Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

✶

Aerion Targaryen should not know defeat, for the dragon ought never lose, and yet, when he is forced to yield, humiliation is all he can feel, burning hot, scorching him from the inside. 

There is no blessing in having been spared from death. 

It should have been death, because in death there is honor and pride, but Duncan the Tall does not let him die. He drags him through the mud, forces him to look up at those nobles’ faces and admit defeat, with his sigil right there, for everyone to see and realize how weak a dragon must be. Believe that if Aerion Targaryen lost to a hedge knight, then there is a reason dragons are not among men anymore.

What humiliates Aerion the most, though, is not the defeat, but what comes after, not from Duncan the Tall, but from his own kin. 

Aerion tastes the betrayal directly from his Father’s words.

“Exile in Lys or the claim of an Alpha’s mark.”

Aerion scoffs, because he would not choose either, but he knows the reason his Father has given him only those two choices. 

Lys would mean being sent so far away from everyone and everything that in the end, no one would remember Aerion Targaryen and the humiliation suffered at the Trial of Seven in Ashford. The other choice, letting an Alpha claim Aerion with a bitemark, would be what everyone has always believed Aerion needs. An Alpha’s mark to make him docile, to erase his madness and mold him into the perfect Omega, obedient, pliant, submissive, to make him fit into a role he does not want. Though, the madness will not suddenly go away with a mark on his neck, it will not calm his mind and control him.

Aerion knows what could be best for him, that Lys will be a place where he could find some peace, but he does not want it. Aerion does not want peace, he does not want to be seen as weak, as an Omega that accepted his fate and let himself be relegated somewhere far away once proven to be defective and useless. Aerion does not want to be looked down on, to be stomped on, so he chooses the worst outcome for himself, the one that will make him even stronger. He chooses the chains because he is a dragon that no one wants to see soaring into the skies, all too scared to set him free. He chooses the bitemark only because when it will be the right time, he will prove to them that he was always meant for the skies.

When his Father tells Aerion which Alpha he chose, the betrayal becomes a viper’s venom.

“Ser Duncan the Tall will be your Alpha,” his Father says, resolute, a tone of voice that does not accept any kind of fight.

“No,” Aerion whispers, mostly to himself rather than to his Father. “He is not worthy of my blood.”

Aerion is dragonblood, he is a Targaryen born from dragonfire and he cannot let a man as unworthy as Duncan the Tall become his Alpha, claim a mark on him and be free to parade Aerion around as if he was meant to that claim by birthright and bloodright.

“You did this to yourself, my son,” his Father reminds him. The words sting, like a knife to his throat, and a part of himself wishes his Father would not force him to choose, that he would welcome him back with open arms, with the same kind of care he had in his voice when he shouted for Aerion on the battlefield. But Aerion knows he has disappointed him, that no matter how much he tries, it will never be enough. His Father cannot keep trying to cover for him, to pretend his wrongdoings are not so heavy and shameful for the name of the family. 

“If you do not want Ser Duncan as your Alpha, then I will arrange for you to travel to Lys.”

Since the moment Aerion yielded, the humiliation has not left him for a moment, following him in the same way glances and whispered words have followed him everywhere he goes, and right there, with his Father’s eyes on him and his future looming on his head, he feels the humiliation choking him, like a snake wrapping around his neck.

He does not answer his Father before he leaves and his Father does not arrange a carriage for him to travel to Lys. 

Aerion is aware he has signed his own curse, so he will make sure for Duncan the Tall to feel cursed as well.

✶

The journey to King’s Landing feels endless and Aerion is forced to travel with not only his brothers, but also Duncan the Tall, all riding alongside his carriage. He cannot ride yet, due to the injuries, so he is left sitting on wood that is too hard and surrounded by bodies and scents he does not want any close.

Daeron is holding a flask that must contain everything but water, if the way he keeps swaying on the horse means something. It is nothing new, though, and Aerion does not remember when it was the last time he saw his brother not intoxicated by wine. Everyone loves to talk about Aerion’s madness, the way it makes him cruel and evil, but no one ever dares to say Daeron suffers from a similar kind of madness. Aegon, too. It is madness, in all of them, only different in the way it shows itself. It makes Aerion a monster, Daeron a drunkard and Aegon avoidant, a little runner and a liar. There is something wrong with them, Aerion is not so gullible to think there is not, but it is like they can see it only in Aerion. Perhaps, being born an Omega, the only one among his siblings, marked him from birth, marked him as the weakest link in the family, meant to be scrutinised and treated as something less. 

His Mother was an Omega too, Aerion does not remember much about her, but he thinks the madness started some time after her death, or perhaps it just came with age. The memories of her are scarce, as if they have been forcefully erased from his mind, but he thinks he will never forget the way she used to talk to him. He does not remember the words, but he will never forget her tone, the kindness and the care. Something he has not received once again after her death, not even from his Father. Aerion does not believe his Father never loved him, because he did, in his own way, Aerion knows his Father loved him, but it was just not the same and his Father did not have any gentle words nor warm hands for him. 

Though, at some point he cannot remember, his Father stopped loving him, along with the rest of his family and Aerion was only loved by the dragon within himself.

After his Mother’s death, the madness was all he had, a familiar presence that never left him alone, that was always there, even in the darkest nights, so Aerion does not believe it will suddenly go away. Not with a bite bruised into his skin and not with the claim of an Alpha. The madness stayed with him when no one else did, when he was alone in his chambers and all he could smell was his own scent, craving for something he could not give a name to. It was there with him when the first fever came and he did not want anyone by his side, disgusted by the mere thought of someone having the power to control him in such a vile way. The madness was always there, a place in which he could hide himself, in which no one could have reached him. Duncan the Tall will not eradicate the madness from him, because it is engraved in Aerion, it is a part of him, and the only way would be cutting it away from him in the same way a blackened limb is cut away from the body.

Aerion does not know why Duncan the Tall accepted to become his Alpha and he does not wish to know, since it would mean Aerion had to speak to him, but a treacherous part of him wonders. He was born poor and useless, then became a hedge knight, guided by the road, the trees and the stars, so Aerion does not understand why he would want to imprison himself inside a castle made of stone, willing to suffocate himself in chambers too small compared to the vastness of nature. It certainly is not to become Aerion’s Alpha, no noble or knight has ever shown interest in becoming Aerion Targaryen’s Alpha. Monstrous, cruel, lunatic, mad, Aerion has heard it all, and even if he is considered a beautiful Omega, it is still not enough to doom their life. What would they make of beauty when their Omega would be plotting a way to kill them in their bed.

So, Aerion does not understand. The Trial of Seven gave him glory, the recognition as a fine knight he was looking for, a name for himself that will not be forgotten in a long time. The Trial made him a true knight, one no one would laugh at, and yet, he still chose to become Aerion’s Alpha, to abandon the greatness he would acquire only by travelling through the Seven Kingdoms. 

