Chapter Text
The cigarette had burned down to his fingertips before Aerion noticed. He flicked it out the window without looking.
"Where the hell are you?"
Daella's voice flooded through the speakers. Aerion gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white against the black leather. Through the open window, the sharp tang of salt and pine mixed with the warm air. To the right, the Mediterranean glittered in an endless stretch of turquoise light, so bright it almost hurt to look at. White yachts drifted lazily in the distance. The peaceful view did nothing to calm the storm brewing in his chest.
"On my way." The words came out scraped raw from a sleepless night and the pack of cigarettes he had returned to.
"Dad is already losing it." Daella's voice dropped into that particular teenage annoyance, though a note of fear broke through. "He asked about the wine. Please tell me you didn't forget the crates," she added quietly.
"I have them, Dae. Tell him there's traffic." Aerion jammed the end-call button on the steering wheel. Silence fell back over him, heavier somehow than the heat outside.
The road was unusually empty. A few cabriolets and rental cars idled along the coast, tourists in no hurry. The speedometer barely moved. Every kilometre brought the white marble walls of Summerhall a little closer. It felt like a slow descent into family chaos.
Dyanna would have known exactly what to say about all of it. She always did. Targaryens could only destroy each other from within, she used to say—as long as they stuck together, no one could get to them. At the time, Aerion thought she only said it to stop the petty fights he had with Daeron over fishing. But Gods, she was right.
There was a memory Aerion kept coming back to. Thirteen years old, fresh in from a long afternoon of training under a summer sun. Dyanna had pressed her fingers to his forehead the way she always did. Her cool hands always brought relief. "You have so much fire, Aerion," she said. "Most people spend their whole lives looking for a spark." She swept the wet hair back from his forehead. "You are a Targaryen. You have to give it a direction, or it will eat you from the inside out." She kissed the top of his head. He pulled away, embarrassed. He would give anything now to take that back.
That same year, they held her funeral. When she died, something knocked loose in him that never quite settled back.
Dyanna had understood her children in a way no one else had ever thought to try. She possessed a warmth that seemed to soften everyone in the room. Even the teachers, exhausted by Aerion's behaviour, softened when they had to complain about him to her face. Tennis had been her idea—give the fire somewhere to go, she said, before it finds somewhere on its own. Aerion still remembered his first time on the court at the local club. She stood at the fence, indifferent to the glances of the other wealthy mothers, cheering loudly with a sincerity that made even the small wins feel massive.
-----
Two weeks ago, the heat on that court had been punishing. The kind that gets into your bones and blurs your vision. What Aerion had called a "calculated decision" now sat like a stone in his chest. He missed the important corporate meeting to win a trophy. It was meant to be the crowning proof of his own success.
Instead, it became the most fucked up decision of his life, and he had made many.
The opponent was some rich kid, decked out in designer brands and cocky confidence. Aerion couldn't even see the guy's face properly because of the low-slung cap; he was probably new. Just another douchebag. This will be a quick match to win, Aerion had thought to himself.
When the game began, Aerion played as usual, winning points so easily he thought it was just a warm-up. However, it all went south. One set later, the lead reversed. The other guy played safely and methodically, as though he already knew where every weak spot was. Every time Aerion tried to adjust, he was met with a perfectly predicted response. Aerion saw each of his own mistakes with agonising clarity. He tried to lead, but his body wouldn't listen.
Frustration began to boil because he was losing to himself. His focus began to splinter, buckling under the weight of his own expectations. Fear crept in. The spiral started slowly, then gathered a speed that nothing could stop.
The final point was scored.
The winner was already crossing to the net with a wide smile. Aerion gestured for them to meet at the umpire's chair instead and started walking, eyes down. His legs ached, and his favourite white shoes scuffed against the blue court. The crowd was applauding, but he could hear it distantly. Pulse was hammering in his ears.
When they finally came face to face, Aerion looked up. The other man pulled off his cap as he leaned in. Aerion recalled that face: sweaty blond hair, serpent-green eyes. A college party, a few months back, this bastard and his friend had revealed something that was nobody's business but Aerion's. He'd smiled then, too, exactly like this.
"Can't buy a win too, Targ? Already disappointed your daddy twice, coming for the third."
A familiar heat moved up from his gut and clouded his vision. He threw a punch so precise it folded the man to his knees. He continued hitting his face several more times before the security dragged him away. Blood flashed from a broken nose, staining the court. Aerion looked down at his hands. Red streaks were dripping onto his white shoes, pooling into crimson drops. His favourite sneakers were ruined now. Fucking great.
"Seven hells," he breathed, staring at the crumpled figure at his feet. "Where's the smile now, huh?" Aerion spat the words out, kicking him in the stomach. Security guards at his sides yanked him back immediately. That guy could do nothing but wheeze. Around him, the court erupted with loud voices and camera flashes all at once.
