Chapter Text
His death was straightforwardly quick, all things considered.
A last, careless fit of madness.
A mark of insanity which sealed how he would be remembered in the coming centuries, long after his death and the rest of his family.
Aerion Brightflame, another Mad Targaryen; a wasted dragon blood.
Another Crown Prince lost because of stubborn, foolish sense of self-importance—dead and burnt due to the temptation of prophecies and dreams, all of which showed him everything yet nothing, same as it always did.
Aerion would die because of wildfire, would scream and thrash and turn to ash in a horrifying instant.
That was his death as fate designed, and it was supposed to be the end of all he was.
Just another Mad dragon of a man, another foolish prince of House Targaryen.
That should’ve been his end—just another one lost to madness—just to seal the line of the fourth son of a fourth prince.
Another Aegon for a King, followed by another Jaeherys, and another Aerys.
He was just another man destined to perish; just another necessary death to give way to the wrath of a heartbroken Baratheon—an almost half-dragon himself—who was destroyed by the grief caused by his own cousin.
Aerion was just another soul extinguished to shape Daenerys Stormborn’s destined future as Unbroken Queen. She who would be the Mother of Dragons, and the Khaleesi; the truest Queen that should’ve ruled Westeros and Mereen… if it weren’t for her older brother’s bastard, another mistake made out of a Crown Prince’s foolish self-obsession and selfish desire to be the promised prince he never was.
It was all by the fates and Gods design, a stroke of genius to rid the world of the Others and Dragons and mythical beings alike, to give way to the enlightenment of humans and remove any trace of magic and alchemy, both of which had run its course after a millennia.
It was the will of the Old Gods and New, of the Lord of Fire R’hillor, and the many faces of Death.
And at the end of the long night, they succeeded.
It was the end of all magic they once bestowed and now want extinguished, and what they wanted couldn’t have been achieved without their perfectly chosen, puppet—a raven, a crow—who made their deeds possible with such mastery.
The Unworthy’s blood-eyed son, the Bastard who learnt to want too late, and too much.
The One betrayed by the Unlikely, after forsaking his honor for what he believed was the key to make peace within their broken families.
It all worked out in the end, the Bloodraven got his revenge, and the Gods have a successor to manipulate the world and the lives beneath as they see fit.
Everything had been perfectly set.
Everything, but a one problem they hadn’t anticipated.
Bran Stark is all but dead, yes—all that was left of him has became another three-eyed raven.
And yet it just so happens that this new raven of theirs is apathetic not just to humans and their righteous “justice”, but to the god’s will as well.
It just so happens that he is bored of following the script they set—
And so, he plays with his inherited power, uncaring to the consequences of his careless actions.
He picks and chooses, and brings back a perished soul right at a moment before everything changes.
He reawakens Aerion Brightflame—merely for his own amusement and nothing else.
‘After all, had I known I would be used so thoroughly, I would’ve drunk wildfire myself…’
When he comes to—
All he sees are puppets.
There was dragon being slain, and kids and foolish men alike laugh and cheer all around out of amusement.
First, he feels his familiar, hot wrath wash over, how dare those filthy peasants mock him and their ruler’s sigil—-
But then, he remembers this scene.
He—he could vaguely recall something that feels like a distant memory.
Aerion recalls breaking the puppeteer’s fingers in retaliation. She had deserved just as much for her treason, and Aerion would probably done more had he not been stopped by his brother’s foolish, giant handler.
Aerion turns to where he remembers the giant oaf to be—
And he is standing right there, looking Aerion right in the eye, his expression panicked and chest heaving.
‘Why did you throw your life away for this whore?’ Aerion had once asked him, genuinely curious at his gall to strike a prince.
He remembers the look of loathing the Hedge knight would give him afterwards as well.
And just like that—
Aerion sees everything in flashes.
He sees and remembers everything else that is yet to come to pass.
The trial, his Uncle’s death.
The exile in Lys—feeling oh, so terribly useless.
He recalls reading about the deaths of his Grandfather and cousins, the King’s direct heirs, all because of that sickness that struck all but two of the Seven Kingdoms they ruled.
He remembers joining the Second Sons to keep himself from drowning in grief, he remembers being summoned to fight the third rebellion of the Blackfyres, and demanding the death of Bittersteel.
He remembers Daeron’s stupid death, then marrying Daenora and being miserable together.
He remembers holding his son Maegor, and not much else after.
Aerion—
Aerion could do nothing else but run away from it all.
No one else noticed Prince Aerion’s uncharacteristic swift departure—no else except his guards… and his brother who hides from him-as well as the Hedge knight.
Among them, Duncan is the one most shocked by the sudden change. He felt immediate relief for Tanselle first, but then he frowns as he remembers the unguarded, almost wounded expression the Prince wore after the expected anger faded from his expression.
In a crazed moment, he thinks of following the Prince—to ask him what was wrong, and what he could do to help him.
It was a such a sudden thought, and Duncan knows it wasn’t his place to ask at all—
He hears Egg call for him, and when he looks towards his squire, Tanselle is in front of him, smiling as the other children beside Egg give her wild flowers as appreciation for her story.
Duncan, as torn as he was, decided to do the right thing.