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Lys was everything Aerion had hoped it would be. His father had hoped it would calm him, that he would mature there. But Aerion spent most nights drinking and dancing and fucking. Every night was a party, everyday was spent nursing a hangover or shopping in the extravagant market. Every day until he met one specific alpha. One alpha who he then spent the next six months with. Every day, every night. Only him. But they had agreed, no strings attached, a casual relationship only. They both had commitments in other kingdoms afterall and Lys was the only place they could be together. So when the time came for Aerion to return home, it was alone.
He arrived back in Westeros so early in the morning it was still dark outside. His servants had a horse ready for him to take up to keep where his father would receive him. He mounted it in one smooth motion, flicking his cloak out of his way as he settled into the saddle. The sun rose slowly as he made his way, guards straightened as they saw him, recognition flicking in their eyes. He kept his back straight and head held high. Let them look. He was a prince returning home.
He dismounted in the courtyard, kicking his cloak out of the way as he hopped down from his horse. He turned toward the door and stopped short. At the top of the stairs stood his father and uncle. Maekar looked exactly as he remembered him, his father was straight backed and proud, a line already across his brow as he took Aerion in. His uncle, Baelor, appraised him similarly. Aerion hadn’t seen his uncle since they had both been bed-bound, after the trial of seven he had invoked. The trial that had nearly taken his uncle’s life, at his father’s own hand no less. An accident, a swing of the mace a little too hard, poorly aimed and Baelor had nearly died.
Technically it was all his fault, but if that puppeteer hadn’t committed treason, he wouldn’t have reacted and then that giant oaf wouldn’t have gotten involved and beaten him and then the whole trial would never have taken place. So it wasn’t really his fault. This would be his second chance, he would find a way to make them love him, to prove he was worthy of being their family. He would get their approval.
Aerion let the silence stretch as he stood in the courtyard, morning light catching pale strands of his silver-gold hair. He could feel their eyes on him, his father’s hard as hammered iron, his uncle’s measured, thoughtful, weighing.
“Father,” he said at last, inclining his head just enough to be respectful without appearing meek.
A flicker crossed his uncle’s face at that. Baelor moved first, stepping down one stair, then another. The movement drew Aerion’s gaze like a blade drawn from its sheath. The last time he had seen Baelor, the man had been pale and broken, blood matting his dark hair after the chaos of the trial.
“You look well,” Baelor said. There was no accusation in it. That almost made it worse.
“I am,” Aerion replied smoothly. “Lys agreed with me.”
Maekar advanced slowly, descending the steps with more caution than Aerion thought necessary. His father stopped one step above him. Close enough that Aerion could see the faint scar along his father’s jaw, the one he had gotten long before Aerion was born. Close enough to feel the weight of expectation pressing down like a mailed fist.
“You shamed this house,” Maekar said plainly. “You nearly cost your uncle his life.”
The courtyard seemed to still. Even the horses shifted quieter.
Aerion forced himself not to look at Baelor. “I know.”
The admission tasted like ash. For a long moment, Maekar studied him as though trying to determine whether the words were rehearsed.
“Do you?” his father asked.
“I was angry,” he said carefully. “And I wanted to prove I could not be trifled with.”
“You proved that,” Maekar replied.
Baelor stepped fully down now, coming to stand beside his brother rather than above Aerion. A subtle shift. An intentional one.
“You are a Targaryen,” Baelor said. “Fire answers insult with flame. But a prince must also know when to smother it.”
Aerion met his uncle’s dark eyes at last. There was no hatred there. No lingering grievance. Only a steady, unyielding expectation.
“You sent me away to learn that,” Aerion said softly.
“Yes,” Maekar answered.
Silence fell again, but it was different now, less sharp, more measured.
“There will be a tourney at summer’s turn,” Baelor continued. “Knights from the Reach and the Stormlands will attend. You will ride.”
Aerion’s pulse quickened. “To win?”
“To show control,” Maekar corrected. “You will not bait. You will not provoke. You will not demand spectacle.”
