Chapter Text
The doors of the Great Hall of the Red Keep opened with a deep wooden groan that echoed across the chamber like the first crack of thunder before a storm. Every conversation died as boots struck stone: slow, measured, confident.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stepped through the doors as if the hall belonged to him.
Two white cloaks followed. The men of the Kingsguard flanked him half a pace behind; escorts in name, wardens in truth. Aerion noticed immediately and almost laughed aloud. They had posted guards for him, as if he were some wild beast brought into the throne room in chains.
How thoughtful! He let them trail him as it added to the spectacle.
The court had gathered thick along the sides of the hall: lords in velvet and fur, knights in bright mail, ladies whispering behind jeweled hands. Their murmurs died to breathless silence as he advanced between the long trestle tables.
Aerion savored it. Ten years he had been gone in exile across the Narrow Sea. Ten years since they had last seen the living dragon of the royal house. Let them look. Let them wonder. He had grown into a proper man in exile. Tall and lean, his frame long-limbed and predatory, he moved with the loose confidence of someone accustomed to armor and war. His hair fell past his shoulders in pale silver-gold waves, catching torchlight like spun glass. The sellswords of Second Sons had called it dragon’s silk, though usually with a smirk. The ladies of Lys had swooned over it, begging for dragons of their own. His face was devilishly handsome: too sharp to be gentle, too proud to be pleasant, but exile had marked him.
A thin scar split his left eyebrow, pale against his skin. Another ran along the line of his jaw like a knife’s memory. A third, faint and crooked, tugged slightly at one corner of his mouth when he smiled.
It was not a comforting sight.
His armor was not courtly plate but Essosi steel, a deep red as was his habit. There was also blackened mail beneath a crimson surcoat embroidered with his personal sigil: a dragon of three heads, orange, yellow and red, breathing golden flames on black. The dragon looked freshly stitched, as though someone had recently reminded the prince of what blood ran through his veins. He wore a streaming red cloak, the fabric waving behind him like wings.
The court watched him like a story returned from the grave. Aerion could almost hear their thoughts:
The mad prince. The dragon. The exile.
Yet the whispers held something new as well: respect, fear sharpened by rumor of his deeds across the Narrow Sea. He had fought alongside the Second Sons in the Disputed Lands, killed men whose names were sung in taverns from Tyrosh to Volantis. Sellswords respected skill more than lineage. He had also made himself a man many times over in the pleasure-houses of Lys. There wasn’t much else to do between battles, after all. Aerion had proven himself very skilled indeed in both respects.
He reached the center of the hall, and his eyes lifted to the Iron Throne. For one bright, foolish heartbeat, he expected to see King Aerys Targaryen there, his uncle the king. The man who had summoned him home.
The disappointment struck like a slap as he was greeted with a different sight. Instead of his uncle… a tall gaunt shape sprawled upon the jagged throne. One red eye watched Aerion. It was someone terribly familiar to the prince"
Lord Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven, the family bastard.
Aerion’s smile did not falter, but something cold and vicious uncoiled behind his ribs.
Of course.
The Great Bastard ruled the realm as Hand while his king hid among dusty books and moldy prophecies. Even seated, Lord Rivers looked strange upon the throne, as if the metal itself rejected him. His skin was corpse-pale beneath the torchlight, and the great red birthmark on his cheek twisted across half his face like a splash of dried blood. Albino hair hung long and straight as a spider’s thread. And that single red eye…
Gods.
It watched like a knife watches flesh.
At the base of the throne stood a woman who might have been carved from moonlight: Shiera Seastar. Aerion’s great-aunt and the sister of Brynden Rivers.
His gaze lingered on her a moment.
Every story had undersold her. Her pale hair spilled down her back like a gold waterfall, her pale skin luminous against the hall’s gloom. One blue eye glittered cold and amused. The other was slightly darker, green perhaps. The court called her the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. By Aerion’s estimation, they were wrong. She was something stranger than womanly beauty, because she was a creature of darkness just as Aerion was a dragon. More than that, she was watching him. Not politely, not nervously, but with keen, curious intensity, as if examining a particularly dangerous animal.
Aerion’s smile widened.
Yes, aunt, look well.
He approached the throne, each step ringing louder than the last. The two Kingsguard halted halfway up the hall as tradition demanded. The prince walked the remaining distance alone. The throne loomed above him like a nest of blades, and on it sat the bastard.
Aerion stopped at the foot of the dais. The prince bowed; not deeply but just enough to be undeniable. When he straightened, the smile returned to his lips.
“My lord Hand,” Aerion said pleasantly.
His voice carried through the hall like silk sliding over steel.
“It has been some years, uncle.”
Bloodraven’s red eye never blinked.
“Ten,” Lord Rivers said.
His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet the hall had grown so quiet that even his quiet words seemed to echo.
“Ten years since Aerion Targaryen departed our shores for Lys.”
Aerion spread his hands.
“Ten years since the realm saw its most loyal prince. I am here to serve!”
A faint murmur rippled through the court, but Bloodraven did not react.
“Your departure has been… much discussed,” the Hand said.
Aerion laughed lightly. His mind flashed to the tourney at Ashford, and he had to hide a flash of anger.
“I should hope so.”
His violet eyes glittered up at the throne.
“I have returned as commanded by the king.”
His tone remained smooth, polite, perfectly respectful.
“I hear whispers of Aegor Rivers stirring across the Narrow Sea. Of the Golden Company gathering ships.”
His smile sharpened.
“And of Blackfyre pretenders who believe themselves dragons.”
His gaze lifted deliberately to meet Bloodraven’s single eye.
“I thought it best to return home and remind them what a dragon truly looks like.”
Inside his skull the rage burned like dragonfire.
You sit there. You, a weakling bastard. A creature born of a raven-feathered whore and raised on poison and whispers. The Iron Throne belonged to dragonlords, not pale weak little sorcerers with one eye and no fire in their blood. Aerion’s fingers twitched slightly at his side as anger coursed through him. He let the silence linger after Bloodraven’s initial welcome, savoring the weight of the hall’s attention upon him. Torchlight trembled along the sharp point of the Iron Throne, casting long shadows across the gathered lords.
Aerion tilted his head slightly, violet eyes glinting with curiosity that was only half-feigned.
“Tell me, my lord Hand,” Aerion said lightly, spreading his gloved hands as though the matter were trivial. “Where are the rest of my kin?”
His gaze drifted deliberately across the chamber.
“No princes. No princesses. Not even the king. I expected to… see at least a few of them”
The words echoed through the Great Hall of the Red Keep. For a moment no one spoke, then soft laughter broke the stillness.
Aerion glanced sideways.
Shiera Seastar stood near the throne’s base, one pale hand covering her mouth. Her mismatched eyes glittered like stars over a dark sea as she watched him. She giggled. The sound was musical, almost girlish, though there was something far sharper beneath it.
Aerion arched an eyebrow.
Bloodraven did not laugh. Instead, Lord Rivers leaned back slightly upon the throne, pale fingers folding together.
The red eye studied Aerion for several breaths. Then the Hand spoke.
“Very well,” he said calmly. “Since you ask.”
He lifted one long finger.
“The king is presently within the Red Keep’s library.”
A faint ripple of knowing murmurs passed through the court.
“With his scrolls,” Bloodraven added mildly.
Aerion’s mouth twitched. Yes, that sounded exactly like Uncle Aerys. The Hand continued.