Duncan the Tall chose to become his Alpha and since the moment the Trial was called to an end, he has not looked at Aerion once, not even by mistake. It infuriates him to no end, the courtness, the politeness, the pure-heartness, because Duncan the Tall does not need any of it. He could be a beast, feral and frightening, and no one would speak ill of him, everyone would sing his praises and wish to never face him in a duel or a fight, and yet, he is nothing of that. He slouches his shoulders and makes himself appear smaller than he is, as if what matters the most is to slip by unnoticed.

Aerion despises him like he has despised a few things in his life. 

He wishes he had killed Aerion in the Trial, that he had used his own shield to bash his head in, to make him bleed to death and get even more glory for killing a Targaryen in a fair trial, especially one as hated and mad as Aerion Targaryen. Instead, he is riding on his horse right alongside Aerion, not looking at him, not speaking to him, as if he could be above Aerion only because he defeated him, not once, but twice, first in the Trail and then the moment he accepted to become his Alpha.

Aerion should have died, it would have been kinder than what is expecting him in King’s Landing.

✶

No one tries to sneak glances at him when he walks the hallways of the Red Keep to get to his chambers, even if they all must be curious to get a look of the defeated princeling, scars and bruises on his face, soon to be bonded to the same Alpha that forced him down into the mud and ordered him to yield.

As other times in his life, Aerion wishes the dragon inside himself would come out and use its fire to make all the eyes and the whispers disappear, to let him stand in the fire and rejoice in the silence that fills the air once everything has turned to ashes. Aerion has read about it, about the dragons and their fire, the way nothing would survive beside a dragonborn. He also has dreamt about it various times, but he still has not found a way to make it happen. He does not have the fire to make everyone disappear, but he has the privacy of his chambers, and even if it may seem a coward’s act to hide away, Aerion does not concern with what his family, the servants or the guards might think. 

With a heavy thud, he closes the doors behind his back and only then, only when he is certain no one can see or hear him, does he let himself cry. The tears sting on his face and no matter how hard he tries to lock his jaw in place, not to make any sound, he still cannot keep the sobs caged in his chest. He is not weak, he cannot be weak, he is a dragon, he is Aerion Targaryen, first Brightflame, and yet, he cannot stop the tears and the way they make him crumple down on the floor, shoulders shaking and chest heaving.

You are weak, the voice says. You lost against a man that touched you, that dared to defile your blood, that believes to be a better person than you. Sometimes, Aerion thinks it is the dragon inside himself, that it speaks to him to make him stronger, but others, when it makes him feel like he is once again the child that lost his Mother to death and had no one to dry the tears from his cheeks and clean the cuts on his palms and knees, he does not think it is the dragon. The dragon is meant to protect him, whilst the voice only hurts him.

He has to put an end to the tears, but the more they fall down his face, the less he can control them. His chest seems like it is going to fracture into two clean parts, despair and agony is all he can feel. 

Aerion does not want a bite on his neck, ugly and repulsive, and even if he would never admit it to a soul, he is scared. He does not want the madness to go away, a part of him, influenced by what everyone believes, thinks the bite might kill it, but the madness is all he knows and if it goes away, then he will be truly alone.

I

There is a sort of quietness in his chambers that Aerion knows he would not find anywhere else and it is why he stays there most of the time. His Father prohibited him from training with any kind of weapon and they are too scared to let him out of the Red Keep, in case he would just run away and disappear. He would not do that, when he is thinking clearly and there is no fog in his mind, he knows he would never run away, but sometimes, when the voice that stays in the back of his head becomes louder, he finds entertaining himself with the idea. 

Run, it says, as a song that keeps repeating itself. Run away and be free, you are meant to be a dragon, a ruler of the skies. Wreak havoc with your fire so that no one will control you.

Aerion does not know where he would go. If he ran away, he would have to hide himself, to cut his hair the same way Aegon did and pretend to be a lowlife from Flea Bottom, perhaps. Aerion does not want to run away, because it would mean admitting his weakness, admitting he is not able to bear what is placed in front of him, but the thought still does not leave him. It is like a parasite, he does not want it, but it stays there against his will. Aerion does not know where it comes from, it is not him, not Aerion Targaryen, because he does not want to run away, even if the voice promises him freedom. Yet, there is something inside himself that recoils at the thought of bonding with an Alpha, that would prefer running away and being deemed weak instead of submitting to an Alpha. 

Growing up, presenting as an Omega, Aerion was never a fool, he knew that at some point his Father would have found an Alpha for him. It was expected of him to be mated with an Alpha. No matter how much Aerion despised the idea, how much he made sure no Alpha showed interest in him, always presenting himself as a troubled and unruly Omega, he still knew it could not have worked forever, that in the end, his Father would have found an Alpha willing to mate him, to put a claim on an Omega considered too much of everything. Too mad to control, too cruel to think one day he could give birth to a child and care for them, too monstrous to have a heart.

Though, Aerion never thought the Alpha could have been someone like Duncan the Tall. He expected a highborn, perhaps someone that needed to restore his name and the best option, probably the only one he had was to mate Aerion Targaryen. He did not think his Father would have been so careless, that he would have been fine with any Alpha, as long as the Alpha accepted. Aerion does not want to think it is his Father’s way to punish him, but it is hard to think it could be a reward, that it could be better than the other option, than being sent so far away in the Free Cities and pretend he never existed, no longer a Targaryen fit to live with his own family.

Aerion does not need someone to tell him, he already knows his Father wishes he was different, he can see it in the way he looks at him, disappointed and resigned, or in the way he speaks to him, as if he is forced to, irritated most of the time, as if he would avoid speaking to him if he could choose. Perhaps, his Father wishes he was like Valarr, but Aerion does not know how to be different, how not to be mad. A part of himself does not want to, he does not want to be docile, to bare his neck and keep his mouth shut. He does not want to be looked down on, to be seen as a mere Omega, too weak to fight, too weak to be a true Targaryen. Aerion is a dragon, it is in his blood, and being an Omega would never change that. Though, another part of him, another he tries to pretend it does not exist, craves for his Father’s attention, for his acceptance and respect, for the unconditional love a Father should have for a son.

Aerion does not understand his Father’s choice, beside believing the bite could be something that will control him, and since Aerion will not run away, no matter what the voice in his head tells him when it is quiet and dark in his chambers, he must understand what kind of Alpha Duncan the Tall is, understand how to not let him control Aerion.

It is the reason Aerion finds himself hiding like a rat behind a stone pillar in the open hallway that faces the yard from above, spying on Duncan the Tall and his brother Aegon, as if it is not his right to be there and watch, but Aerion does not want to be seen.

Aegon is holding a sword that looks too heavy and too big for him, surely Duncan the Tall’s, and he is trailing behind the man, who is positioning a straw man used for sword fighting. When he turns around and sees Aegon with his sword, he just laughs under his breath. 

“Not with this, lad,” he tells Aegon, amused, “go get the wooden swords.”

Aegon protests, but then he does as he is told, which is uncommon, considering Aegon never does what he is told, instead, he always does the exact opposite.

