4 Chapter 1: The Beginning

Chapter Text

114 AC | Kings' Landing

The doors burst open, and a man clad in runic bronze armour walked over towards the curtains. "Are you still abed?" he sighed, drawing them open and allowing the sun to shine through. "Come my prince, we must train for your duel."

The morning sunlight hit Aerion in the eyes, and he covered his face with the furred covers, turning over and away from the light.

 "Go away, Rodrik," he demanded. "We have until noon, I am sure training can wait an hour." 

"And I would allow it," Rodrik responded, "if you had not already slept in. We must get in a few hours of training beforehand." 

He reached for the furs and tugged them away from Aerion with little trouble. "Get dressed and meet me in the courtyard."

Aerion grunted in annoyance and pushed himself to a seated position with reluctance. His party had arrived in Kings' Landing only last night after an entire moon of travel from Runestone and his bones ached from weeks of sleeping rough.

He squinted across his chambers in the harsh sunlight and his eyes were caught by the steam billowing from a bath that had been drawn as he slept.

As he rose from the bed and trailed over to the bath, Aerion passed a hand over his face and brushed back his long silver hair. Just as he was stretching a foot into the bath, his attention was broken by a knock on the door. 

'Enter!' he called, as he submerged the rest of his body in the scalding water, unflinching at the temperature. 

A servant dressed in a red dress with a white apron entered with towels and a neat pile of clothes prepared for him. 

"My prince, a towel for when you are finished," she said, trying to avoid eye contact. "And your clothes, handpicked by Ser Rodrik." 

"You can put the clothes on the bed." he said, inclining his head towards the canopy, and he kept an eye on her as she placed the clothes down and left without a word.

He sank lower in the bath, the heat relaxed his aching muscles, and he found his mind drifting towards thoughts of  Runestone as he closed his eyes and with Runestone came his mother, with whom he'd never had the closest relationship growing up. His silver hair and Targaryen lilac eyes had been a constant reminder of his father, Daemon Targaryen, whom she hated fiercely. 

Aerion was often compared to the Rogue Prince in both his looks and behaviour. He was said to be his father come again, as his face reflected Daemon's features and none of his mother's. 

Growing up in the Vale, he had heard conflicting tales of Daemon Targaryen; whispers of the violence and depravity the Prince brought so often to the Street of Silk and yet the awe surrounding tales of his exploits as the bearer of Dark Sister cast him in a different light altogether. He was renowned as the King's best enforcer, as ferocious as the beast he flew.

Aerion hadn't always disliked his father. As a lonely child he had idolised him, sitting at his window each day awaiting his father's grand return to the Vale on dragonback. That day rarely came. Throughout his life, he had seen his father but four times, and only ever spoken to him on two occasions.

A part of him still revered the warrior his father was, and trained mercilessly with a sword in the hopes he could one day surpass him in reputation and skill, and earn the right to wield Dark Sister just as his father had. 

Aerion shook his head, no longer wanting to think about the past. Today was to be the day he would make his mark on the realm. To win a melée at six and ten years of age was no small feat; it would jumpstart his ambitions to become the greatest dragon who ever lived and be marked in the history books and songs for a thousand years.

He rose from the tub and stepped out once he wet his hair under the water, stepping towards the towel and drying his body, wrapping it around him once more, Aerion looked through the clothes that had been given to him, and they were rather more elegant than what he was used to wearing.

It was a black gambeson with four small golden dragon clasps and a white tunic to wear underneath. Alongside it was a pair of black trousers with boots that added an inch to his height and a black belt with a golden buckle adorned with a ruby in the centre.

Pulling on his clothes, Aerion brushed back his hair and secured it at the nape of his neck  There was nothing he hated more than having his hair falling into his eyes when training, though only continued to keep it long knowing how much his mother hated it..

Feeling refreshed and restored after bathing, Aerion left his bedchambers and strode through the corridor, inclining his head at passing nobles whose conversations descended into hushed whispers as the heir of Daemon Targaryen was seen at court for the first time.