“Her Grace is at the Great Sept of Baelor, praying as is her habit.”
Another finger rose.
“Your aunt, Lady Arryn, remains at Dragonstone with her child Daenora. She has remained there since Princess Aelora’s unfortunate… accident.”
A third finger.
“Your father Maekar, Prince of Dragonstone, gathers the crown’s strength at Summerhall. Much of your family is also there.”
Aerion nodded faintly. That part he already knew. Maekar preparing for war felt right. His father had always understood the simple language of steel. Bloodraven’s final finger rose.
“And your brother Prince Aegon…”
The red eye flickered, and a hint of amusement crept into the Hand’s thin smile.
“Aegon is… somewhere.”
A pause.
“With Ser Duncan the Tall. I hear he is still a squire!”
The hall rustled faintly with hushed laughter. Bloodraven added calmly,
“I regret to say that even my informers do not quite know precisely where Dunk and his little Egg are.”
Aerion’s smile remained in place, but inside his skull something sharp twisted.
Dunk. The memory flashed bright and bitter, as if it had been just yesterday and not ten years ago. The tourney at Ashford. The mud. The humiliation. The hedge knight standing victorious while princes died and Aerion was blamed. And Egg… his own little brother choosing that oaf over his own blood.
Aerion’s fingers curled slowly against his palm. Someday… he forced the thought down. His face betrayed nothing.
“Well,” he said smoothly. “My brother always did enjoy the smallfolk.”
Shiera laughed again. Bloodraven merely watched. Then the Hand spoke once more.
“Which is why,” Lord Rivers said quietly, “your arrival is… timely.”
The red eye gleamed.
“With the realm on the edge of war, it is reassuring to have a capable prince present within the Red Keep.”
Aerion inclined his head slightly.
“Yes,” he said.
“Quite.”
Then his smile widened.
“Well then, if the court lacks entertainment, perhaps I should remedy that.”
A ripple of interest stirred among the lords. Aerion stepped slightly aside, letting the torchlight catch his red armor.
“You see,” he continued, “exile has been remarkably educational.”
His voice carried easily across the hall.
“I rode with the Second Sons for some time. A charming company. Very direct men.”
A few knights leaned forward; sellsword tales always carried a certain appeal. Aerion began pacing slowly before the throne.
“I fought in the Disputed Lands. Slavers, Myrmen, Tyroshi pirates. Once a Volantene champion who believed his gilded armor made him invincible.”
A faint grin tugged at his scarred mouth.
“It did not.”
He reached to his belt. The movement instantly made several guards tense. Even the two Kingsguard behind him shifted. Aerion simply chuckled.
“Peace.”
He drew a dagger. The blade caught the firelight. Valyrian steel shimmered like dark water. The entire hall gasped as Aerion held it up over his head.
“I took this from a Volantene slaver who thought he could slay a dragon.”
He twirled the dagger lazily. The rippling steel seemed almost alive.
“I think Valyrian steel suits me quite nicely.”
Murmurs spread across the court. Even Bloodraven’s eye narrowed slightly. Aerion smiled smugly.
“Valyrian steel,” he said softly. “Such a lovely thing.”
But as he spoke, his gaze drifted; not to the dagger but to Bloodraven’s side. Resting against the throne’s jagged edge hung a fell blade in a dark scabbard. Elegant, deadly, ancient.
Dark Sister. One of the ancestral swords of House Targaryen.
Aerion’s pulse quickened. That sword had belonged to princes, to Targaryens. Now… it hung at the hip of a bastard. His smile remained pleasant. But inside… desire burned. That sword should be mine. Dark Sister belonged to a Targaryen prince, not a pale sorcerer born of some courtly scandal. Aerion imagined the blade in his own hand: faster than thought, cutting through enemies on the battlefield, the sword of dragons.
His eyes lingered, and soon enough, Bloodraven noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The red eye flicked down briefly toward the sword, then back to Aerion. For a long moment neither man spoke. Shiera Seastar watched them both. Her mismatched eyes sparkled with wicked interest.
Finally Bloodraven said quietly:
“A handsome dagger.”
Aerion tilted his head.
“I thought so.”
The Hand’s pale fingers rested lightly upon the throne.
“I am sure you will put it to good use.”
Aerion’s smile sharpened.
“Yes,” he said softly, “I shall.”
The murmurs around the hall had not yet died when Aerion lifted his chin slightly, the Valyrian steel dagger still resting lightly in his fingers. He turned the blade so the rippling metal caught the torchlight, letting the court admire it a moment longer. Then he slid it back into its sheath with a soft, deliberate click.
“My lord Hand,” Aerion said.
His voice carried clearly across the hall.
“If the pretenders truly come, if Aegor Rivers and his Blackfyre princes dare land upon Westerosi soil, then I shall bring something else home besides stories and daggers.”
The court leaned closer. Aerion’s violet eyes glittered.
“I will bring back Blackfyre.”
The name rolled through the Great Hall of the Red Keep like distant thunder. Some of the older lords shifted uneasily. Blackfyre was the lost blade of kings. The sword that had been lost after the First Blackfyre Rebellion and gave the pretenders across the sea their name. Aerion smiled slowly.
“It belongs to House Targaryen,” he continued. “Not to exiles and traitors.”
His gaze drifted toward Bloodraven.
“If I must carve it from Bittersteel’s corpse myself… so be it.”
A hush fell across the court. Then Bloodraven inclined his head slightly. His pale fingers steepled together.
“Your enthusiasm does you credit, Prince Aerion.”
The red eye glimmered faintly.
“But I would offer one small caution.”
Aerion waited, and Bloodraven spoke gently.
“Kin-slaying is no light burden.”
The hall went very still.
“Even when Blackfyres are involved.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the gathered courtiers. It was nervous laughter, the sort of laughter men gave when reminded of something they dared not discuss openly. Everyone here knew the story of the Redgrass Field. Aerion’s lips curled faintly. He did not laugh, but he might have in less formal company. Despite his dislike for Bloodraven, he could at least appreciate the jape.
One person in the hall remained conspicuously silent however, Aerion noticed: Shiera Seastar. Her eyes were fixed on Bloodraven. She looked not amused, not mocking. The look indicated something colder, something older, something that should not be japed about.
The moment passed quickly, and Aerion’s thoughts turned inward. He wondered what that meant.
Daemon Blackfyre had been Bloodraven’s brother. Shiera’s too. And Bittersteel… Aegor Rivers shared that same father. The same blood. The same house. In truth Bittersteel was just as much Aerion’s kin as Brynden was.
Aerion’s smile widened slightly.
What I would give… The thought crept through his mind like smoke. What I would give to kill them both. Bittersteel on one side, Bloodraven on the other, both stabbed through the heart. Two traitors to dragonkind. If both fell… Blackfyre would return to the royal house. And Dark Sister… Aerion’s eyes slid once more to the sword at Bloodraven’s side. That blade too. Both swords. The thought thrilled him. Two ancient Valyrian blades, both in the hands of a true prince.
His prince’s smile remained pleasant.
Bloodraven was watching him again. Of course he was. The Hand leaned slightly forward upon the Iron Throne.
“For the present,” Lord Rivers said mildly, “your return requires certain arrangements.”
Aerion lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“You and whatever retainers accompanied you from Lys will be lodged in the Maidenvault during your stay.”
