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@brightflme
* ᴀ ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏ ʙʟᴏɢ ꜰᴏʀ 𝓐𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷 ᴏꜰ ɢᴇᴏʀɢᴇ ʀ. .ʀ ᴍᴀʀᴛɪɴ’ꜱ ᴀ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍꜱ. This will have TV influences + but expect canon divergence, but I am currently reading the books! ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙʏ ʟᴏʀɴᴀ. 𝗌𝗁𝖾 / 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 , 30+ . ʙꜱᴛ ᴢᴏɴᴇ. ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟꜱ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ. ᴍᴅɴɪ.
ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏʀᴅ ɪꜱ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘʟᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ.
gif packs used: here and here
Please see my rules and verses
Current drafts: 6
RULES & INFO:
My laptop isn't working properly but when it is i'll be catching up on all replies and dms i'm so sorry for the wait
Daeron had found himself a tavern nearby to quench his thirst. Things were definitely too messed up to make it through the night sober. He wished he could just wash away his guilt with the wine he was drinking. Usually, lying was nothing that weighed heavily on him. But this one time it might have been a big mistake. And now everybody expected him to fight for Aerion. Besides the fact that he wasn't much of a knight - he hated fighting - honor was not something he tought highly of. If he'd ever had it - he had dallied it away a long time ago with whores and drink.
When Aerion entered the tavern, Daeron winced at the sound of his voice. He hated everything about this. And it felt as if Aerion was circling him like a predator ready to pounce. "Oh I have no doubts songs will be sung," Daeron took a big gulp of wine to fortify himself. "But not necessarily the ones you're hoping for." He shook his head. "Don't you realize this is madness? A trial of seven. For family honor? Where was family honor when you broke that girl's fingers?" He rubbed his temples. "A dragon will die tomorrow. I've seen it," he whispered more to himself than his brother.
They had all heard Daeron’s words, condemning the same Hedge Knight that struck Aerion. Tales of how he had kidnapped Aegon in the night, and they all knew it was a falsehood, but Aerion did not voice these thoughts. It was another reason to deny the Hedge Knight a trial of combat, but instead something more worthy of Aerion and his dragon self. “You accused him too; this is as much for me as it is for you.” Aerion calmly explained as he took a seat opposite his brother. He took the ale and poured it out, his gaze never faltering from Daeron. “She killed the sigil of our house; I will not apologise for taking action against someone who could inspire a rebellion. You’d actually have to fight in that one Daeron.”
Aerion waved away Daeron’s dreams. They were nothing more than a drunken delusion. “And which dragon will that be?” His interest was waning. They’d all suffered through Daeron’s dreams longer than anyone cared to admit. “Only you, Father, and I will fight, and I do not intend on dying, neither does Father." If Daeron died, Aerion would grieve for a time, but he’d overcome the loss. To Aerion, he was the rightful heir to their father. The anvil reborn, combined with a dragon, was a powerful thing. Daeron was just a pitiful excuse for a man.
begrudgingly, she was dressed in the colors of her house. blood red, coal black ; it felt as though they were children again, clothed alike to lessen any arguments ( that would inevitably still come, despite best attempts ). as she walked through the low grass she hitched up the hem of her skirts, watched the sky with her eyes that shimmered purple like abalone shells. it was the last place she wanted to be, amidst battle. what was so wrong with sewing, with singing, with settling disagreements with words rather than blades ? her brothers, she knew, were not of the same belief, as she heard aerion’s distant call passing by the training field. the same silver - gold hair as she. the same fire within him, but greener. “i do not wish to watch, brother. why is it that you insist on drawing blood ? are there not better ways to display our strength ? ”
to calla, strength was in the silence. it was stronger not to allow their enemies sight to their inner workings, their worries, their turmoils. “is it not enough, to be a prince ? is it not enough to be blood of the dragon, to sit with the best views of the fighting with the knowledge that smallfolk look upon us with such envy ? ” she sighed, kicked away a stray clod of straw from the toe of her shoe. then, rather petulantly, “and what am i meant to do, whilst all of you are swinging swords ? ”
Aerion did not understand his siblings, nor did he truly want to. Daeron was a drunk, Egg a runaway, and his sisters, for the most part, avoided him. Everyone wanted Calla to remain indoors, being the perfect image of a princess, and yet she’d be wasted on some lord, maybe even one from the Stormlands. “Blood?” He asks, laughing at her retort. “It’s made of straw, and I must practise. Wars and battles are not one with pretty embroidery.” Aerion did not understand his sisters. With so many women to look up to, Aerion did not understand why Calla didn’t strive to be like Visenya or Rhaenys. She spoke of an aversion to blood when those very words were in her family motto.