Aerion hesitated. Every instinct in him thrilled at the thought of spectacle. But he remembered the promise he had made to himself on the ship home. Second chance.
“I understand,” he said.
Maekar held his gaze a moment longer, then gave a single curt nod. “We shall see.”
They turned to go inside. Aerion remained where he was for half a breath, watching the sun crest the battlements, bathing the courtyard in pale gold. Lys had been warm light and whispered laughter and hands gripping his hips as though he were something to be devoured. A man who had cared for him. A man who laughed freely, whose hands were as warm as his heart, a man who had endeavored to give Aerion all he could. This was colder. Harder. But this was home.
So Aerion squared his shoulders and followed his father and uncle into the keep, already planning how he would make them see him, not as the reckless boy who had nearly destroyed them, but as the dragon he was meant to be.
He spent the next few weeks on his best behaviour. He was as courteous as he knew how to be; polite and charming in his father’s solar, measured in the yard, gracious at table. He inclined his head when corrected. He accepted advice without argument. He even smiled when lesser lords looked at him a fraction too long. And he pretended not to notice every slight made against him. Even though he kept a careful mental record of them. Each restraint felt like swallowing a live coal.
One afternoon in the yard, sweat slicked down his spine as he sparred beneath the relentless sun. He was all too aware of his uncle watching him from above, it made his heart race faster, his arms feel weaker and pulse thrum with anticipation. His opponent was broader, older, eager to impress. The man pressed hard, shield slamming into Aerion’s shoulder with enough force to bruise. A year ago, months ago, Aerion would have answered with fury. Would have driven forward recklessly, turned practice into punishment. Instead, he yielded a step. Let the man overextend. Twisted. Disarmed him neatly. The wooden sword clattered into the dust. Aerion stepped back at once and offered a short bow.
“Well fought.” Baelor said from where he was watching,
The yard had gone quiet. Approval flickered, brief, reluctant, but it was there. Across the training field, Baelor inclined his head once. That single gesture warmed something in Aerion’s chest more than all the wine of Lys ever had.
That night, alone in his chambers, the warmth faded. The room felt too large. The bed too cold. He lay on his back staring at the carved canopy above him, listening to the distant sounds of the keep settling into sleep. In Lys, nights had been loud, music drifting through open windows, laughter echoing along marble halls. And beneath it all, a steady presence at his side. Fingers idly tracing patterns against his ribs.
A low voice murmuring, “Careful, dragon. You burn too hot.”
No strings. That had been the bargain. Aerion turned onto his side, jaw tightening.
Morning dawned, grey dawn creeping through narrow Westerosi windows. A small part of him wished it was the pale Essosi sunlight instead. He rolled from his bed, dressed in his usual red and black clothes and headed down to breakfast. For the first month he had been back, he had been plagued with terrible nausea in the mornings, the maesters stated the change in diet from Lys as the cause. And now, after nearly six weeks of being back, it seemed his stomach was finally done rebelling.
He tightened his belt, finding it a little tighter than usual. Clearly, despite the nausea, he had put on a little weight. He scowled, turning to look at his side profile, bloated. Aerion frowned, his stomach wasn’t done rebelling after all. Now it was simply swelling in protest. But it was better than retching into a basin before dawn.
He headed down to breakfast, ravenous for the slightly spiced biscuits their cook made. Sweet with a little ginger. They were pale round shortbreads and Aerion had been craving them on the daily. Most likely the reason for his bloating and weight gain.
A servant girl stepped into his path without looking. Aerion bared his teeth before he could stop himself. The girl froze. The corridors felt narrower than he remembered. The air heavier.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped around her without a word. He was trying hard to rein himself in, but old habits died hard and he was finding it more and more intolerable to have people close to him. Anyone and everyone really. Even his family.
