Chapter Text
His bare feet dart along the creek bed, nimbly weaving through the stones and protruding roots. In his arms, he clutches his plump waterskin against his chest, filled with tiny minnows he's caught for today. He made his way to the spot where he usually crossed. This morning, he'd felt a pang in his stomach just as he leapt, causing him to fall short and splash into the water, drenching his pants with muddy creek water. He let out a deep breath, then with a mighty push of his legs, he leapt from the far bank to the other without touching the water, just like he usually did. He hopped with a whooping laugh. He would come home with both trophy and accomplishment.
I can't wait to show Father. Maybe this time he'll be impressed by how many I've caught. He cradled the waterskin closer, protecting his precious victories.
He picked his way through the forest through a path only he knew, caking his feet in mud and dirt, to match the dirt that had gotten into his long white hair from splashing around in the creek all morning. He slunk to the edge of the castle walls where a series of stones had cracked just enough for him to poke his fingers and toes in for grip. He tied the water skein back to his waist belt so that it was pressed up against his lower back, close to his body. With nimble, practiced movements, he crawled up the wall, pulling himself over the edge and onto the roofing of the garden shed.
Ever since mother died, the garden was a neglected afterthought that Father rarely spent any attention maintaining. Few servants or maesters ever passed through here now, letting the vines, and hedges grow thick and unruly. All across the garden were the canopies that used to be manicured into brilliant backdrops of bright flowers of every color. Now, they were thick with invasion and created a dense passage of dangling leaves and vines, making it it the perfect place to disappear when he didn't want to sit in the maesters' boring lectures.
There's a small gap between the garden canopy and the stone wall next to the shed. A wooden trellis is nailed into the stone, to help the vines have something to climb. Without attention, the vines grew thick and strong enough to maintain a small amount of weight. He uses the vines and trellis as his ladder. The leaves were already crushed from his earlier journey. He used the same footholds and branches to make his way down, but just as he was nearing the bottom, the same sharp pain from earlier this morning squeezed his abdomen, and his grip faltered, making him slip off.
With a thud, his body hit the ground and he clamped a hand over his mouth not to make a sound. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, curling his body tight to endure the aching in his side and his abdomen. The pain didn't relent, but it was high noon now and the guards and maesters would be looking for him. If they found him like this, they would tattle to Father how horrible of a boy he was being and he'd never be able to show Father all the fish he's caught today.
He bit his lower lip as he got back onto his feet, checking to make sure the waterskin wasn't burst. He squished it all over and patted it when no water leaked out and carried it against his chest again. Then he felt a trickle of wetness between his legs and he hurried to check his pants. He didn't feel like he was relieving himself, yet the feeling didn't go away.
He couldn't quite see that far back and twisted around and around to figure out what was happening. If Father finds out that I've wet my pants, he'll be so upset with me. Panic began to well up as he tried to feel where the wetness was coming from. His skin was starting to feel warm, like he'd been sitting near a fireplace for too long. He was starting to feel itchy. He hated taking a bath, but maybe today he'd make an exception.
In his distraction, he didn't hear the rustle of leaves as they were parted. Instead, all he felt was a hard grasp against the back of his neck, and a shove that had him against the ground, dirt flying into his nose and mouth. His neck strained to scream, but his passageway was blocked, leaving him only with muted panic.
It was the smell that made his blood run cold first. A musty, sharp scent that felt like a heavy blanket, making his body feel weighted down like he was being buried. Then came the graveling growling behind him, up against his ear and he could hear the hurried shifting of leather and cloth. He jerked away, trying to squirm his way from his captor.
His mind reeled at the possibilities. From scent alone, this wasn't one of the guards or the maesters, or any of his family members. This was a stranger. An intruder? But the palace was guarded incredibly well, especially since Father didn't trust strangers.
He felt the man pull at his trousers and he began to thrash, kicking and pushing at the ground as the feeling of dread built up inside him. The weight of the man's body was immense against his back and he's throat muscles strained at the silent screams he was making against the choking grip. He manages to pull one of his arms free and scratches at the face next to his ear. He earns a snarl, and the grip around his neck loosens, giving him enough of a chance to pull himself from underneath using one of the vines trunks, then swing all of his might into his free elbow, nailing the man in the side of the head.
He wins another noise of pain, and the hand is removed, giving him enough leverage to yank himself out from underneath, even though his hands feel like they're being shredded by the roughness of the vine bark. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, giving him the extra strength he needed to break free and stumble away from under the curtain of vines and leaves of the canopy.
But he doesn't make it very far, when the man's hand grips him by his long hair, yanking him back behind the curtain of tangled leaves and vines. He screams this time, as loud as he can. Even if he wasn't Father's favorite, surely he'd still save him. A hand clamped over his mouth this time, and he was shoved against the wooden pillar of the canopy with the man's body pressed against his. The stench overwhelmed him, and he felt a dizziness that made his knees go weak. His body goes limp.
"That's right, omega cunt. That's how you should be." The voice rattles inside his head as he's tossed onto the ground, his fall cushioned by the waterskein that bursts under his weight. The feeling of flapping fish breaks him out of the trance. No! The fish! He tried to gather up the fish again with his shaking hands, but they wiggled out of grasp, their mouths gaping as they choked on air.