“You could take up a sword?” He suggests holding on to her. There wasn’t anything to stop her, not when Aerion suggested such a thing. Aerion could see the master-at-arms, looking anywhere but at the princess and princess of Summerhall. “It’ll fill your time better than your sewing, and you’ll be of a benefit to the family.” There were still echoes of the Blackfyre rebellion, even though Maeker and Baelor had long since won that war. Targaryen bastards were still around, and they’d never be truly free from them.
The return of her family from the tourney had brought with it the news of their uncle's passing at the hand of her father and a bout of the spring sickness. Rhae, who was always terrified that her father or Daeron could get sick and die, was now the one who had been struck down with the infection that had since claimed the lives of Valarr and Matarys, her beloved cousins. The eight year old could barely wrap her mind around the fact that this whole side of her family was suddenly gone, seemingly from one day to another in the span of a very short time. Before her mother's passing, Rhae had not understood the concept of death just yet. But since Dyanna had left with the Stranger, the child was intimately familiar with grief and she could not process why she had survived the ailment, when her much older and stronger cousins had not.
Still bound to her bed, she did little else but read and listen to Daella's and Daeron's attempts at cheering her up all day. Now that the worst of the sickness had passed and the Maester was certain she could not transmit it anymore, her siblings were allowed to visit her again and Rhae was glad for it, because she was starting to be more alert and therefore bored. That Aerion had been banished to Essos for his behavior at the tourney had come as a surprise to her, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. Though the eldest pestered his brothers more than the girls, Rhae was very weary and suspicious of him most of the time, especially after he had thrown their kitten down the well. Who did such a thing?! So when she heard him knock on her door, she stiffened and shrank in bed, uncertain why he had come to say his farewell. He was rarely sentimental like that. Please don't, she thought to herself when he promised to return soon and she frowned. "Well...goodbye then", the little girl said, coughing slightly. "Perhaps you'll find a dragon in Essos. I read in books that there are people with dark magic there." Rhae wasn't entirely sure what to talk to him about, because they never spoke, unless he taunted and teased her.
Aerion knew his family hated him more than they feared him now. He was under no illusions that it was not of his own making, but things were different now. Lys was his punishment. To be removed from the family he’d grown up with, all because he dared to defend the dragon's honour? Egg had left before he could say goodbye, not that Aerion would give it; Daeron was too drunk to notice. Daella avoided him, and Maeker was busy. Rhae was the last person for Aerion to say goodbye to, and she was too sick to refuse him. This is what became of the dragon. It was pitiful. This is what the family had been reduced to. Fractured and sick, with half of them perishing to a sickness. Ever since Ashford, Aerion knew the truth. The Hedge Knight cursed them. Baelor fought against his family, against his blood, and all of this death was his fault.
“Father said I should say my goodbyes before my parting,” he explained, knowing this was more of a task than out of any sibling bond. Aerion knew that when he’d be in Lys, none of them would write. He’d be the cautionary tale for every Targaryen. It was an awkward exchange. It was clear that Rhae didn’t want to talk to him; even when she’d been sick in bed, no company was better than his. “I don’t need dark magic for a dragon.” He said, his voice almost sounding like a warning. “But I suppose Lys would be safer. Westeros seems to be killing Targaryens.” Rhae survived what Baelor’s children did not, but Maeker’s children did. Maeker’s line would thrive, even if Aerion had to be the one to continue it. Egg and Daeron were useless. Daenora would join him in Lys, and there they’d create their own dynasty. A flight of dragons thundering through the sky while the ones in Westeros rotted. It seemed only fitting.
