Chapter Text
The sun over Ashford was not the purifying fire Aerion had envisioned. It was a sticky, oppressive stench of horse dung, scorched metal, and the frantic, sour anxiety of a thousand common men. Aerion rode at the head of the column, his crimson cloak snapping like a taunt. He could already feel Maekar’s disapproval—a stony, simmering mood that felt like a physical bruise. With Daeron and Aegon nowhere to be found, the family honor was a frayed tapestry, and Aerion intended to reweave it with blood.
He reined in his stallion at the edge of the castle gates, his amethyst eyes sweeping over the gathered folks. That was when he saw the monument.
The man stood out like a watchtower in a fishing village.
"Look at that," Aerion murmured to himself, a crooked smile tugging at the scar on his nose.
It was a youth—barely a man, given the lack of a proper beard—of impossible stature. He stood beside a garron that looked comically small besides him, clad in nothing but cheap wool and an expression of confusion that bordered on an insult. He lacked the shimmer of silver or the polish of true heraldry; he was merely a heap of long bones and raw, unrefined muscle. Much like the rest of them, Aerion thought, recalling his own grim conclusion. But this one... this one looked as if his bones might be denser than the rest. Thicker to snap.
The giant seemed to be searching for something, or perhaps he was simply lost in his own vastness.
When the lad’s eyes finally met Aerion’s, there was no immediate flash of reverence. There was only a slow blink, a dull, bovine hesitation.
"You there," Aerion called out, his voice slicing through the camp’s din like Valyrian steel. "Take my horse.”
The giant straightened his back. It made him taller—just a fraction, but it was enough to make irritation prickle beneath the prince’s skin and his brain hiss with sudden, white-hot venom. No one should be this tall without a drop of royal blood to justify the height.
Yet as his eyes traveled up the youth's broad frame, Aerion felt a sharp, sickening skip in his pulse. He lacked the delicate, almost feminine beauty of the court boys—the ones Aerion forced himself to ignore with a practiced sneer. This one was all sun-browned skin, coarse muscle, and a jawline carved from unpolished river stone. He was unrefined, primal, and unsettlingly masculine.
A flare of acidic self-loathing burned in Aerion's throat at the observation. He wanted to look away, to crush the boy under his heel for daring to draw his gaze, but his eyes—piercing, honest blue tourmaline—met his amethyst gaze without a flinch. There was no mask there. No artifice. Just a raw, unshielded presence that made Aerion's skin crawl with unwanted heat.
“Are you deaf, or are you too large to possess a functioning tongue?" Aerion hissed.
The youth swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a throat thick enough to withstand a heavy blow. He shifted his weight, his dusty boots scraping uncomfortably against the cobblestones as he fumbled for words, looking thoroughly out of his depth despite his size.
"I... I’m a knight, m’lord," the youth stammered out, his voice a low, hesitant rumble that lacked the sharp armor of courtly wit. "I’m looking for the master of the games...I wish to—"
"A knight?" Aerion cut him off with a sharp, bark-like laugh, circling the giant on his stallion. His eyes traced the seams of the boy's worn tunic, "You look more like a plowman who stole his master’s horse. Where is your shield? Your sigil?"
The giant's face flushed a deep, rustic red. He didn't recoil, but he lowered his head, shifting uncomfortably under the prince's inspection—an instinctive humility that did nothing to soften the sheer physical threat of his frame.
"I have no sigil yet, m'lord," he mumbled, his large hands awkwardly adjusting his worn tunic. "I served Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He passed, and... I mean to take his place."
"Ser Arlan of Nowhere," Aerion spat. He leaned down from his saddle, bringing his face inches from the boy’s. The smell of him—a heavy musk of horse, sweat, and cheap wool—flooded Aerion’s senses, fanning the dark, repulsive spark in his chest. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to see those tourmaline eyes go dark with the same screaming turmoil that lived inside his own head.
"Listen well, stray dog. This is a field for dragons and stags, not for mongrels who find a rusty sword in the mud. Yet, to my own amusement, I will tell you this: you’ll find the master of the games inside the castle. But if I were you, I would find a hole deep enough to hide that ridiculous frame before I decide to test if it bends."
The giant remained still, his large knuckles whitening into fists that could likely crush a human throat with a single squeeze. Aerion felt a thrill of terror and a sickening, unwanted fascination coil tight in his gut. He hated the boy for standing there, and he hated himself more for looking.
"I... I mean no offense, m'lord," the giant said, forcing his hands to uncurl, his voice heavy with forced composure. "I only wish to tilt."
“Then tilt you shall," Aerion whispered, his eyes glinting with a sudden, dark mirth. "I shall look for you on the field. It would be a shame to waste such a large target."