The words struck like a slap. Aerion blinked once. Then twice.
“The Maidenvault.”
Bloodraven nodded calmly.
“It is presently unoccupied.”
Of course it was.
The Maidenvault had once housed princesses, a prison disguised as a palace.
Aerion’s smile vanished entirely.
“I think not.”
The hall went quiet again
Aerion’s voice remained smooth, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.
“I am a prince of House Targaryen.”
His gaze lifted toward the looming towers behind the throne.
“I will stay in Maegor’s Holdfast.”
Several courtiers stiffened.
The Holdfast was the true royal fortress within the Red Keep. Kings stayed there. Heirs stayed there. Princes stayed there.
Bloodraven did not react immediately. His pale fingers rested against the throne’s arm. The red eye studied Aerion as if measuring him. Finally the Hand spoke.
“The Maidenvault will be quite comfortable.”
Aerion’s expression hardened.
“I did not ask for comfort.”
The words came sharp as drawn steel.
“I asked for my rightful place as a prince of the blood.”
Shiera Seastar watched the exchange with bright fascination. Her head tilted slightly, pale hair spilling over one shoulder.
Bloodraven remained calm, impossibly calm.
“The Holdfast houses the king,” he said evenly.
Aerion laughed softly.
“A king who hides in libraries. I’m sure my uncle has space.”
Several lords coughed. Someone dropped a goblet.
Aerion spread his hands.
“If the realm truly fears war, my lord Hand… perhaps it would be wise to keep one dragon where he may actually defend the castle.”
Silence reigned, heavy and dangerous. The court held its breath. Bloodraven’s red eye did not blink. For a moment the hall felt like a drawn bowstring. Then, Shiera Seastar smiled again.
Aerion stood before the jagged mass of the Iron Throne, violet eyes bright with restrained fury. Bloodraven did not rise. He did not shift. He merely watched. At last Lord Rivers spoke again, his pale voice calm and almost gentle.
“Prince Aerion,” he said, “you must remember something.”
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“You are a guest here in the Red Keep.”
The word landed like a stone: guest. Not royal. Not prince of the blood. Guest.
“This castle belongs to your uncle,” Bloodraven continued evenly. “The king.”
The hall had gone cold. Not in truth, the braziers still burned along the walls of the Great Hall of the Red Keep, their flames licking shadows across the iron monstrosity of the Iron Throne, but the air between Prince Aerion and the pale creature sitting upon it had frozen into something brittle. Bloodraven’s red eye watched him. Unblinking, patient, like a spider waiting for the fly to finish thrashing.
Aerion held the man’s gaze and smiled. Inside, his fury was a furnace. Guest. The word echoed in his skull like a hammer striking steel. A guest? In the castle his forefathers had built with dragonfire. In the hall where Targaryen kings had ruled the Seven Kingdoms. This albino bastard, this whispering creature of spies and ravens, sat upon the throne and called him guest. Aerion wanted to tear his throat out. Instead, he inclined his head politely. Across from him, Lord Rivers spoke with infuriating calm.
“You are a guest here in the Red Keep,” Bloodraven repeated gently.
The Hand’s pale fingers rested on the throne’s jagged arm as though the iron blades were comfortable cushions. Aerion’s smile did not move, but his jaw tightened enough to ache as Lord Rivers spoke again.
“And I act here with the king’s authority.”
The red eye glittered faintly.
“Under that authority, you and your men will stay in the Maidenvault.”
The hall remained utterly silent.
Aerion could feel dozens of eyes upon him; watching, waiting. Some curious. Some frightened. Some simply eager for spectacle.
Say it, a vicious voice inside him whispered. Say what he is: bastard, usurper, pretender, no better than the fucking Blackfyres. Instead Aerion laughed softly.
Gods, he was good at this. Ten years among sellswords had taught him how to wear a mask.
“I see.”
The words flowed from him smooth as silk.
“How fortunate I am to receive such hospitality.”
Inside his skull, rage clawed against his ribs. Hospitality my arse, you pale, worm-ridden bastard.
He imagined leaping the dais, imagined the dagger sliding through Bloodraven’s throat. The red eye going wide, the court screaming, the bastard tumbling into the blades of the Iron Throne in a spray of blood while Aerion took his rightful place in the seat. The image was intoxicating, but Aerion swallowed it down.
He tilted his head slightly.
“In any case,” he said pleasantly, “I will simply take the matter to my uncle.”
A few courtiers shifted uneasily.
“Surely King Aerys will wish to welcome his nephew home.”
Aerion spread his hands lightly.
“I will speak with him myself.”
Bloodraven smiled. It was a very small smile, and it filled Aerion with a very sudden urge to kill him.
“That,” said the Hand softly, “is unlikely.”
Aerion’s stomach twisted.
“The king rarely receives visitors.”
Bloodraven’s red eye glowed like a coal in the torchlight.
“Even his own family.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the court. Aerion heard none of it. All he could hear was the rushing in his ears.
You fucking snake. You sit on the throne. You speak with the king’s voice. You presume command princes. You hold the swords of dragonlords. And you dare, dare, to cage ME in the Maidenvault like some disobedient child. Blood rushed hot through Aerion’s temples. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth. Good. The pain sharpened him, steadied him. The blood of the dragon fed him from within.
His smile returned.
“Of course,” Aerion said smoothly, “I would not dream of troubling His Grace.”
Every word felt like swallowing broken glass. Bloodraven watched him, watching to see if the mask would crack, but Aerion refused him the pleasure. He bowed slightly.
“I gratefully accept your arrangement.”
You pale fucking bastard.
“My men and I will stay in the Maidenvault.”
Bloodraven inclined his head.
“Excellent.”
Aerion straightened slowly.
The smile returned again. Broader this time, more princely.
“After all,” he continued lightly, “we shall soon have far greater matters to concern ourselves with.”
He glanced around the hall: the watching lords, the whispering courtiers. Then back to Bloodraven.
“I have long looked forward to meeting Aegor Rivers.”
His violet eyes gleamed as he repeated his earlier declaration.
“I intend to kill Bittersteel myself.”
The court stirred. Aerion’s smile sharpened.
“And reclaim Blackfyre for House Targaryen.”
Inside his skull another thought whispered: ‘Or perhaps I’ll start with you.’
Bloodraven did not react. Of course he did not. That pale corpse-face never revealed anything. It was as if he was trying to read Aerion’s thought, the snide fucker.
“I wish you luck on the battlefield,” the Hand finally said.
Aerion bowed once more; shallow, barely respectful. Then he turned. His cloak snapped behind him like a red banner as he strode down the long hall. The two white cloaks of the Kingsguard hurried after him. Whispers rose in his wake, but Aerion ignored them. His boots struck the stone harder with every step.
Guest. The word burned him. Guest.
The doors of the hall loomed ahead. His hands curled slowly into fists. That fucking bastard. He imagined Bloodraven’s corpse sprawled across the throne. Imagined pulling Dark Sister from the dead man’s belt. That sword belonged to dragons. Not to a whispering simpering half-breed.
The doors swung open, and Aerion pushed through them with enough force that the wood slammed against the walls. Cold air rushed into his lungs. He did not stop walking. Inside him the rage still burned: bright, hungry, patient. One day, Aerion promised himself. One day that pale bastard would learn what it meant to insult a dragon.