“Lykirī aōhon relgos!” Valarr snaps, shut your mouth, through gritted teeth and an anger burning so deep between the cousins that he felt certain he would press the knife in his hand deeper into Aerion's neck. “Those men are mourned and respected, people who did not know them grieve for them because of their bravery and honour!” Disgusted, his nostrils flare in anger and loathing with any love between them from their youth completely eradicated and never to be earned back. “When you die, nobody will mourn you. The only tears that will fall from your family will be of a relief that you no longer plague anyone's bloodline and that the Stranger will be the one to see your suffering when your breath finally stops. Listen to your fathers own silence,” Valarr doesn’t move, his mouth twisted and voice spitting out his words, “he doesn’t defend you, your brothers hate you so much they rid themselves of any similarities shared with you.”
The words cut into him, he knew he should have taken Baelors place and that conversation would haunt the young prince for the rest of his life and he knew what Aerion said was true in that moment but it didn’t bother him. “I would have given my life for my father but he insisted on it and I’d never deny him. Is that meant to hurt me about not being missed compared to my father? I know it. I take pride in him and his strength. He was the best of us and would have been a great King. I’m no comparison but neither are you. You think that you’re a dragon but you’re disillusioned with your own importance.” The realm would miss Baelor but no more than Valarr would.
“And you break the fingers of puppeteer girls with the kinggard backing you,” he scoffs. “I know my limitations but you are so blind to yours you think you’re above them.”
Those men were traitors. They claimed to be fighting for honour, but they all wanted the pride of fighting in the first trial of seven in a hundred years. No matter what, the history books would remember them, and Aerion knew the truth; that was why they all fought for Ser Duncan, Baelor included. “Those men aren’t respected,” Aerion laughed. “A knight with a broken leg, one with no eye, and yet you treat them like heroes?” Aerion didn’t know the standards could falter so much. Maybe because it was the first time Aerion had evoked such a reaction from his cousin, he couldn’t stop goading him, even if he wanted to. Finally, Vallar showed some inkling of being a dragon; it only took his father to die. “People will remember me,” Aerion said slowly. “They’ll remember my name for years to come while yours and your father’s will be forgotten.” Prince Baelor, the king that never was, or never shall be. The realm could speak about what king he might’ve been, but Aerion knew he’d be nothing in history. “My brothers, do you mean the drunk or the runaway?” Aerion laughed once more. “They’re nothing. They’ll never be anything; I am the dragon!” He shouted. For too long, his brothers were the standard. No one could see beyond Aerion’s own temper, but things would change. Daeron was nothing, Egg was nothing.
Aerion knew exactly what he was doing with his words. He wanted them to cut and sting, and Vallar admired his father too much to not be weighed down with grief and guilt. “You wouldn’t have,” Aerion shrugged. "Instead, you prepared him like a lamb going to slaughter. Did you act as his squire, fitting him for armour you both know did not fit?” Maeker may have swung the mace, but it was Vallar’s armour that killed him. They all knew it; they just didn’t say it to save the poor little prince.
“I broke the fingers of a traitor, and I would do so again for our family.” Traitors needed to be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. If they did not, then another rebellion could be on the horizon, and still Vallar couldn’t see past his own morals. How fortunate for him. “I am above them,” he scoffed. “We all are; we have the blood of Valyrians in our veins, and yet you don’t see yourself as above all of these people?” Aerion asked in disbelief. Vallar was not the image of a Targaryen, but even he had to understand they were above them all. They were once dragon masters, while others barely mastered a dog.
it is almost laughably obvious that aerion seeks to get a reaction out of her from the nature of his mocking quip but even with such awareness, it takes considerable self-control for kiera not to bristle and snap back an angry rebuttal. had he aimed such ridicule at anyone else, even at her own person, she would not have found it difficult in the slightest to brush the words off as if they had never been spoken but a barb aimed at her husband was not so easily forgotten. 'you know as well as i that valarr's life is more precious to the realm than all of us combined who are gathered here.' kiera replies cooly with a slight tilt of the shoulders. with the addition of his own father, the prince of dragonstone, of course.
