certain rough attractiveness, perhaps.
But Aerion saw everything he lacked. No elegant high cheekbones. No refined Valyrian beauty. No silver hair. No violet eyes. No connection to the ancient blood of Old Valyria. He was simply a man. And most importantly, he was not a dragon. The thought settled comfortably in Aerion’s mind. The Ironborn Lordling wore no elaborate silks, no embroidered finery, no carefully crafted display of wealth. Instead, he was dressed in simple leathers, practical and plain. The clothing looked more suited for a ship’s deck or a battlefield than a royal court.
Aerion’s lips nearly curled. Of course. Ironborn. He knew what his lessons had taught him. The people of the Iron Islands valued taking over creating, raiding over trade. They believed in paying the iron price, earning what they had through strength rather than coin. Or, more accurately, stealing it.
Aerion’s eyes travelled over the man’s clothing again. He wondered if those leathers had belonged to someone else once. Someone who had lost them when an Ironborn raider decided he wanted them. Someone who had not survived the exchange. Or perhaps the entire image was simply a performance. Perhaps the Lordling was not some savage reaver at all. Perhaps he merely wore the role expected of him, just as Aerion wore his jewels and silk.
“Your Grace’s.” The Ironborn Lordling greeted them with perfect courtesy, his voice carrying easily through the hall despite the weight of silence that had fallen over the court.
Aerion had been taught from childhood that titles were not simply words. They were earned through blood, through legacy, through power. A Targaryen prince carried centuries of Valyrian history in his veins. He carried the blood of dragonlords, of conquerors, of kings. Norjen Greyjoy carried the blood of men who once raided those same shores and then eventually submitted.
To Aerion, there was a difference. A very large one. If the Ironborn wished to call themselves kings and princes, they could do so on their islands. But here, in the heart of the realm, before the king and the court, they were subjects. Nothing more. His father clearly shared at least some of that sentiment.
Maekar remained completely straight-backed beside him, offering no bow to the Ironborn Lordling either. Aerion felt a small spark of satisfaction at that. At least his father had not completely abandoned all pride. And despite everything, despite the fact that Maekar had dragged him here, despite the fact that he was the reason Aerion was standing in front of a man he had no intention of marrying, Aerion knew one thing. His father had tried.
Maekar had argued against this match. He had fought against it until the very moment Ser Norjen Greyjoy arrived at court. Aerion knew because he had overheard enough conversations, had seen enough frustration written across his father’s face to understand that Maekar had not wanted this either. Not at first. But that did little to soothe Aerion’s anger. Because wanting something and stopping it were two very different things.
“My son,” Maekar finally said, introducing him with unnecessary formality.
Everyone here knew who Aerion was. The court knew. The Ironborn knew. The entire realm likely knew. But tradition demanded it.
“Aerion.” The name left his father’s mouth with the weight of expectation behind it.
Aerion lifted his chin slightly, allowing the torchlight to catch against the gold embroidery of his clothing and the rubies at his throat. If he was being presented, then he would at least make certain he looked exactly like what he was. A dragon. Not a prize. Not a bargaining piece. The Ironborn Lordling turned toward him at last.
Up close, Aerion could see more details than he had from across the hall. The weathered lines of his face. The darker complexion from years spent beneath the sun. The practical clothing that looked entirely out of place among the silks and jewels of the royal court. He looked like he belonged on a ship. Not here.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Aerion.” Polite. Respectful. Almost annoyingly so.
Aerion stared at him. He let the silence stretch. The longer he looked, the more he searched for something that might make this man impressive. Something that might justify why his grandfather thought this was a suitable match. He found nothing. No refinement. No elegance. No ancient beauty. No sign of the greatness Aerion had been raised to expect from those who stood beside him. Only a man. A man who expected Aerion to simply accept him. Absolutely not. Aerion looked him up and down, finding him lacking.
“Aerion,” Maekar’s voice cut through the tense silence as it became obvious Aerion wasn’t intending on replying, “Ser Norjen Greyjoy.”
The introduction was delivered as if saying the name might somehow make Aerion more willing to acknowledge him. It did not. Aerion allowed his gaze to linger for another moment before giving the smallest, most dismissive sound of acknowledgement. A hum. Nothing more.