The only person he could tolerate being close enough to touch was his father. Everyone else, even his uncle, made his skin crawl. And their scents. Once they hadn’t bothered him in the slightest, but now? They seemed to stuff themselves up his nose and down his throat until he was choking on them, overpowering and disgusting. So could anyone really blame him for baring his teeth when they got too close to him? They shouldn’t.
He moved down the corridor, another servant moved past him. An alpha. He wanted to growl. The keep was full of them. Their presence pressed against him in ways that made his skin prickle and his jaw ache. Once, he had never noticed such things. Or perhaps he had not cared. In Lys there had been only one scent that mattered. Warm citrus and sea-salt and sun-warmed skin. He swallowed. No strings.
He entered his uncle’s solar and the press of it nearly made him falter. Baelor sat at the head of the table and beside him sat his father, rigid as ever, dark eyes lifting immediately to assess him. Across from them were his cousin, Valarr, composed and observant, and his brother, Daeron, who looked faintly bored and slightly drunk already
The room smelled of ink, parchment, leather- And alpha. It crowded his lungs. Aerion schooled his features into something smooth and princely.
“Good morning,” he said, inclining his head.
“Morning,” Maekar replied shortly.
Aerion tried not to grimace, he liked to sit between his father and brother if he could. He found their scents the least overpowering. But that would not happen this morning. As the last to arrive he was left to sit beside his brother and uncle.
Baelor gestured to the empty chair at his right. “Sit.”
Aerion did. Too close. Baelor’s shoulder was a hand’s breadth from his own. Valarr directly opposite. Daeron beside him on the other side, knee nearly brushing his under the table. His skin felt too tight. A servant approached to pour wine. The man leaned in. Too close. Aerion’s hand snapped out and caught the flagon before the servant could tilt it.
“I will pour,” he said lightly, though the edge in his voice was unmistakable.
The servant bowed quickly and retreated. Silence lingered a heartbeat too long.
Daeron raised a brow. “Afraid of being drowned in Arbor red?”
Aerion forced a faint smile. “Only of incompetence.”
Maekar’s gaze sharpened at the bite beneath the charm. Breathe. He reached for a biscuit instead. The ginger hit his tongue and for a moment the world narrowed to sweetness and spice. He nearly sighed.
“You have been sparring well,” Baelor said mildly. “Ser Donnel speaks highly of your restraint.”
Restraint. The word scraped unpleasantly.
“I am learning,” Aerion replied.
Valarr studied him over the rim of his cup. “You seem… unsettled.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked to him, “I am perfectly well.”
Valarr did not look convinced. “You’ve been pacing the battlements at odd hours. The guards talk.”
Of course they did.
“I enjoy the air,” Aerion said smoothly. “It is less stifling than corridors.”
Daeron snorted. “You used to thrive on corridors. Especially when there was someone to shove into a wall.”
Maekar’s hand stilled on his cup. Aerion felt heat spike up his spine. The table felt too small. The scents too strong. Daeron’s knee brushed his under the wood, accidental of course, but the contact shot through him like a spark to dry tinder. He jerked his leg back sharply. All four of them noticed.
Baelor’s gaze sharpened, not accusing but searching. “Aerion?”
“I dislike being crowded,” he said, too quickly.
“This is family,” Maekar said evenly.
“I am aware.”
His tone came out tight. He forced his shoulders down, unclenched his jaw. He uncurled his fingers where they were digging into the palms of his hands. Instead he reached for a second biscuit. It was all he really wanted to eat these days. No wonder he had gained weight.
“My apologies,” he added, more carefully, taking a deep breath. “The keep feels… smaller than I remember.”
Maekar nodded slowly, turning back to restart whatever conversation he had been having before Aerion arrived. Aerion tuned him out, tuned them all out and instead focused on his biscuit. He finished it all too soon and reached for a third. His father noticed.
“That is enough of those Aerion.” Maekar commanded,
Aerion hesitated, fingers still outstretched for the biscuit. His jaw tightened. He was not a child to have sweets counted out for him. Slowly, so slowly it bordered on insolence, he withdrew his hand and folded it back into his lap.
