Chapter Text
At first, all Aerion felt was burning pain in every cell of his body, as though the dragon he had always longed to possess had at last made its nest within him—and now sought to break free of the frail cage that was his flesh. The mighty prince was granted no time even to scream, for in the next instant all was swallowed by silence, and all he beheld was a warm, endless light that washed over him like the gentle waters of Summerhall he had known in his youth. An unfamiliar comfort claimed him.
Ah.
So this was death.
The great sacrifice he had made to restore the ancient glory of his House had ended, as many would have named it, in madness.
"Do not fear, my child. The Gods have heard your prayer. We grant you and your cousin a chance to restore the mighty House of the Dragon. Do not squander it."
The voice came from no place and every place at once—strong, measured, and spoken as though by many in unison. He could not see them, nor answer. He could only drift, unmoored, within that boundless light.
So the Gods of Valyria had heard him. Yet how was he to fulfill such a charge?
The next moment came upon him with violence—a sharp cry, his own. His vision swam, veiled in mist, yet through it he glimpsed a woman. A Targaryen, beyond all doubt. Even bathed in sweat and blood, her beauty could not be mistaken for that of any other. She smiled down at him, though tears clung to her lashes.
"A boy, my princess—kicking like a goat!" Cried a plain-faced woman, a midwife by the look of her. Another, no finer in appearance, held a second babe, newly brought into the world.
Valarr.
He knew it with a certainty that felt not his own, as though the Gods themselves whispered it once more into his ear. The lucky bastard—born first yet again.
"Have you chosen names, Your Grace?" Asked Elinda, as he dimly heard his new mother offer her thanks—a courtesy he found, even now, to be wasted.
The second babe was placed into the princess's arms, and the two infants wailed together, their cries mingling as one. His mind remained his own—for now—but already his new form dulled and reshaped his senses.
"He shall be named Aerion." She said softly. "And his sister, Visenya—as I have long wished to name my daughter."
Ha.
So the Gods were tricksters, after all.
His cousin—the very image of chivalry, the man every lady would dream to wed—was now his sister.
Perhaps, if Valarr—ah, no, Visenya—proved agreeable enough, he might make her his sister-wife. No cock to cut this time.
Aerion let out a mad laugh—or tried to. What escaped him instead was a soft, bubbling giggle from his infant throat.
His mother smiled warmly at the sound and pressed a kiss to his puffy cheek, before turning to grant the same affection to Visenya—Valarr—who, even reborn, remained calm and composed, as though already lost in thought.
"Oh, Rhaenyra, my dear child, you have done so well."
His large violet eyes shifted at once toward the voice but he could not see well.
Slowly, with far more effort than it should have taken, Aerion turned his gaze fully as his head was the heaviest thing now than any other weight he carried in his life—and there he stood.
King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Viserys I Targaryen the only person than in all history posses daughter named Rhaenyra. A men he read so much about, a wise fool whos children bring the doom to his house.
Not yet broken by rot and decay, not yet a walking corpse clinging to a crown—but the signs were there, faint, lingering beneath the surface. The sickness had already taken root. It was only a matter of time.
At his side stood men of House Velaryon, their sea-green silks and silver sigils marking them plainly. Another great house of Old Valyria—one still strong, still proud. Not yet diminished as it would one day become.
So.
He was Velaryon now.
An unpleasant thought.
Still—his mother was heir to the Iron Throne. Young. Untested. That left room for fate to bend.
He would take back what was his.
When the time came, he would reclaim his name as he ascended the throne after her.
He would—
"Jacaerys, my sweet boy, come meet your siblings."
Fuck.
Another older brother.
Aerion's gaze shifted, settling upon the child brought forward—a plainly made boy with brown hair and brown eyes. No purity. No fire. No blood worth naming.
Would he prove as useless as Daeron? A man better suited to drowning in wine than ruling with strength? Likely.
The boy—barely a year old—was carried in by a man Aerion assumed to be their father. He was set beside the bed and gazed upon the newborns as though he beheld the stars themselves.
Then came the kisses.
Wet. Clumsy. Unrelenting.
Aerion stiffened as much as his tiny body allowed, a wail ripping from him as the boy's saliva smeared across his face. In his mind, he cursed him with every vile word he had ever known—but all that left his mouth was another helpless cry.
Which only seemed to delight the creature further.
Fuck his life.
Fuck the Gods.
*********
At first, Aerion thought he would not consider this new family as he had his original one—but as a boy of seven, he had grown rather fond of them.
Mostly his mother.