Aerion watches them train with the swords, which is kind of a mess because Duncan the Tall does not have any kind of technique when it comes to fighting with a sword. He does not know how to be agile, quick and light on his feet, but after all, it is not like he needs it. For a man as big as him, being deft and fast is not important, it is not what he needs in a fight to remain alive because his body makes up for everything else that he lacks. Aerion spent most of his life training with the finest masters-at-arms and knights, he is fast and agile, he has tactics when he fights, and yet, he was still defeated by that man, who just sways his sword around hoping it strikes with enough force to obliterate the opponent.

Though, what surprises Aerion is the patience he has. He does not get angry at Aegon, no matter what his brother does, not even when he suggests to start using axes because wooden swords are just not the same. Aerion never dared to go against what his masters said, aware that for everything he did wrong there was a kind of punishment that matched the level of mistake he made. It was all again, faster, get perfect, be lighter on your feet, you are an Omega so you are weaker—Duncan the Tall is none of that, he does not reprimand Aegon, at least not with seriousness in his voice, he does not hit him for his mistakes, and a few times, they even laugh together at something foolish Aegon did or said. 

It is totally different from what Aerion is used to and for a moment, he does not know what he should think about Duncan the Tall’s ways. They are not proper, not like a knight should teach his squire, and yet, it is the first time Aerion sees his brother listening to each word said to him and doing everything he is ordered to. Aegon has always been a little terror, since he was old enough to walk he was always running away from the masters and scholars, so it is a wonder Aegon is still there on the yard, not having tried to run away once, not giving Duncan the Tall any kind of grief.

It does not say much about the Alpha he is, and even if he is not cruel to Aegon, not like Aerion has been various times, it still does not mean he could not be the kind of Alpha that abuses his Omega and controls him in every aspect of his life. Aerion truly does not know what to think, so he tells himself he should come back and watch them, merely to understand and study the Alpha. 

It is not like he has something much better to do.

✶

Aerion keeps watching Duncan the Tall training Aegon, but nothing ever changes. He never gets truly angry, he never hits Aegon, he talks to Aegon as if they are equals, as if Aegon is not a child. 

It does not make sense. 

Duncan the Tall does not make sense and Aerion’s despise for him grows even more with each passing day, mostly because he cannot find any flaw in him, besides having terrible expertise when it comes to swordfighting. He is not full of himself, he is extremely kind and does not use his status as an Alpha to impose himself. He is protective of Aegon when their cousins are on the yard to train too and nip at Aegon for the way he holds a sword or for the way he is growing too slowly. After, Duncan the Tall is always ready to reassure Aegon when he turns to him, big eyes looking up at him, asking for the confirmation he needs that he will become a fine swordmaster.

Duncan the Tall is everything Aerion is not and it makes something within himself fiercely burn with hatred.

✶

The day his Father calls for him, a deep sense of dread fills his entire body because Aerion knows what it means, what his Father could want from him.

It is the reason he is not surprised to hear him saying, “The mating cannot be delayed any further.” 

It has been looming on his head since the moment they came back to King’s Landing, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself there was still time, now he knows his doom has come, that there is no escaping anymore.

“It has to happen soon, my son, or it will look as if your behavior is going unpunished.”

Aerion is certain he did nothing wrong, that puppeteer was mocking the dragons, she was mocking him, he had every right to do that, and if it had not been for Duncan the Tall, he would have broken more than just one finger. But his Father, even if he still fought alongside him, does not believe it was in his right, he believes it was just Aerion’s cruelty, hence the punishment.

“You know it will not eradicate what you think is wrong with me,” he speaks out loud, perhaps for the first time ever about his madness. Everyone loves to talk about it, his brothers and cousins, servants, guards, lords, smallfolk, but never his Father. He has never truly acknowledged it, as if it could not have existed if he did not speak about it.

His Father looks at him, composed, a true Targaryen, and only shakes his head. That hurts more than any word he could have ever said. The resignation that there is nothing else to do, that Aerion is a lost cause, not someone worth fighting for, hurts him right to his core. The back of his eyes sting, but he will never cry in front of his Father, so he grinds his teeth together and closes his hands into fists until his nails dig deep into his skin.

“It will happen on the Waning Moon,” his Father informs him then, as if it is a mercy he is offering him, and as an afterthought, he adds, “may it bring quiet in your life.”

Aerion does not need quiet. He has dragonblood in his veins, he has fire in his body, he is meant to fight for the rest of life.

A dragon cannot be tamed.

II

The servants dress him with regal omegan robes, black and red, but they do not let him wear his sigil, neither something that would remind everyone else he is a dragon. Aerion despises the robes. He wants to rip them to shreds, to claw at them and wear his armor, but they do not leave him alone, not even for a moment, perhaps aware that he would ruin his robes just to spite his Father and his Alpha.

Of course, since it has to be his punishment, the mating ceremony will be kept in front of the whole court, of highborns and lords, for hungry eyes to feast on him and rejoice in his misery.

When he dares to send a glance at his own reflection, Run, the voice tells him, louder than ever. 

Run, run, run, run—

Once it is time, they make him march from the doors to the Iron Throne, for everyone to see, gawk at him, laugh at him behind concealing hands, mock him with their sly smiles and gestures, eyes full of mirth.

Aerion keeps his chin high and his back straight because everyone already believes him to be weak, defeated by a hedge knight no one knew of, made a shell of a feared dragon, so he does not need to give them another reason to think of him as the weakest Targaryen. The humiliation and shame burn the brightest inside his body, and while he walks to his doom, he keeps thinking about himself back at Ashford Meadow, dead in the mud, armor cracked. It is a much more honorable vision than what he is being forced to do.

Duncan the Tall is waiting for him at the end of the stairs, in front of the Iron Throne, dressed in the finest armor they could find for his size. Aerion barely looks at him. He keeps his face stoic, not showing any kind of emotions. He will not let them find any weakness on his face.

The ceremony is too long and Aerion does not listen to a word it is said, he keeps his gaze fixed on the stone wall behind Duncan the Tall’s shoulder and does not dare to glance away, to look at anything else.

The voice keeps screaming at him—

Run, run, run, run, run—

Aerion knows he would not have a chance to escape if he tried. There are too many guards, too many lords and knights, and even if he was able to hide a dagger inside his boot, it would be nothing against swords and spears. It would not be an honorable death, not while trying to escape the ceremony of his own mating.

Throughout the whole ceremony, Aerion can feel everyone’s eyes burn through his entire body, ready to catch each of his movements and shift of expression on his face. He can feel his Father’s eyes on him, his brothers’, his cousins’, all the eyes present, pleased to see Aerion Targaryen defeated in more ways than one, to see him finally submit to an Alpha, not just any Alpha, but the one that humiliated him the most.

As tradition goes, the Omega’s Father has to take the neck guard off as a sign of permission for the Alpha to lay his claim with the bitemark. Aerion does not look at his Father’s face when he gets close to unlatch the guard from his neck, he keeps his eyes trained on the wall and does not flinch when the skin of his neck is met with the cold air. 

Aerion avoids Duncan the Tall’s face and eyes, too, once he steps closer. Aerion knows it is custom for the Omega to present his neck, to bare his glands to his Alpha, but Aerion does not do it. He does not move, even if he is aware it is a foolish act of rebellion that will not change anything, only make his Father angry, but he still does not present himself willingly to be marked.

