Chapter Text
Aerion awoke with his face uncomfortably pressed to the ground, little bits of rock digging into his cheek. He groaned as he rolled onto his back, the sun nearly blinding him and forcing his eyes closed. A fog seemed to hang over his mind, causing him to not remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. Just as he had found the will to start sitting up, a voice called from somewhere above him.
“Who are you?” the mystery man said harshly. Aerion paid him no mind, choosing instead to focus his energy into forcing his sleep-heavy limbs into moving. He sat up onto his hands, coughing at the dust on the ground.
“Who are you?” He squinted his eyes at him, partially because of the sun and partially because he was fucking confused. Who was this man to question him, a Prince of the Realm? The question disappeared from his mind the moment he felt the cool press of metal against his neck.
The man had the nerve to put the tip of his sword under his chin, lifting it so that they could look directly at each other. “Unbelievable…I repeat. Who are you. And I’ll let you in on something.” He leans in close, sword still firmly under Aerion’s chin. “I don’t like repeating myself.”
Aerion didn’t acknowledge the metal beneath his chin. His violet eyes blinked, nonplussed. Now that he was looking up though, he could finally see the other features… his distinctly Valyrian features.
“Aerion,” he said. His eyes found their match in pigment. “Aerion Targaryen.” He ensured to enunciate the name of his house. There was a chance that this was a Blackfyre bastard but for some reason Aerion knew the man before him was no bastard. He just had that Targaryen aura about him, he carried himself as only a Prince could. Plus, though hidden poorly under a cloak, the obvious dragon imagery on his black doublet certainly helped calm Aerion’s nerves.
“Aerion?” The man scoffs. “I haven’t heard of an Aerion Targaryen. Not in this lifetime at least. And bastards don’t claim the name Targaryen.”
“They sure as the Seven hells don’t.” Aerion agreed, he would never want to be mistaken for a Blackfyre sympathizer.
“So you agree?” He asked, but it didn't sound like a question, but rather a statement. He sounded a little surprised and confused.
“Of course.” Aerion almost nodded before remembering the blade still barely touching his Aegon’s Egg as he spoke.
“Then why do you call yourself Targaryen, little Dragonseed?” He asked, mockingly raising a brow.
“Because I’m no bastard, I’m of the blood of the dragon.” He lifted his chin, Targaryen pride filling his chest.
“I think I’d know my family if I saw it.”
“Well I don’t recognize you either. It goes both ways.” Sensing the tension almost at a boil, Aerion made the split second decision to roll backwards, backing away from the sword. The move only garnered him an unimpressed raise of the brow.
‘No wonder he has so many forehead wrinkles, all he does is raise his brows’ Aerion thought snidely. Having no weapon of his own, he was left to just stand there, waiting for the other to make a move. At least he was finally on his feet.
“You don’t recognize me? Do you live under a rock?” He scoffed, lowering his sword a bit now that his target was at a distance. Aerion gave an unbothered shrug, knowing from experience that it would infuriate the man.
Now that he was upright and on his feet, he finally had the chance to take inventory of himself and of his surroundings. He was hardly dressed for this encounter he discovered, just in the linens that he wore in his sick bed after the Trial. He carefully looked around, making sure to still keep the threat in the corner of his eye. The sun shone from behind tall red brick buildings, and the sounds of a bustling city could be heard nearby.
‘I’ve a feeling I’m not in Ashford anymore...’
Checking his person in search of anything he could use to defend himself, he came to the sudden realization that he was completely uninjured. All the wounds he’d acquired in the Trial had seemingly vanished, by some miracle of the Gods. His lips parted in astonishment.
“Boy, stop gaping. And stop feeling yourself up." He said the last part with disgust, but Aerion barely heard him. Those first words sent him right back to that fateful day in Ashford, when he first laid eyes upon the Hedge Knight. The man said them with the same level of disdain as Aerion had, his voice a twin to Aerion’s own. He was definitely a Targaryen alright.
“I wasn’t. And since you seem convinced that I should know you by looks alone, do you mind revealing your name?” He asked, trying to sound bored but still reeling at the strange situation he found himself in.
“Daemon Targaryen.” He said and waited, like he expected a certain reaction. Aerion’s first reaction was outrage, thinking the man before him was the perpetrator of the Blackfyre rebellion. That is, before his senses came to him. The sword the man carried was not the pretender’s Blackfyre, but rather Dark Sister. But there was no way the man claiming the name Daemon Targaryen and carrying the sword Dark Sister could be alive before him.
