Chapter Text
The first time Aerion had seen dragonglass, he was eight years old.
A jeweler had brought it to Summerhall alongside a collection of adornments set with amber and sapphires from lands far beyond anywhere he had ever traveled. He had watched in awe as a ring was laid upon a red velvet cloth, the dark stone at its center nestled against the rich fabric like a piece of night sky fallen into a bed of roses, and presented before his mother as a gift.
“Behold the rarest substance in all of Westeros, my lady.”
“There is no other more beautiful?” Dyanna had taken the obsidian ring and placed it delicately on her finger.
“None, my lady.”
And Aerion had believed him. He had seen great beauty before: emeralds and rubies aplenty, Summerhall at midnight lit by a thousand candles, moonlit seas, the sight of his brother Daeron’s cock when he emerged from said sea like a pearl lifted from its shell. But he had never beheld anything so vibrant and impossibly pure, and he thought he never would again.
And yet, to the dense, gnawing ache that has now consumed him, here it returns, moments from being claimed by another hand.
The dragonglass gleams relentlessly on the ring balanced between Daeron’s thumb and forefinger as he uses it to propose to his newly betrothed.
Aerion stands beneath the shade of an archway at the edge of the castle gardens, a few paces from his brother, his mouth pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. He was abruptly summoned from his chambers barely half an hour ago with little explanation beyond the insistence that his presence was required.
Painfully unaware that his day was about to rot from the inside out.
Beside him rests a long table laid out with fruits and wine, a great silver pitcher sweating in the heat. In the short time since his arrival, Daeron, to no one’s surprise, has already helped himself to two rim-filled glasses, avoiding his brother's violet eyes both times he drew near.
Now, Aerion stands rigid while the ring glints like a taunt before him and the rest of the gathered court. The stem of his glass feels like hot iron under his grip, yet he tightens it anyway, hoping it will shatter and send shards of glass flying into the back of his brother’s head.
Daeron is turned away from him - the coward must fear the reckoning simmering in Aerion’s gaze - and so Aerion is instead condemned to the sight of Kiera’s tear-struck face and the thing that will one day bind Daeron to another.
Every muscle in Aerion’s body coils tight as his brother slips the ring onto Kiera’s finger, then glides his hand down the curve of her side - the same hand he had used to sink fingers into Aerion only a week before - to rest possessively at her waist. The only thing restraining Aerion from crossing the garden and tearing his brother’s skin from his skull is the forty souls surrounding them, many of whom are armed, his father included.
“I was beginning to worry he would never marry.”
An older man stumbles up beside Aerion, swirling the wine in his cup, tilting it far too close to the rim.
Baron. The castle idiot, as Aerion has had him named.
He’s somehow still upright despite the wine he’s already put away, and clearly not in his best mind if he’s to say such a thing to the betrothed’s brother. Aerion wonders idly how the fool remains standing.
“You know what they say about his…tastes,” Baron continues, voice slurred with drink and gossip. “His trips to the brothels. You would think a prince of his status would not need the company of a common whore.”
Aerion loosens his grip on his glass and takes a long sip, letting the liquid flow through his teeth like sand through a sieve. The wine sits on his tongue before he swallows it.
“Is that so?” Aerion speaks with all the interest of a lifeless man. “I wouldn’t think his cock worked given all the drink he punishes himself with.”
Aerion knows very well that it works. Has felt the extent of what it could do for years. And he knows where his brother’s interests in the brothels lie. Whatever truth may lurk within Baron’s claims pales beside the far greater injury Daeron is currently dealing him.
Baron leans in, conspiratorial, breath reeking of sour wine. “Not from all I’ve heard.”
One brow lifts. The rest of Aerion’s expression remains unchanged. “You must spend a great deal of time listening.”
“I do. Oh, I do.” Baron nods proudly.
“And from whom might you have heard such things?” Aerion keeps his eyes forward, watching Daeron’s hand settle at the small of Kiera’s back as they speak with those who have stepped forward to offer their well-wishes.