Rodrik was already standing in the training yard when he arrived, a hand resting on the sword at his side as he spoke with a knight adorned in the snow-white cloak of the Kingsguard.

As he got to them, they both turned in his direction, and Aerion that Rodrik held another sword encased in its sheath. The Vale man tossed it in his direction, and Aerion caught hold of it. Taking a look at its hilt, he ran his hand over the dragon's head that sat on the pommel with eyes of ruby, before hooking it to his belt.

"A gift from His Grace, my Prince." Rodrik revealed,  "It may not be Valyrian Steel, however Ser Steffon here tells me that it was forged by the finest swordsmith on the Street of Steel." 

"He reports that the King is looking forward to watching you fight today."

"Is that so?" he enquired, looking to Ser Steffon.

"It is, my prince. His Grace regrets that he was not able to greet you last night and hopes that this gift will serve in his stead. I shall leave you to your training." 

He nodded his head to Rodrik and bowed to Aerion, taking his leave and returning to the shadows of the Red Keep.

"Do remind me to thank His Grace when I see him, Ser Rodrik." Aerion said, a smirk on his lips. A gift like this gave him hope that he would be well received by his uncle, despite having grown up far from court and secluded from the Targaryen family.  

"Come, it is time we practise; you have already wasted enough of the day in bed." Rodrik answered. "I have heard tell that you will face a knight of House Bracken, their men are renowned for their trickery and must be watched carefully." 

Aerion walked towards the rack of wooden swords in the corner of the inner courtyard, however he was stopped by Rodrik. "No, my prince, let us practise with live steel today." 

Rodrik removed his sword from its' sheath "It will give you the chance to practise with your new blade."

Aerion smiled broadly as his hand instantly moved  towards the hilt of his new blade, removing it from its' sheath. As he drew the blade, the edge of the steel shone brightly in the sunlight and he twirled it in his hand, testing the weight.  "It fits my hand perfectly, and the steel is forged so as to be incredibly light. A fine gift from His Grace." 

Aerion turned his body to face Rodrik, placing his right foot in front of the left, and positioning both hands d on the blade's hilt. He studied Rodrik carefully, looking at his opponent's stance and watching carefully for any tells.

Rodrik stood silently for a few moments, and Aerion raised a single eyebrow in response. Whilst the older man may think to take him by surprise, they had been sparring together long enough that a single twitch of a finger was enough to make Aerion spin quickly to the left, narrowly avoiding Rodrik's blade as it cleaved the air he had just vacated. 

Rodrik twisted and brought his blade swinging up towards Aerion's right side and the prince blocked the blow hastily. He pushed Rodrik away and readjusted his stance; now he was on the attack. For a man nearing his fiftieth name day, Rodrik moved far more swiftly than one would expect. 

Moving suddenly, Aerion struck at Rodrik's exposed right leg, which was blocked with ease and so he changed tactics, bringing his left fist up to punch the older man in the jaw. Rodrik stumbled backwards and Aerion relaxed his body, circling his opponent and idly spinning his new sword in his hand. 

His eyes cast about the courtyard and saw that various castle residents and nobles had gathered to watch the mysterious prince in the training yard. He knew that the whispers that flew between them evaluated his strength, his strategy and were assessing changes at court that would surely occur now that the son of the Rogue Prince was here. 

A bird cawed and distracted, he glanced upwards towards the balcony where to his surprise, the silver haired Targaryen King stood watching. Viserys was accompanied by his Hand, Lyonel Strong, and the two men murmured quietly to one another even as their eyes never moved from the fight. 

"That was a cheap move, my prince." Rodrik said, clearly frustrated at being hit in front of such an audience. He advanced quickly and answered the attack with a powerful swing from the right aimed at Aerion's neck. Aerion swiftly ducked beneath the blade with only inches to spare and he quickly retreated a few steps.

"Haven't you always told me not to shy away from fighting a little dirty?"

Rodrik was much better defended when Aerion went to attack, blocking every move he attempted, and returning an unexpected blow to the face. 