Rhaenyra Targaryen was a wise queen-to-be and a magnificent dragonrider. He still could not forget the day she took him on his first flight, barely a year into this new life—held close as Syrax soared through the skies. Visenya had followed behind, small and quiet, tucked safely against Laenor's chest upon Seasmoke.
Valarr—now Visenya—even in this life was known as the gentle princess, her mother's blessing, the rocompesate from Gods for the little monster that followed her. She was often found in the company of their brothers, and Aerion had to admit, begrudgingly, that he himself had grown closer to the boys than to any brother he had ever possessed.
Aerion, on the other hand, was a terror in the court.
He rarely left his mother's side, his attachment growing into something near obsessive. As a babe, he had refused the wet nurse outright—nearly biting her nipple off in protest—and as he grew, little changed. He would follow his mother even into the Small Council, making monstrous, shrieking noises whenever Alicent Hightower dared to speak against her—or, in truth, to speak at all.
She despised him.
Wished him gone.
The child who had inherited all the pure Valyrian features of his mother. The king's favorite—his "little hatchling," as Viserys I Targaryen fondly called him each time he shrieked and disturbed the court.
He was wild. Reckless. Near-mad, like a dragon in human skin.
And Rhaenyra understood him.
She was a dragonlord—not like Dyanna Dayne, not like the rest of his past blood. She knew.
And that knowledge—her acceptance—only ignited within him a fiercer, more dangerous devotion.
Anything that stood in his mother's path to the Iron Throne—
He would see it burned.
But in this life too, his egg never hatched.
His mother had carefully chosen eggs for her children—but only two came to life. One for Jacaerys—a green-scaled Vermax, ill-tempered in a way that stood in sharp contrast to his rider—and Aegarax, the he-dragon of his sister, named for a Valyrian goddess of blood, his crimson scales like freshly spilled gore. Then come Arrax a white hatchling of Lucerys as they were still to young to help chose.
His did not stir.
Not once.
Not ever.
Yet he did not worry.
Greatness did not come to all at once. Some had to wait for it—like Maegor I Targaryen, or even Aegon I Targaryen, who claimed Balerion as his by right. Dragons need time to grow and he can't wait hundret year for his dragon to fully grow, he need one already prepared by time.
He was no less than any before him, greatness need time.
And until that day came, whenever the need to feel the wind in his long silver curls grew too strong, he simply went to his mother.
She never refused him.
Laenor Velaryon, the man who had given them his name, was not a bad man—only simple, and weak in a way Aerion could not respect. He was possessed of a kind heart, yet lacked the wildfire of his dragon. Gentle, like the soft waves of the sea, he was a man who needed a storm to do any true damage. He was of great beaty, pure features that were far from his children.
Aerion was to be the new Lord of Driftmark after him.
It did not please him.
A stolen title—from Lucerys, who had followed after the twins, the rightful heir before his uncle's dragon had torn him apart whole.
Another plain-looking boy of his mother.
Yet Aerion never felt shame for them. Strangely enough, the two boys had begun to grow into something fiercer—something worthy of the blood they carried.
Dragonlords.
At last.
His uncles were another matter.
Aerion Brightflame had never thought he could despise anything that bore the look of his own House—yet he felt nothing but hatred for those willful, pathetic offspring of Alicent Hightower. Hightowers in every way that mattered.
He wanted them dead.
Wanted to see their blood spilled across the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, their limbs broken and impaled upon the swords of the Iron Throne—if they wished so dearly to sit upon it.
But not yet.
No—he would destroy them slowly. Piece by piece.
And Valarr—Visenya—surprisingly shared his thoughts.
"We shall destroy them from within, brother—but we must be clever, not reckless."
The girl sat upon her bed, the covers drawn over them as they pretended to play, as children ought—though neither possessed the mind of one.
She was taller than Aerion, if only slightly. Their mother said it was natural, that he would soon catch up. Her long dark waves were neatly arranged, the familiar white streak far more striking now than it had been in her former life. Her mismatched eyes—wide as a doe's—shone with that same knowing light.
Her gown was a rich blue, chosen by their mother, who claimed it brought out the beauty of her eyes.
And it did.
"Mother has already rid herself of the Hand, but his green bitch fights hard in his place. We need to destroy her—quickly."
"Then let's kill her and be with it."
Visenya shot him a stern look.
"The Queen is no easy opponent. We must begin slowly—with the head, yes—but without drawing suspicion. She is like a castle now... and what is a castle without its fortresses and towers?"
She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
"It is her allies we must strike first."
Aerion bit his lip, thinking.
"What do you propose?"
Visenya did not answer at once.
She watched him instead, those strange eyes of hers studying him, as if weighing something unseen.
"Otto may be gone." She said at last. "But his blood remains—and all the trickery he passed on to her."