The great doors of the Great Hall of the Red Keep slammed shut behind Prince Aerion Targaryen with a heavy boom that echoed down the stone corridors. The sound followed him out into the broad Great Yard like a final insult.
Aerion did not slow his stride. The chill air outside tasted of smoke, sea salt, and the distant stink of King’s Landing. Torchlight flickered along the walls of the Red Keep, throwing long shadows across the yard in the evening.
Waiting there was the small company that had followed him back across the Narrow Sea, a strange little court of exile.
Less than a dozen men and women lounged around: some leaning against their gear, others drinking from skins or whispering in Essosi tongues. They were a ragged blend of Westerosi steel and Essosi silk, the sort of companions a prince gathered when forced to live among sellswords and pleasure houses rather than castles.
They straightened when Aerion appeared.
At their center stood three central figures.
The first was tall, square-shouldered, and unmistakably Westerosi: Ser Gwayne Mallery. His armor was worn but meticulously kept, his brown beard trimmed short and neat. Years earlier he had been sent across the Narrow Sea as Aerion’s guardian; one loyal knight assigned to keep watch over a troublesome prince in exile. Ten years later he was still there: still watching, still loyal, still uncomfortable.
Beside him leaned a darker, more flamboyant figure: Stallero Vollos. Volantene by birth, though his once-noble family had long ago lost its wealth. The tiger-striped tattoos of Old Volantis crawled faintly along the edges of his neck and wrists, visible where his bright sellsword silks failed to cover them. Stallero had similar coloring to Aerion himself, though his eyes were more blue than lilac. He carried himself like a prince who had misplaced his throne somewhere in a brothel. His smile was quick. His eyes quicker. He had followed Aerion through more than one ugly fight with the Second Sons.
Leaning casually against Stallero’s shoulder stood a woman wrapped in pale lavender silks: Orona. Her hair was silver-blonde, almost the color of Aerion’s own, though softer and finer. Lyseni blood showed in every line of her: delicate features, luminous skin, and wide violet eyes that could melt any fool man’s heart. She had once been a bedslave, but Aerion had purchased her in Lys during his exile. She had never left his side afterward. Orona was not merely pretty, but clever, quietly observant. She saw him now and instantly knew something was wrong.
All three approached at once.
Ser Gwayne spoke first in the Common Tongue.
“My prince,” the knight said. “How went the meeting?”
Stallero spoke over him in High Valyrian, his Volantene accent curling around the words.
“Was it not glorious, Brightflame? Did they tremble before the dragon?”
Orona’s soft voice followed in the lilting Lyseni dialect.
“Tell us, my dragon… what happened?”
Aerion stopped before them. His face wore the easy, princely smile he had perfected over years of court and camp alike. Inside… the fury still roared like a wildfire storm.
“Ser Gwayne,” he said evenly.
The knight straightened immediately.
“We will be staying in the Maidenvault.”
Ser Gwayne blinked.
Then nodded with genuine approval.
“The Maidenvault?” he said, “That is a great honor, my prince.”
Aerion stared at him for half a heartbeat. Honor? Gods, the man had no idea. But Ser Gwayne was Westerosi to the bone. To him the Maidenvault was a royal residence inside the Red Keep, a place of old princesses and noble chambers. He could not hear the insult buried beneath it. So, Aerion simply nodded.
“Yes.”
Then he turned slightly toward Stallero and Orona.
And his voice changed.
“It is an insult,” Aerion said quietly in High Valyrian.
Stallero’s brows lifted. Aerion’s eyes burned.
“My ‘uncle’ Bloodraven thinks to cage me there, away from the king.”
His voice lowered.
“Behind the fucking sept.
Stallero barked a short laugh.
“Truly? Not Maegor’s Holdfast?”
Aerion’s smile turned vicious.
“No.”
His gaze flicked back toward the towering walls of the castle.
“Princes are meant for Maegor’s Holdfast.”
His teeth showed slightly.
“Not for that pretty little cage.”
Orona stepped closer. Her hand slipped lightly around Aerion’s arm.
“They insult you,” she murmured softly. She tilted her face up to his. Those pale Lyseni eyes studied him with gentle understanding.
“They fear you,” she said in Lyseni, “otherwise they would not hide you away.”
Stallero nodded in agreement.
“Exactly,” the Volantene said with a crooked grin.
“If they had any sense, they would give you the Holdfast and beg you to command their armies.”
Orona squeezed Aerion’s arm lightly.
“A dragon does not need the tallest tower,” she whispered.
“Only the sky when he takes flight.”
The words soothed something raw inside him.
Aerion exhaled slowly. Yes, that was better.
Meanwhile, Ser Gwayne Mallery stood nearby looking increasingly uncomfortable. The knight shifted his weight awkwardly. He had absolutely no idea what they were saying. Despite living in Lys for the better part of ten years, he had never learned a lick of their language or any other Essosi tongue. High Valyrian might as well have been bird song to him.
“Ah,” Ser Gwayne said uncertainly in the Common Tongue.
“I take it… the meeting was successful?”
Aerion looked at him.
For a moment the prince considered explaining.
Then decided it would accomplish nothing.
He clapped the knight firmly on the shoulder.
“It went very well, Ser Gwayne.”
That was not entirely a lie.
Now he knew exactly where he stood and exactly who stood in his way.
Aerion glanced back once toward the towering walls of the Red Keep. Somewhere inside sat the pale bastard with the red eye and the sword.
Dark Sister.
Aerion’s smile slowly returned.
“Come,” he said.
“Let us see this Maidenvault.”
He began walking. Orona glided beside him. Stallero followed with an amused grin. Ser Gwayne fell in step behind them. Somewhere deep inside Aerion Brightflame, the fire of his anger burned hotter than ever. The evening light slanted long and copper-red across the Great Yard of the Red Keep as the prince and his small band crossed the worn stone. The fortress loomed around them in layered walls and towers, its high battlements already beginning to swallow the sun. From somewhere beyond the curtain walls drifted the distant roar of King’s Landing: the markets, the river docks, the endless noise of the capital.
Aerion walked with Orona at his side, Stallero trailing slightly behind and Ser Gwayne Mallery keeping watch over the group with habitual vigilance. His anger still smoldered beneath his ribs. It had not cooled, it had merely settled into something quieter. Something more patient.
They were halfway across the yard when the great gates of the Red Keep opened and the portcullis rattled upward. A column of riders passed beneath the arch., and Aerion slowed. Even from a distance the formation was unmistakable. Two white cloaks: Kingsguard. Behind them came a small retinue of attendants and guards, and at their center rode a single woman upon a pale mare.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Ah,” Stallero murmured beside him. “Royalty.”
“Fellow royalty," Aerion reminded him.
The setting sun washed the procession in amber light as it entered the courtyard. At the head rode Aelinor Penrose, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Aerion had not seen her in ten years. They had only met rarely before his exile, but he could tell time had touched her gently.
