Chapter Text
Aerion I
The Prodigal Son Returns
The wheels of the jet touched the tarmac with a long shuddering groan, the vibration traveling up through the polished floor of the cabin and into Aerion’s bones like the echo of some distant thunder. Outside the oval window the air shimmered faintly above the runway, the heat of summer rising from the stone in slow, wavering currents that blurred the distant shapes of hangars and towers. The sky above the city was a bright, pitiless blue, the kind that swallowed clouds whole and burned against the eyes if one stared too long.
King’s Landing.
After two years.
The capital spread beyond the airport in hazy layers of heat and sunlight, the distant sprawl of the city just visible beyond the walls and roads—a pale blur beneath the summer sky. Somewhere beyond that lay the Red Keep, crouched atop Aegon’s Hill like a watching beast.
Aerion sat very still in the royal private jet.
His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled slightly against the fine charcoal fabric of the trousers he had been forced to wear. The expensive charcoal suit fit him perfectly. Of course it did. Every thread had been tailored by hands that charged more for a jacket than most men paid in rent for a year. The jacket hugged his shoulders, the crisp white shirt pressed to knife-edge perfection, the tie knotted so tightly at his throat that Aerion had felt half-strangled since take-off.
It was a cage made of silk and wool. He hated it.
He could feel the absence of everything else like phantom limbs.
No chains clinked softly when he shifted. No rings adorned his fingers save the single signet they had insisted he keep. His ears felt naked without the hoops and studs he had worn for years, the tiny scars in the cartilage still tender where they had been removed. Even his hair—his hair—had been subdued.
The wolf cut had always been a little wild, the pale silver strands falling into his eyes, jagged and careless like a boy who didn’t give a damn about appearances. Now it was slicked back with gel until it lay obediently against his skull, each strand frozen into submission. A prince’s haircut.
A corpse’s haircut.
Aerion stared at his reflection in the darkened window. For a moment he did not recognize the man looking back.
Silver hair tamed into order. A smooth, composed face. And those deep purple eyes staring back at him from the glass—sharp, familiar, and yet strangely distant.
He looked… respectable. The thought made something ugly curl in his chest.
“Your Highness,” said a soft voice beside him.
Aerion didn’t turn immediately. He watched the reflection of the man first—tall, composed, dark hair neatly combed, posture straight as a lance. Donnel of Duskendale always looked as though he had been ironed before leaving the house.
When Aerion finally rose from his seat the fabric of the suit whispered faintly, too smooth, too polite. He shrugged into the jacket with a faint grimace. “Logistics?” Aerion asked dryly.
Donnel inclined his head, already holding a leather tablet. “Car is waiting at the terminal. Security has been coordinated with the airport authorities. The press presence is… substantial.”
“Shocking.”
“They have been informed you will not answer questions.”
Aerion snorted softly as he adjusted his cuffs. “They’ll ask anyway.”
“They will.” Donnel said it without emotion, as though discussing weather patterns.
The cabin door opened with a hydraulic hiss, and a gust of heavy summer air spilled inside carrying the scent of hot stone, jet fuel, and distant salt from Blackwater Bay. The warmth wrapped around him instantly, thick and familiar, clinging to his skin like a memory he had tried very hard to forget.
Aerion stepped onto the staircase.
The heat rose from the tarmac in waves that shimmered around his shoes, the sunlight bright enough to sting his eyes. Somewhere nearby engines roared faintly, and the wind rattled the barricades erected along the edge of the private runway.
And the cameras.
Gods, the cameras.
Even before his foot touched the final step the sound began—sharp bursts of rapid clicking, like a thousand mechanical insects snapping their jaws. Flashes exploded across his vision in white bursts that left ghostly stains behind his eyes.
“Aerion!”
“Your Highness, were you returning from a party when the incident happened?”
“Did the Crown force you to come back because of the scandal?”
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, the heat tugging faintly at the hem of his coat. Security guards lined the path toward the royal car, tall dark figures holding the press back behind metal barricades. Microphones stretched toward him like grasping hands.
Aerion slid on a pair of dark glasses. The lenses dimmed the world to a cool grey.
Good. He could smile easier when no one saw his eyes.
“Quite the welcome,” he murmured.
Donnel leaned slightly closer as they began walking. “Your return has generated… considerable interest.”
“Funny,” Aerion said lightly. “You’d think I was dead.”
The photographers shouted louder as he approached, the memory of those infamous images clearly fresh in their minds.
“Your Highness, is the Lysene model your girlfriend?”
“Did the King recall you after the scandal?”
Aerion stopped just long enough for the cameras to catch the slow curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head slightly, the summer sunlight catching on his silver hair as he pushed his glasses a little lower on his nose.
“Those were nice pictures,” he said lazily. “You should send them over. I’d like a few for the scrapbook.”
For half a heartbeat the reporters seemed stunned. Then laughter erupted from several corners of the press line, mixed with an even louder frenzy of camera flashes.
Donnel moved instantly. The private secretary stepped forward with quiet efficiency, placing a firm hand at Aerion’s back and steering him down the path toward the royal car with subtle but unmistakable insistence. “His Highness will not be answering further questions,” Donnel said calmly.
But the reporters shouted anyway.
“Did the Crown consider the images embarrassing?”
Aerion only lifted a hand in another careless wave, grin still lingering on his lips as Donnel guided him firmly onward. He played the part well. He always had.
Inside, his eyes searched. Automatically. Instinctively.
His gaze drifted over the crowd with a strange, hollow sort of curiosity, as though he were studying a place he had once known but could no longer recognize. The metal structure high above them in pale steel beams, sunlight pouring through the glass panels in blinding sheets that reflected off polished floors. Travelers moved in loose clusters across the terminal—tourists dragging suitcases, business figures in dark coats, airport staff weaving between them with hurried purpose.
Beyond the press line stood the waiting vehicles. A handful of airport officials lingered nearby. Security. Drivers. Strangers.
Aerion’s gaze drifted farther. The parking lot. The distant road.