“Well, I’m not sure if you should know…” Baron hesitates, perhaps some dim instinct of self-preservation seeping through the wine-fog. But even as he appears to consider his next words, like the idiot he so well is, he offers them anyway. Aerion listens to the names, etching each one into memory with practiced precision. He’ll send for their heads on spikes later. Or perhaps he’ll fan the flames of rumor himself, let the whispers grow until they choke his dear brother’s reputation more than it already has been. It’s the least of what he deserves.
Aerion drains the rest of his glass in a single, irritated swallow.
“I need to fetch something from my chambers,” he says, setting the empty glass down with a sharp crack against the table beside him. His brother still hasn’t turned to look at him, and burning holes into the back of his head has unfortunately not been enough to set it ablaze.
Baron stumbles under his weight, drops of wine sloshing over the rim of his glass and onto the ground instead of Aerion’s shoes, which likely saves his life. “Are you not going to wish your brother well before you leave?” He sounds surprised, maybe even scandalized, through his drunken haze.
Aerion watches his father approach the new couple as they embrace, Kiera’s head leaning against Daeron’s shoulder adoringly.
“Not yet,” he says quietly, turning toward the castle doors. “I need some time to find the right words. He deserves only the finest.”
————
Fortunate for all those within the castle walls, Aerion makes it to his chambers before the rage truly takes hold.
The door slams behind him, knocking a portrait from the wall, and he grinds it beneath his boot on his way to the window. He grips the stone windowsill with a fierceness that would have splintered anything softer, the laughter drifting up from the gardens below not nearly far enough away.
His breath comes fast through his nose, the wine in his stomach turning to poison, hot and caustic as it climbs up past his rib cage as though it means to crack it open. He resists - reluctantly - the itching temptation to take the wine pitcher from his washstand and hurl it through the glass window, let it shatter and rain down on their joyous fucking occasion.
Instead, he paces. And overthinks. And unravels over all that Daeron will do to her that night that will no longer be saved for him. Walking to the door and back, door and back, over and over and over until the pattern feels like the only thing tethering him to the floor, keeping him from walking back down those stairs and telling every lord and lady in attendance exactly what kind of man their prince truly is.
Telling them every part of him Daeron has taken. Every place he had once been held down so that he could be ridden into by a tireless boy with the fervor of one still learning his lover’s limits.
And the last time was only five nights before. Five fucking nights. Daeron had been in that very room, in his very bed, lying atop him and biting so firmly into his shoulder that it bled.
Aerion is startled by his own laughter at the image of it. A bitter, broken sound that scrapes like fractured bone out of his chest.
He stands beside the table at his window and flexes his shaking hand - something to still the tremor - but it only causes it to spread up his arms, into his chest, through his whole body until every muscle strains against the immense pressure of it. His teeth grit together until pain sparks through his jaw, and he holds them there because at least this ache is his to command. One second, two, one second more—
The door opens, and the air changes shape.
Aerion doesn’t turn. He continues to bend over the table, busying his eyes with the world outside, looking anywhere but the entrance to his room. He can feel his older brother hesitate just outside his chambers, like he’s testing the welcome. Like he’s looking for a safe place to land.
He will not find such a place.
Aerion places a discreet hand over the dagger sheathed against his waist beneath his clothes, then takes a deep breath.
Still there. Still ready.
“I see your disposition remains sunny.” The words slip out on instinct, an old habit reaching for levity before Daeron can think better of it.
Aerion turns just enough to look over his shoulder, and whatever lives in his expression kills the half-smile on Daeron’s face before it can fully form.
This is the Aerion they say to be wary of. This is the cruel man who has been seen by all those most unlucky.
Daeron has come with glass in hand, the wine an old ally which he has surely enlisted to steady himself for this conversation. He lowers his eyes. “Baron told me you might be here.” His voice is more careful this time, tentative. He walks in through the door but comes no further, lingering near the frame like the room itself might suffocate him. Against his better judgment, he closes the door behind him, securing the latch. “I fear what you may say, but I must ask.” He hesitates, clearing his throat. ”How are you feeling?”
Aerion turns to face him fully, letting his brother bear the full image of what has been building.
Daeron visibly deflates.
Good.