“As you wish, Father.”
Across the table, Daeron smirked into his cup. Aerion did not look at him. Aerion forced himself to listen this time, to appear engaged. He even nodded at appropriate intervals. But his stomach twisted. Not with hunger, but with something sharper. The scent of ginger still clung to his fingers. He swallowed.
He shifted in his seat, fabric pulling uncomfortably across his midsection. The bloating had worsened these last few days. His shirts sat differently on his frame. His body felt… unfamiliar. Heavy in places it had not been before. Tender. He pressed his palm briefly against his abdomen beneath the table, as though he could will it to flatten.
Beside him, Baelor’s shoulder brushed his again when he reached for a cup. Aerion stiffened. It was fleeting. Accidental. But the contact sent a strange ripple through him, heat laced with irritation. His skin felt too tight, too aware. The scents in the room seemed to thicken again, male and overwhelming, pressing into the back of his throat.
He forced himself not to recoil. Baelor’s hand paused for the smallest fraction of a second, as if he had felt the tension there. His dark eyes flicked sideways, assessing, but he said nothing.
Aerion rose quickly when the meal concluded, bowing with practiced grace. He did not reach for another biscuit. He did not look back. The corridor outside felt blessedly empty. He hastened back to the sanctity of his room. The only room in the entire keep that offered him any respite. He dropped onto his bed, burying his face into the bedding and inhaling, desperate to clear the overwhelming scent of alpha out of his lungs. Unhelpfully, his mind reminded him of another’s scent. Then his mind flickered, unbidden, to Lys. To heated nights. To hands splayed possessively at his waist. To teeth at his throat and a low voice murmuring against his skin.
He straightened his shoulders and began walking toward the training yard. He would ride hard this afternoon. Hard enough to shake whatever strange weakness had taken root in him. Hard enough to feel like himself again.
Three more days passed. Each day felt harder than the last. Each day made the scents around him stronger, the disgust at having people close to him worse. He nearly bit a servant yesterday when he reached to help Aerion undress for the night. The servant had retreated quickly. He had undressed by himself. Sunk beneath his sheets and pretended that everything was fine. That his control wasn’t hanging by a thread.
He joined his family for breakfast once more, in Baelor’s solar again. This time he arrived early enough to seat himself beside his father. Daeron was late. But thankfully, Valarr chose to sit between Maekar and Baelor, leaving Daeron’s only choice to sit beside him. Sandwiched between his brother, another omega, and his father Aerion could relax a fraction. Only a fraction. The other scents in the room still bothered him after all.
Daeron entered with a grin too wide and eyes a shade too bright.
“You began without me,” he said, dropping into the chair beside Aerion. The movement jostled their elbows.
Aerion stiffened but did not snap.
“You were late,” Maekar replied evenly.
Daeron reached for a cup and poured wine instead of watered ale. At breakfast. Maekar’s gaze flicked to it but he said nothing. The meal began in relative quiet. Aerion focused on cutting his food into precise, measured bites. He kept his breathing slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He didn’t eat much of anything, he wanted the biscuits. The biscuits his father had purposefully moved onto the other side of himself.
Breathe. He reminded himself. It did little to blunt the sharpness of everything.
“Aerion.” His father’s voice.
He looked up at once. “Father.”
Maekar studied him in that unnervingly direct way of his. “One of your servants came to me yesterday.”
A pulse thudded behind Aerion’s eyes. “Oh?”
“He reported,” Maekar continued carefully, “that you attempted to bite him.”
The words hung in the air. Valarr’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Daeron’s lips curved.
Aerion let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “Dramatic.”
Maekar did not smile. “Is it untrue?”
The sensible response would have been immediate denial. Aerion hesitated half a beat too long.
“He startled me,” he said at last. “I reacted poorly.”
“Poorly,” Maekar repeated.
“I did not bite him,” Aerion pointed out. “Surely that counts for something.”