For a moment he expected to see a familiar shape leaning against a car. Daeron, perhaps, scowling impatiently with his hands shoved into his coat pockets. His older brother had never liked these public displays, but sometimes he came anyway out of reluctant obligation.
Or Daella bouncing on her heels, bright-eyed and excited as she always was when someone returned home.
Even Aegon.
Gods, he would have taken Aegon. Even if the two of them could barely stand each other these days. But the space remained empty. No familiar faces. No silver-gold hair catching the light. Only strangers watching him with the polite curiosity reserved for royalty.
For a heartbeat the world seemed to go strangely quiet beneath the noise of the cameras.
Aerion’s smile held. Of course they hadn’t come. Why would they?
He had been gone two years. A problem temporarily exported. An embarrassment politely relocated to Lys under the respectable excuse of “studying abroad.”
The Crown had demanded he return looking… presentable.
So, he had. He had shed his piercings and leather biker jacket and chains like skin. He had let them comb his hair flat and dress him like a proper prince. He had come back exactly as they wanted. And still— No one had come to greet him.
Aerion laughed. It was a bright, easy sound that made several photographers grin as they snapped more pictures.
“Careful,” he called to them lazily. “You’ll blind yourselves.”
More laughter.
A prince in good humour.
Donnel glanced at him, perhaps searching for something beneath the performance, but if he found it, he said nothing.
Aerion kept walking. Inside his chest something small and fragile had cracked open, quietly as thin ice breaking beneath a careless foot.
Of course they hadn’t come. He had known they wouldn’t. But hope, stupid fragile hope, had crept in anyway during the long hours of the flight from Lys across the Narrow Sea.
Maybe sweet, darling Daella.
Maybe Valarr—
No.
That thought he crushed immediately.
The ache in his chest had dulled into something colder now. Quieter.
Good, he told himself.
Better this way. Better not to expect.
His hand slipped briefly to his tie, loosening it a fraction despite the Crown’s careful instructions about appearance. The knot shifted slightly against his throat, letting him breathe a little easier.
The doors of the terminal parted with a soft mechanical whisper, and the cold air of the morning slipped inside like a blade.
Aerion stepped through them beside Donnel, the noise of the airport swelling again—engines in the distance, the sharp clatter of cameras beyond the barricades, the restless murmur of people pressing against the perimeter for a glimpse of royal spectacle. The sky above the tarmac was a dull silver, the kind that promised rain without yet delivering it, and the wind tugged faintly at the hem of Aerion’s coat.
Then Donnel slowed. Not abruptly—Donnel of Duskendale never did anything abruptly—but with the faintest hesitation in his otherwise flawless stride.
Aerion noticed. His eyes followed the direction of Donnel’s gaze.
And stopped.
The man stood beside the waiting car with the stillness of a statue carved from dark stone. Not among the airport staff, nor the drivers clustered beside the black government cars waiting outside.
He stood alone. Still. Watching. Dark hair. Perfect posture.
Even from this distance Aerion could see the single silver strand cutting through the dark like a pale thread of moonlight, catching the sunlight where it fell across the man’s temple. The rest of him was composed in quiet elegance—a long dark coat falling in clean lines over broad shoulders, hands folded loosely behind his back, stance balanced and immovable like carved stone.
The expression on his face was calm. Controlled. Carefully blank.
The world seemed to narrow in that instant, the noise of the terminal fading into something distant and muffled beneath the sudden rush of blood in his ears.
Of all people.
His jaw tightened.
Of course.
Of course, the Crown would send him.
The reliable heir.
The dutiful perfect prince.
Valarr.
Aerion felt the irritation rise instantly, sharp and instinctive as a reflex. It curled hot and defensive beneath his ribs before he could stop it.
So, this was the welcome.
Not a brother.
Not a sister.
Not even boring Matarys dragged here out of obligation.
No.
They had sent the responsible one. The Crown Prince’s son. The one who always knew the right words, the right posture, the right expression. The one who wore duty like armor and expectation like a crown already resting on his head.
Of course they had. Who better to keep the menace to society in check?
Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the irritation down before it showed on his face.
Still—
Something about it didn’t make sense.
Valarr was busy. Everyone knew that. Studies, obligations, appearances, endless responsibilities stacked neatly on his shoulders like bricks in a wall.
Why would he come? Why would he bother?
Aerion resumed walking. The polished floor clicked softly beneath his shoes as he crossed the distance, each step measured, slow enough to appear casual but deliberate enough that Donnel noticed. The private secretary fell silent beside him.
By the time Aerion reached him, Valarr had not moved.
Up close the details sharpened. He was taller than Aerion remembered—or perhaps Aerion had simply grown used to being away. The dark coat framed him with severe elegance, emphasizing the straight line of his spine and the quiet strength in his shoulders. His dark hair had been brushed neatly back, though that single silver strand refused to obey the careful order, falling loose against his temple like a quiet rebellion.
His eyes lifted. And met Aerion’s. For a moment neither of them spoke.
Aerion studied him openly, arms folding loosely across his chest as though he had all the time in the world.
Gods.
He looked exactly the same.
Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.
Aerion felt the old irritation stir again. He felt suddenly, painfully aware of the suit on his body. Of the gel stiff in his hair. Of the absence of every piece of metal that had once decorated his ears and fingers.
“Prince Valarr,” Donnel murmured quietly beside him, as though providing a helpful explanation.
Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose.
“So,” Aerion said at last, his voice light with the sort of careless amusement that always sounded sharper than it should. “Did they send you because everyone else was busy?”
The words hung between them.
Valarr did not react immediately. The faintest shift passed through his expression—something small, almost imperceptible, like a ripple across still water—but his posture remained perfectly composed.
When he spoke, his voice was low and steady, each word measured with that infuriating calm he had always possessed. “Someone had to ensure you arrived without embarrassing the Crown.”
Aerion barked a short laugh.
Of course. There it was. The lecture disguised as politeness.
He tilted his head slightly, studying Valarr with open scepticism, his deep purple eyes narrowing just a fraction behind the dark lenses.
“Oh, I see,” he said, tilting his head slightly as though considering the idea. “So, you’re my chaperone now.”
