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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories:
F/MGenM/MF/F
Fandoms:
House of the Dragon (TV)A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Relationships:
Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) & Rhaenyra TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Jacaerys VelaryonAerion Targaryen & Lucerys VelaryonHarwin Strong & Rhaenyra Targaryen & Laenor VelaryonAerion Targaryen & Aegon II TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Aemond "One-Eye" TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Helaena TargaryenDaemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen
Characters:
Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I)Rhaenyra TargaryenJacaerys VelaryonLucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra)Joffrey VelaryonLaenor VelaryonHarwin StrongAlicent HightowerViserys I TargaryenAegon II TargaryenAemond "One-Eye" TargaryenHelaena TargaryenDaemon TargaryenRhaena Targaryen (Daughter of Daemon)Baela TargaryenCorlys "The Sea Snake" VelaryonRhaenys Targaryen VelaryonSilverwing | Alysanne Targaryen's DragonAddam VelaryonDaeron Targaryen (Son of Viserys I)
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceTime TravelThe Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen EraI've fallen victim to the TikTok edits of twins Jace and AerionAerion Targaryen vs The GreensDragon Dreams (Questionable)Dark HumorUnreliable NarratorNo Beta We Die Like Aerion (The First Time)Dragon Dreams (Literal)
Language:
English
Collections:
Anonymous
Stats:
Published:2025-12-18Updated:2026-07-17Words:374,422Chapters:36/?Comments:6,750Kudos:5,909Bookmarks:1,610Hits:240,697
Burn Them All
Anonymous
Summary:
Beware: Maegor with teats has begotten Aerion the Monstrous.
Prince Aerion Targaryen once drank a cup of wildfire, convinced it would make him a dragon. It made him a corpse instead—briefly. Fate (or the gods, or some bored Valyrian demon with a taste for jokes) spits him back into the world generations earlier, reborn as the twin brother of Prince Jacerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
He isn't a dragon. Tragic.
Still Aerion decides to do what he does best:
Cause problems on purpose.
Notes:
Blame my TikTok algorithm for this.
Chapter 1: Dragon Dreams
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first thing he became aware of was the sound of his own screaming. It was a familiar sensation, the raw scrape of fire in the throat, the blinding, all-consuming agony. The cup, he thought, hysterical, the wildfire, it burns, it burns, I am becoming—
A sharp slap landed on his backside.
The second thing he became aware of was that he was disappointingly small, damp, and being held upside down.
"Another son, Your Grace," announced a weary midwife. "A strong one, by the sound of his lungs."
Through bleary eyes, Aerion Targaryen, late of the line of King Maekar I, beheld a sight that made him forget, for a moment, the phantom wildfire in his gullet. A woman with silver-gold hair, drenched in sweat and glowing with beauty, held a squirming bundle that was not him. And she was looking at him.
"Two," she breathed, a smile breaking over her face. "Two dragons. Jacaerys, and… Aerion."
A twin, his soft newborn wits managed at last, as they righted and swaddled him and laid him beside the other bundle—Jacaerys. His brother. His elder brother, by a few cursed breaths. The indignity of it! He, Aerion Brightflame, heir to… well, to nothing, but still a Prince of the Blood, relegated to second again?
He opened his mouth to voice a royal protest, but all that emerged was a furious, high-pitched wail. His brother, Jacaerys, joined in.
"Listen to them," the woman—his mother—laughed weakly. "They are already of one voice."
Aerion promptly stopped crying out of sheer, horrified spite.
The years that followed were a confounding mix of relief and fury. Relief, because Dragons. They were everywhere. Their great, leather-winged shadows darkened the sky over King's Landing. The smell of smoke and hot scales was as common as sea salt. Aerion had not been reborn a dragon—an insult the skies would never be forgiven for—but he had been reborn in a world where a boy could reach up, take hold of a saddle, and claim one.
The fury, however, was reserved for the Greens.
It took Aerion, bearing the name Aerion Velaryon ("A fine, strong Valyrian name," his mother had said, and he'd preened, until he realized no one would ever call him 'Brightflame' again), some time to piece together the when of it all. The reign of Viserys I. The Great Council's shadow. The Hightower rot.
The first time he saw Queen Alicent, a vision in green at his grandsire's side, his baby fingers clenched into fists. You, he thought, the old madness humming in his veins. Your line. Your scheming. Your progeny. You are why the dragons die. The last living dragon in his past life had been a stunted, sickly thing. The memory filled him with a cold, infantile rage that made him soil his swaddling clothes with impressive violence.
His uncles were worse.
Aegon was loud and sloppy even as a boy, as if the gods had made him and then lost interest halfway through. He stank of wine too early and entitlement from the start. I died drinking wildfire to become a dragon, you pustule, Aerion thought, watching Aegon strut about with a wooden sword he could barely lift. You can't even hold your sword. Aemond was a rigid, scowling boy with a stick perpetually wedged somewhere unspeakable. Even before he lost the eye, there was something hungry in his stare, something that sought weaknesses the way maesters sought fevers.
And Daeron, off in Oldtown, was surely just as insufferable.
Then there was Helaena. Sweet, dreamy, murmuring Helaena. The first time she toddled over and patted Aerion's head with reverence, he fixed her with a dead-eyed stare.
"Dimwit," he attempted, because it felt important to establish boundaries early.
What came out was, "Gah-bah."
Helaena's face lit like sunrise. "He speaks of beetles," she announced, delighted. "And worms. How clever."
Aerion spent the rest of the day pondering how a babe might go about kingslaying.
He was, by all accounts, a peculiar child. He adored his mother with a devotion that made courtiers smile nervously.
She was fierce, she was the heir, and she had the right of it. He tolerated his Velaryon brothers—Jace, Luke, and later, little Joffrey. They were earnest, which was better than stupid. He would defend them, he supposed. They were of the same… vaguely fishy… stock.