Baelor’s gaze sharpened. “Why that reaction at all?”
Aerion felt heat crawl up his neck. “I do not enjoy being handled,” he said, more curtly than intended. “I have told them this.”
“You have had attendants your entire life,” Maekar said. “You have never before tried to sink your teeth into one.”
The disgust rising in Aerion had nothing to do with the servant. It was the memory of scent, too close, too invasive, flooding his senses until instinct roared louder than reason.
“I am not a dog,” he snapped.
“No,” Maekar agreed quietly. “You are my son.”
Silence fell. Maekar’s gaze did not waver. It was not anger now. It was suspicion. Careful, calculating suspicion.
Aerion forced his shoulders to relax. “It was a moment of temper. Nothing more.”
Baelor leaned back slightly. “You have been on edge for days.”
“I have been watched for weeks,” Aerion countered.
Maekar’s jaw tightened. Then, abruptly, he lapsed into silence. Which was worse. Daeron broke the quiet with a low chuckle. Already he was half drunk.
“Perhaps Lys taught you strange habits,” he said lazily, swirling his wine. “Do they bite each other there? Is that how they show affection?”
Aerion’s spine went rigid.
“Enough,” Maekar said sharply.
But Daeron was already smiling at him sideways, wine-sweet breath warm against Aerion’s cheek.
“Or perhaps,” Daeron continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “you miss your Essosi friends. Is that it? No one here to-”
The scent hit him then. Wine. Sweat. Stale. Mockery. It was too much. Something in Aerion snapped.
He did not remember reaching for the fork. One moment his hands were flat on the table. The next he was on his feet, chair screeching backward, arm driving forward in a vicious, precise thrust aimed for Daeron’s wrist where his hand lay casually on the table. Daeron jerked back with a startled curse. The fork caught fabric, tearing through doublet but missing flesh by a breath.
Valarr shouted. Baelor was already moving. Maekar’s hand clamped around Aerion’s wrist mid-strike with bruising force. The room exploded into motion. Aerion strained forward, breath coming harsh and ragged, teeth bared, something feral shrieking beneath his skin.
“Do not,” he hissed at Daeron, voice shaking with fury, “speak of what you do not understand.”
Daeron stared up at him, wine-flush drained from his face.
“Aerion.” Maekar's voice. Low. Dangerous.
“Aerion,” Baelor echoed, closer now.
He became aware, slowly, of the grip crushing his wrist. Of the fork trembling inches from his brother’s skin. Of the silence that had swallowed the room whole. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it. Feel it. Smell- Gods. He inhaled sharply and that was a mistake. The air was thick with alarm and adrenaline and alpha’s scents spiking in response to aggression. His vision tunneled. Maekar twisted his wrist just enough to force the fork from his grip. It clattered to the floor.
“Look at me,” Maekar commanded.
Aerion didn’t want to. He wanted to lunge. To bite. To silence the taunt still echoing in his skull.
Maekar’s fingers tightened. “Look. At. Me.”
Slowly, breath shuddering, Aerion lifted his gaze. His father’s eyes were not merely angry now. They were deeply, coldly wary and laced with concern.
“Sit.” He commanded,
Aerion half fell back into his chair. His hands were shaking, trembling like a leaf. His father settled back into the chair beside him, but did not release Aerion’s wrist, even though his grip loosened. Aerion shifted his chair away from his brother, closer to his father. He tucked himself up as close to his father as he could without climbing into the man’s lap as he might have done as a child, feverish from nightmares. Maekar looked down at him, eyes cautious and assessing. Aerion couldn’t bring himself to look back.
The room was silent. Maekar’s thumb pressed once against the inside of Aerion’s wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there.
His voice, when he spoke again, was different. Lower. Measured. “When was your last course?”
The question struck like cold water. Aerion blinked. “My-” His throat felt tight. “I do not see what that has to do with-”
“When,” Maekar repeated, very calmly, “was your last bleeding?”