Behind him Donnel shifted almost imperceptibly, the quiet movement of a man aware the conversation was beginning to drift toward dangerous waters.
Valarr opened the car door. “If that is what it takes.”
The reply was delivered with such perfect composure that Aerion almost admired it. Almost.
Aerion smirked. “Oh? Is that what you think?”
For the first time something like concern touched Valarr’s expression, subtle but unmistakable beneath the restraint he wore so carefully.
“What I think,” Valarr said slowly, “is that chasing someone through the streets on motorcycles and forcing open a moving car door crosses several lines.”
Aerion’s smirk sharpened. “They were persistent,” he admitted.
Valarr’s gaze hardened slightly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows as he studied Aerion’s face more closely. “You could have been injured.”
“Rubbish.”
Valarr exhaled quietly, the sound almost lost beneath the distant murmur of the terminal.
“They forced the door open, Aerion,” he said, his voice low but firm now. “That is not journalism. It is reckless. And the more you turn their scandals into entertainment, the more you encourage them.”
Aerion tilted his head, amusement flickering again across his face.
“So, you didn’t enjoy them?”
Valarr held his gaze steadily.
“A man leaning halfway inside your car from his motorcycle to take pictures of a top model straddling you,” he said evenly. “There is nothing remotely enjoyable about this.”
Aerion grinned. “She was very enthusiastic.”
For a brief second Valarr closed his eyes, as though collecting his patience before it ran thin. “Get in the car.”
Without waiting for a reply, Valarr slid into the back seat first, always first. Aerion followed a moment later as protocol demanded, dropping carelessly against the leather upholstery as though the car belonged entirely to him. He closed the door with a soft, decisive click that shut out most of the airport noise. The interior smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive cologne, the quiet luxury of royal transport.
The engine purred to life beneath them, a low, steady vibration that seemed to fill the space with its own rhythm, a rhythm that felt oddly intimate in the close confines of the car. Donnel remained in the front, hands clasped lightly, eyes forward and expression neutral as always.
Aerion leaned back, stretching his legs out slightly, studying Valarr from the corner of his eye.
Up close, the man looked exactly as he always had—controlled to the point of severity. Which made Aerion want to ruin it.
“They wanted a show,” he said. “I gave them one.”
Valarr studied him in silence for a moment longer, something complicated moving behind his dark eyes—annoyance, certainly, but threaded through with something else. Concern.
“You do realize,” Valarr said quietly, “that they will not stop now.”
Aerion only smiled wider. And that, somehow, irritated Valarr even more.
Why was he here? Why did it matter enough for him to come?
Aerion shifted his weight slightly as he studied the man before him with thinly veiled suspicion.
Of all the people in the Royal Family… Why Valarr?
The question lingered in the back of his mind like a thorn he couldn’t quite pull free.
“You cannot continue to behave as though there are no consequences.”
Aerion let the words settle, then tilted his head, letting the amusement in his tone slide into sharper, more pointed territory. “Consequences? Oh, you mean like broken hearts? Bad press? Scandalous rumors? I see. You’re full of wisdom, as always.”
“And you are full of arrogance, as always,” Valarr said evenly, voice low, measured. But Aerion could hear it—the tension under the calm, the barely restrained irritation.
Aerion leaned back with a faint chuckle, sensing he had drawn a reaction. He let his gaze drift out the window for a moment, watching the summer city blur past—pale stone walls, glinting spires, the slow movement of ships far in the Blackwater Bay. “So, Lys,” he said lightly, breaking the pause. “You never did visit. Tell me, how is university treating you these days?”
Valarr exhaled slowly. “The same as it has always been.”
“Ancient literature,” Aerion said with exaggerated seriousness. “Old Valyrian scrolls. Dusty libraries. Gods, you must be having the time of your life.”
Valarr’s mouth twitched faintly. “I enjoy my studies.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Aerion said. “Someone has to keep the family reputation for intellectual brilliance alive.”
His eyes gleamed faintly. “And speaking of reputation…”
Valarr’s gaze shifted toward him again, wary now. Aerion leaned slightly closer.
“What happened with the lovely Kiera?”
The name hung in the air like a thrown dagger. Valarr’s posture did not change. But the warmth vanished from his expression in an instant.
“I believe the official statement was quite clear,” Valarr said.
“Yes, yes,” Aerion said, waving a hand dismissively. “Mutual decision. Amicable separation. Deep respect.”
His smile turned sharper. “But the rumors are much more interesting.”
Valarr’s silence was immediate. Aerion watched him carefully.
“They say,” Aerion continued softly, “that she got bored.”
Still nothing.
“They say she found someone more exciting.”
Valarr’s gaze had turned to the window now, the city passing outside in grey blurs.
Aerion leaned back, studying him. “They say,” he added almost lazily, “that someone might have been my brother.”
The car fell into silence. Not the casual kind, but the thick, taut silence that prickled the skin and made the blood pulse a little faster in one’s temples. Valarr’s hands tightened slightly on his knees, and for the first time all ride, his usual controlled composure seemed just out of reach.
Aerion smirked faintly, but there was a shadow behind it—a hint of satisfaction mingled with something he hadn’t expected: concern, recognition, a rawness he hadn’t seen in Valarr before. The way he shifted when the ghost of his brother’s name hung in the air between them, the cold snap in his eyes, the subtle stiffness creeping into his posture… all of it spoke volumes.
Valarr turned his head slowly. The look in his eyes was colder than Aerion had ever seen it.
And in that cold, silent gaze— Aerion found his answer. Something sharp flickered through his chest.
“Well,” Aerion murmured softly, leaning back against the leather seat with a faint, amused smile, “that must have been awkward at family dinners.”
*
The car climbed the long road toward the Red Keep beneath a sky the color of old iron.
Aerion watched the castle emerge slowly through the thin mist of the morning, its towers rising one after another from the rocky hill like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast that had long ago decided to turn itself into stone. The walls were massive and unyielding, darkened by centuries of rain and smoke, their surfaces worn smooth in some places and rough in others where time had chipped away at the mortar. Even from the distance of the winding approach road, the fortress seemed to loom rather than simply stand, as though the very weight of its history pressed down upon the land around it.