'why risk so precious a life for mere child's play?' a faint smirk flickers across her lips as she allows herself to take satisfaction with her quip before she reorganizes her expression into one of polite impassiveness. 'you should be glad he does not take up so many challenges for if he did, you would surely find yourself facing him and it would be a shame to see such new fine armor so swiftly cast into the mud.'
beringed fingers reach upwards to tuck light pink hair behind her ear as the light breeze that whirls through the air threatens to make her tresses unruly. 'i do find it intriguing you went to such lengths to ensure your armor is so reminiscent of a dragon. they say that if a man has to so loudly profess one of his qualities, it is likely only for show.' if one is born a dragon, one should embody it in a way that it is simply known without the need for such gaudy extravagance but that is a point kiera elects to keep to herself.
'you seem so fixated on what valarr will and will not participate in and yet i cannot help but think that you are perhaps envious.' despite his silver hair, purple eyes and dragon armor, all aspects meant to loudly proclaim his targaryen heritage, none can make up for the simple fact that, by rights of birth, it is her husband, and not aerion who will sit the iron throne one day.
Vallar was a future king, many wouldn’t dare to risk his life in a joust and so his poor cousin was left for old, tired knights. Aerion liked a challenge. He liked to prove that he was just as strong and capable as his father, but mediocrity suited Vallar more than it would him. It irked Aerion that Kiera was right. Vallar’s life, for now, was more valuable than most in attendance, but that didn’t stop Aerion from wanting a challenge. Baelor would be angry if he challenged his son, but Baelor needed to understand it was Aerion who was the capable fighter, not his son. “So precious that he’s sheltered beyond measure,” Aerion laughed. “Do you think he’ll fall asleep, waiting for a decent challenge?”
A tourney was more than child’s play, but Aerion did not expect a Tyroshi to understand their customs. “I thought you Tyroshi were supposed to have some intelligence?” He asked with a mocking tone. “Shall I put your theory to the test and challenge my cousin? When I drive my sword into his side, I’ll tell him he has his wife to thank.” He didn’t say it, not yet, but Aerion did not mention it was a kind thing they didn’t have children. It was one thing to embarrass his cousin, but if he had a family of his own, Vallar’s defeat would bring shame upon his non-existent sons.
“One of us has to remind the people we are dragons, Vallar does not and I am certain your children won’t either.” That silver-gold hint Vallar had was the only reminder of his heritage. If it were up to Aerion, Vallar would have been wed to Daella instead. At least that way the dragon-side had a chance. Baelor was ever the politician and the realm needed Tyrosh more than they needed the blood of the dragon to win.
𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒 𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖍𝖆𝖉 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖊 𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖉 after baelor's funeral — the roast, he had jovially called it … to none but the hedge knight — but what was lyonel to do while his caravan began their preparations to leave? his own pavillion was half-struck by now, as servants and squires packed the tent down, readied the horses, prepared for the journey ahead. so here he was, in the ale tent, instead of hosting some loud baratheon gathering … 𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰 with a grin that fools almost everyone. he claps hands, trades jests, lets smallfolk and fellow knights clap his shoulder as if he isn't carrying two fresh ghosts behind his ribs … ( beesbury and hardying were good friends … they will certainly be missed in the years to come ). still, the laughter comes easy enough, it always did for the boisterous storm lord, even if the edges of it are slightly hollow.
but then the air shifts.
in 𝔞 𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔥 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, the cold steel kisses the side of his throat — not deep, but dangerous. intimate in a way only a dragon with too much pride and too little sense can manage … aerion's blade presses him back against the table in the short skirmish, wood biting into his bruised spine. a grunt, a slight hiss of pain, and the laughing storm's grin 𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 for just a heartbeat before steadying into something sharper than before.
amber eyes flicker with something dark. merriment cooling into challenge. did the little princeling really want to make a fool of himself again? for a long moment lyonel let's the silence stretch into something 𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢 ... as entertaining as it was to goad the targaryen's, this particular dragon had a reputation for erratic behaviour. lyonel enjoyed a certain level of unpredictability … but less so when the wrong words might result in his throat being cut by a petulant little prince. still, he tilts his head slightly, just enough for the blade to slide along his skin … not away from the danger, but into it. defiant, naturally.