As Aerion spurred his horse toward the castle, he didn't look back. The heaviness in his head was no longer empty. It was beginning to hum with the promise of a very loud, very satisfying crack.
***
The Ashford castle loomed ahead, its pale stone walls a stark, arrogant contrast to the colorful chaos of the tent city below. Aerion rode with a stiff back, his fingers twitching toward the hidden pocket of his doublet. Inside, his thumb traced the smooth, familiar curve of a wooden dragon.
It was a relic of a different life, yet touching it felt grounding.
As the heavy gates of the inner ward groaned open, the air shifted. The stench of the commons evaporated, replaced by the sharper, cleaner scent of mountain air and polished steel. The Lord of the house stood at the center of the courtyard, but it was the two men beside him that drew Aerion’s gaze like a magnet.
Baelor Breakspear, the Hand of the King, stood with a calm that Aerion deeply revered. Except for the King himself, Baelor was the man around whom the entire court revolved—dark-haired, olive-skinned, looking more like a Martell than a Targaryen, yet possessing a gravity that no amount of silver hair could replicate. Beside him stood Valarr.
Aerion’s jaw tightened. Valarr was the Fair Prince, the golden boy of the Red Keep. Like his father, he was quietly handsome—an elegant beauty that reminded Aerion, painfully, of his mother’s face in the twilight.
"Lord Ashford. Uncle," Aerion said, dismounting with a grace meant to be noticed. He offered a shallow bow to Baelor and their host before turning to his cousin. "Cousin. I see the road from King’s Landing hasn't dulled your shine."
"And the road from Summerhall hasn't softened your tongue, Aerion," Valarr replied. His voice was smooth, untroubled—the tone of a man who didn't even consider Aerion a threat. It was the greatest insult of all.
The pleasantries were cut short by the heavy tread of Maekar. Aerion’s father didn't walk; he marched, his presence a dark cloud blotting out the sun. His eyes scanned the small retinue.
"Where are they?" Maekar’s voice was a low growl, tight with defensive anxiety. His eyes swept the courtyard as if searching for hidden threats.
"Daeron and Aegon are... delayed, Father," Aerion said, his voice steady despite the prickle of sweat on his neck. "Daeron chose to seek an inn. I assumed they would have found their way here by now."
"Assumed?" Maekar stepped closer, his shadow falling over his son like a shroud. "Daeron was supposed to ride at your flank, Aerion. Where is he?"
"Daeron is the eldest, Father," Aerion replied, his tone cool. "I could not tether him and Aegon to my saddle like hounds." I would have considered it had I known they would flee, Aerion added mentally.
Baelor stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his brother's arm. "Peace, Maekar. Aerion did well to arrive safely and in command. The boys will find their way. This is a time for celebration."
As the lords turned their backs and passed the threshold, Valarr lingered, falling into step beside Aerion.
"I heard you had a run-in at the gates," Valarr said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Something about a half-man? The servants are already whispering that you’ve chosen an opponent. You wound me, cousin."
Aerion halted, turning to face him. Up close, Valarr was slightly taller. Aerion loathed having to tilt his head, even marginally, to meet the eyes of the heir’s son.
"Fret not, dear cousin. We both know I will spare you the chance to fight me, if only so you don’t humiliate yourself," Aerion replied, his voice a dangerous purr. "You might not look like a dragon, nor fight like one, but the peasants don’t need to know that your fire is also illusory. You’ll find expertise elsewhere, I am certain."
Valarr’s smile didn't waver, but his eyes turned cold as a winter sea. He took a step forward, invading Aerion’s personal space.
Sandalwood flooded Aerion's senses, sending a visceral shock up his spine. He felt a shameful, white-hot heat rise in his throat.
"Careful, Aerion," Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous whisper. "Fire is a dangerous thing to play with when you're standing in a house made of straw. Try not to embarrass our house further. My father has enough to manage without having to apologize for your... temperament."
Valarr gave a light, condescending pat to Aerion’s shoulder—a touch that burned through the silk like liquid wildfire.
At the contact, a sharp, cold needle traced the ancient fault line in Aerion’s skull. The bone behind his brow throbbed violently, instantly washing away the courtyard of Ashford.
Suddenly, he was seven years old again in the sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, white-knuckling a wooden sword as they reenacted the Battle Above the Gods Eye. He remembered screaming until his throat bled so they would let him play Daemon, the Rogue Prince. He remembered leaping at Valarr from a stone bench, his wooden "Dark Sister" raised high, driven by a clarity that was terrifying for a child: he had wanted to drive the wood into his cousin's pretty face. He had wanted to see if those perfect sapphire eyes would bleed like a common boy's—to carve a permanent mark on the golden heir, just like Aemond One-Eye. He had wanted to see him scarred by his own hand.
