A snippet of young Aerion with Maekar or Baelor or both my lady 👀 if you want. They are so angsty and cute.
For you darling, I will write anything! I hope it brings you joy!!
Aerion, as a child, slept well, most of the time. He rarely dreamt, rarely had nightmares. He was a glad child.
Of all of Aerion’s siblings, Daeron was the worst; every night since the age of six, he had to be restrained by maesters so they could administer a tonic to get him to sleep.
Yet sometimes, Aerion had them too. And when he did they were cruel.
Usually his mother was there to hold him, whisper sweet comforts and rock him back to sleep with tales of Dorne and the time of Dragons and Ice.
There was time, however, when his mother was away, with her family in Dorne, the rest of Aerion’s with her too, when he had a bad spell.
He had to remain, was being shown, at the grand age of eight, how to squire for his Uncle Baelor. He was so proud, couldn’t wait to start the day helping him.
It came on him like fire under the skin.
Aerion woke with a sharp, strangled cry, small hands clutching at the furs as though they burned him. His breath hitched and stuttered.
A black banner snapping in a wind that smelled of ash.
He stumbled from the bed before he fully knew he’d moved, bare feet slapping against the cold stone as tears blurred his sight.
“Kepa—” His voice broke. “Kepa!”
It was not his mother’s chambers he ran to. That door was dark, closed.
Instead, he found himself before another.
He did not knock properly, just pushed, frantic, small fists hitting the wood before it gave way.
Inside, lamplight flickered low.
His father was already half risen from the bed, hand on the dagger at his side before recognition settled in. “Aerion?” His voice was rough with sleep, more startled than soft. “What—what is it?”
Aerion couldn’t answer properly. He crossed the room in a rush, climbing onto the bed without invitation, clutching at his father’s sleeve with shaking fingers.
“I saw—” His words tangled. “The dragons—they were killing each other—there was fire and a sword, black and red, and—” He gasped. “They were mine—”
Not at the clinging, that, he tolerated awkwardly, but at the words.
He exhaled slowly. “It was a dream,” he said, though not with much conviction. “Nothing more.”
Aerion shook his head violently. “No—it felt real. It hurt—”
His voice cracked into quiet sobs and Maekar looked… out of his depth. His hand hovered before settling, somewhat uncertainly, on Aerion’s back. He patted once. Twice.
“You are overtired,” he tried. “Training, lessons… your mind is… overactive.”
It was the sort of explanation that satisfied courtiers. It did nothing for a child.
Aerion only cried harder.
The second voice was softer, warmer.
He stood in the adjoining doorway, hair loose over his shoulders, a robe hastily thrown about him. His eyes went first to Aerion, then briefly to Maekar.
Then Baelor crossed the room.
“Oh, sweetling,” he murmured, kneeling at the bedside. “Come here.”
Aerion didn’t hesitate. He turned from his father almost instinctively, reaching for Baelor, who gathered him close without pause. One hand came up to cradle the back of Aerion’s head, pressing him gently against his shoulder.
“You’re safe,” Baelor said softly. “I’ve got you. Breathe for me, hm? Slow. That’s it.”
There was a change then. Maekar noticed it. His hand flexing on the dagger again.
Baelor rocked Aerion gently, the motion easy, practiced. “Tell me what you saw,” he coaxed.
Aerion hiccuped through the remnants of his tears. “Dragons… fighting. A sword… black fire. And they—they burned everything. Even each other.”
Baelor’s expression flickered, something shadowed passing behind his eyes but his voice remained gentle. “Dreams like that can feel very real,” he said. “But they cannot hurt you here. Not now.”
“They felt like they would,” Aerion whispered.
“I know.” Baelor pressed a kiss to his hair. “I know, sweetling.”
Maekar watched the two of them in silence. There was something almost rigid in his posture now. He had stilled entirely, as if unsure where to place himself in the moment.
“You coddle him,” he said at last, though without much bite.
Baelor didn’t look up. “He is eight.”
“And frightened, valonqar.”
That, at least, Maekar could not easily argue.
Aerion’s breathing had begun to steady, his small fists loosening where they clutched at Baelor’s robe. He leaned into him fully now, exhaustion beginning to outweigh fear.
Baelor brushed his hair back from his damp forehead. “There we are,” he murmured. “Much better.”
Aerion blinked up at him, still teary. “Will they come back?”
“Perhaps,” Baelor said honestly, but gently. “But if they do, you won’t face them alone. You can always come to us.”
The us hung quietly in the air.
Aerion nodded faintly, already half-drifting again. His head slipped against Baelor’s shoulder, eyes closing.
Baelor adjusted his hold, careful and sure. “May he stay?” he asked, glancing toward Maekar.
Maekar hesitated. He looked at his son, small, worn out, still trembling faintly even in sleep.
Something in his expression eased, just a fraction. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “But only for tonight.”
Baelor’s lips curved, just barely. “Of course.”
He settled back against the bed, Aerion still tucked securely against him. After a moment’s pause, Maekar lay back as well, though more stiffly, leaving a careful space.
In the quiet that followed, the storm of the dream faded.