Let him see what he’s done. Let him see the wreckage, and so that when Aerion next smiles, it does not warm Daeron’s heart.
“Delighted, of course.” Aerion’s voice is as delicate as a spider’s web. “I only wish you would come closer so that I can slit your throat and watch you drown in your drunken blood.”
Daeron exhales quietly through his nose, running his hand through his hair until it lands at the back of his neck. “I should have had you sent away for the day,” he says. “I told myself I would. I knew this would be difficult.”
“Then I am lucky your intentions seldom become action,” Aerion snarks, amused by the sight of Daeron’s throat struggling to swallow. “Now I get to watch you flatten under my heel.”
“Is there not a world—“ Daeron’s voice cracks. He clears it, tries again. “Is there not a world where you could stop being vile for one moment and think clearly? This is not about us.”
The laugh that tears out of Aerion is ugly and guttural.
”Not about us?” He gestures around the room, then toward the garden beyond, where the celebration still rings out like a mockery. “So what drew you here to my chambers, brother, if not for us?” He spits the last word as though it tastes of mold.
Daeron doesn’t balk. “You knew this would happen. That this day would come.”
“You’ve told me otherwise more times than you will now care to admit.” Aerion’s fingers dig into his palm. “So no, brother. I truly fucking did not.”
The muscle that jumps in his brother’s jaw is all the confirmation Aerion needs. He learned years ago what it meant: Daeron was holding panic together by the thinnest of threads.
Daeron takes a large sip of his wine, then pauses, considering it, before placing the glass down at a small table by the door. He briefly rubs the inside of his brows. “What was I to do? The council wants me wed, father wants me producing heirs, we need the alliance and coin.”
Aerion pinches the bridge of his nose until pressure blooms behind his eyes. He lets it burn before he releases it.
“What were you to do?” He repeats the words slowly, mockingly, like asking something of a child, then tilts his head, letting the silence stretch until Daeron shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Let me spare you the strain of thought, since you so clearly cannot manage it alone.”
Aerion begins to walk slowly toward his brother, who, markedly, is still stationed by the door like a man who has not yet decided whether to stay or flee, holding his place only just. “You could have moved your hand away from her waist in my presence, stopped gawking at her as though she hangs the moon, chosen any fucking substance other than the dragonglass—”
“It wasn’t my choice—”
“—and at the very least, you could have told me of it before asking for her hand.”
Aerion halts just short of Daeron, the redness around his brother’s eyes more obvious now.
“You’d have just tried to stop me,” Daeron says. It comes out almost petulant.
Aerion gives a stunned laugh. “You’re right. I would have chained you to my bedpost so that I could fuck you while you lay there innocently like a little lamb. Kept you prisoner, like you have no say in what we do at all.”
The words leave a palpable sourness in the air.
Daeron looks away first. His shoulders sag, slouching, the fight draining out of him in short waves. “This kills me more than you’ll be willing to accept right now. That I’ve hurt you—”. He lets the unfinished words remain suspended between them. Unresolved and aching.
Aerion’s anger stumbles.
Fuck. Fuck.
Aerion closes his eyes briefly, the tension in his neck slipping for a heartbeat. He walks to the edge of his bed and sits down, the mattress feeling strangely distant beneath him, as though his body has not fully caught up to the moment. The laughter from the garden has dimmed now, the courtiers likely having moved on to other things now that one of the betrothed has been missing for a while. There’s only so much more time left alone. Only so little time left before they must return to the lives waiting for them outside this room.
“We could have run,” Aerion whispers. He hates how small his voice sounds, hates the way hope still flares in his chest like a candle he can’t blow out. He swallows hard, feels his throat tighten around the lump bruising the inside of it.
Daeron’s eyes gradually rise to look back at Aerion, panic still alive within them, but the weary acceptance of a man who has already grieved this very thing surfaces there as well. “And now I must think straight for you,” he says, his voice low. “There is nowhere to run to. There is nowhere we can go where we won’t be found.” His hand rises, hesitates in the space between them, then falls uselessly at his side. “They would kill us both. You know this.”