When the man's hands push him again, a flash of red rage bursts through his body, and he ducks, causing the man to topple overhead, just enough for him to snatch the hilt of a dagger.
His hands lift high, then he plunges it into the man's side as the heavy body falls, pushing all his weight into the effort, feeling his face contort with fury. His ears are filled with static void, and all his eyes can see is the red spurting as he drives the blade again and again, until the body finally stops twitching. The fabric and leather armor is nothing but mangled holes and pools of blood by the time he feels the static slowly drain. He clutches the dagger in his hands, afraid the man might get back up again.
In that moment, a clang of metal parts the leaves and he leaps to his shaking feet, his fingers digging into the hilt of the dagger, holding it out in front of him. A guard takes a moment to assess, then yells, "I found him!" He recognizes this guard's mild scent, and he relaxes, even as the guard roughly grabs him by the arm, dragging him out of the garden. He pulls weakly at the grip, begging, "The fish! I need to get the fish!" But his voice is weak and the ears are deaf to his cries. He looks back at the garden canopy arch.
Blood pools from under the canopy, with the lifeless remains of the minnows he had captured, floating in the tepid current of iron. He drops his head. He wouldn't be able to show Father now.
By the time he's brought to Father's office, his hands and chest are blackened by the dried blood, his long locks are matted with branches and leaves, crusted with dirt. He's forced to wait outside as the guard enters first. He can't control the shaking now. His whole body feels like a leaf about to wither and fall off the stem. Now that the adrenaline no longer coursed through his veins, he felt the fear and dread return, haunting his every step. He constantly felt the pressure of eyes behind him, making him look over his shoulder.
He felt so small and weak. Maybe Father won't be so mad this time.
The door opens and he's yanked inside by the same guard who found him. His bottom lip trembles as he shuffles forward, his head hanging. The sound of the closing wooden door makes him jump and duck.
"What the fuck is the matter with you!" He's startles, his heartbeat spiking into dangerous levels, as he freezes on the spot.
Heavy footsteps come towards him, and he sees his father's boots stop in front of him. He slowly makes to lift his gaze, when he's sent flying, crashing into the ground. The dull sting on his face is nothing compared to the way his side flares with renewed pain from the fall earlier.
Father's voice rings inside the office, loud and harsh, "Do you how much fucking trouble you've caused? We could go to war because of you!" Father makes a noise of frustration as he swipes at the stuff on his desk, causing it all to clatter to the floor. The noise makes him jump and he tries not to curl up. If he showed weakness, Father would only get worse.
He dares a look and all he can see is the deep lines of anger etched in Father's eyes and mouth. The look of enragement that he knew so well. Not the sigh of resignment he gave Daeron when Daeron wandered the castle. Or the gentle indifference he gave Aemon whenever he'd find Aemon in the library instead of with the maesters. Or the look of adoration he gave Aegon as the baby waddled to him. No. For him, the look was always sharp and full of resentment.
Why doesn't Father love me like he does my brothers?
The man's voice echoed in his ears unbiding. Omega cunt, he'd been called. What's an omega? Surely something bad if it made the stranger so violent towards him.
Father's back is turned now, as he leans against his desk, his head hanging, all the papers scattered around him.
He slowly gets back up on his feet. Maybe if I explain, Father will listen. Maybe he'll understand. He desperately wishes he could just crawl into Father's lap and feel Father's arms around him, to replace the jagged, raw feeling burnt into his body by that horrible man in the garden. He just wanted a hug. He just wants to feel safe again. He takes a step, but Father slams his hand down on the desk, making him freeze again.
"Go to your room. And stay there until I say so." Father doesn't look back at him. He stares at the silhouette of his Father's hunched shape looming and where once he saw it as a pillar of strength and safety, all he saw now was the storm and hatred.
He felt so small and weak. Father hates me.
He runs to his room without the need for escorts, too afraid by all the tall, looming figures surrounding him now from every corner. His body feels itchy and tight in all the wrong places and he demands for the water to be drawn. And if he said it too harshly and maybe threw one of his toys at the maid when she didn't move fast enough, then what would it change, since they all saw him as a nuisance and a menace anyways.
He scrubbed and scrubbed at his skin, trying to get rid of that stench that seemed to cling to him, and the weight of the man's body bearing down on him. No amount of scrubbing helped, even when his skin turned red and raw from the scaping of the pumice stone. His hair kept falling into his eyes and the feeling of his hair on his back drove him mad. Still drenched and naked from the bath, he took a knife and grab chucks of his long hair, lopping off his locks, letting the wet hair pile around him. He cut it short to his head, so that there would be nothing left to grab.
Never again would he feel so small and weak as he did today.
He stared up at his reflection in the dusty, dull, scratched silver mirror. The only things that shown clearly were his eyes. Sharpened by the day into a pair of illuminated windows into the fury he felt writhing inside. With his hair clipped short into jagged, uneven patches, he looked feral, unfettered, and wild.
And that was the day, Aerion began to grow his fangs, claws, and scales.