Her fingers traced idle patterns against the coverlet, though her mind was clearly elsewhere.
"The Hightowers do not stand alone. They never have. The Faith is deeply tied to them—they all but rule it. And the Faith..." Her lip curled slightly,."the Faith is like a plague. It seeps into every mind in this realm."
She paused, then added, quieter—
"I hate to say it, but we must take example from Maegor himself. We must cut the waves before they crash fully into our House."
Aerion frowned.
"You want us to go to war with the Faith?"
"Yes." She said softly. "But not with fire. Not yet. We must stop the Queen and her pious ways as quietly as we can."
That displeased him.
Fire was cleaner. Simpler.
Final.
Visenya seemed to sense it, for her gaze sharpened.
"You burn them now, and the realm turns against Mother. You make her the villain of her own story."
Aerion scoffed, though quietly.
"The realm is blind."
"The realm is useful." She corrected. "We are kings of nothing without the people."
Silence fell between them for a moment.
Then she leaned closer, her voice dropping further.
"We whisper first. Doubt. Fear. Let their allies question them. Let cracks form where there were none before."
Aerion's lips slowly curled.
"And when the walls start to fall?"
Her expression did not change.
"Then." She said, "you may have your fire."
That satisfied him.
He leaned back slightly, a grin tugging at his lips—too sharp, too knowing for a child.
"Good." He murmured. "I was beginning to think you had grown soft in this life."
Visenya huffed, though there was no real amusement in it.
"I have simply learned." She said. "What you never did."
Aerion's eyes gleamed.
"Then teach me, sister."
*********
Dinner at the Red Keep was utterly boring.
The King insisted his family dine together, as if such forced closeness could mend what was already broken. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen sat at his right, while the Queen took her place at his left—the side where his sickness had begun to claim him.
Jacaerys sat beside his mother, followed by Aerion and Lucerys, while the girls were placed further down the table, chatting softly among themselves, far from the quiet tension that lingered like smoke.
Aerion always sat proud.
He wore rich garments of deep red and black, adorned with fine accessories of Valyrian steel and the finest stones. Even the buttons of his tunic were crafted in the shape of dragons—tiny likenesses of Syrax herself, made with care and precision.
His hair fell to his shoulders, still full of the soft curls he had yet to outgrow.
A perfect image of his mother, they often said.
Only he seemed to carry that image so strongly. His siblings were made to wear Velaryon colors—a thing he never accepted. He would scream no and claw at the fabric the moment the maids tried to dress him, tearing at seams with surprising strength for a child.
Laenor Velaryon never seemed to mind. He only laughed.
“Let the boy wear what he wants.” He would say.
And so they did. Though his other grandfather was more dissapointed with this fact whenever he came to visit.
The pups of that bitch, however, wore only green.
The first time Aerion saw them dressed so, he had innocently asked Viserys,
“Grandfather… why do they wear cow’s vomit?”
The king burst into laughter, patting his head fondly.
“It is your grandmother’s house color, dear.”
“Oh.” Aerion had said, blinking. “I thought they ruled old towns, not cows. But I suppose they had to give something to the second sons.”
Alicent Hightower had been more than furious.
Her husband, however, was not disturbed in the slightest. He only laughed louder, while the rest of the court lowered their gazes, struggling—and failing—to hide their amusement.
Now, the hall was quieter—but not silent.
Plates were filled, goblets poured, servants moving like shadows between them.
Aerion poked at his food with little interest.
Lucerys, beside him, was far more engaged—eating eagerly, though his eyes kept drifting toward his older brothers, copying every small movement they made.
Aerion noticed.
Of course he did.
He leaned slightly toward him, lowering his voice.
“Do you always chew like that?”
Lucerys froze mid-bite.
“What?” He mumbled, cheeks full.
“Like a horse.” Aerion said plainly.
Lucerys swallowed too fast and coughed.
“I do not!”
“You do.” Aerion replied, watching him with sharp amusement. “Listen—” he exaggerated the sound quietly, mockingly.
Lucerys flushed red.
Jacaerys shot Aerion a look.
“Leave him be.”
Aerion only smiled.
“He follows you like a lost pup. I am helping him improve.”
Lucerys immediately sat straighter, trying to mimic Jacaerys more carefully now—slower, quieter.
Aerion watched for a moment… then leaned in again.
“You are doing it worse now.”
Lucerys groaned softly.
“I am not!”
“You are.”
Jacaerys sighed.
“Seven hells, Aerion—just eat.”
“I am.” Aerion said, though he clearly wasn’t.
