Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ashford, 209 AC

“Hold it tightly now,” Aerion instructed. His hand rested on Aegon’s shoulder, while the other guided his brother’s grip on the fishing rod. “Just like that. Stay steady when you feel a tug.”

“What if my hand slips?” Aegon asked, sweat building on his forehead, as his tongue peeked out in concentration.

Aerion shrugged. “Then we’ll try again.” 

Daeron was nursing a bruise on his jaw—a greeting gift from their mother after he had lost Aegon, or rather, Egg, as the boy liked to be called now, to his new companion, Ser Dunk the Tall.

Dunk stood not too far from them, a slight flush grazing his cheek when Aerion caught him staring. Aerion chuckled. It was such a pleasant sight to see someone so intimidatingly gifted flushing at the mere attention of a prince.

Aerion was born frail. It was both pride and exhaustion that painted his mother’s face when he told him that it had come as a surprise to the maesters and midwives who helped bring him into the world that he lived past the first moon after his birth.

As he grew into an adventurous, delightful child, it was enough to ease his family’s worry. 

(For a time.)

They were training in the courtyard—or playing, really, when his heart first failed him. Their mother was watching from the side, talking to their father as they watched their children pitted against each other.

Valarr was bigger, but Aerion was quicker and far too nimble on his feet, swerving away from the attacks his brother kept sending his way. Daeron had long since lost to Matarys, without much fuss, and chose to stand on the side. This was much to their mother’s disappointment, though a few words from their father eased his temper. Aerion did not hear what was said, but it was enough to erase the scowl his mother held for his brother.

His brother hit the ground with a groan seconds later, toppled by a swift hit to his left leg.

Aerion pointed his wooden sword at Valarr’s chin.

He grinned. “Yield, brother.” 

... 

Valarr glanced at where their father stood and saw the wince on the man's face. He was disappointed; Valarr knew it. He heaved an angry breath, wielding himself not to glare up at his younger brother. Schooling his expression to show none of his annoyance despite that boiling oil bubbling beneath his skin, Valarr smiled.

Always the perfect son.

With his silver hair and pale, perfect skin, Aerion was every inch the dragon prince. Even now, Valarr could not silence the envy that whispered in his ear. He was the heir; he was the firstborn. Yet, beside the image of his brother—a thirdborn no less—it all felt short and rather dull. Aerion should have been standing in Valarr’s shadow, but instead, it was Valarr who stood in Aerion’s.

A good fighter. A graceful dancer. A lovely singer. An impressive rider, and their mother’s pride and joy. Aerion had certainly attained more than what was necessary for his station, and Valarr could not help himself to hate him at times because of it—then he’d end up hating himself for hating him, Aerion, who had always followed onto his footsteps no matter how much Valarr pushed him away out of spite.

Gods, how he wished he had it all, and cursed his own fault for the greed and jealousy  where it all stemmed from. Valarr took more from their father, their father who looked more Martell than Targaryen—save for a single eye the color of lavender—spreading his likeness to the rest of his children without much mercy. Nearly all of them took after Baelor in looks; even little Aegon, despite the silver of his hair, bore their father's face.

Aerion was the exception—always the damned exception. He was always a beacon of their lineage whenever they all stood together. 

He favored their mother in appearance, standing in stark contrast to the rest of them. 

He could already hear it. 

‘Aerion the second dragonknight.’ 

And where would Valarr stand then? Would he be known as a mere footnote? Would he be one of those kings who did enough to be remembered, but never enough to be called great? Would his brother’s page hold more than his own in the history books? Would Valarr be known as someone simple—like his appearance—and forgettable? Pushed aside despite his birthright. Dismissed. Weak. Not Targaryen enough.

Not perfect enough.

“Valarr?” 

He flinched from the small voice that called him, from the way his grip on his wooden sword faltered, and from the thought that screamed at him to push the boy—to teach him his place, watch him cower, and force him to face the darkness he had continually burned into Valarr’s existence since the moment he learned his first word.

“Did I hit you that hard?” Hesitant. Worried. 

There was no mocking in his tone, but Valarr heard it all the same. Valarr who was taller. Valarr who was older. Valarr who was trained more, and yet still lost to a ten year old boy. His pride simmered, and his heart clenched. It should not be this way. 

“Fine,” he said stiffly as he stood. He stared down at his brother, wide eyes and bright, who gazed up at him, puzzlement displayed on his face. 

Valarr wanted to sneer. 

His innocent little brother who could never read between the lines. 

‘You should have died at birth,’

Valarr’s stomach churned. He felt sick all of a sudden. As if the food he had eaten for breakfast had found the inside of his stomach unacceptable.

(He would recall that very same moment years later in front of a fire, and wonder if the gods had heard his wish and granted him the one thing he had hoped for on a whim instead of the ones that should have been. He would live to regret it, and he would die still hearing of it.)