But his true purpose, his secret fire, was the gentle, persistent terrorizing of the Green faction.
When Aerion was bored, things… happened.
He was four the first time Rhaenyra brought him to a small council session "so he might learn to sit still."
He sat very still.
He sat so still that Grand Maester Mellos smiled at him in approval, and Lord Lyonel Strong—Hand of the King, gentle-eyed and impossibly patient—actually softened, as if a child behaving was proof the realm might yet be salvageable. Viserys sat slumped at the head of the table, weary and hopeful in equal measure. Lyonel began speaking about ships and taxes in a careful tone.
Aerion waited until the Hand paused to take a breath.
Then Aerion leaned forward and said, in a soft, clear voice that carried in the sudden quiet, "My mother says green cloth is ill luck."
The quill in Mellos's hand stopped.
Lyonel's gaze flicked to Rhaenyra with strained politeness.
Viserys blinked slowly, as if his mind had to travel a long road to reach the moment. "Rhaenyra," he said, "is… green cloth ill luck?"
Rhaenyra looked down at Aerion. Her face was perfectly composed.
"No, Father," she said evenly. "Aerion has an active imagination."
Aerion smiled up at her.
Rhaenyra's hand slid to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair in a gesture that looked maternal and soothing to everyone else.
To Aerion, it was a warning.
Not here, the pressure of her fingers said. Not like this.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, satisfied. He had learned two important lessons in one sitting:
One—Lord Lyonel Strong was kind enough to pretend this was harmless.
Two—his mother would not throw him from a window. She would, however, squeeze his skull like she was checking for cracks.
Viserys wheezed out a laugh and waved a hand as if all of this were charming rather than politically catastrophic. Lyonel's mouth twitched—half amusement, half dread—and he continued, carefully stepping around the small doom at the table.
Rhaenyra adored him in the way she adored dangerous things: with full awareness, and no apology.
When he was small enough to sit on her lap during one of those forced "family" gatherings, Aerion would settle against her, one hand fisted in her sleeve. Alicent's eyes would flick to the gesture and away again, jaw tight.
Sometimes Rhaenyra would stroke Aerion's hair absentmindedly while she listened to Alicent's soft-voiced sermons. Sometimes she would glance down at him as if taking strength from his very existence.
Aerion took it as his due.
Once, when he was five, Alicent brought Helaena and Aemond to visit under the pretense of "harmony."
Aemond stood with his hands clasped behind his back like a small knight. Helaena peered at Aerion's toys with interest.
Alicent smiled. "The children should play together."
Rhaenyra smiled back. "Yes," she said, sweet as poison. "They should."
Aerion looked at the toys laid out: a carved wooden dragon, painted soldiers, a little cloth septon with stitched-on piety.
He picked up the cloth septon, considered it, then lobbed it directly at Aemond's face.
It bounced off his nose and flopped to the floor.
Aemond's eyes widened in outrage. "That—!"
Aerion blinked, "The gods disapprove of green."
Helaena gasped, delighted. "He talks to them," she whispered.
Alicent's smile froze.
Rhaenyra made a sound that was halfway between a cough and laughter. "Apologies," she said smoothly. "He is… spirited."
Aerion watched Alicent's fingers tighten around her prayer beads.
His fathers—plural, because the gods had a wicked sense of humor—watched him like men trying to solve a riddle that occasionally threw food and muttered about death.
Laenor Velaryon treated Aerion like he might treat a lizard from the Summer Isles: with affection, but still careful that it might be venomous. He would sweep into the nursery, smelling of salt and expensive wine, and pluck Aerion from the floor.
"Up we go, little terror!" he'd boom, spinning him once in a dizzying arc. Aerion would squeal—with indignation, obviously—and instinctively clutch at Laenor's silk doublet, his small fingers digging in like claws.
"You're a strange little hatchling," Laenor would say, grinning as he settled Aerion on his hip. "All fire. You've got a Targaryen heart, don't you? Pure, uncut valyrian steel."
Aerion would fix him with a look that tried to convey, I have a Targaryen everything, you amiable sea-horse, and one day I will command a beast that eats your stupid ships. What usually came out was a grunt. But Laenor's smile—bright, genuine, with those faint, sad crinkles at the eyes—radiated a disarming warmth. It was an annoying sensation, like sitting too close to a hearth.
Still.
Laenor brought him strange shells that whispered of the deep, told exaggerated tales of battles with krakens (highly implausible, but engaging), and never once flinched when Aerion expressed a desire to see if seagulls could be trained to attack specific people. He was… tentatively acceptable.
Harwin Strong was an entirely different breed of puzzle.
Harwin lifted him carefully, like Aerion might bite and also might break. His hands were big, callused, and gentle in a way Aerion didn't understand.
Harwin looked at Aerion oddly sometimes.
Puzzled. He watched Aerion's bizarre, precise behaviors—the way he arranged his food by color, his silent staring sessions at the fire, his sudden, piercing questions —and said nothing. It was as if he'd decided that acknowledging the river was flowing uphill might offend the river, and they all had to live in the valley it flooded.
When Aerion was six, he wandered into the training yard with Jace and Luke and watched Harwin teaching them sword basics. Aerion sat on a low bench, legs swinging, and face solemn.
Harwin demonstrated a stance, corrected Luke's grip, then glanced at Aerion.
Aerion stared back without blinking.
Harwin hesitated, then said carefully, "Want to try?"
Aerion hopped off the bench and took the wooden practice sword. It was heavy. He adjusted his grip automatically, without thinking. He shifted his feet. He held the blade at an angle that was… not what a six-year-old should know.
Harwin's brows rose.