Daeron’s words land where they should. The logic of them is infuriating. But they do nothing to dull the pain. To excuse the things that should have been done between then and now. So instead of leaning into forgiveness, Aerion finds himself clinging to the hurt.
Aerion wrinkles his nose as though he’s smelled something foul, his eyes narrowing. “Then you shouldn’t have taken me in your bed,” he murmurs. “You should have stopped it years ago. You’re the eldest brother, you’re the one responsible for me.”
A flush climbs Daeron’s neck, and he looks away, the words striking somewhere tender. His eyes slip shut as he takes a second to absorb the blow before facing Aerion again. ”I wish you wouldn’t do that. Nothing from our past changes now. I still feel it all.” Daeron reaches for him - the distance still not close enough for them to meet - but Aerion jerks back and flings his hand out like the gesture itself is an insult. “I just—”
“Needed a good fuck while you waited for someone suited to your duty to come along?” Aerion supplies. “You couldn’t have just had that with the whores you’ve taken in the brothels?”
“Aerion, please, you know this isn’t what I would want for myself. I—”
“Is it not?” Aerion snaps, pupils blown like a wounded animal. He spreads his arms wide, a feigned surrender. “Do you not want it all? Someone who would lie with you even while you drank yourself stupid every other day, and a girl who would trail after you like a dog.” His voice cuts like the dagger waiting patiently at his waist. “I’m no fool, Daeron. You need for everything, so that you can leave me with nothing.”
Daeron’s face crumples, the words sobering him from the wine he had indulged in not too long before. “I care more for you than anyone else in this putrid world, and you know it.”
Aerion’s chest rises and falls like a ship fighting rough seas. He rises to stand close to his brother - so close that he can feel his breath - before pride can stop him. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper, but it carries the weight of every promise Daeron had ever made him.
“Then show me,” he pleads. “Show me. Don’t do it.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Daeron’s hand comes up to cup Aerion’s delicate cheek. His fingers quiver. For a moment - one terrible, beautiful moment - Aerion thinks his brother might actually say he won’t. He thinks, whether from longing or madness, that Daeron might choose him.
But Daeron’s eyes only close. His grip tightens on Aerion’s cheek, then falls away.
“I have to.”
Aerion’s breath leaves him all at once.
For a long, agonizing moment, he plainly stands there, staring at the space between them. Then he looks at Daeron's face. Memorizing him, trying to outline every crease around his eyes, the fullness of his lashes, the curve of his nose. Or trying to find some trace of the man who’d whispered things meant for none other in the dark five nights before. His eyes burn, but he refuses to let the tears fall. Refuses to give Daeron that.
Instead, his face twists into something more ruthless than Daeron has ever seen.
“Of course you do,” he says. Then louder. Vicious. “Of course you fucking do.”
He draws back, one leg, then another, his movements strangely delayed in a way he will later deny, until he makes his way back to the edge of his bed.
He does not sit.
His jaw shifts as he studies the floor, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Or, perhaps more fittingly, consider his next strike.
Then he looks back at Daeron, and whatever vulnerability had briefly surfaced is gone. ”You won’t satisfy her,” he says as though stating a simple fact.
“You’re angry—”
“Angry?” Aerion lets out a thin laugh. “You should pray that’s all this is.”
“—but if you wish for that to rattle me, you’ll have to sharpen your claws.”
Thus, there is a fleeting moment in time when a decision is made. Some men might have ignored the invitation, tempting as it is, and spared them both what comes next. Resolution lies within reach, woefully close, even if the path leading to it remains rocky and steep.
But Aerion is not one of those men.
So when Daeron asks for the blade, Aerion stops offering the hilt.
“She’s young. Younger than I,” Aerion says calmly, moving to sit on the bed and crossing one ankle over the other. Daeron’s throat tightens. “Is that what it is? You do like them hairless and untouched. Did I grow too old for you?”
The words hit with surgical cruelty, designed to wound in the exact place Aerion knows will hurt most.
Daeron’s gaze hardly wavers, barely moves, but whatever slight crack appears in his composure, Aerion seizes upon it. Daeron stands there and takes it, cheeks burning red despite himself, and jaw clenching so hard a vein stands out along the side of his face.