-----
Aerion was sprawled in the backseat like a bored prince. He was rewatching the saved clip for the hundredth time, a smug grin never leaving his face. The car was filled with the sound of the video—the sickeningly satisfying punch followed by the collective gasp of the crowd. It was art.
"We’ve cleaned the media, milord," Duncan said, his voice low. "Nothing will be printed about today, and the digital clips are being pulled down as well."
Aerion let out a short chuckle, not looking up from the screen. The words didn't even settle in. "Did you see how clean that punch was? Honestly, Dunk? You’re a big lad. You’ve seen a brawl or two. It was fucking good, wasn't it?"
Duncan’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. He looked at Aerion with a hollow sort of confusion.
"Milord," Duncan began, trying to choose his words carefully. "Your father has sent a lawyer who is still back at the courts. She’s currently buried in NDAs and liability waivers, trying to solve this mess."
"What are you, a knight in shining armour?" Aerion dismissed with a lazy wave of his hand, sinking back into the leather. "That's what Tanselle is paid for."
Duncan shook his head, his Irish lilt thickening with frustration. "I don't think you grasp the weight of it, milord. Truly. I was in that meeting room this morning when the news broke. I saw the reactions of your father, Lord Baelor, Valarr... they were all there."
Aerion rolled his eyes, but Duncan kept going, his voice growing heavy.
"I know that I am not smart enough to understand the full picture," he said after a short pause. "But I have eyes and ears, and I know for sure that this was a horrible mistake. The Targaryen Group needed that investor. When I was driving your father and Lord Baelor, they spoke of nothing else. You didn't just hit some cocky kid on a court, Aerion." He paused again. "You put the lead investor’s only son in the emergency room."
Aerion's thumb stopped on the screen for just a second. Gods be joking. Then he kept scrolling.
"So? We are Targaryens. Watch yourself, Dunk. You're not paid to have opinions."
The big guy sighed, his face shadowed by a grim realization.
"I am just being an honest man, milord," Duncan muttered, his eyes returning to the road. "Even a dragon can't eat gold that isn't there anymore," he added, his voice barely above a breath.
-----
Aerion dropped his bag in the corridor without breaking stride, the heavy thud echoing off the marble. He followed the dim light spilling from the living room.
Maekar stood at the sideboard, his back to the entrance. He was still in his red-and-black suit, though the jacket was unbuttoned and his tie pulled loose. He poured whiskey into a crystal glass and downed it in one jagged motion. Without turning around, he raised one hand, his fingers curling slowly inward.
"C’mere."
Aerion's jaw tightened. He crossed the room and stopped just as his father pivoted to face him.
"Father, if this is about the—"
The slap arrived with blinding speed. It snapped Aerion's head sideways and sent him staggering back a step, his hand instantly flying to his cheek. The heat bloomed deep and fast. His eyes stung with reflexive tears, but the shock quickly curdled into a familiar rage.
"Don't you fucking touch me!" Aerion yelled. He lunged forward, his fist ready to strike.
But Maekar was waiting for it. The older man caught Aerion’s wrist mid-air with crushing force. Before he could pull back, Maekar stepped in and grabbed his son by the throat with a free hand, slamming him hard against the wooden frame of the bookshelves. A handle dug painfully into Aerion’s spine, forcing a gasp from his lungs.
"You've lost your mind, boy. Thinking about hitting your own father?" Maekar's voice was low. He tightened his grip just enough to control him. "Foolish boy. Bringing trouble every fucking time."
Aerion grabbed at his father’s forearm with both hands, trying vainly to pry the fingers away from his throat.
"I defended... our name," Aerion choked out, his voice raspy. "That guy had it coming. He—"
"That guy shares the same surname as a man," Maekar interrupted, biting off every single word like a curse, "who was sitting across a table from me this morning."
The hand at Aerion's throat didn't budge.
"One fucking year," Maekar hissed, his eyes burning into his son's. "We spent one year on that deal. Holding this family together, dragging us out of the shithole, while you were out playing tennis. And in the end, what? You nearly got expelled, lost a match to nobody, and buried the family deal in one afternoon. What exactly have you succeeded at, Aerion? Tell me."
Aerion said nothing. His hands were still on his father's forearm, not pulling anymore. Maekar wasn't wrong, and that was the part that burned worse than the hand at his throat.
"You are too selfish," Maekar added, his expression completely merciless. "Don't talk about defending our name until you do something valuable for it. You know who actually does? Valarr. Why can't you be like your cousin? Fucking responsible for once."
"I am your son, not him," Aerion wheezed. "Why is it always only him—"
"Because he is not a constant disappointment," Maekar spat.
Aerion forced out the words despite the lack of air. "She would be disappointed in you. She would hate what you've turned into."
Something crossed Maekar's face. He drew his free hand back for another slap.