The maesters had dragged him away before wood could tear flesh that day. Today, as the throb in his head slowly receded, the desire was unchanged—only darker, twisted by years of ringing silence and a hunger he dared not name.
Valarr offered a thin, pitying smile, oblivious to the void yawning beneath his touch, and turned to walk away with effortless, royal grace.
Aerion was left standing alone in the courtyard.
His hand tightened deep inside his pocket, his thumb pressing so hard against the carved wooden dragon that the splintered tail nearly snapped off in his palm. The high, thin silence returned to his ears, no longer empty, but hauntingly crowded by the ghost of two very different pairs of blue eyes: the rustic, honest tourmaline of a giant who didn't seem to know his own transgressions, and the cold, unyielding sapphire of a prince who thought himself untouchable.
He would break them both.
***
The training grounds at Ashford were a sprawl of kicked-up dust and the rhythmic, metallic clack-thrum of blunted lances. Aerion stood at the edge of the royal pavilion, his armor—black plate inlaid with scales of bright red enamel—gleaming like a fresh wound.
He didn't train with the others. To Aerion, training was not a sport; it was a ritual of exorcism.
He took his position at the tilt, his stallion, a coal-black beast named Shadow-Fire, dancing beneath him. Aerion felt the familiar constriction of his helm, the world narrowing into a vertical slit of vision.
Target. Strike. Snap.
"Again!" he barked after the first pass. His lance had struck the center, but the impact hadn't been right. It hadn't felt like a conquest; it felt like a chore.
He needed something that breathed.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the tower— Duncan, he discovered. The man was practicing in a far corner, moving with a clumsy, earnest power. He lacked the predatory grace Aerion cultivated, yet Aerion couldn't stop watching. There was a sickening sturdiness to the way the giant took a blow.
Where Aerion moved with fluid elegance, the giant moved with the sheer weight of the earth. Aerion found himself memorizing the way the man’s tunic strained against his massive shoulders. He felt a sudden, irrational need to find the breaking point of that frame—to see if the light in those blue eyes would dim under the weight of a royal lance.
Every time he caught himself looking, he struck the quintain harder.
"You’re overextending your shoulder, Aerion."
The voice was calm, a cool hand on a fevered brow. Aerion reined his horse to a halt, the dust settling in a gritty veil. Baelor Breakspear stood there, unarmored in an expensive linen tunic, commanding the very air around him. Beside him, Valarr leaned against a fence post with an effortless poise that made Aerion’s teeth ache.
"I am hitting the mark, Uncle," Aerion replied, his breath coming in hot, metallic bursts behind his visor.
"You are hitting the mark with anger, not with aim," Baelor said. "A lance is an extension of your will, not your temper. If you fight the wood, the wood will fight back."
"We’ll see about that," Aerion snapped, shoving up his visor. His face was flushed, the scar on the high bridge standing out pale against his reddened skin. He looked at Baelor, searching for a spark of the warmth the Hand gave so freely to Valarr and Maekar, but he found only a weary, practiced patience.
Valarr chimed in, his voice light but pointed. "Father is right. You look as though you're trying to murder the quintain, cousin. Save some of that fire for the lists, or you might need it." He nodded toward the other knights on the field.
Aerion’s gaze snapped to Valarr. He looked at that perfect, unblemished face—the face of a boy who had never tasted the metallic earth of a near-death awakening. He thought of the wooden sword in the garden years ago.
"I’m merely practicing. You should try it sometime," Aerion said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, mocking whisper. "The gods know you need it most."
Baelor sighed, a sound of heavy disappointment that stung worse than a mace to the ribs. "Go back to the castle, Aerion. You’re exhausted. You'll do yourself no favors by breaking your arm before the first day."
Aerion didn't move until they had turned their backs. He watched the way Baelor’s hand settled on Valarr’s shoulder as they walked away—a casual, devastating intimacy.
He signaled his squire for one last lance. He didn't look at the quintain this time. He closed his eyes, conjuring the image of a target in his mind. He imagined the creak of a neck, the snap of bone, the roar he was so desperate to hear in the silence of his own head.
He opened his eyes, spurred Shadow-Fire into a gallop, and struck.
The lance didn't just hit; it disintegrated. Wood splinters flew like shrapnel, one catching Aerion across the cheek through the open visor. He didn't flinch. As the red warmth of blood began to trickle down his face, matching the red enamel of his scales, he felt a small, dark spark of satisfaction.
The silence was still there. But it was no longer quiet. It was waiting.
***
The Great Hall of Ashford was a cavern of flickering torchlight and the roar of a hundred voices—a chaotic, sensory assault that made Aerion's brain hiss like steam.