Laenor, who had been leaning against the fence sipping wine, straightened up. "Seven hells. Did you teach him that?"
Harwin looked at Laenor. "No."
Aerion lifted the sword and said, very matter-of-fact, "If you drop your shoulder, someone can put a knife in your ribs."
Jace made a choking sound. Luke's eyes became perfect, worried circles.
Laenor laughed. "Gods."
Harwin didn't laugh. He crouched slightly to Aerion's height, expression careful. "Where did you hear that?"
Aerion stared at him for a long beat, then said, "In a dream."
It wasn't entirely a lie.
Harwin's mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile and wasn't sure it was allowed. He reached out and ruffled Aerion's hair. "Keep your dreams away from your brothers," he murmured. "They're trying to grow up normal. Let them."
Aerion's gaze flicked to Jace and Luke.
He considered, then nodded once, solemnly, as if agreeing to a treaty.
He didn't know why Harwin looked at him like love mixed with worry. He didn't know why Laenor laughed and hugged him anyway, even when Aerion said things that made courtiers pale.
He only knew that both of them—somehow—felt like his.
It was inconvenient.
Living in King's Landing meant living close to the Greens.
That was the real problem.
In the Red Keep, the Greens were everywhere: in corridors, in feasts, in the very arrangement of furniture. Their presence was like mold—persistent and hard to scrub out.
Aerion's solution was simple: become the scrub brush.
He developed a habit of appearing at the worst possible moment.
When Alicent hosted a prayer circle, Aerion would sit quietly at the back, listening with an expression of angelic seriousness. The septas would exchange tender glances. See, their looks said, even the most spirited dragon can be gentled by the Seven's light.
Then, at the perfect pause, he'd say softly, "Do you think the Seven forgive kinslayers?"
The room would freeze.
Alicent would stiffen, not turning her head, as if acknowledging him might make him real.
Aerion would blink, tilt his head, and add, "I'm only curious."
From her place, Helaena would inevitably nod, her own mind traversing a different, darker path. "The weaver sees the tangled thread," she'd murmur dreamily. "A knife in the loom, not in the hand." This clarification helped absolutely no one, only deepening the chill.
On other days, Aerion preferred practical demonstrations.
Alicent's garden courts were a particular delight.
So the septas said. So the courtiers agreed. The fountain burbled. The roses behaved themselves. Even the marble bench looked as if it had been carved for virtue.
Alicent sat upon it in green silk, hearing petitions about hedge-lines and dowries and a scandal involving a kennelmaster's daughter and an overfriendly mastiff. Ser Gwayne Hightower, visiting the city, stood to her right. Ser Criston Cole stood to her left.
Aemond hovered near, arms crossed, face set in that intense, offended way he wore even when nothing had happened yet. Helaena sat a little apart with a small embroidery frame in her lap.
"Your Grace," droned a minor lord with a nose like a beak, "if Lady Beesbury will not keep her geese from my pond, I cannot answer for what my smallfolk may do—"
"The pond is mine by right," Lady Beesbury snapped. "The boundary stone is—"
Alicent lifted one hand. Silence fell.
"We will settle this," she said gently. "No one will threaten anyone's smallfolk over geese."
It was at that precise moment that Prince Aerion appeared at the edge of the garden path, pale hair shining in the sun, small hands clasped behind his back like a little lordling. A few courtiers noticed him and stiffened. Others noticed the burlap sack tucked under his arm and stiffened harder.
Alicent's mouth tightened, barely.
"Prince Aerion," she said, voice still sweet, "what are you doing here?"
Aerion bowed with meticulous care. He had practiced.
"Your Grace," he said solemnly. "I have come to feed the ducks."
Alicent did not look toward the fountain. There were no ducks.
"There are no ducks here," Aemond said immediately, because Aemond could smell joy and felt duty-bound to strangle it.
Aerion regarded Aemond like he was an unpleasant stain. "They are shy," he said. "They come when the court is less… loud."
Lady Beesbury blinked. The goose-lord looked offended on principle.
Alicent's eyes flicked to the sack. "What is in that?"
"Bread," Aerion said. "Crusts."
Ser Gwayne took a step forward. "My prince, give me that."
Aerion took one step back, still bowing politely. "No, ser."
Ser Gwayne's jaw tightened. Ser Criston's eyes narrowed.
Alicent kept her smile. "Aerion. You will hand it over."
Aerion looked up at her, wide violet eyes earnest as prayer. "If I do, Your Grace, the ducks will starve."
"There are no—" Aemond began again.
Aerion's fingers dipped into the sack.
Alicent's smile stayed in place.
The sack lifted.
The first shower of crumbs arced through the air like a blessing tossed by a spiteful god.
It did not land near the fountain.
It landed near Alicent.
Specifically: around the hem of her gown, across the polished toes of Ser Gwayne's boots, and with a neat final scatter—Aerion had a gift for this—across the lap of Lady Redwyne, who had arrived in green silk and looked very pleased with herself until the crusts dusted her sleeves.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the pigeons arrived.
King's Landing pigeons did not flutter timidly.
A gray avalanche of wings and hunger swept into the garden court, cooing like demons. They landed on the marble. They landed on shoulders. One landed on the edge of Alicent's bench as if it owned the bench, cocked its head, and peered at her sleeve with bright, judgmental eyes.
Lady Redwyne shrieked as a pigeon stomped across her lap, pecking at crumbs, then tried to wedge its beak into a pearl seam.
Ser Gwayne batted at the air, dignity dissolving into frantic swats. A pigeon hopped away, unimpressed, and pecked his boot again.
The beak-nosed lord shouted, "Shoo! Shoo!"
The pigeons did not shoo. The pigeons ate.
Alicent sat perfectly still, chin lifted, smile rigid enough to crack teeth, as if refusing to acknowledge the chaos might shame it into leaving.