"Not so principled are we now, Rodrick?" Aerion chuckled as he wiped the blood from his nose and flicked it onto the ground.

Each strike was met blow for blow as the two men sparred, darting all over the training yard as they hunted for openings in the other's defences. Rodrik raised his sword high above his head and brought it down at Aerion, who swiftly swung his blade overhead to parry the blow. They struggled against one another for a few moments until Aerion quickly dropped his sword and spun away, using his momentum to kick at Rodrick's leg and knocking the man to his knees. Aerion held his sword at the man's throat in victory. 

"Yield."

'I yield, my prince.' he replied, grinning even as he conceded the match. Aerion sheathed his sword and grabbed the other man's hand and hauled him to his feet. Rodrik clapped him on the shoulder and they walked to where servants had left drinking water for them. 'You are ready, Aerion. I am pleased with what I've seen today.'

As they drank their fill and wiped the sweat from their faces, Aerion noticed that the whispering he'd heard earlier was growing in volume now that the fight had been won. 

'Aerion! Well fought, nephew.' cried a voice, and Aerion turned to see the King walking towards him, the Hand close behind. He set down the goblet he had been drinking from and took a knee. 

'Thank you, your Grace. You are kind.'

'No need for such formalities, Aerion.' the king replied and gestured for him to rise. 'We are blood, after all. Call me uncle'

'As you wish, uncle.'

'You have taken well to my gift, I see.' Viserys smiled, although what seemed like a shadow of regret passed over his face. 'As I watched you fight, I could see a shadow of your father in the way you move. You truly resemble him in more ways than one, nephew.' 

His hand reached out to grasp Aerion's shoulder. 'You are to dine with the family tonight. I would greatly like for you to meet your cousins, and of course my daughter.'

'If that is what you wish, uncle, then it shall be so.' Aerion nodded his acquiescence and to his horror, felt a blush rise to his cheeks as the King affectionately brushed his cheek. He had never experienced physical affection from family; his mother had never embraced him as a child. It was a weakness he was embarrassed to expose in front of such an audience as had gathered to witness his fight.

Before the touch could linger, the King withdrew his hand and clapped him on the shoulder once more.

'If I may be excused, uncle, I must get ready for the melée. Know that I fight for the honour of House Targaryen.'

'Of course, nephew. Good fortune in the fight to come.'

Aerion bowed to his King and left the training yard, Rodrik a few steps behind him.

He wiped his nose on the wrists of his gambeson, and headed straight for the armoury, where one of the boys who had come to King's Landing with his travelling party was polishing his armour.

The armour itself was black, and scaled like a dragon. The chestplate featured the three-headed Targaryen dragon, whose eyes were tiny rubies. Below his house sigil, he had decided to have his house words written in Valyrian.

'My prince!' exclaimed the boy as he noticed Aerion coming closer. 'Is our work to your liking?'

'Yes, it is fine work, Colrin. My thanks.' he responded, clapping him on the shoulder. 'Assist me with putting it on.'

Colrin nodded and dropped the rag he was holding, yelling for another of the armoury boys to come and help. They worked quickly and he was soon fully outfitted in the armour. 

As he made his way out of the armoury, he could hear the noise of the crowd that awaited him and the other fighters. Outside, Rodrik waited with his horse and he quickly mounted so that they could join the stream of men on horseback who were travelling to the amphitheatre on the outskirts of the city.

As he rode through the crowds, he looked around to take in the atmosphere. Many people, smallfolk and nobles alike, were taking notice of his Targaryen armour and the silver hair that spilled down his back. 

Soon enough they found themselves among the various tents that had been erected to house waiting knights and their squires, as well as vendors selling wine, ale and food to the crowd. Rodrik touched his arm and gestured towards a tent with a Targaryen banner by the entrance.

The two men left their horses with squires at the entrance and went inside. 

The tent itself was decorated rather lavishly. A rug covered the ground and in one corner there was a comfortable-looking daybed. Opposite, a dark wooden table was laden with fruit and wine.