It is made even more difficult for Duncan the Tall due to his height, the fact Aerion does not bare his neck to him means he has to lower himself down even more than necessary, which goes against what it is considered tradition. Aerion should be the one to mold his body to fit the Alpha’s, to bend himself so that his Alpha would not need to strain himself. Aerion does none of that, and yet, Duncan the Tall does not seem irritated by it. Aerion considers he must be such a lowborn that perhaps he is not even accustomed to the way a mating ceremony should go. Or he just does not care about customs, he is so pure-hearted that he does not care about the way Aerion is insulting him in front of the whole court and highborns. 

Perhaps, he will punish Aerion for it later, when it will be only the two of them behind closed doors, away from all the eyes. Aerion will fight him, oh, he will fight him tooth and nail, so that the Alpha will regret having marked him with his fangs.

Aerion keeps his chin high, even when he feels the Alpha breathe directly on his neck and he has to force himself not to react physically to it. A hand finds the front of his neck and Aerion almost recoils at the touch, flinching away, but he cannot react in any way. The hand is hot against his skin, but it does not feel possessive or controlling, as if he does not want to force Aerion to present himself. 

Though, Aerion remains distrustful, on edge, aware of each small movement the Alpha does. His fingers never turn rough, instead, the touch almost seems gentle, which is impossible. Aerion does not close his eyes, he keeps his head straight, looking ahead of himself, still as a statue, even when he can feel the Alpha’s lips almost brush against his skin.

It is then, with his mouth pressed against the back of his neck, fangs scraping his skin, that the Alpha speaks for the first time. His voice is low, barely a whisper that Aerion almost does not catch, meant only for him.

“Forgive me, my Prince,” he only says, and then, he is pressing his fangs right into Aerion’s flesh, biting down. Aerion is so surprised by the words, as if an Alpha would care about the pain he is about to cause, that he actually does not feel the pain for the first few moments the fangs are piercing his glands. 

Once he does, a lacerating pain spreads from his neck to the rest of his body, making him feel as if his blood has turned into the most poisonous venom. The wave of pain travels through his body so quickly that Aerion is not able to keep himself still. His legs feel suddenly weak, devoid of their strength, and he almost falters back, if it not were for the arm that wraps around his waist, firm and strong, not letting him crumple down to the floor. In that moment, Aerion despises himself even more than the Alpha, since he cannot help himself, his body is not his own, not his to control, and when his hands find the Alpha’s shoulders, it is not because he wants it, but it is because his body moves on its own and finds in the Alpha’s body a way to keep itself upright.

Aerion does not want to touch the Alpha, not when his fangs have torn through his flesh and bitten to claim him as his Omega, but he cannot control neither his arms nor his legs. Aerion is aware the grip he has on the Alpha’s shoulders is not doing much, since the armor is too hard and slippery to give him a real chance of holding himself up, and the only reason he has not fallen down yet is the arm wrapped around his waist. Aerion hates to admit to himself that he almost enjoys the way it feels—

The bite must be already clouding his head, because in his right mind, he would never enjoy a touch like this. It must be the bite too, when one of his hands slips down to find the Alpha’s curled around his hip. Aerion does not want any of it, he does not want to touch the Alpha, but a part of him that seems trashing inside himself is begging for it. All of a sudden, at the realization, Aerion finds himself scared, because he cannot understand what is happening to him and he cannot control any of it.

After what felt like centuries, Aerion feels the fangs retract from his flesh, a warm and wet sensation against his skin that makes a shiver run down his spine. When he tries to lift his hand to touch the back of his neck, pulsing and painful, to try and assert the damage done, thick fingers wrap around his wrist to stop him.

“It is best you do not touch it, my Prince,” Duncan the Tall tells him, voice that should not sound like that, too gentle and kind, not when he just marked him. My Prince. Aerion wishes he could hit him, that he could take the dagger from his boot and slash his face with it. Aerion is not his Prince anymore, he is his Omega.

It is then, for the first time, that Aerion glances at his face, instead of finding smugness or satisfaction, he finds something Aerion has almost never seen directed at himself, so he must be mistaken. It cannot be worry because Aerion does not need it.

When he glances down at the corner of his lips, much to Aerion’s horror, there are traces of blood. Aerion’s blood.

At the sight, it truly hits him.

Aerion is mated.

An Alpha claimed him and he will not know freedom anymore.

✶

The night of the ceremony, after a banquet that seems to last an eternity, Aerion is permitted to go back to his chambers and there, he can finally rip the robes away from his body. The bite hurts on his neck, he can feel it pulsing, warm and foreign, but he does not dare to take a look at it, nor to touch it, not even with a brush of his fingertips. 

Since the moment he sat down at the banquet, Duncan the Tall by his side, but never daring to touch him, Aerion has been trying to fool himself into thinking nothing has changed. Nothing has changed. The bite is just there, on his neck, ugly, probably an angry red, and it does not mean anything. It will not make him feel weak, or make him search for his Alpha. There is not a new voice in his head, looking for a certain kind of warmth and touch that could come only from another body. 

Aerion is just tired, he is exhausted and he is not thinking clearly. He does not feel a sort of pull, taunt, ready to snap, demanding to find what it needs not to feel as if it is a thread on the verge of tearing.

Aerion needs sleep, but he knows he cannot sleep, not that night.

In the quiet of the dark, Aerion waits to hear the echoes of heavy footsteps resonate in the corridor outside his chambers. He waits to hear the steps stopping right in front of his doors.

Though, they do not come, no matter how long Aerion waits. He forces himself not to sleep because he cannot be blindsided when Duncan the Tall will come to his chambers to collect what belongs to him by right. Too bad Aerion does not have that anymore. If Duncan the Tall had known, he surely would not have accepted to become his Alpha. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would have wanted Aerion if they knew, ruined and corrupted by stable boys and guards, never during his fever, but enough times that he has heard what the guards say of him. Aerion does not care, but he is aware he could not have ever said it out loud to his Father, because for it he would have received a much worse punishment than a bitemark or exile to the Free Cities.

Aerion is not scared of Duncan the Tall. He is not scared to see him enter in his chambers and claim him, fuck him into his bed and knot him, in hope for his seed to take. Aerion is not scared of any of that because he knows he will fight, that he will not make it easy for the Alpha. What frightens him is the bitemark, the way it will control him, forcing him to submit to the Alpha. Aerion knows what happens to claimed Omegas, he knows they cannot resist their Alpha, that inevitably they all end up controlled, and even if Aerion believes to be stronger than that, to not be a mere Omega, ready to be fucked and bred, he cannot be certain. He has fought his own instincts many times, he has fought his body again and again, but he does not know if he will be able to fight the power Duncan the Tall will have on him.

This is what his Father wanted, what everyone wanted, for Aerion to be controlled, to be tamed and scared, but Aerion will not surrender, not this time, he will not yield. He does not care if his Alpha will hit him, if he will hurt him and fuck him so rough to draw blood, Aerion does not care about that. He will not be controlled. 