All it does is give Aerion more wood for his fire.
”How young was I?” he continues. “Remind me, brother. How young was I when you first fucked me into my mattress?”
“Aerion.”
”When you pinned me under your weight and sealed your hand across my lips so you could fuck me without having to bother yourself with my shouts.”
“Aerion…”
“When you couldn’t make it to your chambers, and so you took me into the washroom and fucked me until I could hardly breathe, and poor, innocent Aegon nearly walked in as you released in me and I—”
Daeron moves before Aerion can finish the sentence. He lunges forward, one hand locking around the front of Aerion’s neck as he shoves him into the bed and squeezes tight around his windpipe.
Aerion laughs, but beneath Daeron’s grasp, it comes out choked and gargled. “You do like me this way, don’t you? Since I was a child.”
Daeron squeezes tighter. “Don’t.” His pulse throbs violently beneath the skin of his neck. Certainly, the urge to kill his brother is there.
“Am I not trying hard enough for you?” Aerion spits, struggling to breathe, venom still dripping from his every word as if he would gladly suffocate before surrendering. “Let me try harder.”
Daeron pushes more of his weight down onto the bed, and as Aerion lies restrained underneath him, he sees it there, submerged within Daeron’s clouded gaze.
The opportunity.
The chance to finally stop the bitterness and the cruelty. The chance to stop this all.
Aerion beckons for it. Dares it forward. Maybe it is better to feel nothing than to feel this agony. Maybe it is better to die than to suffer this heartache.
Daeron bites his bottom lip, his jaw trembling, his fingers curled so tight they will surely leave a mark, then gives Aerion one final squeeze before reason takes over. He releases his hands and moves back from the bed, staggering away, trying to steady his feet.
Like the viper he is, Aerion is quick on his feet. He pushes off the mattress, coughing and pulling the top of his shirt away from his skin to allow his airway more room, then clears his throat and stalks around Daeron, like a dragon testing the edge of its prey before committing its teeth.
“Now then,” he taunts, “as I was saying.”
“Aerion, enough,” Daeron growls. “I understand this is all just a game to you. That you are upset and lashing out as you feel you must. But this must stop. We must—”
“We?” Aerion hurls. “What we is there anymore?”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Strange. I don’t seem to recall relinquishing ownership of my intentions." Aerion stills and faces him. “But you always did prefer your version of me.”
Daeron doesn’t respond to that, just opens his mouth before closing it again, and the silence that follows stings so pointedly that Aerion wishes he had.
When it becomes unbearable, Aerion breaks it.
“What did you tell me the night our mother died?” he asks, the question heavy with ruin. “When you followed me back to my room, and I collapsed in your arms. I only had you, and you whispered to me through my cries.” His eyes find his brother’s and do not leave them. “Do you remember? Or were you as drunk then as you have been almost every night since?”
The lash lands. Daeron winces, but doesn’t deny it.
“I remember.” Daeron’s voice is hoarse. He doesn’t try to argue the accusation about the wine that night, and most nights since. They both know the truth of it.
“Then tell me.” Aerion feels his hands tremble in rage or grief or both. “What did you promise me?”
Daeron forces down whatever has lodged itself in his throat, then wets his lips. When he speaks, it’s with thick shame. “I promised you forever.”
The distance between them suddenly feels insurmountable.
“Yes,” Aerion says, the next words collapsing in on him. “You did.”
He doesn’t give himself time to see Daeron’s reaction. He turns away, pressing the ends of his palms against his eyes. His shoulders shake before he forces himself still again. When he drops his hands, his face is eerily blank.
“It doesn’t matter,” Aerion says, moving toward the door. “None of this does.” His hand finds the latch, holding it like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. “I shouldn’t worry, either way. Your marriage is doomed, since she is bound to discover you only like to fuck little boys.”
Aerion turns the latch, but Daeron catches his arm before he can open the door.
In one fluid motion, Aerion draws the blade from his belt and presses it to Daeron’s throat. The edge kisses skin close enough to break it. So close, Aerion can feel Daeron’s pulse hammering against the steel, can see the way his breath goes shallow and unrhythmic.