'I must say, Aerion, you look a true prince in that armour.' Rodrik remarked, sitting on the bed with a punnet of grapes.

'Thank you, ser. What do you think of my chances? I have heard much of the other men, there are many more skilled than I taking part.' Aerion replied, attempting to hide his nerves by fiddling with the ties on his vambraces. He was taking a chance by making such a public arrival in the capital; his reputation and position would depend greatly on his performance that day.

'You have heard true, Aerion, yet I would wager that few have the drive and determination you possess.' He looked at Aerion fondly as he spoke. 'I am reminded of when you were but a strong willed boy, refusing to hear Vale histories and begging me for tales of Targaryens and their dragons.' 

'Aye, I remember it well. I drove you mad, my friend, and Willam as well.' he chuckled, thinking back to days long since passed. 'Any words of encouragement for me today?'

'When do I not? When you face your opponents, you must remind yourself of your goal. Do not see the man in front of you, see the path that he is blocking. I have every faith that you will prevail, but you must as well.' Rodrik said as he rose from the daybed and came to grip Aerion's shoulders. 

'You know what you need to do, my prince.' Aerion chuckled again and nodded. 

'Thank you, my friend. I hope to prove to you and to the King that I am ready to become a knight.' Aerion nodded and strode past Rodrik to snatch an orange from the table. He had just bitten into it when the guard outside his tent announced a messenger. A boy no older than ten entered and bowed deeply.

'My prince, I am here to inform you that the melée is to begin shortly. They have requested that all fighters make their way to the amphitheatre now.' He bowed again and retreated from the tent quickly.

'Well then, let us get to it, eh?' Aerion looked to Rodrik and reached for his sword, which he quickly attached to his belt. Rodrik also passed him his helmet, which was an exact match to the dragon scale armour he wore. It bore dragon wings on either side and his Valyrian house words to match his chestplate. As he pulled it onto his head, he closed his eyes briefly. 'The blood of the dragon will see me victorious.' he whispered to himself in Valyrian and hit his chest with his fist.

Aerion strode from the tent with Rodrik close at his side. He cut an intimidating figure in his all black armour and the path before him was cleared easily despite the hundreds of people that advanced towards the amphitheatre. 

He entered the amphitheatre and gazed around at the huge crowd before him. It was made up of people from all over the realm; he could clearly see the many sigils of houses from the Crownlands, Riverlands, the Reach and the Westerlands. The representation of Northern houses was smaller but still present.

As Aerion's gaze roved over the crowd, it was naturally drawn to the royal box, where the King sat conversing with Lord Velaryon. Despite his conversation, Viserys' eyes rested on a silver haired young woman who sat stoically by herself, observing the crowd beneath her. 

'Rodrik, is that the Princess?' he asked, not taking his eyes off the woman.

'Yes, my prince. Rhaenyra, the heir to the Iron Throne herself, or as she is better known to the smallfolk, the Realm's Delight. She is your cousin, Aerion.' Rodrik responded as they waited to be announced to the crowd. 

Aerion had never seen a woman quite so beautiful as Rhaenyra and he had trouble taking his eyes off her as the queue moved along.

Finally, the two men reached the fighting area and the herald bowed to the prince before turning to the crowd. 

'The Prince Aerion of House Targaryen, heir to Runestone!' he yelled, sweeping a hand towards Aerion who raised a fist as the crowd cheered for him. The anticipation for the melée to begin was palpable and money was changing hands as men bet on their favourite to win.

He moved to stand amongst the group of armoured men, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. Having listened carefully when the other knights were being announced, he reviewed what he knew of them and picked out who he considered to be his greatest threat. 

Aerion noticed quickly an extremely tall man wearing the red stallion and golden shield of House Bracken; the man Rodrik had warned him of just that morning. He was powerfully built and wore bulky, plated armour under a brown tabard. Just as he did himself, the knight rested a hand on the hilt of a large sword and Aerion knew this man would indeed pose a threat to his ambitions.