He sat at the high table—a gilded cage. To his left, Maekar sat like a localized storm, his silence a cold, crushing pressure. To his right, Valarr held court, effortlessly charming Lord Ashford’s daughter.
"You're brooding again, Aerion," Valarr remarked, leaning over with a winning smile. His scent—sandalwood and expensive soap—was a constant taunt. "Arbor gold is excellent. It might help you to soften your sour look. You look as though you’re preparing to duel the poultry."
Aerion barely touched his food. He watched the way the torchlight caught the golden dragons on his tunic, his thumb tracing the rim of his wine goblet.
"I have no need for fermented grapes to lighten myself, cousin. Daeron drinks enough for us both," Aerion replied, his voice a sharp blade. "Go back to pledging your alliances to the hosts."
Valarr chuckled, a sound like silk drawn over stone. "Always so dramatic. It’s a celebration, Aerion. You ought to enjoy it a little, or pretend to. It's the time where the people get to see us as the gods they want us to be."
Gods, Aerion thought, watching a stray spark die in the rushes on the floor. He thinks being a god is about the cheering of the court. He doesn't even know the true divine hunger of its absence.
The heavy oak doors swung open. A hush rippled through the lower tables as the giant walked in. He looked absurd in the torchlight—a mountain of muscle squeezed into a battered, drab surcoat, moving with his head low in a futile attempt to blend into the stone walls.
"Is that your half-man?" Valarr asked, following Aerion’s unblinking gaze with a faint, amused smile. "A bit dusty for my taste. Why the sudden charity for the oversized?"
"Charity?" Aerion spat the word like poison, his thumb tracing the rim of his goblet. "The Master of the Games was ready to throw the stray out into the mud where he belongs. No sigil, no proof of knighthood, nothing. I had to personally instruct Ser Plummer to register him."
Valarr raised an eyebrow. "You forced Plummer to take him? Why?"
"Because a dragon does not hunt rats when there are sheep to eat," Aerion whispered, his eyes narrowing as Dunk fumbled for a place at the lower benches. "This creature doesn't realize how pathetic he is. He thinks he can walk among us because he carries a rusty sword. I want him on that field, cousin. I want everyone to watch him fall."
Maekar’s voice cut through them like an axe. "Focus on the morrow instead of playing games with commoners."
Aerion kept his gaze fixed on the hall below, ignoring his father’s cold threat.
As the feast reached its boisterous peak, Aerion stood up. His black-and-gold boots clicked rhythmically against the flagstones as he descended from the high table. He didn't head for the exit. He drifted through the noise until he stood directly behind the giant.
Dunk was hunched over a plate of roasted meats, eating with the desperate greed of a man who didn't know where his next meal was coming from.
Aerion leaned down, his breath cold against the shell of the giant's ear. "If you gorge yourself like a hog, ‘Ser Duncan’, you'll be too heavy for your horse to carry tomorrow."
Dunk stiffened violently, nearly knocking over his tankard. He scrambled to his feet, the bench scraping loudly against the stone.
Aerion was instantly forced into that loathed position once more: looking up. But he did not step back. Instead, Aerion invaded the giant's space, closing the distance until the fine gold thread of his doublet nearly brushed the coarse, cheap wool of Dunk's tunic.
"M-m'lord," Dunk stammered, his massive shoulders hunching as if he wished the floor would swallow him whole.
Aerion raised his hand—gloved in fine, dark leather, refusing to let his bare skin touch the commoner's grime. He reached out and drove his leather-clad fingers hard into the side of Dunk’s jaw, forcing the giant to face him until their eyes met.
Dunk froze. His breath caught in his chest, a ragged, terrified sound. Under the crushing weight of Aerion’s violet gaze, he looked utterly trapped, his jaw trembling under the prince's unyielding grip.
"You should thank me, Ser Duncan," Aerion murmured, his voice a soft, venomous purr that didn't carry past the din of the hall. "Ser Plummer would have had you whipped out of the castle gates. I was the one who gave you your chance to ride tomorrow."
"I... I am grateful, m'lord," Dunk managed to choke out, his eyes wide with stark dread as he felt the cold, unnatural tension radiating from the prince.
Aerion smiled—a slow, terrifying curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. He tightened his gloved grip on Dunk's jaw just enough to leave a mark, feeling the thick bone beneath.
"Do not be grateful yet," Aerion whispered, releasing him with a dismissive shove that made the larger man stumble back a half-step. "I only saved you from the Master of the Games so I could have the pleasure of snapping you myself."
Aerion turned on his heel, his cloak flaring as he walked away without another glance. He could feel Valarr’s watchful gaze from the high table, but Aerion’s blood was finally humming.
He didn't need to drink. The look of pure, unadulterated terror in the giant's eyes was sweeter than any wine in the Reach.