Duncan the Tall can take his body, he can do whatever he wants to it, but he will not take Aerion’s mind. He will not control his dragon.

✶

Duncan the Tall does not come to his chambers, not the first night, nor the second and neither after an entire moon has passed.

Most of the nights, Aerion falls asleep waiting, even if then, each small sound startles him out of a dreamless sleep. It is never Duncan the Tall, and just like he is a ghost during the nights, he also is one during the days, making himself scarce.

Aerion knows he still trains in the yard, on his own and with Aegon, that he tends to his horses and sometimes also to other horses in the stables, even Aerion’s, or that he eats his meals with all the servants and guards. Aerion knows because he has followed him like a rat, hiding and not wanting to be caught. 

It is like nothing has truly changed for him, as if he is not mated to Aerion, as if he does not have an Omega. Aerion does not understand. 

A part of him is glad the Alpha pretends as if Aerion does not exist, but another part, one that feels cold and detached, one he does not want to acknowledge, obsessively wonders about the Alpha’s behavior. The reason he accepted to be his Alpha if then it is as if the mating never happened, or the reason he does not come to Aerion’s chambers to fuck him and claim him. Perhaps, he does not want to fuck Aerion and it was all about mating the Omega who accused him of betrayal, who dragged him into a Trial of Seven and forced him to fight. It must have been all about revenge, about making Aerion regret his actions for the rest of his life, even if in reality he finds Aerion too repulsive to fuck. A monster he would never touch, even if the monster is his Omega.

The thought makes him smile, something sinister spreading into his chest. You are a monster, the voice reminds him, not even a lowborn like him would want you, not even your Father wants you, because you were always meant to be a monster.

III

Aerion does not dream in the same way Daeron does. He does not dream about prophecies of life and death, things that will eventually happen in the future. Aerion’s dreams are made of fire and ashes, of scales that shine under the sun and wind in his hair. 

Since coming back to King’s Landing, he has not dreamt once.

That night, Aerion wakes up with a startle, something that has become recurrent, but once he tries to understand what woke him up, focusing his eyes on what surrounds him, he finds that he is not in his chambers. It looks like he is in a tent and when he looks down at his own body, he realizes he is wearing his armor. Confused, Aerion looks around himself then, he is alone and it is eerily silent, not a sound coming from the outside part of the tent. Once he gets up from the bed, his armor clicks and rattles. Aerion does not know why he is wearing it and he does not remember putting it on.

Then, he slowly walks towards the entrance flaps, tied close, but as soon as he opens them and tries to walk outside, he is immediately forced to step back inside the tent by a horse running right past him. Aerion breathes, chest heavy, heart in his throat, and with slow movements, he walks back outside. The light blinds him for a moment, but after he blinks the blindness away, he realizes he is in Ashford Meadow, right at the center of the tourney. There are knights and horses fighting around him, but the sound of steel, the clangor of swords and the screams are all muted. 

Aerion recognizes his Father, then his brother Daeron, his Uncle—it is the Trial of Seven and his Uncle is marching right towards him, horse abandoned behind on the ground.

Aerion should be fighting Duncan the Tall, but he cannot see him and his Uncle is getting even closer, sword in his hand. Aerion goes for his own sword, but he does not find it, it is then he realizes he is not wearing his helmet either, that the only form of protection he has is his armor and shield.

“Uncle, wait,” Aerion screams at him, lifting his free hand up in the air as if it would be enough to placate his Uncle and make him stop. Aerion does not want to fight his Uncle. It is not right. It would be like fighting his Father. When his Mother died, his Father tried to take her place, even if he did not know how, and his Uncle tried to take the place his Father left vacant, too concerned to fill the empty space his Mother left, so Aerion does not want to fight his Uncle. He does not want to kill him.

“Uncle, stop,” he screams when his Uncle tries to attack him, blocking the sword with his shield. 

It is like his Uncle cannot hear him, as if he barely recognizes Aerion. There is so much bloodlust in his eyes, too sick not to be personal, and each attack is meant to kill him, not to hurt him only enough for Aerion not to rise again from the ground. He is aiming at his head, neck and chest, and Aerion is barely keeping up. His shield is starting to splinter and soon there will not be any more ground to back up behind him.

For a moment, in between the attacks, Aerion hears his Father scream for him, but it is distant and Aerion can barely hear what he is screaming. It is then he realizes he is wounded, that he is bleeding and the agonizing sounds he thought were coming from another knight are coming from him instead. He cannot feel the pain, he cannot feel where he is wounded. He cannot feel anything.

His Uncle keeps striking him and Aerion is desperate. He does not have anything to defend himself, there is blood and mud on his face and he cannot see—

From a horse, a knight strikes his Uncle right in the middle of his chest and Aerion is left watching his Uncle get catapulted back on the ground, suddenly silent and lifeless once he lays in the mud.

“Uncle,” Aerion screams, running to him and kneeling by his side. Aerion tries to take his helmet off, but it is stuck and his bare fingers are too caked with mud, slipping on the metal. “Uncle,” he breathes, desperate to see his Uncle unresponsive. He cannot be dead, his Father would never forgive him if his Uncle died in the Trial of Seven, in a trial Aerion asked for.

Though, before Aerion can call for him again, his eyes snap open and his Uncle goes for Aerion’s throat with a dagger. Aerion avoids it by miracle, feeling the blade prick at his skin, and tries to get up, to put some distance between him and his Uncle, but the ground is too wet and muddied, so he just slips right back down, mostly falling right on top of his Uncle’s body.

“Wait, please,” Aerion tries to reason with him, but it is like his Uncle cannot hear him. His hands search for something, slipping through the mud, until he finds his shield he did not even realize he dropped. Then, fingers tight around the shield, he straddles his Uncle and with a scream that builds in his chest and explodes in his throat, he starts to hit his Uncle’s helmet with the metal rim.

Once Aerion strikes him the first time, he does not know how to stop, he just hits him, again and again, until the helmet cracks and blood starts to spill out. It reaches his face, too, mixing with his own and the mud, but Aerion still cannot stop, not even when his Uncle goes completely still, lifeless arms spread on the ground and grip loose around the dagger. Aerion keeps hitting him and he keeps screaming words he does not understand, sounds that are too incoherent to be words. The warm blood wets his face and Aerion feels like his body is not his own anymore, as if someone else is controlling it.

Someone is shouting his name, perhaps his Father, but it is distant and Aerion’s eyes are fixed on his Uncle’s face, unrecognizable, a pulp of broken metal, torn flesh and blood.

You killed him, the voice tells him, as if Aerion cannot see what he has done. You killed him. You killed him. You killed him—Your Father will never forgive you. 

He wishes you had died instead of him.

At those words, Aerion wakes up with a startle, breath frantic, so fast that he cannot keep any air in his lungs. He pushes himself up, but it is like he has forgotten how to breathe because no matter how much he inhales, the air does not pass through his lungs. The sheets are tangled around his legs and Aerion shoves them away, whole body covered in cold sweat that makes him shiver, but it does not make it any better. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, too strong, too fast, and Aerion just cannot breathe. He tries to claw at his neck, to make sure there is nothing preventing him from breathing, but his fingers only brush against skin and the healed edges of the bitemark.