Stone.
Stone everywhere.
Stone towers. Stone battlements. Stone gates that had closed behind generations of kings and princes and men who had lived their lives inside those walls without ever truly belonging to themselves.
Aerion felt the old familiar tightness settle beneath his ribs.
The closer they came, the more the castle seemed to grow—not larger, exactly, but heavier. More present. The way a storm cloud grows darker as it draws near, until it fills the entire horizon.
He had spent two years in Lys.
Lys had been warm. Alive.
The memory rose in his mind unbidden: narrow streets glowing with lanternlight, balconies draped in bright fabrics that fluttered like banners in the evening wind, the scent of wine and sea salt and jasmine drifting through open windows. Music spilling from taverns into the night. Laughter echoing across marble courtyards long after midnight.
In Lys, the world had breathed.
The Red Keep did not breathe. It endured.
The car rolled beneath the outer gate, iron portcullis teeth looming overhead as guards snapped to attention along the walls. Their armor gleamed dully beneath the grey sky, spears rising in silent salute as the royal vehicle passed beneath the archway.
Inside, the courtyard opened before them.
Stone again.
Stone beneath the wheels. Stone rising in layered walls. Stone steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Aerion’s eyes moved slowly across the place as though he were seeing it for the first time. The banners hanging from the towers barely stirred in the still air, their colours muted by the dim light of the afternoon. Servants moved quietly across the courtyard, their heads bowed in practiced deference, while soldiers stood like statues along the perimeter.
Everything felt controlled. Measured. Watched. Judged.
He became suddenly aware of the silence inside the car.
The driver had stopped speaking into his radio. The engine had fallen to a quiet idle.
And beside him—Valarr had shifted.
Aerion glanced toward him. Something had changed in the other man’s posture.
The rigid tension that had filled him during the drive seemed to have loosened the moment the castle gates closed behind them. His shoulders had relaxed slightly, the line of his spine no longer quite so sharp. The faint crease between his brows had softened.
Here, inside these walls, Valarr looked… comfortable.
At ease. As though he had stepped back into a world that belonged to him.
Aerion studied him quietly.
The way the grey light from the window caught the silver strand in his hair. The calm steadiness in his gaze as he looked out across the courtyard.
It struck Aerion suddenly that Valarr had always been like this. At home in places that made Aerion feel like a ghost.
The car door opened with a quiet click.
Valarr stepped out first, always first.
The wind stirred the hem of his dark coat as he straightened beside the car, the fabric shifting against the pale stone backdrop of the courtyard. For a moment he simply stood there, looking up at the towers of the Red Keep with the thoughtful expression of someone greeting an old acquaintance.
Then he turned back toward Aerion.
And something unexpected appeared in his expression. Warmth.
It was faint, restrained the way everything about Valarr always was—but it was there. “Welcome home, Aerion.”
The words were simple. But they settled strangely in Aerion’s chest.
Home.
Aerion stepped out of the car slowly, the soles of his polished shoes clicking softly against the stone courtyard. The air here felt colder than the air at the airport, though the sky had not changed. Perhaps it was simply the way the wind moved differently between the walls, slipping through the narrow spaces between towers and corridors like something ancient and restless.
He looked up at the Red Keep. He could feel it pressing against him, even before he stepped fully into the courtyard. Memories stirred—of whispered conversations in hallways, of lectures and polite rebukes, of dinners where eyes measured every gesture, every word. The laughter that had once been easy here seemed distant, disbelieving, a sound from another world. Here, every action had weight, every presence demanded justification. The Red Keep never felt like a home; it had never promised comfort. It was a court of judgment, and every stone was witness.
Aerion shifted his gaze to the walls, tracing the sharp lines of the towers against the summer sky. He remembered the eyes that had watched him as a boy, the subtle criticisms hidden in polite smiles, the way his failures had been catalogued, weighed, and remembered. The Red Keep was alive with expectation, though not the kind that celebrated living—it thrived on order, on control, on conformity. Every arch and spire seemed to whisper the same message: measure yourself, contain yourself, perform.
Home. The word echoed faintly in his mind, but it did not feel true.
Aerion glanced sideways at Valarr again.
They had been close once.
The thought came quietly, like a memory drifting up from deep water.
Close enough that it still carried warmth. He summoned all his strengths to repress it.
Aerion blinked, the courtyard of the Red Keep returning around him.
The man stood beside him now with that same calm composure he always wore, speaking quietly with one of the waiting guards.
As though nothing had ever happened.
As though what happened had been nothing more than a passing moment easily forgotten.
Aerion felt a small hollow open somewhere deep in his chest. Did he even remember?
The thought lingered only briefly before Aerion pushed it aside.
Of course he remembered. It simply hadn’t meant as much to him.
After all—Valarr had moved on easily enough.
There had been Kiera of Tyrosh after that. A proper engagement. A future planned in careful, respectable terms. And if Valarr had been wounded by her betrayal… well. That had nothing to do with Aerion.
*
The corridors of the Red Keep swallowed sound.
Aerion walked through them alone after leaving Valarr in the courtyard, his footsteps echoing faintly against the endless stone as he followed the familiar route toward his chambers. The castle seemed quieter than he remembered, though perhaps it had always been like this and he had simply forgotten during his years away. The air inside the keep carried the faint scent of old stone, beeswax polish, and distant scent of food from the great kitchens below.
Servants moved through the halls with the soft, efficient silence of people who had spent their entire lives learning how to exist without drawing attention. A maid stepped aside the moment she saw him approaching, bowing her head quickly before continuing down the corridor with a basket of folded linens. Somewhere far below, a bell rang faintly, announcing the preparation of the evening meal.
Everything here followed rhythm. Routine. Order.
Aerion felt it pressing against him again the deeper he walked into the castle.
In Lys, life had spilled freely from moment to moment, nights blending into mornings beneath lantern-lit balconies and music that never seemed to end. Here, every hour belonged to tradition.