A particularly bold pigeon stepped onto her hem and began to peck at the embroidery.
Alicent's smile twitched.
Aemond backed away as if the birds were plague. "Mother—"
Helaena looked up from her needlework, eyes bright. "They like her skirts," she said softly.
"Get them off!" Lady Redwyne cried, batting at a pigeon with both hands. It flapped into her face, insulted.
Aerion stood ten paces away, hands clasped behind his back again, watching with the detached interest of a maester watching leeches latch onto a limb. His expression said nothing.
His eyes, however, sparkled.
Alicent's voice cut through the shrieking and flapping with terrifying calm. "Someone remove these birds."
Servants rushed in with cloths and brooms, which only offended the pigeons into more wings.
Ser Criston swung his cloak, scattering two birds, then halted when one landed on his shoulder and stared at him as if daring him to try.
He did not, in fact, try.
Alicent's gaze found Aerion like an arrow.
"Aerion," she said, each syllable precise. "Come here."
Aerion obeyed at once, as obedience was easiest when it was fake. He stopped before her bench, and bowed again, ignoring the pigeons.
Alicent leaned forward slightly, smile still in place. Up close, the smile looked strained, like a rope pulled too tight.
"Why," she asked, "did you do that?"
Aerion looked up at her, guileless. "To feed the ducks."
"There are no ducks," Aemond hissed, unable to stop himself.
Aerion turned his head and regarded Aemond for a long beat. "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "the ducks have manners."
Aemond went a shade redder.
Alicent's fingers tightened on her prayer beads. "Aerion. You are—"
A sudden voice, cool and clear, cut in before Alicent could finish.
"What," said Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, "is happening here?"
Heads turned as if yanked by strings.
Rhaenyra strode into the garden in black and red, hair pinned back, expression composed. Behind her came Laenor Velaryon, looking delighted and scandalized in equal measure, and Ser Harwin Strong.
Lord Lyonel Strong followed more slowly, breath slightly labored, the Hand of the King wearing the expression of someone who had planned to spend his afternoon reading reports and now found himself supervising a bird war.
The pigeons fluttered as Rhaenyra approached, as if even they knew a dragon had entered the garden.
Alicent rose, smoothing her gown with careful hands that absolutely did not shake.
"Princess," Alicent said, voice still polite, "your son—"
Rhaenyra's eyes swept the court: feathers, crumbs, indignant nobles, one pigeon still perched on the bench like it had filed a claim.
Then she looked at Aerion.
Aerion stood very straight, hands behind his back and face solemn.
Rhaenyra's gaze narrowed the slightest bit, which meant she already knew.
"Aerion."
Aerion bowed. "Mother."
Rhaenyra's eyes flicked to the sack. Empty now.
"Alicent," Rhaenyra said, voice even, "I see you have… guests."
Lady Redwyne made a strangled noise as a servant finally dislodged a pigeon from her hair.
Alicent's smile sharpened. "Your son has disrupted my court."
Rhaenyra nodded. "So I observe."
"Prince Aerion," Lyonel said gently, stepping forward as if approaching a skittish horse, "why did you bring bread to the queen's court?"
Aerion looked at Lyonel with mild respect. Lyonel Strong, unlike most men in the Keep, had the unsettling habit of being reasonable.
"To feed the ducks," Aerion repeated.
Lyonel rubbed his temple. "There are no ducks."
Aerion tilted his head. "Then the pigeons were very quick."
Laenor made a sound that might have been a cough.
Harwin shot him a look.
Laenor's mouth pressed into a line. His shoulders shook once anyway.
Rhaenyra's gaze stayed fixed on Aerion's face. Her expression did not change, but her voice lowered by a hair.
"Did you throw bread at the queen."
Aerion blinked. "I threw bread near the queen."
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed further. "Why."
Aerion considered.
"Because," he said at last, very carefully, "the pigeons prefer green."
Alicent's smile twitched again.
Aemond's eyes flared. "You—"
"Aemond," Alicent said softly, and her son fell silent, jaw clenched.
Rhaenyra inhaled slowly through her nose. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat.
When she opened them, her gaze was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Aerion," she said, "you will apologize."
Aerion's face remained solemn, but his eyes brightened, the way a cat's eyes brightened when offered a new corner to scratch.
"Yes, Mother," he said obediently.
Rhaenyra turned her head toward Alicent, all smooth courtesy. "He will apologize. Properly."
Alicent lifted her chin. "See that he does."
Rhaenyra motioned Aerion forward with two fingers.
Aerion stepped up to Alicent's bench. The pigeon still perched there watched him with interest.
Aerion bowed low. Very low. So low his curls fell forward like a silver curtain.
"Your Grace," he said in a clear, sweet voice that carried to every corner of the garden, "I beg pardon for the disturbance I have caused to your court."
Alicent's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Aerion's apologies were rare and should never be trusted.
Aerion continued, "It was unseemly of me to invite so many hungry guests without giving proper warning, and I regret any… inconvenience… to your gown."
Alicent's lips pressed together. "Yes."
Aerion lifted his head, eyes wide and earnest. "In future, I shall be more careful where I scatter crumbs, so that your court may remain as peaceful as it appears."
A ripple ran through the gathered nobles. Lady Beesbury made a small choking sound.
Alicent's smile sharpened. "That is… wise."
Aerion nodded gravely. "Also, Your Grace, I wish to assure you that the pigeons meant no offense. They are simple creatures, guided by appetite. They see fine stitching and think it edible."
Ser Gwayne's mouth tightened. Helaena's lips parted, delighted.
"They do eat pretty things," she murmured.
Alicent did not look at her daughter. "Enough."
Aerion bowed again. "If it pleases Your Grace, I have brought you a gift to make amends."