She was a woman in her early forties now, but she carried herself with quiet composure that made her seem younger from afar. Her skin was strikingly pale, almost porcelain beneath the evening light, and her eyes, light blue and thoughtful, looked out upon the courtyard with a distant calm that bordered on solemnity. Her features were delicate and measured. An oval face with smooth, almost untouched skin, thin pale eyebrows, and lips softly pressed together in a composed expression that revealed little. She did not look stern nor cold, simply… reserved. As though her thoughts always lingered somewhere deeper than the moment. Her dark-blonde hair flowed long and straight beneath a veil that trailed behind her head and shoulders like drifting mist. The fabric was sheer enough to catch the light, edged with fine gold trim that gleamed softly as she rode. Above it rested her crown: tall, ornate, a band of worked gold studded with round red gemstones that glimmered like drops of blood. Beneath the crown a structured golden headdress framed her temples, holding the veil in place. Delicate strands of pearls draped along its sides, catching the last rays of the setting sun. Her gown was rich burgundy velvet, the heavy cloth flowing around the saddle. Wide sleeves trimmed with soft gray fur hung elegantly at her wrists, while fine gold embroidery traced along the garment’s edges in repeating floral patterns. Across her chest, the darker bodice of a black underdress showed beneath the outer layer. At her throat hung a simple gold chain and trom it dangled a crystal pendant: the Seven-Pointed Star, a symbol of the Faith of the Seven.
Aerion watched her approach.
She was not breathtaking in the way Shiera Seastar was, but she possessed something quieter. A composed dignity. The sort that made men lower their voices in her presence.
“Who is she?” Stallero murmured in High Valyrian.
Aerion snorted softly.
“My aunt.”
“Your queen,” Orona corrected gently.
Aerion’s mouth twitched.
“Yes,” he said. “Her as well.”
Queen Aelinor Penrose had just returned from prayer at the Great Sept of Baelor. That much was obvious. Her retinue was small, quiet, devout. The queen herself rode with that same distant composure, her pale eyes drifting calmly across the yard as servants and guards stepped aside to make way.
Aerion slowed to a halt. His companions followed suit. For a moment he considered simply letting her pass, but the memory of the Great Hall still burned inside him.
Bloodraven’s red eye. That word. Guest.
Aerion exhaled slowly. Very well. If the bastard would deny him princes and kings… he would simply make do with queens.
He turned to Ser Gwayne.
“Remain here,” Aerion said.
The knight nodded at once.
“My prince.”
Stallero grinned knowingly.
“Go charm the queen then, Brightflame,” the Volantene murmured.
Orona’s fingers brushed Aerion’s arm.
“Be kind to her,” she said softly.
Aerion glanced down at her.
“Kind?”
His smile returned.
“I am always kind.”
Orona gave him a look that clearly said she did not believe that for a heartbeat.
Aerion stepped forward. The queen’s procession had nearly crossed the courtyard when he intercepted it. The Kingsguard saw him first. Both white cloaks stiffened slightly, hands hovering near sword hilts. But when they recognized the silver-haired prince approaching, they stepped aside. Aerion stopped several paces before the queen’s horse then bowed. Not deeply, but far more respectfully than he had bowed to Bloodraven.
“Your Grace.”
Queen Aelinor Penrose drew her horse to a gentle halt.
The veil shifted softly in the breeze. Her pale blue eyes settled upon him. For a moment she said nothing. Simply studied him. Perhaps she was taking in the scars, the blood-red armor, the sellsword companions waiting across the yard, and perhaps the fire still simmering behind his smile.
At last recognition dawned.
“Prince Aerion.”
Her voice was calm and soft. Not surprised, merely acknowledging.
“You have returned then.”
Aerion straightened slowly.
“Yes.”
His violet eyes gleamed faintly.
“I thought it proper to greet at least one proper member of my family today.”
He smiled politely.
“The rest seem… difficult to find.”
Queen Aelinor studied him for a moment beneath the veil. The queen’s gaze drifted past him for a moment, toward the looming towers of the Red Keep, as if expecting another silver-haired figure to emerge from its doors.
None did.
A shadow crossed her face.
“It would have been good,” she murmured, almost to herself, “to have more of the family here.”
Her pale fingers rested lightly against the reins of her horse.
“Your father’s strength would steady the court. It is times like these that I grieve the passing of your uncle Baelor and his sons.”
She exhaled softly.
“And Prince Rhaegel… well.”
The faintest ghost of a smile flickered across her lips.
“His joy was… unusual. But the castle feels quieter without him and the twins. I have pray for them both often, Alys and the child too.”
Aerion tilted his head slightly. That was a delicate way of describing Rhaegel’s madness. He had heard his cousin Aelora had gone mad too following the death of her twin Aelor before killing herself less than a year ago. It all seemed rather droll to Aerion honestly, but that was not something needed to be discussed. The queen continued before he could reply.
“Still,” she said, her voice strengthening slightly, “I am grateful that you have returned, Prince Aerion.”
Her blue eyes settled upon him again.
“If the rumors are true, if the Blackfyres truly mean to cross the sea, then the realm will need every prince it can muster.”
Aerion smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “They will.”
He stepped a little closer to her horse, and his violet eyes gleamed.
“When the rebels land, I intend to hunt down Aegor Rivers myself.”
The courtyard seemed to grow slightly quieter.
“I intend to kill Bittersteel and reclaim Blackfyre for House Targaryen.”
The words came easily, almost cheerfully. Aerion’s smile widened just a little.
“Perhaps I will even bring you his head when the war is finished, Your Grace.”
The reaction was immediate. The women among the queen’s attendants gasped softly. One young lady actually covered her mouth with both hands. Another muttered a prayer to the Faith of the Seven under her breath. The Kingsguard shifted slightly in their saddles. But the most interesting reaction came from the queen herself.
For the briefest moment… Queen Aelinor looked… flustered. Simply caught off guard.
Her pale lips parted slightly as if she had expected many things from the returned prince but not quite that.
“A… head?” she repeated.
Aerion nodded pleasantly.
“A suitable gift.”
The queen blinked once, then twice. Her composure wavered.
“Prince Aerion,” she said carefully, “that will not be necessary.”
Aerion watched her closely. Interesting. He had expected shock, disapproval. Instead she looked almost embarrassed by the suggestion, embarrassed she might like it?
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Aerion sensed the conversation drifting somewhere awkward, so he nodded and shifted it.
“You have come from the Great Sept of Baelor, have you not?”
Aelinor seemed relieved by the change of subject.
“Yes.”
Aerion clasped his hands lightly behind his back.
“And what prayer did you bring before the Seven today, Your Grace?”
His smile softened slightly.
“Perhaps I may add my own to it.”
The queen’s shoulders relaxed a little. She exhaled slowly.
“For an heir,” she said.
The answer came simply. Quietly.
“I pray for an heir for the king.”
Her gaze drifted somewhere beyond the courtyard.
“I have prayed for the same thing since the day his reign began, but I have doubled them since Rhaegel and the twins died.”
Aerion listened. Inside his mind a different set of thoughts stirred: an heir. Everyone in the realm knew the truth. King Aerys never touched his wife. That had been true even before Aerion had departed on his exile to Lys. The whispers about Aerys had begun long before the crown had ever touched his head. He preferred scrolls, prophecies, ancient books; not the marriage bed.
Personally, Aerion never understood it.
He studied the queen more carefully now. Aelinor Penrose was no great beauty, true, but she was perfectly serviceable, even attractive in a restrained, noble sort of way. For a woman in her forties she had aged remarkably well.
Perhaps he cannot, Aerion thought, or perhaps he simply does not wish to.
Everyone said that Daemon Blackfyre had never loved his own wife, and yet he had still given her seven sons.
Aerion tilted his head slightly.
“Well,” he said aloud, “I hope the Seven answer your prayers soon.”
The queen’s blue eyes returned to him.
“I hope you and my uncle have many heirs together one day.”