He could end it here. Could watch the light leave those eyes that had promised him a different life. Could let Daeron’s blood spill across the floor and tell everyone it was an accident, an argument gone wrong. A tragedy.
Part of him wants to. Part of him almost does.
“I don’t care what foul words you throw at me,” Daeron says. His eyes never leave Aerion’s. “I love you still.”
Aerion presses the blade up further and sees Daeron’s throat bob beneath the sharp edge. His hands are steady. His voice, betrayingly, is not. “How conveniently timed.”
“You could kill me now, and I wouldn’t shout.” Daeron’s hand comes up slowly and carefully, not to push the dagger away but to rest against Aerion’s chest, over his heart. “I wouldn’t cry. I’d only wait for you on the other side.”
The words slice harder than Aerion’s dagger ever could.
Aerion winces from the sincerity of them. Raw and terrible and too fucking late.
“You could have had me on this side. Here. Right now.” The blade begins to tremble against Daeron’s skin but Aerion doesn’t pull away. “You could have thrown me across the bed and fucked me savagely, and like a fool I’d let you, like I always had, because I trusted you.” His throat closes around the next words. “You have none of that now.”
“Don’t make threats you won’t see through.” Daeron’s thumb moves against Aerion’s chest, a ghost of the intimacy they’d shared. “Time will pass, and we will heal. This is why I didn’t want you here today. It’s too soon.”
The last warm thing inside Aerion turns back to stone in a way that feels irreversible.
“Time will do you no good. And when it doesn’t, I hope you never - never - come to my door again expecting comfort when you’re bored.”
Aerion drops the blade. Lets it clatter to the floor between them. He pushes Daeron back so that his brother cannot reach for him and wrenches the door open.
“Enjoy your life with your dear wife, my brother,” he says. “May she give you all the heirs our father demands and none of what you once enjoyed from me.”
———-
Kiera is a beautiful bride.
Aerion had known she would be - had steeled himself for it in the weeks leading up to this day - but knowing and seeing are different things entirely, and it eats at him the second he lays eyes on her.
She is poised gracefully upon the candlelit dais before a hall filled with lords and ladies who have come to witness the union, her pink hair woven with jewels and small white flowers, looking like something out of a dream.
Radiant and untouchable.
Aerion’s younger sisters stand beside Kiera, decorated in beautiful red and black gowns and draped in silver jewelry. Aerion stands across from them in front of his younger brothers, dressed no less impressively himself. While waiting for the ceremony to begin, Aerion spots his cousins, Valarr and Matarys, seated in the front row beside their father. Valarr gives Aerion an apprehensive smile, which he does not return.
Behind Aerion, his father Maekar holds himself regally, chin high, satisfaction radiating from him like heat from a forge. This was what he’d wanted. An alliance. A legacy. A son who may, finally, stop disappointing him.
And then there’s Daeron.
Aerion is positioned directly behind him, having been pushed up by the tip of Aegon’s boot when it was decided he hadn't been standing close enough to the groom.
They haven’t properly spoken since that night. Every attempt Daeron makes to close the distance is met with Aerion finding a reason to widen it. Leaving rooms, ending conversations, making himself scarce whenever Daeron comes near. No excuse is too flimsy, and no detour is too inconvenient.
But that avoidance has come with consequences.
Deprivation.
Because now, as Aerion tries to divert his eyes to anywhere but toward the man before him, they can’t help but fix on the blonde waves he’d run his fingers through a thousand times, now immaculately held back with a silver clasp. His eyes drop down to Daeron’s shoulders, to the ones he had traced kisses down when he’d ridden on top of him many countless nights. And then to his stance, his brother standing there as he had when he’d first walked into Aerion’s room when they were younger and stood by his bed, drunk and impulsive, and whispered, “Is there room for another?”
Today, possibly more than any day before, Daeron looks like a prince. The handsome man Aerion knows him to be.
Only Aerion wonders if anyone else can see the tension in those shoulders, the strain in his brother’s posture, the way his hands are clasped too tightly behind his back.
Probably not. They see what they want to see.