Alicent's eyes flicked sharply to Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra's expression said: I do not know what this is either.
Aerion reached into his sleeve—his sleeve, which had not looked bulky a moment ago—and produced a small, flat object wrapped in cloth.
Harwin's eyes narrowed. "Aerion—"
Aerion ignored him. He placed the bundle neatly into Alicent's hands.
Alicent hesitated, then unfolded the cloth.
Inside was a little stitched patch, neatly made: a green square with a small golden bird sewn at its center. The bird's beak was open, wings spread. Beneath it, in careful, childlike lettering, were the words:
THE QUEEN'S BIRD
Alicent stared at it.
The court stared with her.
Laenor made a strangled noise and turned it into a cough by force of will.
Lyonel closed his eyes and looked briefly heavenward, as if asking the Seven why his service had to include this.
Rhaenyra's mouth tightened. A faint tremor ran through her jaw. Her eyes were very bright.
Aerion watched Alicent's face.
"It is," he explained, voice gentle, "for your sleeve. In case the pigeons return. So they know where to land."
Silence stretched.
Then Helaena, who had been watching the patch as if it were a rare beetle, nodded solemnly. "Yes," she said. "Mark it. So they do not mistake the rest."
Alicent's fingers clenched around the patch hard enough to wrinkle the stitching.
Her smile returned, strained.
"Thank you," Alicent said, each word clipped. "Prince Aerion."
Aerion beamed, all innocence. "You are welcome, Your Grace."
Rhaenyra made a small sound.
"Aerion," she said softly, dangerously, "come here."
Aerion turned at once and padded to his mother, hands behind his back again, as if he had not just insulted the queen with his sewing project.
Rhaenyra lowered her face to his, voice too quiet for the court to hear, but her smile looked almost affectionate.
"What," she murmured, "did I say about behaving."
Aerion looked up at her, wide-eyed. "I apologized."
"You gave her a pigeon patch."
"It is a fine patch," Aerion whispered back, as if wounded by the criticism. "Very neat."
Rhaenyra's lips trembled. Her eyes flashed with the dangerous brightness of someone trying very hard not to laugh in public.
Laenor stepped closer, grinning openly now that the worst had already happened. "That," he murmured, "was masterful."
Harwin's gaze snapped to him, sharp. "Do not encourage him."
Laenor spread his hands. "I didn't. The boy came out encouraged."
Harwin looked at Aerion—small, solemn, and radiating quiet satisfaction—and then at Rhaenyra, as if silently asking how such a thing had occurred.
Rhaenyra straightened, smoothing Aerion's hair with a hand that looked tender to everyone watching.
Aerion felt the pressure in her fingers.
Rhaenyra turned back to Alicent, voice polite as a blade with a jeweled hilt. "My apologies, Alicent. He is… spirited."
Alicent's eyes flicked to Aerion. "So I have learned."
Lord Lyonel cleared his throat. "Perhaps," he said carefully, "the queen's court might adjourn for today."
Lady Redwyne looked as if she might weep with gratitude.
Alicent nodded once, sharp. "Yes. Adjourned."
Servants moved quickly. Courtiers scattered, murmuring like startled birds themselves. The pigeons, having eaten their fill, flapped away in lazy triumph.
Aerion watched them go, thoughtful.
As Rhaenyra guided him away with a hand on his shoulder, Aerion glanced back once.
Alicent still held the patch. Her face was smooth again, composed again, queenly again.
Only her fingers betrayed her, crushing the little stitched bird as if she could strangle it through thread.
Aerion turned forward, calm and pleased with himself.
Rhaenyra walked him down the path, Laenor at her side, Harwin close behind.
"Mother," Aerion said sweetly, "did I do well?"
Rhaenyra looked down at him, eyes narrowing.
"You did," she said softly, "exactly what you meant to do."
Aerion smiled.
Rhaenyra's mouth twitched, despite herself. "Gods help me," she murmured, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
Harwin made a low sound in his throat. "You can't keep doing this," he said, not to Aerion, but to Rhaenyra, as if the trouble were passed down from her blood.
Rhaenyra didn't look up. "Watch me."
Laenor laughed, delighted. "He'll be the death of us all."
Aerion's smile widened a fraction.
Not the death, he thought.
They reached a corridor where the light fell thin and cool. Rhaenyra stopped, turned Aerion toward her, and crouched so they were eye to eye.
Her gaze softened, just a little.
"Aerion," she said, "you must stop making enemies with your games."
Aerion blinked. "It wasn't a game."
Rhaenyra's brows lifted.
Aerion's voice stayed small and earnest. "The pigeons chose their queen."
For a heartbeat, Rhaenyra held his gaze.
Then she huffed a short laugh through her nose, the sound of someone losing a battle against her own amusement.
"My sweet, impossible monster," she murmured, brushing his cheek with her thumb. "Next time, pick your battles where I can see them coming."
Aerion nodded solemnly. "I will, Mother. I promise."
Then he slipped from her embrace, and within the hour, picked a battle behind her back.
Aegon was the easiest target because Aegon did half the work himself.
Aerion would wait until Aegon was trying to impress someone—some squire, some serving girl, some lordling who laughed too loudly.
Then Aerion would wander into view, pause, and say in a clear child's voice, "Uncle Aegon, Mother says you smell like fermented pears."
Aegon would splutter. "She what—?"
Aerion would wrinkle his nose as if in pain. "It's very strong today."
The laughter around Aegon would shift—still laughter, but sharper. Aegon would glare at Aerion, face flushing, and Aerion would look back with bland innocence.
Later, Laenor would catch Aerion by the shoulder in a corridor, grinning like a man who absolutely should not be encouraging this.
"You're going to make him hit you one day," Laenor said, amused.
Aerion's expression remained calm. "He'd miss."
