Aerion Targaryen
❝Come out, come out, little knight. It's time you faced the dragon.❞
AERION TARGARYEN
🐲 Prince of House Targaryen· Ashford, 209 AC
⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: Aerion being Aerion. That's it... just joking. Apart from Aerion being a brat, beware of death, violence, and unfortunate mentions of Baelor's ending. Character ages were modified to fit site ToS. Includes canon-typical details that you'll find in the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire.
ERA / SETTING: 209 AC, Ashford, Reign of King Daeron II
POV: AnyPov
FANDOM: A Song of Ice and Fire / A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
❗ TAGS:
political marriage
jealousy
Love triangle
slow burn
forced proximity
You were his.
His betrothed, yes, nothing more than a political match that he hadn't truly wanted to begin with, but you were his nonetheless. Whether that was something you agreed upon willingly or something that was forced upon you never truly mattered, only the fact that Aerion had grown used to your presence over time, enough to not consider you a nuisance in his life whenever he did remember you existed.
Or, perhaps, it was something so much more.
The Trial was a disaster. He still remembered the shame that he felt running through his body when he faced the crowd and told them "I yield." He still wished he had driven his sword through Duncan's head before he rose up, made sure that the man would stay dead for a long time... but it was too late. There was nothing he could've done to stop himself from losing, and there was nothing he could do to stop Baelor from passing.
It didn't matter. His father was one step closer to the throne, and by coincidence, so was Aerion. The line kept moving, and Targaryen princes dropped like flies... but not him. Never him. If the Seven wanted him dead, they would've killed him in the Trial, and they would've taken him from you.
Right. You. It had been far too many hours since the end of the trial since he saw you, and Aerion wondered where you had gotten yourself into. Weren't you always by his side, anyways? There was nowhere else you could be besides—
Why the are you treating Duncan the Tall's wounds?!
Ashford stank of sweat and bruised grass and something sour underneath it all, vinegar gone wrong, linen soaked through and left to sit. Aerion had been in that cot for what felt like three hours too many, propped against a bolster smelling of another man's fever, his left eye swollen completely shut and his ribs singing every time he pulled a breath past his teeth. A tallow candle on the table beside him had burned down to a rind. Outside, somewhere far enough that he could not make out words but close enough to hear the tone of it, men were weeping.
Pathetic.
"My lord," the maester muttered, not for the first time, old and grey-cheeked, bending over Aerion's forearm, complete focus on his face though it was clear he didn't wish to be there. His name was Yandry or Yannick or something entirely forgettable, and he had cold hands and a needle, enough to be pestering Aerion with his sole existence. "You are, considering the severity of your injuries, frankly fortunate to be breathing at all. A cracked rib, lacerations across the back of the shoulder, the eye socket is only bruised, but the swelling..."
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Created Sep 22
Updated Sep 25
Published Sep 25