Aerion swallowed. He tried to summon the memory automatically, as he always had. It had never been irregular. Never late. His body had always been orderly in that regard, predictable. The last time… His mind leapt backward. Sunlight on white sheets. The scent of citrus and salt.
Hands gripping his hips, laughter against his throat. No strings. It had been near the end of his time in Lys. Before he left. Before the voyage home. Before the nausea began.
Aerion’s breath hitched. He counted backward in his head. Six weeks home. Nearly five before that in Lys. His fingers tightened in his father’s sleeve.
“Eleven,” he whispered.
Maekar’s hand stilled. “Eleven what?”
“Weeks.” The word scraped out of him. “It has been eleven weeks.”
The room seemed to tilt. His mind moved slowly at first, like a wheel grinding through mud. Eleven weeks. The nausea. The sudden craving for the biscuits. The bloating. The sensitivity to scent. The irritation. The snapping. The biting. The world sharpened into brutal clarity.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
Baelor inhaled sharply. Daeron’s chair creaked. Aerion’s free hand moved, almost without thought, to his stomach. Firm beneath his palm. Not softness. Not indulgence. Not bloating. Something else. His vision blurred.
“No,” he whispered.
Maekar’s grip tightened reflexively, grounding him.
Aerion’s breathing grew ragged again, but this time not with fury. With dawning horror. “No,” he repeated, louder. “No, that is not- I would know. I would feel- ”
Aerion shook his head violently. “I cannot be,” he insisted. “I- no.”
No strings. No consequences. A strangled sound tore from his chest. He folded inward slightly, shoulders curling as though to shield his middle. Maekar released his wrist at last, only to cup the back of Aerion’s neck instead, firm and steady. Not gentle. But anchoring.
“Look at me,” Maekar said.
Aerion shook his head again, tears burning hot and humiliating behind his eyes.
“I cannot,” he choked. “Father, I-”
“Look at me.”
Slowly, miserably, he obeyed.
There was no disgust in Maekar’s face. Only calculation. Concern. And something dangerously close to protectiveness. Aerion’s lips trembled. He had not trembled since he was small. He had left Lys alone. He had told himself it was clean. Casual. Contained. No strings. His breath shuddered again and he leaned, instinctively and desperately, into his father’s side. Maekar stiffened only a fraction before allowing it. Aerion pressed his forehead briefly against his father’s shoulder, fingers curling into the dark fabric of his tunic like a child seeking shelter from a storm.
“I did not mean-” His voice cracked. “Kepa.”
Maekar’s hand came to rest, heavy and solid, against the middle of his back. “I know,” he said.
Aerion’s shoulders shook once, twice. “I cannot,” he whispered. “I cannot do this.”
“We will send for the maester,” his father said. Calm. Controlled. As though discussing troop movements rather than scandal.
“No,” Aerion breathed, sudden fear flaring, “I don’t want him touching me.”
All three of them looked at him.
“Please,” he said, the word dragged from somewhere raw and vulnerable, “Kepa.”
Maekar nodded slowly, “He will not touch you, but he will examine you nonetheless.” Maekar turned toward Baelor, “And we will need to know the name of the man who… the father of your child.”
Aerion shook his head.
“You do not know?” Baelor asked,
“I’m not telling you.” Aerion muttered,
Maekar dropped his head back, exhaling heavily, “Aerion, we need his name. He will come here and he will marry you.”
“No.” Aerion said, voice muffled by his fathers tunic,
“Yes.” Maekar said,
“No.”
“This isn’t for discussion.” Maekar snapped, rapidly losing patience.
“Why not, Aerion?” Baelor asked, far calmer.
“He won’t come. We had an agreement.” He whispered, his voice hoarse,
“We will make him come.” Maekar growled, “We will command it and if he refuses we will send an army to drag him here.”
Aerion laughed bitterly, “I will not give you his name.” He paused for a moment. “I know him,” Aerion replied, lifting his head at last. There were still tears in his lashes, but something harder had settled beneath them. “An army could not move him if he did not want to be moved. It would only start a war.”