He reminded himself of his strategy but found himself doubting it. Should he go on the offensive? Set his sights on an easy opponent and tear through the fighters one by one? Or stay defensive and wait for them to come to him?

Much to his annoyance, he could not identify any weaknesses in his opponents as they stood in formation before the crowd. That would have to wait until the fighting began.

Even as he tried to concentrate, Aerion could not help his eyes wandering over to the royal box again, to the Princess. She stood now, leaning against the wooden railing of the balcony, gazing into the distance and fiddling with the pendant at her neck, a three-headed dragon.

It was a feeling he could not understand, could not explain. It was as if there was something pulling him towards her, drawing him in. He stood staring at her, transfixed, until he was abruptly brought back to the moment when the herald began to speak to the crowd.

'Lords, ladies and good folk of the realm!' he roared, somehow managing to project his voice about the noise of the crowd. 'This is the first day of celebrations for the marriage of Princess Rhaenyra to Ser Laenor Velaryon!'

Aerion's gaze snapped back to the royal box as he watched a young man with white hair come to clasp Rhaenyra's hand as they lifted them aloft, to the cheers of the crowd. The man was of a similar age to Rhaenyra, with evidence of Lord Corlys' dark skin and a strong jaw. He seemed kind and fond of the Princess but Aerion could not help the unprompted pang of jealousy he felt as he looked at their joined hands.

'Great thanks, of course, to our good King Viserys who has arranged this celebration for us. His Grace has asked that no bloodshed occur on this fighting field, so as not to cast a shadow over these happy days.'

Viserys raised a hand in acknowledgement as the crowd cheered again; this time shouts of 'Long may he reign!' were clearly audible. He came to the front of the royal box and rested a hand on his daughter's shoulder.

'Welcome, all! Now, let the fighting begin!' he cried, and the crowd roared again as the herald left the fighting field and the armoured men began to spread themselves around the space as a bell rang to allow them to draw live steel.

Aerion drew his sword from its sheath and assumed a defensive position, his right foot slightly forward of his left. He kept an eye on the man immediately to his left, who had not taken his eyes off him since he had been announced on the field. 

The second ring of the bell signalled the beginning of the fight and as expected, the night to his left immediately set upon him, slashing at him viciously with a shortsword. Aerion twisted quickly and swung his sword in an arc to attack the man's left side but was thwarted by the small shield his opponent carried. 

The knight knocked his sword away and in retaliation brought his sword close enough to his neck that Aerion was forced to duck and roll, coming up behind him. The knight spun and renewed his attacks. 

The prince easily parried the blows and eventually manoeuvred his body close enough to kick the man in the chest. The knight crashed to the floor, knocking the base of his head hard on the ground. Aerion advanced quickly and knelt on his chest, his sword laid across the base of the knight's neck.

'Yield.'

'I yield, my prince. I wish you luck.' the knight replied respectfully, gasping for breath slightly after having been winded so thoroughly.

Aerion turned from his first opponent and rejoined the thick of the melée, and lost himself to the blur of the fight. Others attacked him and he knocked them down with skill and ease. He had prepared for too long, trained too hard to allow lesser men to defeat him.

He remained on the defensive, allowing his opponents to find him as they wasted energy on charging around the field. Aerion let his mind slow, focusing on each blow as they came and before long he was allowing another man to yield and realising that his final opponent was the knight from House Bracken.

He was still facing his fallen opponent when a deep voice echoed around the amphitheatre. 'Are you prepared to lose, Prince?' the knight's tone turned mocking as he spat out his title and Aerion could feel his blood begin to heaten. His grip on his sword tightened and he turned his head towards the voice, his lips curling into a sneer.

He watched the knight walk towards him deliberately slowly; his size would slow him down but Aerion was wary of the greatsword he bore, which required great strength to even lift, let alone wield in battle. It could split him in half with a single blow. 