Then, in the silence broken by his own quick breaths, he hears his own name coming from the shadows in the corners. It is just a whisper, barely loud, but Aerion catches it anyway. He stills, looking for the person that said his name, but he cannot see anyone. For a clear moment, he thinks it might be Duncan the Tall, but the Alpha is too tall and big to hide in the darkened corners. 

After a few loud beats of his heart that resonate through his whole body, Aerion hears his name said again. 

Louder, this time, clearer. 

It is his Uncle’s voice. His Uncle is calling for him.

“Uncle?” Aerion blurts out, voice scratching the back of his throat, raw and tender. 

But his Uncle is dead.

When he hears his name a third time, not coming from the shadows, but directly from behind him, right by his ear, Aerion gets up from the bed, terrified. He does not dare to turn around and runs to the doors, opening them with shaking hands. Then, he runs outside in the corridor, where the moonlight shines brighter and he can see clearly.

He looks around himself, but Aerion is alone. No one is there. His Uncle is dead, he could not have been there in his chambers, and yet, Aerion is not mistaken, he is certain it was his Uncle’s voice. He does not want to indulge into it, does not want to think about it more than necessary, but he believes he saw a darker shape in the shadow, one that resembled a person, unmoving.

His hands do not stop shaking and his chest hurts because his heart keeps beating too quickly under his ribcage. Aerion does not want to go back inside his chambers, he does not want to fall asleep once again and dream of something even worse, so he finds himself wandering through the castle’s hallways and corridors, avoiding the few guards on duty. His bare feet bring him to the stables, probably because he knows he will not find anyone there, and because the horses spook easily, which means they will warn Aerion if there is something wrong.

Once close to the stables, Aerion hears it before he can see the person it is coming from, a low murmur of words he does not understand. He does not recognize the voice and curious to see who could be in the stables in the middle of the night, he uses the wall to hide his body and just turns his head to the side to look inside.

The man is giving Aerion his back, but Aerion does not need to strain his eyes in the dim light to understand who it is. The massive stretch of his back speaks for itself.

It is not that what surprises him the most, after all, the Alpha passes by the stables often, Aerion has seen him, but it is the fact the murmurs are directed to Aerion’s horse. 

The last time Aerion rode Meraxes was in Ashford, which means she must be feeling cooped up with no one riding her for such a long time, but under the Alpha’s hands, she seems totally calm. She does not react well to strangers touching her, but it seems like she does not mind the Alpha close to her. Aerion has seen him with the horses, the way he tends to them, or how he speaks to them, something only a cretin would do, and yet, right then, Aerion finds himself curious to know what the Alpha is saying to Aerion’s horse. Probably bad mouthing Aerion to make Meraxes rebel against him. He tries to catch at least a few words, but the silence of the night does not help him. The only way would be to get closer, but Aerion does not want to be found out. He does not want the Alpha to find him spying on him while he talks to his horse, it would be too humiliating, especially when the last time they were face to face, Duncan the Tall had just marked him.

In the end, once he understands he will not hear any word said, he leaves, careful not to get caught by the Alpha or anyone else.

Aerion goes back to his chambers only after the sun has started to rise.

✶

It is his Mother.

Aerion is looking at her, to try drinking in each detail of her face, to try and remember the way her fingers used to feel on his face, gently stroking his cheeks.

She does not notice he is there at first and Aerion almost wishes she would not, so he could keep staring at her until his eyes will hurt and her face will be seared into his mind. But she is his Mother, and soon, she realizes Aerion is there, standing by the door, watching her read. She looks up at him and smiles, which makes Aerion smile back at her, something he feels he has not done in a long time.

“Mother,” he whispers, taking a careful step towards her. He wants to reach for her, to feel her arms around his body, but he is not certain his Mother would want that.

“My little dragon,” she says back, still smiling, a kindness in her voice Aerion has never heard in anyone else, “come here.”

When she opens her arms, Aerion notices her belly is round, full with child, and something in his chest drops low to his feet. He goes to her, nevertheless, but when he reaches her by the chair, he realizes he is too big to sit on her lap, so he drops down on the floor by her side and places his head on her knees. She runs a hand through his hair, slow, gentle, while humming a lullaby Aerion distantly remembers. 

Aerion just closes his eyes.

“My little boy,” she whispers, “you are so loved.”

His heart clenches in his chest.

“For real, Mama?” he asks, almost incredulous.

Her fingers keep caressing his hair when she answers. “Of course, sweetling. Mama will always love you.”

There are tears in his eyes, but when he looks up at her and is met with her smile, he finds they do not hurt, that they do not make him feel ashamed and weak.

“Will you tell Father to love me?” he asks her, then, voice small, scared of her answer.

His Mother nods, lifts her other hand to stroke his cheek and then, she goes back to humming another lullaby under her breath.

They stay like that for a while and Aerion wishes he could live in the moment for eternity, but then, a sudden loud noise coming from outside breaks the quiet. The colorful stained glass in his Mother’s chambers gets reduced to shreds and a reddish black dragon flies in, crashing into the opposite stone wall.

Aerion screams, trying to get up to place himself in front of his Mother, but he finds himself paralyzed, not able to move, and he can only watch the dragon turn to look first at Aerion and then focus on his Mother.

“Mama,” he tries to say, scared, not knowing what to do, feeling like a helpless child.

“It is alright, Aerion,” his Mother reassures him, smiles at him one last time, and then, she gets up and walks towards the dragon.

Aerion tries to reach for her, to grip his fingers around her robes, to find something, anything, to latch on and that would make her stop, but his hands barely brush against her and he is left fisting only air. In horror, unable to move, he watches the dragon attack his Mother, first clawing at her belly and then sending her flying towards the wall, blood everywhere on her body.

Aerion screams, cries and chokes on his own spit, but the dragon does not stop. It tears her to shreds and the only thing Aerion can do is watch.

When he looks down at his hands, he finds they are covered by his clawed gauntlets and that they are soaked in blood.

✶

Aerion does not sleep. He stops going to bed all together. He barely glances at his bed, preferring to sit on the cushioned bench by the stained glass in his chambers and look outside. That is what he does most of the nights, back turned to everything and eyes focused on the darkened sky, sometimes on the moon if he is lucky to see it. He does not dare to look in the corners, afraid to see shapes and hear his name, and he does not dare to fall asleep, even more scared of what awaits him in his dreams.

There are voices in the corners, Aerion hears them whispering and laughing, but if he keeps his eyes on the glass until the sun rises, they stay quiet. They are not like the voice in his head and Aerion fears them. They frighten him because they sound like his Uncle, a few times like his Mother, even if he is not certain his Mother’s voice sounded like that, so Aerion does not wish to hear them. They do not comfort him like the one in his head does. 

Other times, when he convinces himself the voices will speak even if he has his back turned to them, he wanders through the castle, since the voices do not follow him outside of his chambers and he is safe in the hallways.

