Chapter Text
The tension between them was so thick you could slice it with a knife. Silence reigned over their little corner of the tavern as Aerion busied himself with his wine. In truth, he was stalling for time, he didn't know what he should tell Daemon.
If this was a drug-induced dream (the most likely option) then it didn’t really matter what Aerion told him here, truth or lie. He would wake up in his bed in Ashford meadow soon enough, with his father almost certainly sulking in the corner of his chambers. The thought of his father’s grief stricken face sitting by his bedside dampened his mood exponentially, and he hid it with another sip of his cheap wine. All of this was beneath him, he thought bitterly. The wine, the tavern, even the unimpressed glare Daemon was directing towards him. But still he sipped, for lack of anything else to do as he pondered.
The alternate possibility to his situation was even more worrying for the young prince. If this was somehow real, if he was really in the presence of Daemon Targaryen, then it changed everything. He could change everything, with Daemon’s help. The Dance of the Dragons, the fall of their house, the rebellions, the death of his uncle, all of it. He had the knowledge that could aid Rhaenyra in her fight against her usurper brother, if he used it correctly. And he didn’t need to even consider which side he’d take, he’d had his whole life to fantasize about what he’d do if he was involved in the dance. He had his gripes with Rhaenyra and her choices but the Hightowers were the whole reason this mess started.
Despite all his fantasies and plans however, Aerion also recognized that it could go terribly wrong if he made the smallest of mistakes, if he revealed his hand too early. If he were to mess up and upset the delicate balance of history, he could land his family into an even bigger mess. He could even prevent his own birth if he was careless, which would create an annoying paradox. This brought him back to the dilemma of being honest with Daemon.
Gazing at the other man he could tell that his patience was wearing thin, he needed to make a decision now. Tell him the whole truth and gain a potential ally, or lie to him and carry the burden of the future on his own. The thought gave him a headache, it felt like Ser Duncan bashing his head in with a shield all over again. The reminder of the hedge knight strengthened his resolve, he never wanted to live through the events of Ashford ever again.
He took a sip from his goblet, if only to soothe his lips which he had been worrying. And perhaps for a little courage as well, for he’d need it for the choice he was about to make.
“You would not believe me if I told you the truth…” He started.
“Don’t concern yourself with what I will or won’t believe, out with it now.” The older prince snapped, raising an imperious brow as if daring him to lie.
“Fine, but I warned you.” Aerion took a breath, bracing himself. “My name is Aerion Targaryen, of the Prince of the Blood, and you are my–” he paused to count in his head “great-great-great-grandfather.” He stated and immediately reached for his cup, hiding behind the rim as he peaked at Daemon’s reaction. Or lack thereof, because for a moment his face was as still as stone. And then he broke out into a fit of chuckles.
“I warned you.” Aerion said, unamused.
Daemon cleared his throat, finally letting his laughs die down. “I'm hoping you really hit your head hard on your fall, for I do not entertain fools.”
Aerion immediately scowled at his words. If he was back at home, in Summerhall where his father’s word was law, such insults would not stand. But he was not at Summerhall, and his father wasn’t here to protect him (not that he’d ever admit to needing it). And that was the problem wasn’t it. He needed Daemon, so he smoothed over his expression and prayed for patience.
“I suffered no fall that I can recall. I don’t know how I can convince you.” He admitted grudgingly. Daemon said nothing for a long moment, and that moment stretched out like molasses to Aerion. It felt like he was waiting for judgement of his credibility and worth. At last, the Rogue Prince seemed to have made up his mind.
“Well I do believe in magic that could make this happen, the gods have done stranger things. But white hair and petulance don’t make a Targaryen. There’s only one way that’ll convince me that you are who you say you are.”
Aerion blinked, surprised that the older prince was even considering his case. If it were Aerion in Daemons boots, he’d have laughed off the thought and moved on to more exciting things without a backwards glance. Regardless, he let his shoulders relax a bit with the knowledge that he was temporarily saved from being fed to the Blood Wyrm.
“Well then, speak it already. What must I do.” Aerion demanded impatiently, hiding his relief.
“Looks like you’ll get to meet my dragon after all…” Daemon smiled, saccharine sweet as Aerion’s face blanched.