Every movement felt rehearsed.
He reached his chambers.
The door opened before he could knock.
Two servants waited inside already, as though they had been standing there for hours anticipating his arrival. One carried a stack of neatly folded clothes draped carefully over both arms; the other stood beside the bathing chamber door with the polite stillness of someone who had long ago learned that royal discomfort was not something to acknowledge.
“Your bath is ready, Your Highness,” the older of the two said softly.
Aerion nodded once.
The bathing room was warm and filled with the soft hiss of rising steam. Copper tubs had been filled nearly to their rims with hot water, pale clouds of vapor curling upward toward the stone ceiling. A faint scent of lavender drifted through the air from the oils floating along the surface.
Aerion stepped out of his coat slowly. The servants helped with the rest without speaking.
Buttons loosened. Fabric lifted away.
The stiff, suffocating formality of the suit disappeared piece by piece until he stood bare against the warmth of the room, goosebumps rising faintly along his arms as the heat from the bath touched his skin.
He slid into the water.
For a moment the sensation was almost overwhelming—the heat wrapping around his body, easing the tightness that had settled in his shoulders during the long journey. He leaned back against the curved edge of the tub, closing his eyes briefly as the steam filled his lungs.
The silence here felt different from the silence of the castle corridors.
Softer.
Private.
He washed slowly, letting the water loosen the stiffness in his muscles. Soap slid across his skin, rinsing away the lingering scent of travel and airplane air and the faint trace of expensive cologne that had clung to the suit he had been forced to wear. And the gel, the damn gel in his hair.
When he finished, the servants returned with fresh towels.
They moved around him with practiced efficiency, drying his hair, helping him step into the clothes they had prepared.
Dark trousers. A crisp white shirt. A fitted jacket embroidered subtly with the colours of the royal house. Everything precise. Everything proper.
Aerion stood in front of the tall mirror near the mirror. The reflection staring back at him was familiar, and yet for all its familiarity it carried the weight of two years spent abroad, of scandals, of whispered judgments and unspoken accusations. His silver hair, untouched by gel, fell in its natural wolf-cut, rebellious and uneven at the tips, framing the sharp angles of his face. His deep purple eyes, dark and stormy, followed the curve of his shoulders, tracing the faint lines and marks that he had learned to hide from the world. And then, almost without thought, his gaze drifted lower.
The scars along his back caught the light—a network of pale lines etched into the tender skin beneath his shoulder blades, faint but unmistakable. The memory hit him with the sudden, unwelcome force of a wave—the sudden violent shove that sent him crashing backward.
His back striking the wall.
The sound of shattering glass exploding behind him, slicing into his skin as he collapsed against it.
You don’t have to pretend you don’t want me.
He had said no.
Aerion’s fingers tightened slightly against the scar. The memory settled into his chest like cold stone. He forced himself to drop his hand. The mirror still showed the same man. Clean. Composed. Untouched by any of the things that had happened beyond these walls.
Aerion buttoned the rest of his shirt slowly. The scar disappeared beneath white fabric and silk. Buried again. Just another secret hidden beneath royal clothing.
He turned away from the mirror.
Dinner waited below. And the castle, with all its silent watching stone, was already expecting him.
*
The hall chosen for the family dinner lay deep within the older bones of the Red Keep, where the stones were darker and colder than the bright galleries built in later reigns. The long table had been set beneath vaulted ceilings ribbed with ancient beams blackened by centuries of fireplace smoke. Lamps adorned the walls along the length of the table. Outside, night had fallen over King's Landing, and the distant roar of the harbour drifted faintly through the glass like the restless breathing of some great slumbering beast.
Aerion paused a moment at the threshold before entering.
The scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh bread hung thick in the air, mingling with polish and the faint mineral chill of old stone. Servants moved like pale ghosts between the chairs, setting glasses and platters. At the centre of the table sat his grandfather, King Daeron II Targaryen, speaking quietly with his queen, Myriah Martell. Two of his sons were already gathering nearby: Baelor Breakspear standing tall and composed, his dark Dornish colouring stark against the electric light; and beside him the quieter form of Maekar Targaryen, his father, broad-shouldered and stiff-backed like a soldier even in court silks.
Aerion felt the familiar tightening beneath his ribs. Family dinners had never been simple things in this castle. Too many crowns sat invisibly upon too many heads. He stepped forward at last.
“Aerion!”
The bright voice cut through the murmur of conversation before he had taken three steps.
Two figures hurried toward him from the far side of the chamber—silver-haired and bright-eyed, skirts whispering across the stone floor.
His sisters.
Daella Targaryen reached him first, smiling with such open delight that for a moment the tightness in his chest eased. “You finally returned from Lys. We thought you had forgotten us entirely.”
“And you promised stories,” added Rhae Targaryen, her tone bright with mischief as she circled him like a curious cat. “They say Lys is more beautiful than any city in the world. Is it true the women there perfume their hair with rose oil every morning?”
Aerion allowed himself a faint smile.
The warmth of their welcome felt genuine, unguarded by the careful courtesies that so often poisoned courtly conversation. He answered their questions patiently as they bombarded him—about the harbour of Lys with its pale marble quays, about the jewelled pleasure gardens, about the singers and dancers who filled the moonlit streets.
As he spoke, he felt the eyes of others upon him across the table.
And then the doors opened again. The change in the room was so subtle that another man might have missed it. Aerion did not.
He saw it first in Valarr.
His cousin had been standing near his parents, speaking quietly with Baelor. The moment the door opened Valarr’s shoulders stiffened, the muscles along his jaw tightening so sharply that the light caught the strain in his cheekbones.
Aerion followed his gaze.
Daeron entered the hall with the languid confidence of a man accustomed to indulgence. His silks were rich, his smile careless, and the scent of strong wine clung faintly to him even from across the chamber.
For a heartbeat Valarr looked as though he might turn and leave.
Instead, he lowered his eyes and stepped aside, greeting his cousin with a stiff nod that carried none of the warmth due between kin.
Daeron seemed not to notice. Or perhaps he simply chose not to.