"Please, stop!"
Maekar’s grip on Aerion's throat loosened instantly, though his fingers still lingered against his skin. Aerion sucked in a jagged breath, coughing violently as both men snapped their heads toward the sound.
Daella stood at the top of the staircase, her hands trembling on the rail. Behind her, Aegon had stepped half in front of Rhea. The youngest sister was staring blankly at Aerion, her eyes large and watery with terror.
Maekar’s chest heaved. The colour drained from his face as he looked at his younger children. He stepped back from Aerion entirely and walked toward his office. Nobody said anything. The door clicked shut.
-----
The car in front stopped hard. Aerion slammed on his brakes. A small kid had darted into the road, followed by a father sprinting in a panic, snatching the boy up before anything could happen. Aerion rubbed a hand over his jaw. It ached from clenching. The phone vibrated against the dashboard.
Daella: btw Valarr is here too
"Speak of the fucking devil." As if it could have been any other way.
The phone’s screen turned on again.
Daella: Dad said you can forget about tennis training if you won't come before sunset…
Aerion's gaze snapped back to the road. He pulled his left arm in from the window, gripping the wheel with both hands as he shifted into sport mode. The Range Rover let out a low growl and surged forward, cutting through the late afternoon gold. In the backseat, two wooden crates of vintage wine shifted, knocking softly against each other.
-----
The winding road snaked past the neighbouring villas. There was the Baratheons' place, famous for its endless parties, and on the other side, a family from Tyrosh who had moved in last summer. Rhea loved their house merely because it was painted a soft rosy colour. The road twisted further until it reached the main Targaryen entrance. The massive gates, forged from black iron in the shape of dragons, twisted together to frame a central ring holding the three-headed animal.
Summerhall was an architectural masterpiece of white marble, with columns etched with dragons and massive arched windows. It sat perched on a low cliff with a sweeping view of the sea. To get down, you had to use a stone staircase leading to a private beach. A massive stone fountain served as the centrepiece of the grand courtyard. A sculpted dragon reared up from the basin, water pouring endlessly from its open throat. When Aerion was a boy, his grandfather Daeron used to swear that the beast once breathed actual fire. Some part of him still believed it.
Aerion pulled into the circular driveway, which was already crowded with the family’s luxury cars. Through the windshield, he spotted his father ascending the wide marble staircase. Next to him stood Uncle Baelor and Valarr. Maekar’s frown deepened into a dark scowl the second he recognised his son’s car. Baelor was gesturing as he spoke, while Valarr listened intently, his gaze only drifting toward the driveway as Aerion shifted the Range Rover into park.
Aerion stayed in the driver's seat a moment longer than necessary, staring at the three men. With a slow sigh, he pushed the door open.
Baelor raised a hand from the top of the stairs. "Aerion, right on time. Everyone's inside."
"Uncle." Aerion tilted his head back to look at the sky deliberately. The sun was still on the horizon. Barely.
Maekar shot his son a look of unfiltered irritation and turned, disappearing through the massive double doors without a word. Baelor followed, though he paused to glance back at the car.
"Help him with the wine," Baelor nodded toward Aerion before following his brother inside.
Valarr went down the marble steps. He was already dressed for dinner in a light striped shirt with rolled-up sleeves, white linen trousers, and Loro Piana loafers. "I thought you wouldn't show up," he said smoothly.
Aerion ignored the jab, grabbing his phone and keys. "Wine’s on the floor in the backseat," he muttered, walking toward the trunk. He popped it open and began hauling out his stuff: a heavy professional tennis bag and a duffel stuffed with clothes. The crunch of gravel told him Valarr had stopped right next to him. Aerion turned slowly.
The Golden Boy stood there, arms crossed over a chest that tightened the fabric around his toned arms. Valarr had clearly been training harder; his shoulders looked broader than Aerion remembered. An expensive Royal Oak glinted on his wrist. His hair was, as always, perfect. Aerion was in an oversized t-shirt that read "IDGAF" in bold letters, paired with athletic shorts and white sneakers. Valarr’s gaze dropped to the tennis bag.
"Still thinking about getting back on the court?" Valarr's eyes moved to Aerion's face and stayed there a second too long. The dying sun spilled molten gold across Aerion’s face, and Valarr caught the new earring. Right on cue, Aerion’s jaw hardened. He met Valarr’s gaze, his heterochromia striking in the sunset light.
"A dragon ought never lose," Aerion snapped, slamming the trunk shut. He bunched his clothes in one hand and hooked the strap of his tennis bag with the other. "Bring the wine. Wouldn’t want to keep the family waiting for such a thrilling dinner."
He brushed past without another word.
Valarr ran his tongue slowly along the inside of his cheek and chuckled. Standing in the blood-red light of the fading sun, he watched Aerion. A slow smile curved Valarr’s lips.
"Still the same brat."