Laenor's grin widened, then faltered just slightly—because even he could feel it sometimes, the odd wrongness of Aerion's certainty.
Harwin, hearing that exchange, shot Laenor a look that said don't make the boy worse.
Laenor only laughed and ruffled Aerion's hair anyway.
Aemond was the hardest target because he offered no foothold.
He did not stumble into wine, or pride, or girls. He did not shout. He did not laugh. He did not even wander. He placed himself like a piece on a board and stayed there, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, as if stillness could force the world to grant him what it owed.
He studied.
He read histories until his lips moved with the names. He drilled with a blunted sword until his hands split. He practiced High Valyrian until the words sat in his mouth like polished stones.
That was where Aerion could reach him. Aemond loved the language.
They were in the library. Aemond, then ten, stood before his maester, reciting a passage from The Fires of the Freehold.
"...īlvon iā zaldrīzes bisa, se ānogar iksis—"
Aerion, who had been ostensibly searching for a bestiary, let a scroll drop with a loud thwack.
Aemond's recitation stuttered. He didn't turn his head, but his shoulder tensed.
The maester blinked. "Prince Aerion?"
"My apologies," Aerion said, sweetness itself. He padded closer, peering up at the heavy tome in the maester's hands. "That passage. The one about the 'blood of nineteen dragons.' Uncle's pronunciation of 'ānogar' is very… educated."
Aemond did not look up. "Be silent."
Aerion nodded, obediently. Then he leaned in an inch more.
"You say ēdruta like you're scolding a serving boy."
Aemond's eyes flicked to him at last. Pale, cold and offended by being addressed. "It is the proper sound."
"It is a sound," Aerion agreed. "Proper enough for a sept. But it sounds like you're reading it from a stone. The dragonlords of old didn't speak like septons doing sums. They spoke from here." He tapped his own small chest. "It was a language of fire, not ink."
The maester cleared his throat, a feeble attempt to reclaim the lecture. "Princes—High Valyrian varies by region and—"
"It does not," Aemond said at once, and the edge of it made the old man shut his mouth.
Aerion watched Aemond's fingers on the page—tight, controlled. He watched the way Aemond held himself, as if the bones in his back were sworn to duty. Aerion hated him for it. Aerion envied him for it. Aerion wanted to ruin it.
Aemond lifted his chin. "You speak," he said. "Since you are so wise."
Aerion's mouth twitched. He let it die. He would not give Aemond the satisfaction of seeing him pleased.
He placed his hand on the table, small fingers on old wood, and spoke the line Aemond had been reciting.
It was fluid, almost musical, the consonants softer, the vowels curling like smoke.
"...īlvon iā zaldrīzes bisa," he began, picking up the line. "se ānogar iksis ābrar. The blood is thick. You make it sound thin. Watery. Like the blood of a fish, not a dragon."
Aemond had gone very still. The maester's mouth had fallen open slightly.
"Where," Aemond asked, each word a chip of ice, "did you learn that?"
Aerion shrugged. "From listening."
"To whom?"
Aerion's eyes went wide in innocence that was entirely false. "To dragons."
The maester made a small, strangled noise. "Prince Aerion—"
Aerion ignored him. He leaned closer to Aemond, just enough to be rude. "You bite the words too hard. Your tongue wants to be a sword. It makes you sound… Dornish."
Aemond's hand clenched on the edge of the table. "Say that again."
Aerion did. Louder, for the room. "Your accent runs south when you grow angry."
The maester looked as though he wished to crawl into the shelves. "Accents are not—"
Aemond cut him off with a glance and the old man fell silent again.
Aemond leaned forward, voice low. "You mock me."
Aerion smiled faintly. He hated that he was smiling. It felt too much like play. "I instruct you."
"I do not need instruction from a child."
Aerion's eyes flicked down Aemond's face—over the sharp cheekbones, the rigid mouth, the hunger he tried to hide behind duty.
Aemond's voice came out controlled, careful. "Speak another passage."
Aerion tilted his head. "Order your maester. I am not your maester."
"I am a prince."
"So am I."
Aemond's eye twitched.
Aerion took mean pleasure in it.
"Do it," Aemond said again, softer now. "Prove you can."
Aerion could have refused. He should have refused.
Instead he opened the book and chose a passage without looking, because it pleased him to show off. He spoke it easily. He let the language live in his mouth, let the room remember that dragons had ruled the world once and might again.
When he finished, the maester looked faintly stunned. "Astonishing," he murmured, more to himself than to Aemond. "The prosody… the almost Lysene lilt to the genitive case… in one so young, with no formal tutor in the conversational forms…"
Aemond did not blink. His stare felt like a blade.
"Again," he ordered.
Aerion shut the book with a soft clap. "You should practice."
Aemond's hands curled, white-knuckled. "Tell me where you learned."
"I must have heard it in a dream," Aerion said, his tone shifting back to bland innocence.
Aemond's face flushed.
He gave Aemond a small, polite nod, then skipped away merrily.
Helaena was impossible because she wasn't playing.
Aegon could be baited. He loved an audience; he did half the work and begged for the other half. Aemond wanted a rival; he would polish his hate until it shone.
Helaena sat outside it all, somewhere beyond praise and spite, watching the world the way other people watched weather.
The first time Aerion tried, he found her in a sun-drenched alcove, carefully arranging a collection of dead moths on a piece of velvet. Her face was serene and utterly absorbed.
Aerion adopted his most politely sinister tone. "Aunt Helaena. Don't you find it macabre? Playing with corpses?"
She didn't look up. Her finger gently stroked a dusty wing. "They're not playing. They're listening. Their wings still hear the moon."
Aerion blinked. "They're dead."