Aerion felt a dull ache stir behind his ribs. He said nothing. Some wounds within a family were older than any words.
Soon the table was filled. Aerion took his place among them, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle across his shoulders like an unseen cloak.
The greetings that followed were polite enough. His father, Maekar, inclined his head with curt acknowledgment. His elder brother Daeron offered a thin smile that held more amusement than affection. Young Aegon greeted him with the quiet reserve of a boy uncertain where they stood.
None were unkind. Yet none were warm.
The absence of warmth settled around Aerion like a cold draft creeping beneath a door.
Only when Baelor rose did the air seem to brighten again. The crown prince clasped Aerion’s shoulder with firm sincerity, his voice rich with genuine pleasure.
“You have been missed,” Baelor said.
Beside him Lady Jena Dondarrion greeted Aerion with the gentle grace that had always made him feel strangely at ease in her presence, as though she saw past the rumors and the whispers to the man beneath. “It is good to have you back, Aerion,” she had said.
At the head of the table the king watched all this quietly.
When the servants had poured the wine and the first course had been laid, Daeron II lifted his glass.
“I hear,” the king said, his voice calm yet carrying easily through the hall, “that my grandson has returned from Lys with commendations from his commanders.”
Aerion felt every eye turn toward him.
Daeron II continued, pride warming his otherwise measured tone. “Your instructors write that your studies at the academy have been exemplary. And your promotion in the Royal Air Force command came sooner than many expected.”
For a fleeting moment something warm stirred within Aerion’s chest. Praise from the king was no small thing.
“I thank you, Your Grace,” he said carefully.
Yet the warmth did not last. Maekar set down his glass with a harder sound than necessary.
“It is fortunate that your academic achievements are more commendable than your behaviour outside the classroom,” he said, his voice blunt as a hammer striking iron. “Unfortunately, it would appear the newspapers find your extracurricular activities more relevant.”
The hall grew quieter.
Aerion felt the first slow stirrings of anger coil beneath his ribs.
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “The city speaks instead of a car racing through the streets while paparazzi clung to its doors like barnacles on a hull.”
A murmur flickered along the table.
“And the photographs,” Maekar continued coldly, “of you tangled with a half-naked Lysene model in a car, a display unworthy of the name you bear. Have you no shame, boy?”
The words struck the air like a thrown dagger. Aerion’s hands tightened around his glass.
For an instant he saw it all again—the roar of the engine, the shriek of wind past the windows, the pounding of motorcycles closing in like hunting wolves. The sudden violent wrench as the door was yanked open. The flash of cameras. The shouting. The chaos.
And the woman’s silver hair spilling across his chest as she kissed him.
Anger flared hot behind his ribs.
Across the table, Daella’s expression hardened instantly.
“That was not his fault,” she said sharply. “They chased him for miles.”
“Enough, Daella,” Maekar said sharply. “Hold your tongue. This does not concern you.”
“I did not invite them into the car,” Aerion said sharply.
“No,” Maekar replied. “You merely give them reason to chase you.”
The words stung more deeply than Aerion expected.
Before he could answer, Lady Jena’s gentle voice slipped between them like cool water over hot stone.
“Oh, Maekar,” she said lightly, smiling as though the conversation had never sharpened. “If scandal were a crime, half the young lords of the realm would already be in chains.”
She turned toward Aerion with a reassuring glance.
“I hear the Vale prepares for celebration instead. Lady Arryn is said to be expecting her first child. A most joyous news.”
The shift in topic came so smoothly that several at the table seized upon it with visible relief.
Baelor leaned forward, the statesman returning instantly to his element. “Yes. The Vale grows stronger with each passing year. And there are developments in the Free Cities as well…”
His voice moved easily into matters of diplomacy, trade routes, and the shifting alliances across the Narrow Sea.
The talk drifted onward as the courses changed, yet to Aerion the evening had begun to feel strangely distant, as though he watched it unfold from behind a pane of thick glass.
Roasted duck gave way to honeyed pears and cheeses from the Reach. Glasses were refilled again and again. The lights burned lower, their wax running in slow pale rivers down the iron stands. Shadows lengthened along the vaulted ceiling, twisting softly whenever someone leaned forward or raised a hand. The warm gold light of the fixtures painted the hall in shifting colours—amber across polished glasses, deep red across spilled wine, pale silver where it touched the hair of the Targaryens gathered around the table like ghosts of old Valyria returned to dine beneath their ancestral roof.
The voices of his kin mingled with the faint scrape of knives on plates and the muted tread of servants passing through the hall.
Aerion listened without truly hearing.
Something about the evening had shifted since Maekar’s rebuke. The conversation had recovered its polite rhythm, yet beneath the surface a thin tension remained, subtle but persistent, like a hairline crack in a blade that might one day split the steel apart. Aerion could feel it in the careful cadence of every word spoken across the table, in the way glances flickered and quickly withdrew, in the faint hesitation that crept into laughter before it fully formed.
It was his grandfather who broke the quiet lull that followed Baelor’s account of trade negotiations across the Narrow Sea. His grandsire set down his glass and regarded the table with the calm, thoughtful gaze that had guided the realm through years of delicate peace.
“And speaking of dignity,” the king said slowly, his voice carrying easily through the chamber, “it would be remiss of me not to commend another member of our family this evening.”
His eyes turned toward the far end of the table. “Prince Valarr has carried himself with admirable dignity despite recent… personal disappointments.”
The phrase hung in the air like a bell struck too softly to echo, yet loud enough that every ear in the chamber heard its meaning.
The king had spoken gently, almost with grandfatherly sympathy. Yet Aerion knew the court well enough to recognize the careful choice of words. Personal disappointments. A phrase so polite it might have meant anything—yet in truth it meant only one thing.
Kiera.
The broken engagement had travelled through the court like wildfire through dry brush, whispered behind hands and traded like currency among the lords and ladies of King’s Landing.
A silence followed that seemed to stretch longer than it truly was.
Aerion glanced toward his cousin.