❝ careful ᴍʏ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ … ❞ the storm lord cautions, voice eerily steady. calm given the perilous situation, as a dark brow raises in questioning. ❝ … don't you think enough blood has been spilled already? ❞
a beat. a breath. those sharp eyes flicker over the prince's features. studying, as if trying to figure out his next move.
❝ I ᴀssᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, no insult was uttered … ❞
With the faltering of the Laughing Storm’s smile and his hiss of pain, Aerion’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. His dagger didn’t waver. It was pressed close enough that Aerion could feel the Laughing Storm’s pulse, steady as a war drum. The tent had fallen deathly quiet, with only the sound of the fires burning. “There’s never enough blood to honour the dragon.” Aerion said, his bruised eye throbbing and every breath feeling like a stab in his ribs. The Hedge Knight had hurt him more than Aerion would ever admit, but this was about honour. They’d all heard the whispers. There were those who had whispered that the realm was better with one less dragon in the world. Others celebrated, raising a glass in honour of the Hedge Knight. Celebrating the man who caused all of this.
Aerion leaned in closer, a sharp smile across his mouth. “Tell me, Lord Baratheon, have you spoken to the Hedge Knight since the trial?” It wasn’t a secret that Lyonel favoured him. Aerion heard how he’d brought his own maester to tend to the man. A lord of Storm’s End pledging to a no-named hedge knight, knighted by some old man no one could remember. “I heard his wound was festering; perhaps the gods will deem it so for him to lose an arm.” Or die screaming from the rot. Aerion didn’t know which one he’d prefer.
ঌ starter for | @dragonmaester (Daeron)
Aerion’s teeth still ached. The Hedge Knight was strong; no one could doubt that, but Aerion didn’t think he’d been quick enough to demand a trial by combat. Lucky for him, Aerion knew his history too well and countered with a trial by seven. Targaryen honour would be restored with the first Trial of Seven in a hundred years. The history books would remember him for that, but Aerion wanted victory. He’d been dragged away from discussions before they concluded by his father, but the result remained the same. A Trial of Seven would happen; Maeker would stand by his son, along with the Kingsguard, and everyone expected Daeron there as well. He was one of the accusers after all.
Daeron wasn’t hard to find. All Aerion had to do was look in the nearest tavern or follow the stench of ale, and lo and behold, his brother was there. “You’re to fight with me, brother,” he says, his voice cutting cleanly through the room despite his aching teeth. He circled his brother slowly, wondering why the gods would give him dreams he could not handle. “A trial of seven to restore our family honour. Have no doubt, songs will be sung on this day, and I intend for them to sing of how dragons insult with fire.”
ঌ starter for | @st4nheight (Calla)
Aerion was up just as dawn broke over Summerhall. By midday, the sound of steel striking steel echoed through the courtyard, and Aerion’s black armour and the hints of red caught the sun, making the flame-red details stand out amongst the rest. He was the dragon, more so than any of his siblings, or so he thought. Aerion cut through the air with vicious arcs, his longsword hissing through the air as the master of arms watched and corrected him. He was a good fighter, but not an honourable one. Honour was a wasted thing when it came to battle. All of the straw dummies were hacked to ruin, scattered around the Targaryen prince like corpses. During a reprieve, Aerion caught sight of his sister. “Come closer and see how a dragon prepares for glory.” He shouts, planting his sword in the ground and resting his hand on the pommell. Sweat gleamed all over his face as he took off his helmet.
“Lord Ashford is to host a tourney,” He explained, gesturing to the straw-like corpses. Everyone knew the Targaryens were to attend. “And I plan to become the champion", The plans were for Daeron to compete alongside Vallar, but they all knew Aerion was the stronger fighter. Ashford wouldn’t be a defining tourney, but it was better than nothing. Those in attendance would see the dragon, and not the pitiful ones like Daeron and Vallar.
work has been hell this past week but I'll be getting back online in the next day or two!
ᴬᵉʳⁱᵒⁿ ᵀᵃʳᵍᵃʳʸᵉⁿ - 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢
His singular gaze had been focused across the Narrow Sea, attempting to sequester news about the Blackfyre and Bittersteel's plans of future insurrections. He had noticed odd details here and there of random sightings in the Step Stones, but nothing that would have caused serious concern unless they were truly connected.