“Fine,” he repeated softly. Not too gentle. Not too brotherly, but loving still. “I’m fine, Aerion. You did well.”

A hand landed on Valarr’s shoulder. Daeron stood beside him, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned at Aerion. “Well done, Aerion. Valarr had been unbeatable in training as of late, and it seemed that you had proven yourself a true knight by defeating him honorably.”

The grip on Valarr’s shoulder tightened for a fraction before falling away.

“Do you think father saw that?” Aerion asked quietly.

It was a weakness sprung out of glee. Their mother, while showing more favoritism toward Aerion, had held more pride for their thirdborn than their father ever would, as their father had never much taken an interest in Aerion’s abilities, as that had always been reserved only for Valarr.

“Of course he did,” Daeron laughed jovially. “He had scarcely looked away from the moment you challenged our dear Valarr to a spar.”

Aerion grinned, and handed his wooden sword back to a waiting squire with a thankful nod. Always so polite.

“Careful there, brother,” Daeron told him after Aerion had run off to their father and mother’s arms. “Your colors are showing.”

Valarr sent him a glare as he crossed his arms. “Do not mistake me for one of your fools. The only colors we both should be concerning ourselves with are the green on your face. You were drunk again last night.”

Daeron rolled back his shoulder with a groan. “I suppose we are both hypocrites, then, when it comes to harbouring that wretched tint.” Daeron glanced towards where Aerion was, no doubt getting the praise their mother barely gave anyone else. Valarr did not look. He had enough bitterness urging him to spit venom for the day. “He looks up to you.”

“He’s ten,” Daeron added as he scanned him next. Always so studious during the wrong times.

“I’m aware,” Valarr breathed sharply. 

Daeron shook his head. “I know you’ll never believe me when I say this but—”

“Aerion!”

His hackles rose from the panic in their mother’s voice. Valarr turned too late, as he had only seen his brother already in their father’s arms. Head lolled, and skin paler than snow.

For a moment, he thought someone had painted his brother’s lips—or someone had rested a flower on his mouth with the shade of a blue winter rose. It was a cruel sight; a truly ghastly color.

Dread choked him from where he stood, and he ran, faster than Daeron, faster than anyone as he followed their father inside the castle. 

...

“Useless!” Maekar raged, nearly choking Maester Gwain when the old man told him the news. “Useless, all of you!”

“I’m sorry, my prince!” the old man shook. “But there is truly nothing we can do. Prince Aerion’s health had never shown this type of danger until now. It is an anomaly, a sickness in the heart.”

Baelor sat beside his sleeping son. Alive, he told himself. He was alive.

“Maekar,” he said softly. His brother stopped and pushed the maester away. Their child remained asleep—breathing, but not awake. The gods truly were cruel. “You must calm yourself.”

It was the wrong thing to say. It always was with him whenever helplessness snakes its way into Maekar’s mind.

“Calm down—? Do not... do not tell me to calm down!” He glared at him, brows furrowed, and eyes tearful. “Our son. Our boy, Baelor. Our son is—”

“I know,” Baelor said steadily. He did not rise from his place on the bed. He remained, watching as their son’s chest rose and fell. “But he is still here. And you must remain strong if you wish for him to—please, there is nothing that distress can do in times like this. It will not help him.”

Maekar remained quiet, still and unmoving for a moment, before he sat on the bed opposite Baelor. Shakily, as if handling fragile glass, he held their son’s hand. Aerion remained asleep.

“His lips were blue,” Maekar whispered moments later. Gently, he pushed aside a stray hair on Aerion’s forehead. “His skin was ice cold.”

“I know,” Baelor said. He was the one who caught him; he was the one who felt the warmth flee their son’s body.

“He was dead.”

Baelor flinched, his lips thinning at the reminder. “I know.”

It was a kiss that should have been saved for a future love, yet it had been stolen by desperation when the maester had to give Aerion the breath he had lost.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again. “He will wake.”

(“Kepa! Did you see?” Aerion panted happily. It had been a short run, but he had always been easily winded.

“I did.” Baelor reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. Nearby, Valarr’s back was turned, his posture rigid as Daeron whispered something close to his ear.

“You did wonderfully, sweet boy.” Maekar knelt to press a kiss to Aerion’s forehead, but he was interrupted by a servant calling out urgently about Aegon. With a frustrated huff, Maekar rose and strode toward the panicking man.

“Father?”

Baelor looked over. He could see his eldest son, Valarr, holding back a punch, judging by the white-knuckled clench of his fist. Baelor sighed, about to call them both over to settle the dispute, but a sharp tug on his cloak snapped him from the plan.

Aerion’s face had gone pale and drained. His eyes were dull, his lids heavy.

“Kepa,” he rasped, “I don’t feel well—”)

They waited until dawn.