Valarr inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. The movement was composed, almost serene, the practiced restraint of a man accustomed to the endless scrutiny of court. The light caught along the single silver strand of hair and the calm lines of his face, lending him the quiet gravity that so often made the courtiers whisper that Valarr would one day make a fine king.
“It was an arrangement that did not suit either of us,” Valarr said quietly. His voice was steady. Too steady.
Aerion might have accepted the words at face value had he not known Valarr so well.
The light caught on the rim of Valarr’s glass, reflecting softly in the dark wine within. Aerion’s gaze lingered there—and saw the small detail no one else seemed to notice.
Valarr’s fingers were tightening around the stem of the glass. Not dramatically. Not enough to draw attention. Yet the knuckles had whitened just slightly, the muscles in his hand tensing as though the delicate crystal were the only thing holding something far heavier in place.
Aerion felt a faint chill pass through him.
Valarr had always been the most composed of them all. Calm where Aerion was restless, thoughtful where others rushed headlong into folly. His cousin wore responsibility as easily as another man might wear a coat.
Yet something in that quiet tension—something in the way Valarr’s eyes never quite lifted from the table—stirred an uneasy awareness within Aerion’s mind.
Something was wrong. Not merely wounded pride. Not the mild embarrassment of a broken courtship. Something deeper.
But the moment passed as quickly as it had come.
Before the conversation could move entirely onward, the king spoke again.
Daeron leaned slightly forward in his chair, the soft light of the hall glinting along the silver in his beard and the calm authority that had long settled into the lines of his face. His gaze rested thoughtfully upon Valarr for another moment, yet when he spoke again his words carried farther down the table, reaching Aerion as well.
“Valarr,” the king said, his voice gentle but deliberate, the sort of tone that turned casual words into quiet expectation. “In the weeks ahead, I trust you will lend your cousin your company and your guidance.”
A faint murmur of curiosity stirred among those seated nearby, though no one interrupted.
Their grandsire continued with the patient calm of a man long accustomed to guiding both family and realm.
“As it happens,” he added, his eyes drifting briefly toward Aerion before returning to Valarr, “Prince Aerion will continue his studies at the same university you attend. It seems the two of you will be seeing a great deal of one another before long.”
The words settled into the air like a stone dropped gently into still water.
For an instant Aerion felt every nerve in his body sharpen with sudden awareness. He had known this already, of course. The arrangements had been decided months ago. Yet hearing it spoken aloud here—before the entire family, beneath the watchful lights and careful eyes of the court—gave the reality a weight he had not fully felt before.
Across the table Valarr inclined his head once more, though something almost imperceptible flickered through his expression as he answered.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “If Aerion requires anything, he will have it.”
The words were proper. Dutiful.
Yet Aerion could not quite ignore the faint tightness lingering beneath them, like a note played too carefully to reveal its true pitch.
The conversation moved on, the delicate machinery of courtly politeness grinding forward once more.
It was Daella who finally turned the attention back toward Aerion.
His sister had been watching him with open curiosity throughout the evening, her silver hair catching the light whenever she leaned across the table. The brightness in her eyes carried none of the guarded calculation that lingered in so many of the older faces around them. With Daella there was still a kind of eager innocence, a hunger for stories that the Red Keep had not yet crushed beneath its endless politics.
“Aerion,” she said brightly, resting her chin upon one hand, “you promised me stories of Lys.”
Her tone carried the gentle insistence of someone unwilling to let the evening sink entirely into politics and quiet tensions.
“You spoke of the harbour before, but you never told us about the beaches. Are they truly as beautiful as the singers claim?”
Rhae leaned closer as well, eyes gleaming with interest.
“And the fashions,” she added eagerly. “They say the Lysene wear silks lighter than air.”
Aerion felt some of the heaviness in his chest ease.
Talking about Lys was easier than talking about home. He drew out his phone almost without thinking, the familiar glow of the screen lighting his face as he scrolled through the hundreds of photographs he had taken during those long months abroad.
“The beaches first,” he said, turning the screen toward them.
The images filled the small space between them with bursts of sunlit color: pale sand stretching into turquoise water, white marble villas perched above gentle coves, slender boats drifting lazily in the harbour under skies so blue they seemed almost unreal.
Daella gasped softly. “It’s beautiful.”
Aerion found himself speaking more easily now, describing the salt-sweet smell of the sea winds that rolled through the city each morning, the warmth of the sand beneath bare feet, the music that drifted across the streets long after midnight.
He showed them pictures of the markets—pyramids of strange fruits and bright spices. Images of elaborate gowns displayed in the windows of Lysene boutiques, shimmering fabrics cut in daring shapes that would have scandalized half the court in King’s Landing.
Rhae laughed at that.
“And the food?” Daella pressed eagerly.
Aerion swiped to another set of photographs. Platters of grilled fish drizzled in lemon and herbs. Bowls of honeyed figs. Delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar like fresh snowfall.
As he spoke, Aerion became aware of another gaze upon him. He glanced up briefly—and found Valarr watching.
His cousin had turned slightly in his chair, one elbow resting lightly against the table, the glass forgotten for the moment in his hand. There was an attentiveness in his expression that Aerion had not seen earlier in the evening. Not the polite listening of a prince at dinner, but a quieter focus—like a man listening to something beyond the words themselves.
The realization stirred a faint, curious spark within Aerion. He tilted the phone slightly, so the screen angled toward Valarr as well, his mouth curving in a faintly teasing smile.
“You may speak, cousin,” Aerion said lightly, his tone carrying just enough mischief to disguise the small test hidden beneath it. “You’re listening closely enough to earn the privilege.”
For a brief moment, the tension around Valarr’s mouth eased, though the smile that touched his lips remained faint and fleeting.
“Lys sounds… peaceful,” Valarr said after a moment.
The word seemed chosen with care.
Aerion held his gaze a heartbeat longer, studying the quiet shadows behind his cousin’s eyes, before turning the phone back toward his sisters. He scrolled further.
“And this,” he said lightly, “is the most important thing I brought back. My darling girl”
The picture appeared on the screen. A tiny seal mitted kitten stared out from the image, its enormous blue eyes wide with innocent curiosity, one small paw lifted awkwardly toward the camera.