His attention drifted across the table, where Aegon sat beside his mother. He was far from the image of a prince—hair unruly, clothes worn carelessly, as if he had stumbled in from whorehouse, somewhere he ought not to be but where he probably was. Even now, there was something unclean about him, something indulgent and weak.
In his previous life, Aerion had not denied himself pretty wench or fine drink.
But now—
Now, looking at his pathetic uncle, he felt only disgust. Just the though, that his cock and precious seed could be in same place as this pathetic fool, make him sick.
Now, even as a boy of seven only in flesh, he made himself a promise.
He would not become that.
He would not dull himself, would not sink into such weakness. No—he would be sharper, stronger, better. He would put his time into knighthood, become even more than he was before, rise as a dragonlord, a formidable warrior feared by all.
Aerion Brightflame, born again—yet even more merciless, even more deadly than before.
The history would sing songs of him in every kingdom, his name whispered in halls and courts alike, bringing fear and respect wherever it was spoken.
“Aegon.” the king’s voice cut through the low murmurs, tired yet firm. “You have hardly touched your food.” He looked down the table, his gaze settling on his eldest son by the queen.
Aegon barely lifted his head, swirling the wine in his cup.
“I am eating, Father.” He muttered, though he clearly was not.
“Wine is not food.” Viserys replied, a hint of disappointment in his tone. “A prince must carry himself with more care.”
Beside him, Aemond Targaryen sat straight-backed and silent, his sharp gaze flicking briefly toward Aerion before returning to his plate. Helaena Targaryen toyed with her food, lost in her own quiet world.
Aerion leaned forward slightly, unable to resist.
“Perhaps he trains differently, grandfather.” he said, voice light with false innocence. “Drinking builds… endurance, I suppose. I hear a tale's of lords being attacked in weaker states, slain deep in cups or pierced by the sword.” He stop for a moment tasting the words on his tongue, a sly smile on his lips which look more amusing by his lack of one of the front teeth still yet to grow back." As they lied with whore."
Lucerys snorted beside him, quickly trying to hide it.
Aegon’s head snapped up.
“What did you say?”
Aerion tilted his head, all mock curiosity.
“I only wondered if that is how princes are raised on your side of the table.”
Jacaerys shifted, already sensing where this was going.
“Aerion—” his mother started.
But it was too late.
Aemond’s voice cut in, colder than his brother’s.
“Careful, cousin. You speak boldly for someone who has yet to prove anything. Do you feel better than us?”
Aerion smiled.
“I mean no insult, uncle, but if the words hit you where they shouldn’t, perhaps you should work on yourself.”
Aemond’s jaw tightened.
“I do not feel bothered. I simply think you should choose your words more wisely, so no harm comes to you.”
Ah. A threat, then.
“Ah, yes.” Aerion agreed softly, eyes gleaming. “If there was anything strong enough.”
That struck.
Aemond pushed back slightly in his seat.
“That is enough. Do not entertain him, Aemond.”
The Queen’s voice was sharp as she spoke, sending a glare across the table. Her green eyes burned with open hatred.
“Do not worry, my Queen.” Aerion said, leaning back, unconcerned. “Neither I nor my siblings tend to waste time in idleness. With so many birthrights to claim, we remain… quite busy with our studies.”
The table stilled.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, who had mostly allowed her son to speak freely, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Her gaze dropped to him—steady, warning, like a dragon watching a foolish pup step too close to fire.
Jacaerys shifted nervously, glancing between them.
Lucerys looked impressed more than afraid.
And Visenya—watching—looked entertained.
Aegon let out a short, mocking laugh.
“Listen to him—seven years old and already thinks himself a conqueror.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped to him.
“Better that than a drunk.”
The words landed hard.
Aegon rose halfway from his seat.
“You little—”
“Enough.”
The King’s voice rang sharper now.
Silence fell at once.
Viserys I Targaryen looked between them all, weary but firm.
“This is a family table, not a battlefield. We must learn to love one another, not grow apart. I have decided—the princes will share their sword training from now on, as brothers once did. Perhaps it will strengthen their bond. I shall see to it myself.”
“My king—” the Queen began, eager to keep her sons far from Rhaenyra’s “vile” brood.
But he cut her short.
“It is decided, Alicent!”
Aerion said nothing.
He only smiled—that same sharp, unsettling smile.
Good.
Time to beat some of that green out of them.
Lucerys leaned closer, whispering under his breath,
“That was good, brother.”
Aerion did not look at him.
“I know.”
Jacaerys wore an expression even sterner than their mother’s. He had no desire to train with them—peace was all he wanted.
He sighed and placed another slice of roast onto his brother’s plate.
“Let us eat now, before you start to cut people with butter knife.”
Aerion just laughted.