For a second… Aelinor looked flustered again. Color touched her pale cheeks. Not much, but enough. Then she nodded.
“Your prayers are… appreciated.”
Aerion inclined his head politely.
“My family’s stability concerns us all.”
The moment lingered briefly.
Then Aerion stepped aside.
He gestured toward the open path across the Great Yard of the Red Keep.
“You should not keep the king waiting long after prayers, Your Grace.”
The queen inclined her head in return.
“Welcome home, Prince Aerion.”
Her horse stepped forward again. The procession moved past him. Silks whispered. Armor clinked. The veil drifted behind her crown as the queen rode deeper into the castle.
Aerion watched her go.
Then slowly turned back toward his companions waiting across the yard. His mind was already working. The realm had an idle king who hid among scrolls, a Hand who watched over the realm like a raven, a queen praying for heirs that might never come, and a war approaching across the Narrow Sea.
Prince Aerion watched the queen’s procession disappear into the deeper courtyards of the Red Keep. The burgundy of her gown faded into the castle’s long shadows, her veil catching the last amber threads of sunset before the towers swallowed the light. For a moment he lingered where he stood, then Aerion turned and strode back across the Great Yard of the Red Keep toward his companions.
They were waiting exactly where he had left them. Ser Gwayne Mallery stood stiff-backed against a wall, hands clasped behind him in the posture of a knight attempting to look dignified among foreigners and sellswords. Stallero Vollos leaned against a pillar lazily, arms crossed, watching the returning prince with amused curiosity. Orona sat upon the steps, one ankle resting atop the other, pale Lysene hair shimmering faintly in the dying light. The others milled around nearby, talking quietly to one another. They all straightened as Aerion approached.
“Well?” Stallero asked first.
Aerion gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand.
“The queen greeted me cordially,” he said in the Common Tongue.
His tone was casual, almost bored.
“Far more pleasant than Bloodraven.”
Ser Gwayne nodded approvingly at once.
“Good,” the knight said firmly.
“It is proper that Her Grace receive you warmly, my prince.”
Aerion smirked slightly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Proper.”
He gestured forward.
“Come. Let us see this Maidenvault our gracious host has provided.”
They began walking again across the wide courtyard. Boots struck stone, and armor rattled softly. The torches along the walls flickered to life as the sun dipped lower behind the towers.
For a time they walked in silence. Then Stallero spoke beside him, his voice switching easily into High Valyrian.
“Did you ask her about the accommodations?”
Aerion snorted softly. His reply came in the same language.
“No. That would have been… impolite.”
His mouth curled faintly.
“To ask a queen about lodgings in the middle of a courtyard full of half the castle.”
Stallero chuckled.
“Wise.”
Aerion shrugged lightly.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” he continued in High Valyrian, “or some other day.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the looming towers of the castle.
“There will be time.”
They all kept walking, and Aerion walk ahead of Stallero. That was when Orona slipped closer. Her steps were silent, graceful. She reached his side and leaned just slightly toward him, her breath warm against his ear. When she spoke, the words came in the soft, lilting cadence of Lyseni.
“My dragon… the queen wants you.”
Aerion nearly stopped walking, nearly. The words slid into his ear like warm honey. Wants you… how? He forced his stride to continue without hesitation. His expression did not change. His other companions continued forward none the wiser. But inside… His attention sharpened instantly.
Orona continued softly in Lyseni, her lips barely moving.
“I watched her carefully.”
Aerion’s violet eyes flicked sideways toward her.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was certain.
“She was taken with you.”
Aerion kept his face calm. The courtyard passed around them in torchlight and shadow.
“The way she looked at you,” Orona murmured.
“The way she lost her words.”
She gave a faint smile.
“That was not merely a queen greeting her nephew.”
Aerion inhaled slowly, then switched to High Valyrian, loud enough for Stallero to hear but not the nearby guards or servants.
“Well,” he said lightly, “why shouldn’t she be taken with me?”
Stallero glanced sideways, and Aerion flashed a dazzling smile.
“I am beautiful.”
Stallero barked a laugh, not realizing who Aerion was talking about.
“Indeed!”
Orona smiled faintly beside him.
Aerion kept walking. But inside his thoughts shifted. Did she? The queen had looked flustered, true. She had stumbled slightly over his talk of Bittersteel’s head. Her cheeks had colored when he wished her heirs. But that could have been embarrassment or simple courtly awkwardness. Orona, however, was rarely wrong when it came to such matters. Lysene girls were trained to read desire the way maesters read books. His gaze drifted briefly back toward the towers where the queen had vanished.
The queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
He was not sure whether Orona was simply flattering him; she did that sometimes. But the thought lingered, and Aerion Brightflame had always enjoyed dangerous thoughts. His smile slowly returned as they walked deeper into the castle. Ahead, the towers of the Maidenvault rose pale against the darkening sky. A pretty prison, for now.
Aerion’s mind, however, had already begun considering far more entertaining possibilities.
The Maidenvault rose pale and quiet in the evening gloom, its tall windows catching the last gray-blue light of dusk. For a place that had once held princesses under lock and prayer, it now stood hollow and still, a lonely tower behind the walls of the Red Keep, half-forgotten by most of the castle.
Aerion had expected something smaller; he had only ever seen the exterior from a distance.
The place was practically a small keep in its own right. Stone halls wound upward through several levels of chambers, galleries, and solar rooms meant to house royal daughters, septas, and their attendants long ago when King Baelor the Blessed had imprisoned his own sisters here in the name of piety. Now the tower belonged, temporarily, to a very different sort of court.
Less than a dozen people filled it. Aerion, Ser Gwayne, Stallero, Orona, and the rest of the assorted swords and girls that had followed them from Lys.
The place felt enormous. Stone corridors echoed with their footsteps as they explored the tower. Torches were lit, shutters thrown open, bedding inspected.
Aerion claimed the finest chamber immediately. It sat high in the tower: large, circular, with tall narrow windows overlooking the darkening city. The hearth was wide enough to warm the entire room, and carved shelves lined the walls where once holy books or embroidery might have rested. Ser Gwayne had informed him, somewhat reverently, that this chamber had once belonged to the sisters of Baelor themselves. Aerion had laughed.
“It has seen far too little pleasure then.”
Now night had settled fully. The tower had awakened, not with prayers but with noise. From somewhere down the corridor came the unmistakable rhythm of a bedframe slamming against stone. Another room echoed with laughter and breathless cries in a thick Lysene accent. Someone else, Stallero almost certainly, shouted something in Volantene before dissolving into drunken amusement.
Aerion himself lay stretched across the wide bed of his chamber, listening to the sounds with faint amusement.
His companions had wasted no time. The Lysene girls were insatiable creatures at the best of times, and after the long voyage across the Narrow Sea their appetites had clearly grown dangerous. A particularly enthusiastic shriek echoed through the corridor.
Aerion rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Very impressive.”
Beside him, Orona shifted softly beneath the thin silks she wore. She had already removed most of the fabric, leaving only a gauzy wrap around her hips and a loose silk drape across her shoulders. The faint glow of the hearth fire made her pale Lysene skin gleam like polished pear;. She curled lazily against his side, and her hand drifted slowly across his chest.
But Aerion barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere; far from this room, far from the Maidenvault. His mind returned again and again to the courtyard, to the sight of Aelinor Penrose beneath her veil. The slight hesitation in her voice, the color that had touched her cheeks, the moment when she had seemed… unsettled.