"Yes," she agreed, as if he'd said something profoundly obvious. "That's when the listening starts. When the buzzing stops." She finally lifted her gaze, her eyes wide and guileless as a well. "Your blood buzzes very loudly. It must be tiring."
Aerion felt the sting. He gave it a sneer so it would not crawl inside him and make a nest. "My blood is dragon-blood. It is meant to be."
Helaena nodded. "Dragons are loud too."
She returned to her moths. Aerion stood there for a heartbeat, waiting for outrage or wounded pride, for any ordinary human bruise to press. He found nothing to press.
He left, irritated enough to taste it.
He tried again three days later.
She was humming and feeding crumbs to a particularly large, iridescent beetle in her palm. Aerion loomed over her.
"They say you talk to insects because you've no one else," he said, his voice crisp with intended cruelty. "That you're simple."
Helaena nodded, not at him, but at the beetle. "He says the same about you. That you shout with your whole body, but your words are just little shells. Empty." She looked up, a faint smile on her lips. "He thinks you're interesting. But very noisy."
A hot and irrational spike of fury shot through Aerion. "I am not noisy."
"You are," she said pleasantly. "Like a teakettle that's forgotten how to whistle. Just steam and heat." She offered the beetle a final crumb. "He prefers quiet. Like the stones under the castle. They have better stories."
Aerion's hands clenched inside his sleeves. He wanted to grab the beetle and crush it between finger and thumb, just to hear something break. He wanted her to cry out, to show a crack, to give him something he could take as weakness.
Helaena offered the beetle another crumb.
Aerion left again.
The final straw came in the library gardens.
Helaena sat by a hedge with a spool of green thread in her lap. A spider worked between two twigs, rebuilding its web. The thread in Helaena's fingers unwound and rewound idly, never tangling. Aerion, irritated by a tedious lesson with his maester, decided to dismantle her peace.
He didn't bother with subtlety. He marched up, casting a shadow over her and her spider. "The queen your mother thinks you need more septas. To root out the fancies."
Helaena didn't startle. Her eyes followed a droplet of water sliding down a silken strand. "The fancies have deep roots. The septas don't understand."
"They say you see things that aren't there."
"I see the things that are coming," she corrected softly. "Most people look at the loom and see thread. I see the picture. It's already woven, you know. We're just watching the cloth roll out."
Aerion scowled. "What picture do you see for me?"
That pulled her attention at last. She looked at him fully, from his hair to his mouth to the quick pulse in his throat. Aerion held still, refusing to give her the satisfaction of flinching.
"I see a cup of green fire," she said, her voice dreamy yet precise. "You drank it once. You're still drinking it. It's why your insides are always burning." She tilted her head. "You think you want a dragon. But you really just want to be the fire. It's simpler that way. No wings to get tired."
Aerion felt a cold void open in his stomach. The phantom taste of wildfire flooded his mouth. His hands, hidden in his sleeves, trembled.
She saw it. Her expression softened into something like pity. "The spider knows the web is fragile. It builds it anyway. You know the fire consumes. You drink it anyway." She went back to watching her spider. "You're both very determined. But the spider is quieter about it."
Aerion stood there, full of rage and suddenly empty of weapons. Any barb he shaped would be taken apart and turned into one of her quiet little truths. He could not shame her. He could not frighten her. He could not even make her angry. She made him feel like the fool for trying.
Defeated by her otherness, Aerion turned on his heel and left.
He found Laenor shortly after, staring at a sea chart with uncharacteristic gloom. "I hate her," Aerion announced, slumping into a chair.
Laenor glanced over. "Alicent? A popular sentiment."
"Helaena."
That made Laenor pause. He set down his quill. "Helaena? What's she done? Gifted you a beetle?"
"She's impossible to talk to," Aerion grumbled, a child's complaint escaping before he could stop it. "She doesn't make sense."
Laenor's mouth quirked. "Ah. Yes. She operates on… her logic. It has its own internal consistency, much like the tides. You can't argue with the tide, Aerion. You can only sail with it or be dashed against the rocks."
"I want to dash her against the rocks."
"I know," Laenor said, his smile turning sympathetic. "But some things are dash-proof. Consider her… a natural wonder. A volcano that spouts nonsense instead of steam. You don't mock a volcano. You just… note where it is so you don't build a house on top of it."
Aerion left more irritated than when he'd arrived. Natural wonder. Volcano. Noisy teakettle.
Later, from a high window, he saw Helaena in the courtyard again. She was spinning in a slow circle, her arms outstretched, face turned to the sun, while a flock of sparrows hopped around her feet, unafraid.
She was mad. Undoubtedly.
Aerion's finest hour, at least in the category of public embarrassments that are possibly not treason, came when he was eight.
The families were gathered in the Red Keep's hall for an awkward meal. Aemond was quietly sneering at Jace and Luke about their "strong" features.
Aerion, seated at the children's table, had been quiet all evening. So quiet that two septas exchanged hopeful looks, as if the Seven had finally reached him. Even Alicent's shoulders had eased a fraction.
Then he stood up on his chair, drawing all eyes. He pointed a small, imperious finger directly at Aemond.
"You will die," he announced, his voice clear as a bell in the sudden hush, "screaming. You will fall. You will see the Stranger's eye as you go down, and He will not blink."
Aemond's face tightened, half fury, half something else.
Aerion turned to Aegon. "You will be broken and small at the end. They will feed you sweet lies with a spoon, and you will lap them up. Then you will choke on them."
Finally, he looked at a horrified Alicent. "And your line will end… with a whisper." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "And bad teeth."
The stunned silence was broken by Helaena, who nodded sagely and said, "The little one hears the moths in the tapestry. They speak of sundered chains and falling stars."
Aemond went pale. Aegon choked on his wine. Alicent looked as if she'd seen a ghost.
Viserys, lost in his own world, merely murmured, "Such… vivid minds our children have."