Daella’s face lit up instantly.
“Oh, Aerion,” she breathed, delighted. “She’s gorgeous. What’s her name?”
But before Aerion could answer, a sharp voice cut across the table.
“Have you quite finished?”
The suddenness of the interruption caused several heads to turn. Maekar was watching them now, his expression dark with disapproval.
“Must you parade such indecencies before your sisters?” he continued, his tone heavy with cold judgment. “Is corrupting their modesty another amusement you learned in Lys?”
The words struck the air like a whip.
Aerion blinked once. Then he turned the phone calmly so that the screen faced his father. The kitten stared back from the photograph, small and unmistakably harmless.
For a moment no one spoke. The silence that followed felt thick enough to touch.
Aerion’s voice, when he spoke, was quiet.
“If you had called me even once in the last two years,” he said slowly, “you would know that.”
The words were not loud. Yet they seemed to echo through the hall more sharply than any shout.
Maekar said nothing. No one did.
The silence spread outward along the table like ripples across still water. Aerion could feel every gaze in the room shifting between father and son, the unspoken discomfort hanging in the air like the heavy heat before a summer storm.
Aerion felt something twist hard within his chest. For a moment he thought his father might answer. But Maekar only sat there, his face rigid as carved stone. The absence of any reply hurt more than anger would have.
Aerion rose. The legs of his chair scraped softly against the floor, the sound cutting through the quiet like a blade drawn from its sheath. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the tension in his chest still twisting painfully as the weight of every silent gaze settled upon him.
Then, almost against his own will, his eyes drifted across the table toward Valarr.
His cousin had been watching him. The expression on Valarr’s face was difficult to read in the shifting light—calm, perhaps, yet shadowed by something deeper that Aerion could not quite name. Concern, perhaps. Or simply that same careful composure Valarr wore so easily before the world.
Aerion held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than propriety required.
The memory of his grandfather’s earlier words stirred faintly in his mind. University. Weeks of seeing one another again. Long halls, lecture rooms, quiet libraries where there would be no courtly dinners to hide behind.
Aerion felt a strange mix of bitterness and weary amusement curl at the corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he said at last, his voice quieter now but edged with a faint dryness that could almost pass for humour, “I suppose I’ll see you at school, cousin.”
The words were simple. Yet something about the way they settled into the silence made the space between them feel suddenly smaller—and far more complicated.
Valarr did not answer immediately. For a brief moment, something moved behind his eyes, quick and unreadable as a shadow passing over water.
But before he could speak, Aerion had already turned away.
“I believe I’ve had enough dinner,” he said.
No one tried to stop him.
He turned and walked from the hall before the tightness in his throat could betray him. The quiet murmur of conversation slowly returned.
Only one person watched him go. Valarr’s gaze followed Aerion across the hall and toward the open doors, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering light.
The corridor outside the dining hall felt cold after the warmth of the chamber.
Aerion walked quickly at first, the echo of his shoes ringing sharply against the stone floor as he moved deeper into the quiet halls of the Red Keep.
The noise of the dinner faded behind him. With each step the silence grew heavier.
The wall lights along the corridor walls were soft and steady, casting long wavering shadows that stretched and shrank as Aerion passed. The air smelled faintly of cold stone and old smoke, so different from the rich perfumes of roasted meat and wine that still clung to his clothes.
He slowed at last beside a narrow window overlooking the sleeping city.
Beyond the glass the lights of King's Landing flickered like scattered stars across the dark hills. Somewhere far below, a dog barked in the distance. The harbour bells rang faintly in the night wind, their distant chime carrying up from the Blackwater like the slow tolling of some forgotten memory.
Aerion rested one hand against the cold stone wall. The chill of it seeped through his palm.
His chest felt tight.
The humiliation of the dinner still burned beneath his skin like a fever. He could still feel the heat rising in his face when Maekar had spoken, the quiet suffocating stillness of the table afterward, the way no one had moved—no one had said anything—while the silence stretched between father and son like a gulf too wide to cross.
Yet even that humiliation soon found itself tangled with another thought.
Valarr.
Aerion closed his eyes briefly, letting his head fall back against the stone.
His cousin’s composure at the table returned to him with irritating clarity. The calm voice. The measured answer to the king. It had been flawless. Too flawless.
Aerion could still see him seated there beneath the candlelight, every movement controlled, every word chosen with care. The perfect prince. The perfect image of grace and duty.
And yet that same man had cleared his entire schedule to greet Aerion at the airport that morning.
The memory rose in Aerion’s mind unbidden.
Valarr waiting, standing slightly apart from the crowd with that quiet composure that always seemed to surround him like an invisible cloak. No entourage. No grand gestures. Just Valarr, leaning lightly against the car as though he had been standing there a long time already.
He had welcomed Aerion home. Almost warmly.
And yet—not once, not even once—had he mentioned that night.
Aerion’s jaw tightened.
In those two years in Lys, that night had been a beacon of hope for Aerion. And a consolation.
And now Valarr Targaryen could sit across a dinner table and not even grant him the courtesy of acknowledgment. Not a word. Not a glance. Not an explanation.
Aerion felt something harden slowly inside his chest.
Used.
Humiliated.
Abandoned.
The words settled heavily in his mind, each one sharp enough to cut.
Perhaps it had meant nothing to Valarr after all. Perhaps it had simply been curiosity. A moment of idle experimentation before Aerion vanished across the sea.
The thought burned. Aerion straightened slowly from the wall, dragging a hand back through the loose strands of his wolf-cut hair.
Fine.
If that was how they all saw him—if the court, his father, the whispering city beyond the castle walls had already decided what sort of man he was—Then perhaps he would give them exactly what they wanted.
A slow, dangerous smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
Let them whisper. Let them clutch their pearls and mutter about scandals.
If they already believed him to be a menace, then he would become the greatest one the realm had ever seen.
He turned from the window, the cold night air still clinging to his skin.
And somewhere deep within his chest, humiliation slowly began to harden into something far more dangerous. Revenge.