“...What year is it?” He asked hesitantly. Never is his time studying his family’s history had he heard of magic that allowed one to travel through time. But scrolls and tombs could never begin to grasp the ancient history of his house. Maybe he was in a Milk of the Poppy induced dream, still in his borrowed Ashford bed. Or perhaps he had died from his wounds and this was a second life, he thought grimly.
“What kind of question is that, boy? Do not waste my time.” The so-called Rogue Prince suddenly surged forward to grab Aerion by the arm, starting to drag him away to Gods know where.
“Unhand me!” Aerion cried, hating how nasally his voice seemed, even to his own ears. He struggled, trying to free himself but Daemon’s grip was iron-clad.
“If you can’t say anything useful, do not speak at all. I should feed you to my dragon.” Daemon paid him no mind, easily dragging him through winding alleys. Far too slowly for a Prince of the Realm, Aerion recognized the place as Fleabottom, the filthiest most deplorable part of King’s Landing. Though in his defense he spent most of his time in Summerhall. Even slower did he process the casual mention of Daemon’s supposed dragon. He threw out the threat as if it meant nothing, as if dragons hadn’t been wiped out entirely.
“Your… dragon?” He asked, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. His legs started dragging as his mind became distracted with the possibility of seeing a dragon with his very own eyes.
“Yes, obviously. Are you as stupid as you are impudent?” He finally paused, turning to look incredulously at the boy when he realized he was no longer attempting to follow behind him. “Did you hit your head when you fell?” Daemon suddenly asked, tone a little less sassy. He squinted at him, giving his head a visual inspection as if looking for evidence of his supposed fall.
“When I fell? What in the Seven are you on about?” Aerion scowled, finally ripping his arm out of Daemon’s grip. He didn’t much like being inspected, by a stranger no less.
“Well that's how I found you, passed out on the ground in the middle of the most busiest corner of Flea Bottom. You probably knocked into someone and fell, you seem like the clumsy type.” He said, giving the young prince a bored once over. “I’d normally pay you no mind, but your clothes are far too nice for something a little bastard like you should have. I dragged you to a quieter part of the alley, which is when you decided to wake up.” His recounting was unconcerned, as if this sort of thing happened to him every day.
“Again, I am no bastard. But I do believe I must be dreaming, if you are who you say you are…”
Daemon snorts haughtily. “I’ve heard that one before. You’re far too scrawny for Caraxes to enjoy anyway, I’ll reconsider making you his lunch if you come with me without a fuss.”
Aerion was already nodding at the mention of Caraxes before Daemon had even finished speaking. Besides, he really had no better options. He needed to figure out what mess he had landed himself in and a relative, no matter how distant, was his best bet. Because though his father had taught all his children the history of their house well, Aerion took to his lessons like a duck to water. And if the man was who he said he was, then Aerion was almost a century too early to be able to be here. That, as well as the mention of dragons made the situation even more confusing to Aerion, who had been in a Poppy-induced haze only hours prior.
Seeing his enthusiastic nodding, the Rogue Prince swiftly turned, returning to his brisk walk down whatever path he was following. Aerion hated that he had to scurry behind him. It reminded him of when he was a small boy of 1-and-10, following behind his father’s cloaks.
They took a sharp turn down into a narrower alley, and Daemon led them to the entrance of what seemed to be a tavern. Aerion usually saw himself above such places, this was more Daeron’s style. But he wisely chose not to comment and followed Daemon inside.
Daemon led him to a table and pointed at a wooden bench in the corner, the most secluded part of the dinky joint. “Sit.” was his one word command before he left for the bar, not sparing him a backwards glance.
Aerion huffed, he disliked being ordered around like some commoner. He listened (most of the time) when it was his father… or his uncle (he suppressed a wince at the thought of Baelor) but this man had no such authority over him. Still, he did as he was bid and sat in the corner, waiting. He had to remind himself that he needed Daemon right now. Sure, he could gather information about his circumstance some other way, but his lack of familiarity with King’s Landing would prove to be an obstacle.
Just as he was starting to lose his patience, the older man appeared back at the table, carrying two cups of wine with him. He set them down on the table none too gently, the red liquid sloshing over the rims with the movement. He took his seat in front of Aerion, and their violet eyes were locked onto each other once more.
“Start explaining.”