While not wanting to alert the Master of Ships too early, he took it upon himself to confirm the rumors as well as reconnect with Prince Maekar's second son. Partially in hopes that they boy would have matured some through his experience and seeking any potential news he would have.
He needed to travel disguised as Maynard Plumm, a particular character he used when traipsing around pretender territory. Distant family member of another bastard of the unworthy king, but removed enough that his loyalty wouldn't be questioned. Only a few knew of his skills, and Prince Aerion was soon to be privy to them.
@brightflme: ❝ Say one more word ❞ | aerion
" O n e ," Brynden drawled as he unclipped the large moonstone brooch at his should and placed it in a leather pouch fastened to his belt. The shoulder-length dirty blond hair melted into white and lengthened, though most of it was tucked in his cloak to prevent unexpected strands to touch someone. His pale skin turned paler, and the pale eyes now visibly shined bright red. The left that was taken, now presented itself as such, instead of the facade that had be placed due to the glamour.
He didn't wait for any other words, from the young prince, though he now comfortably rested a hand on Dark Sister as he shifted his weight to one leg. "As I said before, I can guarantee your, passage across the Narrow Sea. Even lift your exile," he continued slowly. "I cannot predict when Bittersteel will make his move, but I would prefer you back in Westeros before he makes his move."
Maynard Pulmm vanished before Aerion’s eyes, but he did not attempt to hide his indifference to his great-uncle. He saw the dirty blonde hair turn white; another Targaryen hiding his identity. Egg had certainly set a trend. Aerion didn’t move to greet his great-uncle. He remained sprawled across the cushioned divan. His relatives across the Narrow Sea didn’t make any effort to contact him, and so Aerion gave them the same treatment. “The crow sheds his feathers at last,” he taunted. Finally, Aerion rose, his red silk robes trailing behind him across the marble floor. Aerion’s moves were deliberate and graceful, watching Blood Raven’s every move.
“You cross the narrow sea, disguised, to summon me home." Aerion almost laughed at the explanation. “Offering me promises of repatriation at the cost of raising my sword and flame for a father and country that cast me aside?” All for the honour of a traitor and a hedge knight. The years since hadn’t calmed Aerion’s anger. He’d cultivated it, let it grow within him, promising that one day he would return. Aerion knew the names by which they called him. Aerion the Monstrous. Aerion the Cruel. If that is what Westeros wanted him to be, then he would gladly play that role.
Bittersteel was barely a Targaryen, more Bracken than anything. If the fool thought he had any chance at the Iron Thorne, he had a madness within him. “His father was unworthy; Bittersteel will surely follow.” He glanced over at Blood Raven, his eyes on fire with contempt. “If I am so valuable, then the rewards for returning must be just. I want my father to name me as heir.” Daeron was not a worthy successor. He was lost in dreams and drink. Aerion had his own faults, but like Maeker, he was a fighter. Skilled in ways his brothers were not.
ঌ starter for | @maeikar Maekar Targaryen
There was no grand welcome for Aerion’s return. His ship came in at night, and the Brightflame was ushered into the Red Keep. He’d spent his night alone, tossing and turning, awaiting the reunion Aerion longed for. Daeron was still Maker’s heir, but everyone knew he wasn’t worthy of the title. There were those that said the same of Aerion, but unlike his brother, Aerion had skills his siblings did not. He was the more suitable choice, the one who could provide a future for the realm and not be lost in dreams and drink.
The next morning, the Iron Throne loomed above the hall. It was like a great black beast, with the swords for jagged teeth, twisted and threatening. Aerion stood before it, unyielding in its presence. This could be his one day. Years in Lys had not softened him, nor had they tempered him. Being back in Westeros brought memories to the surface that Aerion had longed to forget. Ashford. The crunch of a traitor's fingers beneath his boot, Ser Duncan towering over him as Aerion had no choice but to yield, the crowds cheering a hedge knight over the prince of the blood. All of that came to the surface when Aerion saw his father sat upon the throne. It was a sight to behold; however, Aerion bowed as custom dictated and then rose soon after.