Aerion stared up at the dark wooden beams above the bed.
He was no fool.
He knew his place in the world: his father may be heir, but Daeron came after Maekar, not Aerion. Even after the many deaths of the Great Spring Sickness, which Aerion had been lucky enough to avoid, and the untimely deaths of Uncle Rhaegel and his cousins Aelor and Aelora, he was still too far down the long ladder of succession. Not only that, if that drunken fool Daeron had children with his Tyroshi whore of a wife, that would push Aerion even further down the line of succession. Truthfully, Aerion was not the heir, not even the spare. It felt so fucking unfair; his father was the heir, and Aerion certainly wanted to be king more than Daeron. But Maekar… Aerion knew his father did not want him to become king. Maekar had never even agreed to betroth Aerion to any of his sisters; that insult still smarted.
Respect had always come grudgingly: from his father, from the court, from the king.
Even now he had returned from exile and victory only to be treated like a troublesome guest by Bloodraven and ignored by the king, Uncle Aerys.
But a queen… a queen was something different. Aerion’s lips curled slightly. Uncle Aerys clearly had little use for her, everyone knew that. The man buried himself in scrolls and prophecies while his wife prayed for heirs that would never come.
Strange.
Aerion did not understand it. She was not young, but she was hardly unpleasant. Graceful, dignified… and lonely. That last thought lingered. Lonely women could be very interesting creatures.
Orona shifted beside him again, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
“You are quiet tonight,” she murmured softly.
Aerion blinked.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Her fingers traced idle circles against his skin.
“You are thinking.”
He smirked faintly.
“I often do.”
She lifted her head slightly to look at him. The firelight glowed in her pale eyes.
“About the queen.”
It was not a question.
Aerion glanced down at her. Then chuckled softly.
“Perhaps.”
Orona studied him for another moment.
“What kind of woman is the queen?”
Aerion stared up at the ceiling beams.
“My aunt is a perfectly serviceable queen for King Aerys,” he said after a moment.
Orona tilted her head slightly.
Aerion continued, voice oddly thoughtful.
“She was always kind to me when I was younger.”
His lips twitched faintly.
“Kinder than mine own mother sometimes.”
He let out a soft breath.
“Kinder than the wife of my uncle Baelor was, certainly. Hoary Marcher bitch.”
His eyes drifted toward the fire.
“Though not quite as warm as the one who married to my uncle Rhaegel, Lady Alys. They were always… so happy.”
Orona listened quietly. Aerion shifted slightly beneath her.
“But Aelinor is a good queen,” he said. “Pious. Dutiful.”
His voice hardened faintly.
“It is not her fault the king has never touched her.”
Orona’s fingers stilled against his chest, and Aerion spoke matter-of-factly.
“They have no children.”
His violet eyes flicked toward the window, toward the distant towers of the Red Keep.
“That is why the realm has no heirs of his body and why she was praying today at the Great Sept of Baelor.”
Orona slowly lifted herself onto one elbow. Her pale hair spilled down across his shoulder like molten silver. Her gaze studied him. Then her fingers slid beneath his chin, tilting his face slightly toward her.
“Hmm.”
Aerion glanced at her.
“What?”
Orona’s lips curved faintly.
“I watched her.”
“When?”
“In the yard.”
Her thumb brushed slowly along his jaw.
“She looked at you.”
Aerion snorted softly.
“This again?”
Orona shook her head slowly.
“No.”
Her voice dropped lower.
“She looked at you the way a starving woman looks at food.”
Aerion blinked once. Orona’s fingers traced downward along his throat.
“There was fire in her eyes,” she murmured. “Not the kind priests speak of in your hells.”
Her voice grew softer, rougher.
“An ache. A deep one.”
Aerion said nothing.
Orona shifted closer against him.
“That woman has been caged for years.”
Her fingers slid down his chest lazily.
“A husband who will not touch her. A bed that stays cold. No children.”
Her breath warmed his ear.
“That sort of hunger grows… sharp.”
She pressed her lips near his jaw as she spoke.
“I could see it in the way she breathed when you spoke to her. The way her cheeks flushed. The way she stumbled over her words.”
Aerion turned his head slightly toward her.
“You imagine things.”
Orona laughed softly, a low, knowing sound.
“No.”
Her nails dragged slowly across his skin.
“I know what a woman looks like when her body is begging to be taken.”
The fire cracked softly, and Aerion stared at her.
“She wants to be filled,” Orona whispered.
Her voice had turned thick now, almost feral.
“That queen is burning inside. She wants a man between her legs. She wants a belly swollen with babes before her womb rots away.”
Her eyes gleamed in the firelight.
“And today she saw a handsome young dragon prince standing before her.”
Aerion’s pulse quickened despite himself. Orona leaned closer to him.
“She wants you.”
Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose.
“You are very confident.”
“I am Lyseni.”
Her smile widened.
“We are taught to see hunger. It is said that the gods punish those who deny their own desires.”
Her fingers slid slowly across his abdomen.
“Perhaps you should help her.”
Aerion frowned.
“Help her?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was a velvet purr now.
“If the king will not mount his queen… someone must.”
Aerion’s eyes snapped toward her. Orona held his gaze calmly.
“Imagine it.”
Her hand pressed against his chest.
“You take her. You give her what her husband refuses.”
Her lips curved slowly.
“You shame the king. You shame Lord Rivers.”
Her fingers tightened slightly.
“And when her belly swells…”
She leaned close enough that her breath brushed his mouth.
“…the realm will believe the gods answered her prayers.”
Aerion’s heart thudded harder. Orona’s voice fell to a whisper.
“A prince of your dragon blood. A child who could sit the Iron Throne one day.”
Silence swallowed the room. Only the crackle of the fire remained. Aerion sat very still. The idea exploded through his mind like dragonfire. Madness, this was treacherous, reckless madness. Yet… His blood burned. He imagined the queen beneath her veil. Her pale throat. Her flushed cheeks. Her quiet prayer for heirs.
Orona watched the realization bloom across his face.
“Well?” she murmured.
Aerion slowly sat upright.
His pulse thundered in his ears. The idea was obscene, dangerous, a path that could end with his head on a spike. But the thrill of it, the sheer audacity… it sent heat rushing through him. The chamber in the Maidenvault had grown positively thick with heat. The fire had burned low, leaving the room painted in slow orange shadows. Somewhere deeper in the tower the sounds of Aerion’s companions continued, but here the noise had faded into something tighter, closer.
Prince Aerion Targaryen sat upright on the broad bed, the firelight cutting sharp planes across his face. His violet eyes glittered with restless thought. Across his lap sprawled Orona, her pale Lysene skin glowing softly beneath the thin silk that clung to her like mist. She watched him the way a hunter watches a beast deciding whether to bite.
Aerion’s thoughts still churned with the idea she had planted. His jaw flexed.
“Keep talking,” he said.
Before she could answer he leaned forward suddenly and sank his teeth into the soft curve of her shoulder. Not gently, but sharp, claiming, like a dragon snapping its jaws around prey.
Orona gasped sharply.
“Ah-”
His teeth held there a moment before he released her, leaving a dark red mark blooming across her pale skin.
Aerion leaned back slightly.
“Go on,” he said.