The constant awoken state he is in does not help with keeping at bay some parts of himself he has been trying to suppress down. An obsessive part of him keeps wondering about Duncan the Tall, even if Aerion keeps telling himself it does not matter. He does not exist for the Alpha, which means he has no power over him. The bite on his neck aches for something he cannot understand, but Aerion pretends it does not, he pretends he does not see it nor feel it under his fingers. 

He does not know what is the matter with Duncan the Tall and Aerion convinces himself it is better like this, that if the Alpha never wants to see him nor touch him, nor fuck him, then Aerion can pretend he is not mated, that he is free and not claimed. 

Though, the part of himself Aerion reckons is his Omega, weak and craving, does not agree with him. It is a small part of him, but the more time passes since the bonding, the more it seems to get fierce. Sometimes, Aerion controls it, he is able to put it to rest, but the frantic state of his mind, since he does not sleep for more than one shift of the moon a night, has started to weaken his resolve. Through the cracks, that part slips, forceful and loud, and Aerion finds he cannot stop it, no matter how hard he tries. It plagues his mind, tells him he is not a worthy Omega if his Alpha does not want him, that he was rejected even before he could have presented himself, that it was his fault, because he is not an Omega any Alpha would want, too cruel and void of any trait that would make him a desiderable Omega.

Aerion has never wanted to be a desiderable Omega—he looked at those Omegas, docile, tamed and submissive, and only felt disdain for them, insulted that everyone expected him to be like them.

Aerion is proud Duncan the Tall does not want him, it brings him a deep sense of satisfaction, and yet, he still obsesses over him.

Weaker than the other nights, exhausted by his own mind and all the voices crowding in it, Aerion finds himself once again near the stables, which he has been avoiding since that first night. When he peers inside, he does not find the person he was looking for and for a fraction of time, Aerion feels a sort of sense of disappointment taking hold of him. Before he can recoil at himself, though, heavy footsteps stop behind him. Aerion has heard them many times, hidden behind pillars and walls, so he recognizes them right away.

Aerion schools the expression on his face, locking his jaw into a hard line, even if he is aware the lack of sleep is evident on his face. Then, he turns around, hand going to rest on his sword by the belt. 

It is the first time since the mating that Aerion is this close to him, his scent suddenly cloying his nose and as much as he should hate it, he finds he does not, that the permeating smell of something natural, perhaps grass or hay, mixed with the distinct musk of Alpha does not prickle at his nose in a revolting way.

What he despises and irritates him the most, though, is that Aerion has to look up at him.

“My Prince,” Duncan the Tall greets him with a bow of his head. Aerion almost bristles at him, deeply infuriated by the total discard of what Aerion is to him.

Aerion clicks his tongue. Turn around, the voice tells him. Do not speak to him. He is not worthy of your dragon.

“My Prince?” he repeats the words back at him instead of walking away like he should. He has nothing to lose, though. Duncan the Tall knows he is mad, that he is untamed. It is the reason why he asks, “Why accept the bond if you do not want to fuck me?”

For a moment, surprise flashes across the Alpha’s face, as if he was not expecting Aerion to ask such a blatant question. He reels it in quickly then, slightly shifting on his feet, as if he is not certain of the way he should react. Aerion almost laughs at his face. He is so unfit, such a lowborn, incapable of interacting with anyone that is not as simple as him.

“It is not that,” he replies in the end, avoiding to look at Aerion’s face, eyes fixed in front of him, right above Aerion’s head.

Aerion chuckles, incredulous. “Then what is it?” he asks, irritated, but keeping his voice uninterested.

The Alpha breathes, Aerion catches the way his fingers tighten on the belt fastened around his waist, and then, he clears his throat. 

“I do not wish to rape you, my Prince.”

For a moment, the words are so absurd Aerion does not even register them, but once he does, he just bursts out laughing. Then, though, his laughter dies in his chest and the words turn sour, they infuriate him because Aerion realizes the Alpha truly believes he would have that kind of power over him.

“Rape me?” he asks, cold, a bite in his voice.

“You do not want me, I know that,” Duncan the Tall answers him, still not daring to glance down at him.

Aerion scoffs. “So, what?” he says, angry, but still keeping that anger away from his words. “You were fine with giving me a bitemark, but not to fuck me? What about when your fever will come, will you still be so certain of your choice?” he mocks him, aware that no Alpha, not even a true knight like him, could resist the fever.

“Of course, my Prince,” the Alpha answers, resolute, as if that would be the easiest thing for him to do.

The anger burns Aerion from inside, dragon restless, because all he wishes to do is hit the Alpha, fight him once again and pierce his heart with his sword. Aerion is used to people reacting to what he says, to fall into his traps and make them furious, but Duncan the Tall seems as if he has a resolution made of steel, as if nothing turbates him, not even Aerion’s accusations. Hence the change of tactics. He will not leave without getting a proper reaction out of the Alpha.

“At some point, the court will start to talk,” he says, even if Aerion does not care about their whispers, the Alpha still might, wanting to always prove himself worthy of his title. “They will wonder why I am not expecting your child yet.”

The Alpha shakes his head, shoulders kept straight. “‘Tis not a matter I care about.”

Aerion is left without words for a moment, and then, the rage he hoped to see explode inside Duncan the Tall’s body, explodes within his own, instead.

“I do,” he shouts, suddenly, not caring that the rest of the castle is sleeping. “I chose this as my punishment because it was meant to make me stronger, but it is like I do not even exist to you, like I am nothing, not worthy of your attention and time. Why have you accepted it, then?”

It is at those words that the Alpha looks down at him for the first time, jaw locked, all hard lines on his face. Aerion feels satisfaction spread through his body, finally triumphant in having made the Alpha angry.

“Because people died for my stupidity,” he says through gritted teeth, hitting his own chest with a fist, as if he thinks he should pay for it physically. “I was an imposter and it destroyed your family. It shattered your Lord Father and I could not have lived with myself aware I was the person that took from him not only his brother, but his sons, too.”

Aerion laughs, mostly air through his nose, a side of his lip he cannot control twitching up.

“My Father killed my Uncle, not you, so do not think so highly of yourself,” Aerion reminds him. “No one in this family is innocent or weak, least of all myself. You did not need to prove yourself a real knight, saving the innocent and protecting the weak. I did not need saving or your pity. I do not need anyone.”

Aerion feels furious, rage burning like fire, and he does not know where to place it, besides within his words. He wishes he could attack the Alpha, not even with his sword, but with his bare hands, break the skin of his knuckles against the Alpha’s hard body. The rational part of his mind is aware he would not have a chance in a physical fight against Duncan the Tall and that infuriates him even more. Though, Aerion cannot pretend like it had not taken four guards to immobilize him, back in that puppeteer’s tent, so he already knows what would happen if Aerion were to attack him. Perhaps, he would be able to hit him once, as an element of surprise, but then, without armor nor sword as protection, the Alpha would just fold him in half and break most of his bones.

“I know, but I still had to do it, my Prince.”

This time, Aerion actually bristles at the words. He seethes at the conviction in his voice, as if he truly believes it is what he had to do, as if he would have broken his sacred oath if he had not chosen to become his Alpha.