The ceremony begins, and the words of the officiant wash over Aerion like stagnant water. He can’t smile, though no one would expect that from him, even on one of his better days. He just stands there and watches as everything he’s ever wanted slips further and further out of reach.
The ceremony passes with welcome haste. One moment, the officiant is speaking. The next, he is delivering the final blessing. Kiera and Daeron embrace in a kiss, the sounds of their lips colliding together like boulders dropped into the hollow of Aerion’s chest, and approving murmurs ripple through the ceremony hall.
Aerion watches, heart twisting, stomach turning, everything inside him buckling and splitting and cracking. There is nowhere else to look and nowhere else to be. Because he is expected to stand there and bear witness to every unbearable second. Because he is a prince and princes do not flee.
He keeps his expression unreadable.
Daeron and Kiera turn to face the crowd, hand in hand, both smiling, and begin their walk down the aisle.
Before they step down, Aerion, against his better judgment, searches for Daeron’s gaze.
He does not find it.
Then they are past him, swept up in the tide of celebration, and Aerion is left standing with his siblings on the dais and a scowl fixed upon his face.
He doesn’t linger. He follows behind the newly married couple, shoulders squared, chin lifted, and behind him, the candles on the dais are extinguished and go dark one by one.
———-
The second floor of the Great Hall is blessedly empty.
Aerion slipped away during the reception and climbed to the upper gallery overlooking the festivities below. He leans against the railing, one arm draped across it while the other extends over the edge, a glass of wine balanced carelessly between his fingers. Up here, he can watch the celebration unfold without being part of it, the torchlights from the lower floor failing to reach the corridors that branch into darkness above, night finally among them.
The hall below has been transformed. Garlands of red flowers hang from every beam, candles are set ablaze in chandeliers that cast dancing light across the crowd, and musicians play lively music from the dais while people spin across the floor in elaborate patterns, a blur of color and motion.
And in the center of it all, Daeron dances with his bride, drink in hand, looking as though he hasn’t a care in the world.
Aerion’s hand tightens on the railing.
Daeron’s arm is wrapped around Kiera’s upper back - having migrated well above her waist since their engagement day - holding her close as they move through the steps of some courtly dance Aerion had learned years ago and never cared to remember.
She is laughing, head thrown back, drink also in hand, and Daeron is smiling down at her with an expression that looks almost fond. His hair has come loose from the clasp, blonde waves falling across his forehead the way they always do when he’s been drinking. Which is most days.
“He looks happy.”
Aerion looks out the corner of his violet eyes, his head still fixed ahead, to see his cousin Valarr approaching like a hound sniffing out a fox.
“I’m unfamiliar with the term,” Aerion says, his eyes moving back to the celebration. “Is that another word for resigned?”
Valarr snorts out a rueful chuckle, then comes to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. He takes a long sip from one of the two wine cups he carries. “In our circumstances, yes.” Valarr gestures vaguely toward the dancing couples below, the gilded cage of noble life. “What else greater can come from a marriage you’ve been bound to than to be resigned?” He shrugs. “But maybe content is the better word.”
“It isn’t.”
Valarr’s mouth quirks. “If you are to be only one thing in life, it is contrarian.”
“Have the celebrations tired you so that you must come to bore your favorite cousin?” Aerion glances sideways at him again, seeing the glint of amusement in Valarr’s eyes that makes him want to shove him over the railing.
“I’m having a lovely time, actually.” Valarr leans against the balustrade further, perfectly at ease. “I just know my presence disturbs you, and it brings me much joy to see you perturbed.” He holds out the second glass he’d brought up, wine-filled inside. “Drink?”
Aerion eyes it for a long moment - certainly his cousin wouldn’t poison him on such a night - then downs the rest of his own half-filled cup and takes the offered glass. He puts the tip of his tongue to it. The wine is sweeter than his had been, but not tainted.
“I wouldn’t do that to you tonight,” Valarr smiles knowingly.
“Then this evening must be a special occasion indeed,” Aerion says, taking more of the drink in his mouth.
“Is it not odd? That we must learn not to drink blindly.”
”I don’t believe some of us received the same lesson.”
Valarr’s smile grows wider at that. The name needs no mention.