Orona inhaled slowly, chest rising and falling. Then she laughed softly; a rough, pleased sound. Aerion said nothing. His gaze burned, and the Lysene girl licked her lips.
“Your queen,” she murmured, voice thick with mischief, “is like an old she-dragon locked in a cave too long.”
Aerion’s brow twitched slightly with interest: dragons. Orona’s smile grew sharper.
“No mate.”
“No eggs.”
“No young crawling around her feet.”
Her fingers dragged down his chest slowly.
“Just years and years of lying in a cold bed while her useless husband plays with dusty scrolls.”
Aerion huffed softly through his nose.
Orona leaned closer, voice rougher now.
“That woman is starving.”
Her nails pressed lightly into his skin.
“Not for prayers.”
An evil smile spread across Orona’s face.
“For a cock.”
Aerion’s lips curled faintly. Orona continued, her tone turning crude and feral.
“She wants to feel something big and hot between her legs before she dries up and turns to bones.”
The fire cracked softly.
Orona’s eyes gleamed.
“She wants her belly filled.”
Her fingers slid across his abdomen.
“Filled with seed. Filled with babes.”
Aerion’s pulse quickened despite himself. Orona pressed closer against him.
“And then she sees you.”
Her voice dropped to a low growl.
“A young dragon. Strong. Hard.”
Her hand slid down his torso slowly.
“Brightflame.”
Aerion’s breath deepened. Orona grinned wickedly.
“You stride into the yard like you own the sky, and suddenly the poor she-dragon remembers what a real man looks like.”
Aerion snorted faintly. Orona’s voice grew hotter.
“She wants to spread her legs and let you take her.”
The words were blunt, animal.
“And why shouldn’t she?”
Her fingers tightened against him.
“If the king won’t fuck his own queen, someone ought to.”
Aerion’s eyes burned brighter. Orona leaned close enough that her lips brushed his ear.
“Think about it.”
Her whisper was raw.
“You shove that pretty queen down on her back. You pound her until she screams. You fill her up so deep she swells with dragon eggs.”
Aerion’s hand tightened slightly against her waist. Orona laughed softly.
“Then what?”
Her voice dropped again.
“Will your king stand in court and tell the realm he cannot get his own wife with child?”
Aerion barked a short laugh.
“No. Of course not.”
Her grin widened.
“He’ll bow his head and thank the gods for the miracle.”
“And Bloodraven?”
She snorted.
“What can that pale man do? Tell the world his king’s seed is dust?”
Aerion’s breathing had grown heavier now. Orona leaned over him slightly.
“And when the queen’s belly swells…”
Her nails scraped lightly across his chest.
“Everyone will celebrate. A prince or a princess. Silver hair. Violet eyes. Dragon blood.”
Her eyes locked with his.
“Your dragon.”
Aerion leaned forward suddenly again and bit into the side of her neck. Harder this time, restless. Orona hissed softly in delight. When he released her she laughed breathlessly.
“Yes,” she murmured. “That’s the spirit.”
She settled back against him, still smiling.
“I wonder what she looks like under all that cloth.”
Aerion grunted. Orona continued lazily.
“Pale? Soft? Pretty breasts hidden under velvet?”
Her fingers drifted again across his chest.
“Would you enjoy taking her slow… or just throwing her onto the bed and fucking her from behind like a dragon ought to?”
Aerion didn’t hesitate. A rough sound escaped him.
“Yes.”
Orona raised an eyebrow.
“All of it?”
Aerion’s smile stretched wide, dangerous, hungry.
“Yes.”
Then, they began.
The fire in the hearth had burned low by the time the storm between them finally quieted. For nearly an hour the chamber had echoed with breath and movement; Orona’s laughter turning to gasps, Aerion’s low growls answering them, the two of them tangled across the bed like fighting animals. Silk had been pushed aside, teeth had left small marks across pale skin, nails had raked lightly across shoulders and back. The tower itself seemed to pulse with the same energy; distant cries and muffled laughter drifted faintly up the spiral stair from the other chambers of the Maidenvault. But eventually even that frenzy spent itself.
Now the chamber was quiet again.
Orona lay sprawled across the covers where she had collapsed afterward, her pale Lysene hair fanned across the pillow like spilled silver. She had not bothered with clothing again; the thin silks she had worn earlier lay discarded somewhere on the floor beside the bed. Her breathing had settled into the slow rhythm of sleep. One arm rested lazily across the mattress, fingers curled loosely. Her small pale breasts were exposed for all to see, rising and falling slowly as she came down from her earlier high.
Aerion lay beside her, though now beneath the covers, staring up at the ceiling beams again. His body was tired, but his mind was not.
The firelight flickered across the stone walls and danced across the carved shelves that lined the chamber. Once, long ago, pious princesses had slept here. Aerion snorted faintly at the thought.
Those same walls had seen far less innocent things as well.
His gaze drifted slowly around the room. This chamber had history. Not merely the history of Baelor’s imprisoned sisters. A different memory rose in his mind. Another prince. Another scandal whispered through the halls of the Red Keep.
Aegon IV Targaryen.
The man the realm would one day call Aegon the Unworthy. And the woman… Daena Targaryen, the wild princess.
Aerion turned slightly onto one elbow, staring toward the hearth.
It had happened here, in this very keep. After King Baelor had imprisoned his sisters in the Maidenvault in his mad devotion to the Faith of the Seven, after he had annulled his marriage to Daena and left her cloistered like some unwanted relic, Aegon had still found his way here, into this tower, into Daena’s bed. He had given the fucking she had wanted, the child Baelor had refused her.
The result had been Daemon Blackfyre.
Aerion exhaled slowly.
The consequences of that single night had torn the realm apart for generations. Rebellion, bloodshed, a sword named Blackfyre carried across battlefields by traitors and kings. Complete disaster.
Yet…
Aerion’s lips twitched faintly.
Aegon had never truly been punished for it. Not really. He had gone on to sit the Iron Throne himself. He had ruled the Seven Kingdoms.
And his bloodline, Aerion’s gaze hardened slightly, that bloodline had produced Prince Maekar. And Prince Maekar had produced him. Aegon the Unworthy was his great-grandfather. History had not destroyed him. History had crowned him. Aerion’s fingers drummed lightly against the blanket.
Across the bed Orona shifted faintly in her sleep, murmuring something soft in Lyseni before settling again. Aerion barely noticed. His thoughts had turned back to the courtyard, to the queen, to the faint flush that had touched Aelinor Penrose’s pale cheeks, to her quiet admission.
I pray for an heir.
King Aerys would never give her one. Whether from disinterest, weakness, or something stranger, the king had left his queen’s field fallow for years. Aerion’s mouth tightened slightly. That was not merely a private failing. It was disrespect. Disrespect to his house. Disrespect to the blood of House Targaryen itself. A king without heirs weakened the realm. A queen left untouched invited whispers.
Aerion stared into the dying embers of the hearth.
Perhaps the gods required a correction.
The thought slid through his mind smoothly now: not shocking, not impossible. Merely… necessary. If the king would not give the realm heirs… then perhaps another dragon should.
Aerion leaned back against the pillows, staring up into the darkness above.
Somewhere deep in Maegor’s Holdfast, the queen slept in her chambers as the king read scrolls and pondered prophecies.
Somewhere else the pale Hand watched the realm through his endless web of spies.
And here, in the Maidenvault… Aerion Brightflame began quietly convincing himself that what he was considering was not treason.
It was duty.