Chapter Text
Aerion is in the Vale when it happens. After Uncle Rhaegel’s death, Alyn Arryn had retreated back to her homeland in the Eyrie with Daenora, only going to court when summoned. As such, his wife, in an uncharacteristic move of selfishness, had demanded to bring their son to see his only living grandmother for several moons. Aerion, in true fashion and knowing his place was in the Red Keep and not up in the Eyrie, wished not to leave court but had been given the ultimatum after Daenora went to their father.
“You will heed her in this. Maegor has one living grandmother and you will not deny your wife, not after all that you put her through, or so help me I will ensure you will be cut out of succession for Summerhall in favour of your son. Or perhaps Aegon would prefer it as a home for his family.”
Summerhall, despite Daeron’s ridiculous styling of himself as Prince of Summerhall and of Dragonstone, was to be Aerion’s. As by right, his father had agreed, since the whole of Westeros was to be Daeron’s one day. For it to go to the little twit, no matter how he distinguished himself in battle, was unacceptable. So he yielded in this, as it was not worth the fight, Daenora would leave him alone and to his own devices, and he would ensure that he would one day be Prince of Summerhall and have his son inherit. Perhaps he would marry Maegor off to Vaella, if his father could be persuaded.
Which was why he was in the Vale, now, and humoring Daenora, Aunt Alys, and the simpering sheep that made up Lord Arryn’s court.
Humoring, indeed, when the maester comes with a letter bearing his father’s personal seal and a grave face. In the middle of luncheon, where Daenora is letting her family coo over their son, and he is playing at gracious guest, sipping their too-dry wine and bland chicken. There is a second letter, in the maester's hand that has already been broken, and he snatches up the one bearing his name, and shooed away the maester in favor of reading.
To my brother, Prince Aerion,
I regret to inform you that Daeron has left this plane as of last night. No doubt it will be several days until you receive this news. Rest assured, he no longer is in any pain or suffering, be it physical or from his dreams, which no doubt you are aware of. He was not alone, as I, along with Kiera and father, were there by his side when he passed.
Officially, we must say he died of a pox. No more, no less, and let the court and the people make up their minds. Unofficially, it was the dreams and his desire to purge himself of alcohol one last time to attempt to find some clarity over one in particular that plagued him. His heart gave out in the process. He bid me to record his ramblings and should you wish it they will be found among his personal journals. Father bids you to keep the truth to yourself and burn this letter upon your completion of reading.
You must return to court immediately, as father has stated he has no choice but to invest the position of Prince of Dragonstone upon you, as well as formally proclaiming your status as Crown Prince. Apologies will be sent to your wife’s family. Make haste.
Your brother,
Aemon
Daeron, his older brother, was gone. His heir was a little girl who was said to be simple, if sweet, though Aerion wondered if it was merely Daeron and Kiera’s attempt to keep their daughter away from the Iron Throne in an attempt to have a happy life.
Daeron, who had done nothing of note with his life save for being a dreamer, and even then was half mad and half drunk. Daeron who would take him fishing when they were young. Daeron who would whisper stories under the covers of blankets when the thunderstorms came and Aerion was still too little to understand it would not hurt him. Daeron, who looked at him with disappointment when he was too quick, too harsh, too unyielding. Daeron who took Aegon's side when it should have been his. Daeron who had been there, always, regardless of the distance. A constant companion before he had even known what it was to have a brother.
And now he is gone.
“Aerion?”
His head snaps up and he looks at his wife’s face. Long locks that should be a sandy blonde instead of the silvery blonde she is and the too-dark streak in her silver hair denoting her parentage. Dark eyes where there should be lilac or purple. Soft and round clean when it should be stubbed with blonde and sharper cheekbones.
His brother was supposed to be his companion, not this… not Daenora. Not even an imitation for all they were named after the same man.
“Daeron is dead. Father bids us to return to King’s Landing. We leave tonight.”
“Aerion, it isn’t safe to travel so late.”
“Then we leave now. Have the servants pack our things, say your goodbyes. But we will leave and if you refuse, then I will go and take Maegor with me.”
She yields because she always does when he threatens to take Maegor from her. A woman’s softness brought about by Arryn blood. At least his own mother, from the little he remembers, had fire in her. Could match his father’s wit and burn just as brightly as any dragon, for stars were made of flames as much as dragons were.
Daenora was too much Arryn to understand.
Daeron would have understood perfectly.
“Of course, lord husband.”
He doesn’t wait for her to get up, pushing himself and his chair away from the table and standing. Stomping off with the letter in his hand, he makes to the guest chambers afforded them, snapping at the page along the way to ready his things for travel and to ensure his son’s belongings are prepared as well.
He makes it to the solar and sits down, letter still clutched in his hand, leaning back on a too-hard chair, watching as the maids scurry about, packing and cleaning and laying out his traveling clothes. Every so often they bow but he ways them away, turning his attention to the window and the view afforded him.
Clouds and mountaintops. A blue sky, the clearest of blues.
A dragon could fly through those clouds without issue.
He stands again and ignores the looks that are being given as he marches to the window, opening it up and breathing in the cold rush of air, the letter still in his hand.
You told me I was to be a fearsome dragon, brother, with green flames pouring from my mouth. A mighty warrior, a true son of House Targaryen, a dragon who was fire-made-flesh, for no fire could kill a dragon.
You died.
You were not supposed to die.
Not yet.
He says nothing.
He could picture it. Daeron. Here. Standing next to him, a cup in hand, peering out the window with him and spouting some nonsense about falcons and dragons and how he would become that which would fly if only given the chance. Or how it must have been a mighty sight for the boy-king to see a true dragonmaster upon her mighty dragon, and given the chance to fly. Or perhaps some nonsense about brooding being contagious and hopefully Maegor would not inherit it for he would unite their lines in their children, as Aerion had wanted.
If Aerion could not have Daeron in how it was meant to be, then his son could have the daughter, and they could be complete, as it always should have been.