“I am not your Prince,” he says, then, furious, forcing himself not to point at the Alpha’s chest with his finger, hands almost shaking with rage. “I am your Omega and you should treat me as such.”

The Alpha just shakes his head. “I will not fuck you and knot you only because it is what is expected of an Alpha, not when the Omega does not want it.”

Aerion laughs, louder, not a drop of amusement in his body. “Who told you the Omega does not want it?”

Duncan the Tall looks at Aerion, then, right in his eyes, and says, “You hate me.”

Aerion nods, something that feels like a twisted grin on his lips. “Yes, I do. I hate you, ser Duncan.”

The Alpha nods back at him, and then, as if the talk never happened, he just turns around and walks away, as if that was all he needed to know.

Aerion stares at his back, shoulders always slouched, and somehow, he regrets his words. He should not, because Aerion never regrets his words and actions, but he still does and he does not understand why. There are too many fractured parts inside himself and he does not know where it comes from.

What he knows, though, is that Aerion Targaryen hates Duncan the Tall.

✶

A sinister thought starts plaguing his mind. 

Aerion knows the voices whispered it to him when he was not careful, when he had his guard down and let them whisper the words in his ear. You killed your Mother, they revealed. The dragon killed your Mother. She died giving birth to you.

Aerion did not believe them at first, because they always try to deceive him, to make him believe his Uncle is still alive, but the more Aerion thought about it, the more he convinced himself it had to be true. The memories of his Mother are scarce, he remembers her speaking to him, kind and soft, but he does not remember what she used to say. He does not remember her face either, no matter how much he tries to search for it in his memory, it is smudged, barely there, a face that could be anyone’s. Perhaps, the woman he remembers is not his Mother and he thought it was her only because no one ever told him she died giving birth to him. Aerion might not dream of prophecies like Daeron, but he is certain the dream of his Mother and the dragon is true. It is the dragon within himself trying to tell him, to make him realize everyone—his Father has been lying to him. He did not want Aerion to find out, so the voices revealed it to him.

His Mother died because of him, his dragon killed her and Aerion feels desperate. He killed his Mother, he killed the only person that loved him, that would have never seen him as a monster. 

That is the reason his Father does not love him, because he killed his mate and since then, he has to be reminded each time he looks at Aerion’s face. Aerion killed her and stole her face to remind his Father of what he has done, to remind him the reason he must hate him.

It is distraught, what he feels, because he knows there is nothing he could do to change what happened.

Aerion killed his Mother.

The thought does not make him sleep, even more than the dreams, because he just keeps thinking about it, trying to remember who that woman in his memories is, trying to find the truth within his dragon. He fixates on it so much that he barely eats, because all he wants to do, all he can do, is think about his Mother.

The voices were right. They never meant to frighten him, but they only wanted him to stop believing in a lie, to finally remember the truth. Even if it hurts, even if it makes him sob his lungs out of his chest, broken and bleeding, feeling like fingers are tearing through his flesh to reach for his cold heart and rip it out.

Those rare times he falls asleep, even if he knows the truth now, he is still scared to dream. He is scared to see his Mother, for her to accuse him of her death. Aerion knows he did it, but he would not bear hearing it from his Mother. He already feels destroyed by the truth, he does not want to see the hatred and disappointment on his Mother’s face.

It happens, though, because his mind has started to become his worst enemy. Aerion dreams of her Mother once again, the same dream—he lays his head on her knees, she hums to him, says he is loved, but then, the dragon attacks her and Aerion’s hands are soaked with her blood. This time, before she draws her last breath, she looks at Aerion, face slashed by the claws and completely covered in blood, and, “You killed me, little dragon,” she whispers, cold and painful.

Aerion wakes up shaking, barely breathing, and before he can hear the voices from the corners, taunting him, laughing at him, he gets up from the bench and runs outside. He does not think where he is going, he only needs to run away from his chambers, so he is surprised when he finds himself in front of his Father’s.

He should not disturb him, not with his madness, but Aerion needs to know. He needs his Father to tell him the truth.

Aerion knocks, louder than he should, and, “Father, please,” he cracks out, voice broken and unrecognizable. He almost does not think it is his own voice when he hears it.

When his Father opens the doors, confused and a flicker on his face of what Aerion thinks is worry, he almost cries out of relief.

“Aerion?” his Father asks, urging him inside his chambers. There are a few candles scattered on his Father’s table, documents placed under the light, and Aerion realizes his Father must have been still awake, hearing him running down the corridor.

“What happened, boy?” he asks him, something in his voice Aerion has not heard directed at himself in a long time, something that sounds like concern.

Aerion tries to calm himself, aware he must look like a mess, a weak and childish sight, but he cannot control himself fully. “I-I—you have to—” he stutters, blinking the tears away from his eyes, but failing.

His Father takes his hand, warm around Aerion’s, and suddenly, Aerion is reminded of when his Father used to take his hand when they went fishing and Aerion wanted to get closer to the water, to peer inside and look at what was hidden underneath the surface, but his Father was afraid Aerion might have fallen and the current would have dragged him away.

There is a knot in his throat, almost making it impossible to speak, no matter how hard he tries to swallow past it.

“Mother—I—she… I killed her, did I?” he blurts out, vision blurry by the tears, voice broken beyond repair.

“No,” his Father answers without hesitation, not even having to think and Aerion does not know what to make of it. He does not understand if his Father is lying. “No, Aerion, your Mother died giving birth to your sister, do you not remember?”

No, his Father is wrong. She was giving birth to Aerion and he killed her.

“No,” he shakes his head, “no, she—I was the one who killed her. The voices told me.”

His Father’s hands cup his face, gentle and yet firm. “Aerion, look at me,” he says, serious. Aerion does not understand when his Father is lying, but he thinks he would not right then, not with Aerion broken and desperate to know the truth.

“The voices are lying to you, Aerion. Listen to me, I am your Father and I would not lie to you about this.”

Aerion nods, even if the voices try to tell him his Father might be lying, but they are weak and Aerion barely hears them.

“You did not kill your Mother and neither did your sister, it was only an unfortunate event. You understand?”

Aerion nods again. “Alright, Father,” he murmurs.

“Repeat it, Aerion,” his Father orders him, then, still looking at him. Aerion does not know what his Father sees on his face.

Aerion breathes through his mouth, “I did not kill Mother,” he whispers, uncertain, not knowing what to believe anymore.

“My boy,” his Father says under his breath then, “my boy.”

Tears gather again in his eyes. His Father’s voice sounds so kind and Aerion cannot believe it is meant for him.

“I am sorry,” Aerion apologizes, not certain for what. Perhaps, for being there, for having disturbed him in the middle of the night, for everything, but he did not know where to go. Aerion did not know where to go.

Through the grip around his face, his Father pulls him towards him and Aerion just goes, he lets himself be pulled into his chest, wrapped into an embrace he had forgotten how it felt. Aerion sobs into his Father’s arms, feeling once again that child who loved to go fishing with him, who used to smile and laugh. 

Aerion does not remember how to do that anymore, there is something broken, something evil inside himself, a monster that consumed everything it found and made him a shell of that child.