'I have always wanted to best a Targaryen.' he smirked, hefting the sword above his shoulders. 'I shall enjoy this, little prince.' With that, he swung the sword down at Aerion with alarming speed and he dodged quickly, moving out of arm's reach and beginning to circle the knight. He bent his knees and remained loose, able to react instantly to the knight's movements. 'I do hate to disappoint, ser, but you seem to have a twisted idea of what will happen here.'

As the fight began in true, Aerion toyed with the knight, refusing to return any of his blows and moving away from each of them. He would dodge, slip around his opponent and make an attack of his own and then the cycle would begin again. 

As the knight began to lose patience, his attacks came faster and became increasingly sloppy. Aerion's tactic was working, but the knight's anger would make him a more dangerous opponent.

'You disgrace the name Targaryen, boy. They will remember you as Aerion the Dragonless, the spineless, unwanted son who could not even claim his birthright.' He struck air once more as Aerion, his blood well and truly boiling now, saw red. 

He spun in a tight circle, lifting his blade and driving into the back of his knee. The man let out a pained yell and his leg gave out beneath him. Aerion wasn't thinking as he pulled the sword of the knee, blood spurting and covering his armour.

'What was that you were saying?'

He brought his leg up and slammed his boot into the back of the man's neck and he fell to the floor, Aerion close behind. He knelt on his back and his left hand yanked the man's head up by the hair.

'I couldn't quite hear you.' He dug his knee harder into the knight and he gave a pained grunt. 'Not so brave now are you?'

'Please, my prince. I yield!' the knight pleaded, and Aerion chuckled and brought his blade to the man's neck. 

'Oh, you do now? Where are all of your insults now, ser ?' He looked up at the crowd, who had stopped their raucous cheering and were now murmuring in shock. Aerion focused his gaze on the Princess, who was leaning forward in her chair. She did not look horrified, more intrigued and that realisation sent a jolt of wanting through him

'If you have last words, worm, speak them now."

'Last words? No, no, please, I yie-' the knight's words were cut off as Aerion drew his blade across his throat. 

Blood sprayed across his helmet and all that could be heard was the shrieking of the crowd above the gurgling coming from the dying man beneath him. The pounding in his ears and the fire in his blood finally subsided as he watched the man's lifeblood spill onto the ground.

Dropping the man's head carelessly, he stood and looked to the Princess. He moved closer to the royal box and knelt, proffering his sword in deference to the King. The cheering began hesitantly and when he rose, the crowd had regained their usual fervour and he lifted his sword in the air. 

The herald reentered the amphitheatre and came to lift his other hand aloft. 'The victor of the melée, Prince Aerion Targaryen!' 

He grinned as the crowd acknowledged his win. Finally, finally, he had achieved this great feat. He could do it, he could prove himself worthy.

Aerion turned once more to the Princess and his face broke into a smile when he saw the expression on her face: pleased and intrigued. When she saw him looking at her, she approached the gallery of the box once more and planted her hands on it.

'Princess! Cousin, may I have your favour? It would be an honour to fight for the Realm's Delight'.

Rhaenyra glanced over her shoulder at her father, who was watching the display with mild concern and disbelief.

She turned back to Aerion with a smirk, pulling a red silk handkerchief from some pocket of her dress.

'I look forward to seeing you win, cousin.' she tossed the silk and it fell slowly to his sword, slipping down the blade towards his hand. He snatched up the silk, and kissed it quickly as he winked at the princess.

"I will be sure to not disappoint you, Princess."

Aerion turned back to the royal box and saw that King Viserys was looking at him with great concern; as though he did not recognise his nephew before him. He shook it off and inclined his head, and turned to leave the amphitheatre in search of Rodrik.

He found the man standing near the amphitheatre entrance, his arms crossed and a dark expression on his face. His sword now sheathed, Aerion removed his helmet, which was taken by a waiting squire.

'Like you said, friend,' Aerion placed his bloodied hands on Rodrik's shoulders, 'I knew what needed to be done.'

A wicked grin crossed his lips and he patted Rodrik's shoulder once more and then continued past him, running a hand through his silver hair and making him a more menacing figure than before