The hall stayed frozen for three long heartbeats.
Then, because the gods adored a farce, the minstrels began playing again.
It was a lively tune.
No one moved to the beat.
By the time he was led to his chambers, three serving girls had already crossed themselves when he passed, and one kitchen boy had dropped a tray of candied nuts and fled as if Aerion might sprout wings and eat him.
Aerion did not sprout wings.
He did, however, accept the nuts. They were excellent.
Rhaenyra pulled him aside. "Aerion, my strange sweetling," she said, her voice a mix of concern and amusement. "You must not say such… specific things to your uncles and the Queen."
Aerion looked up at her, the picture of innocence. "But it is true, Mother. I saw it. In the flames." He wasn't entirely lying. He had read Aegon's end, in the history Maesters would write. The specificity of Aemond's, however, was just a happy bit of creative malice.
Rhaenyra sighed, kissing his forehead. "The dragon dreams are a blessing and a curse. Use them wisely. And perhaps… use them quieter."
He nodded, snuggling into her embrace. He would be quieter. Perhaps.
He proved this promise lasted less than a night.
Because Aerion had discovered something marvelous about adults: they never truly listened until you frightened them.
And after the hall, everyone was frightened.
The next morning, as Rhaenyra broke her fast in her solar, Ser Steffon Darklyn announced that a delegation from the Faith had requested an audience.
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed. "Why."
The knight hesitated. "They say they wish to… speak with the children. To offer guidance."
Aerion, spooning honey onto bread with the gravity of a king sealing a decree, looked up.
Guidance, he thought. A word adults used when they meant leash.
Rhaenyra's mouth tightened. "No."
The knight cleared his throat. "Your Grace—"
Rhaenyra's gaze sharpened. "I said no."
Aerion took a bite of bread, chewed thoughtfully, then said, "Mother."
Rhaenyra looked at him.
Aerion dabbed honey from his lip with a napkin. "Let them come."
Rhaenyra's brows lifted. "Why would I do that."
Aerion's eyes went wide and earnest. "Because I want to be guided."
Rhaenyra stared at him as if he had announced he wanted to become a septa.
"You," she said slowly, "want to be guided."
"Yes," Aerion said solemnly. "I wish to be… better."
The look Harwin gave him later suggested Harwin might have preferred Aerion announce he wished to drown kittens.
Still, Rhaenyra agreed—partly because refusing would make the Faith louder, and partly because she had the fatal weakness of loving her son even when he lied with his whole face.
The Faith arrived with three septas and two septons.
They sat Aerion down between Jace and Luke and began speaking of the Seven and obedience and humility.
Aerion listened with his best "gentled by piety" expression.
Then, when the lead septon asked, "And what do you think the Father asks of princes?"
Aerion answered, "Teeth."
The septon blinked. "Teeth, my prince?"
Aerion nodded gravely. "The Father judges bad teeth."
Helaena, who had wandered in halfway through and sat cross-legged on the floor like a cat that had decided this was her room now, looked up and smiled.
"Yes," she agreed brightly. "Bad teeth fall out. Then the whispers get in."
The septon's face went a sickly shade.
Rhaenyra, watching from her chair, made a small sound that might have been a cough. Her shoulders shook once.
Aerion kept his face solemn. "Also," he added, "the Mother dislikes green."
One septa stiffened. "The Mother loves all her children."
Aerion nodded. "Then she has never met the Hightowers."
The audience ended early.
By midday, the castle had developed a new habit: moving Aerion out of rooms before he could enter them.
This was, Aerion decided, cowardly.
He found ways around it.
When Alicent held sewing circle in her apartments, Aerion wandered in carrying a small wooden box.
Alicent stiffened the moment she saw him. "What is that."
"A gift," Aerion said sweetly.
Alicent's gaze narrowed. "No."
Aerion looked wounded. "It is for you, Your Grace."
Alicent's fingers tightened on her needle. "I do not want gifts from you."
Aerion paused, as if considering. Then he turned, walked to Helaena, and offered her the box instead.
Helaena opened it at once, delighted.
Inside was a small pouch of tooth powder and a tiny brush, with a little dragon carved into the end.
Helaena gasped. "For teeth!"
Aerion nodded. "So your line ends properly."
Alicent's needle snapped with a sharp ping.
Helaena hummed happily.
Aerion stood quietly, hands behind his back, watching Alicent with serene satisfaction.
Aegon, meanwhile, had decided Aerion's "prophecies" were funny in the way one found a dog amusing until it bit.
So he tried to bite back.
He caught Aerion in a corridor and said loudly, so his friends would hear, "Careful, little dragon. I heard you see the future. Tell me—do you see me as king?"
Aerion looked up at him, solemn. "Yes."
Aegon's grin widened. "Ha!"
Aerion added, "But only when you are sitting. You are not much of a standing king."
The laughter around Aegon shifted—still laughter, but now at him.
Aegon's smile faltered.
Aerion patted his sleeve as if consoling him. "Do not worry, uncle. Some men are born to rule. Some are born to drink. You are… versatile."
Aegon stared at him, then strode off, red-faced.
That night, tucked into bed with the distant rumble of dragons somewhere in the rock below, Aerion lay staring at the ceiling.
He had not been reborn a dragon.
But soon, he would take the first step to ride one.
And then, the real terrorizing could begin.
The Greens thought him a strange, frightening child.
They had no idea.
Aerion Brightflame, tempered in wildfire, reborn in a cradle of dragons, was not mad.
He was simply… busy.
He fell asleep to the sound of dragon-song, a gentle murmur on his lips.
"Burn them all," he sighed, contentedly.
Then, as an afterthought, "…mostly."
Notes:
Prepare for one Aerion Targaryen to be a menace to society (again)
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