They watch the festivities below together for what feels like too long, although it is at most only a few minutes. Aerion waits for Valarr to remember somewhere else he ought to be, making no attempt to disguise his displeasure. Unfortunately, Valarr appears perfectly satisfied where he is.
“You looked lost,” Valarr finally says. His voice has lost some of its mocking edge. “Before the ceremony. Like you were somewhere else.”
Aerion’s jaw tightens. “Why do you care where I am?”
“I don’t. Not on any other day.” Valarr takes another sip of his drink, then turns to look at his cousin. “But I know what happens when you’re in a foul mood, and I’d hate for you to ruin your brother’s wedding.”
“The only thing that’s being ruined is my peace and solitude.”
Valarr shakes his head then turns to lean his back against the railing. He looks to Aerion from the side, studying his profile. “Quite surly tonight, are we? You have so much anger built up and nowhere to properly place it. It’s been that way since we were children.”
“Remarkable,” Aerion drawls. “I had thought such perception beyond your reach. Shall I send for a witness?”
Valarr huffs a laugh, unfazed. “Perhaps I am wise.” He lifts a shoulder, swirling the wine in his cup. “Although I do get more bold when I’ve had a few glasses in me.”
“Is ‘wise’ what they call it these days?” Aerion rolls his eyes, then turns to face Valarr, and the irritation in his stare cuts through like a scythe. “You have been here but five minutes, and I already tire of your face.” He snatches Valarr’s cup from his hand and finishes the rest of it for him, a small trail of wine escaping the corner of his mouth. When he’s done, he wipes it away with the back of his hand and holds the empty glass between them. “You drive me toward more drink.”
Valarr ignores the insults and reclaims his finished glass, holding Aerion’s gaze unyieldingly. His expression tightens briefly, as though weighing his next words, before he leans in closer. “I’ve felt it before,” he says quietly. A few seconds of silence stretches between them, broken only by the music drifting up from below. “Not like you, not in the same way. But, I have.” Then, even quieter, “I understand it.”
Aerion’s brow twitches.
By the will of the gods, he forces himself to take a breath. Then another. Then one more, gods damn him. He can visualize Valarr’s head on his dinner plate right now; blood spilling out of his ears and nose, the life gone from his eyes.
He moves even closer to his cousin, threateningly close, so surely Valarr must feel the heat seething off of him, before snatching him by the wrist. He only wishes he hadn’t left his dagger within his bedside cabinet. “You understand nothing of me,” he snarls. “You’re a coward and a pest, and I’d rather cut out my tongue, which has served me faithfully, than have to spend another second hearing you lament about whatever tragedy you think gives you the right to liken yourself to me.”
Valarr stands straighter, but the uneasiness is there. For a second, a semblance of hurt appears to flash across his face before he smooths it away behind a mask of indifference. He doesn’t try to remove Aerion’s grasp. “I mean only to help.”
“Which you’re terrible at, amongst other things,” Aerion retorts, fingers tightening around Valarr’s wrist bone. “So, let me help you instead. Go find a servant and ask for a change of clothes. You look ridiculous in that attire.”
Valarr glances down at his formal doublet, the brief flicker of self-consciousness filling Aerion with ugly delight, before looking back up at his cousin in exasperation. “I thought you’d be different tonight.”
“No.” Aerion lets go of his wrist and turns back toward the railing. “You did not.”
Valarr hesitates as though weighing one final attempt at kindness, then seems to remember exactly who stands before him and reconsiders the effort entirely. He pushes off the railing with a tired sigh.
“Have a nice night, cousin,” he says, turning to walk back towards the stairs nearby.
Aerion does not return the sentiment.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Valarr pauses before glancing back once more. Aerion is already consumed again by the celebration below, face half-hidden in shadow, empty glass held firm in his hand.
“For what it’s worth,” Valarr says, so softly Aerion might not have heard him over the music, “I am sorry.”
Then his footsteps fade down the steps.
Aerion doesn’t watch him as he descends. Doesn’t acknowledge the words. Just stands there in the shadows, watching Daeron dance with his bride, and pretends his hands aren’t shaking uncontrollably beneath him.