“I wish to return home,” Aerion said, his voice echoing through the hall. His demeanour was doing well to hide his irritation, but he spoke with purpose. “I am your second heir; I should be here to help fight for you and defend you.” Aerion knew that most would advise against it. They all still favoured the Hedge Knight, but he was a Targaryen. A dragon reborn, the true image of a Targaryen, like his father.
He thinks he's a dragon in human form.
FINN BENNETT as Prince Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
@brightflme / recieves letter ( starter call )
𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖍𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔. why else would the storm lord address such a pathetic creature … he has no respect for aerion at all, could not care less about the ill-mannered brat. and yet, he must find the words. he cannot. parchment litters the table ― half-formed openings, abandoned courtesies, lines crossed out so hard that the quill had torn the page.
𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓁𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝒷𝑜𝓎. ℐ𝒻 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓂 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝓌𝓈 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽. 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓈. 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓂. 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒.
he should burn them. he does. gathering the worst of the pages ( the honest ones, the dangerous ones ), he feeds them to the hearth, flames curling eagerly around the parchment, devouring ink and fury alike. words twisted, blackened, vanished. only when the last scrap fell to ash did he reach for a fresh sheet. only then did he begin the letter his father demanded … the one formed of hollow words, tasting like 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢 && 𝔰𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯.
❝ 𝒫𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒜𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃,
𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 ℐ 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝒶𝓉 𝒜𝓈𝒽𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝓇 𝒟𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒻𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓃𝓉'𝓈 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝓅𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈. ℐ 𝑜𝒷𝑒𝓎 𝒽𝒾𝓂, 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝒹𝓊𝒻𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉, 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 ℐ 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝑜𝒷𝑒𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊, ℐ 𝒹𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝒹𝑔𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒. 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈, 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 ℐ 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓎 …
ℐ 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹. 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓌 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 ℐ 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝓎. 𝓃𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒷𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒. 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒻𝒾𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑜𝓇𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓂 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝓌 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽. ℐ 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓊𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓊𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹, 𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓅𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓊𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉. 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝑒 𝒻𝒶𝓇 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃. 𝓎𝑒𝓉, ℐ 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓁𝓎 ~ ℐ 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓀𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓈𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓌𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒹𝑜𝓂𝓈 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝒻𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒶 𝓂𝒶𝓃'𝓈 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓁. 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝒾𝒹𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓃𝑜 𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓁, 𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓎𝒶𝓁 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃. ℐ 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓎 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎, 𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹. 𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓃, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝑜 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒𝓈.
𝒶𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 ~ ℐ 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈, 𝒶 𝓂𝒶𝓃'𝓈 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝒽𝒾𝓂, 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒. 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽 ℐ 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹. 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 ℐ 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝒹𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒹 ...
ℐ 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝓊𝓇𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, ℐ 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓃𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒹𝑒 𝓊𝓅𝑜𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒.
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝑜𝓌𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, ℐ 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃, 𝒶𝓈 𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓈, ~ 𝒮𝑒𝓇 ℒ𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁 𝑜𝒻 ℋ𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 ℬ𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝑜𝓃. ❞
Lord Baratheon,
I am surprised to hear that one Baratheon holds some sense; I do wonder if your father is the only one to possess such a thing. I have yet to understand the reasoning for siding with a hedge knight, one who has no honours or victories attached to his name, but I assume you were well within your cups when you were asked to join Ser Duncan’s side. I see no other reason but that.
You speak of honour, and yet is it not honourable to side with the princes of the realm and not to turn against your king and his kin? Nor does it uphold the customs of the realm that matter, to respect and honour the blood of the dragon. If your choice was not made in defiance of me but in support of a man who had struck the dragon’s blood, please explain your reasoning without these feeble excuses.
There is no question of justice or the reasons behind my actions. I was protecting the realm against treason, or did you forget that we have had peace only for thirteen summers? If someone thinks they can strike against the royal household without punishment, then war would surely follow. I would think that a man such as yourself was aware of these things, yet your actions in Ashford prove otherwise.
I care not for men like Ser Duncan, who have nothing to lose when it comes to defying the crown. He has no family or history to speak of, and yet you hold him in such high esteem. Even the man who knighted him was of no consequence, and still Ser Duncan the Tall is to be regarded as a worthy knight? I pity those who have fallen for him.
You, like the hedge knight, are inconsequential to me.
Prince Aerion of House Targaryen
aerion staring at dunk