Baelor’s gaze sharpened. “He is that powerful?”
Aerion said nothing. Silence answered for him.
Maekar leaned forward slightly. “What house?”
“No.”
“What kingdom?”
“No.”
Maekar’s temper frayed visibly now. “You carry his child.”
“I carry my child,” Aerion shot back, sudden steel threading through his voice. His hand remained protectively curved over his abdomen.
Daeron, sobered completely, stared between them. “Gods, Aerion, who is he?”
Aerion’s jaw clenched. Sunlight on pale marble. Salt air. A low laugh. A broad smile. Kind eyes.
“He owes us this,” Maekar pressed. “If he lay with you and left you-”
“He did not leave me,” Aerion snapped. “We parted as agreed.”
“As agreed?” Maekar repeated incredulously.
“Yes.”
The word rang with stubborn finality.
Baelor folded his hands behind his back, voice still infuriatingly calm. “You said he would not come. Why?”
Aerion’s throat tightened. Because they had promised. Because Lys had been the only place they could exist without crowns and banners between them. Because the moment they stepped back into their respective worlds, it ended.
“He has duties,” Aerion said at last. “As I do.”
“Duties do not absolve him,” Maekar growled. “You will not protect him over your own blood,” Maekar said.
Aerion’s lips parted. For a heartbeat, pain flickered naked across his face. “I am protecting you,” he said quietly. That gave even Maekar pause.
Baelor studied him carefully. “Explain.”
Aerion shook his head. “If you know, you will act. If you act, it will spiral. He is not some hedge knight you can bully into vows.”
“Then he is noble,” Baelor said.
Aerion’s silence confirmed it.
Daeron let out a low breath. “From Lys?”
Aerion’s gaze cut to him sharply. “Enough.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “You would deny this child a father?”
Aerion flinched as though struck.
“Aerion,” Baelor said quietly, “if we do not know who he is, we cannot measure the danger.”
“There is no danger,” Aerion insisted.
“There is always danger,” Baelor replied.
Aerion’s composure cracked then, just slightly. “He is a good man. You would send men across the sea,” he whispered. “You would threaten him. Perhaps even kill him, if he refused you. He does not deserve this”
Maekar did not deny it. And that was answer enough. Aerion’s eyes burned.
“I will not give you his name,” he said again, softer now but no less firm. “You may confine me. Strip me of titles. Keep me from the tourney. But I will not betray him.”
“You love him.” His father murmured, leaning back into his chair with a heavy sigh. Maekar’s voice lowered, no longer thunderous but dangerously controlled. “You think I seek to punish him, but I only seek to secure you.”
“I do not need securing,” Aerion replied, though his voice wavered.
“You are with child and nearly stabbed your brother with cutlery,” Maekar said flatly. “You need securing.”
Despite himself, a weak, strangled laugh escaped Aerion. Baelor’s mouth twitched faintly before he suppressed it. Maekar dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion creeping in at last.
“You will not give me the name,” he said.
“No.”
Maekar shook his head, “I will find out.”
“It will not be from me.” Aerion said, getting to his feet at last. He needed to be back in his room. Needed to be away from this room and all its scents.
Aerion crawled into bed, nestling under his covers. It was only then, only once he was entirely alone, that he allowed himself to break. He sobbed into his pillows, using them to muffle his cries. He fell asleep like that. Awoke to the low light of the afternoon. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. He stayed in bed. The light faded and evening came. He didn’t move.
He did not go to supper. A servant knocked once at dusk. Twice. Aerion did not answer. The tray was left outside his door. It remained there untouched until morning. He slept in fits, sweat-damp and restless, waking with the phantom sensation of warm hands at his waist, a familiar weight behind him, a low voice that soothed him the way nothing else ever had. Each time he surfaced fully into the cold stone reality of his chambers, the absence felt like a physical wound. By the second day he had still not left his bed. He turned his face into the pillows and breathed in linen, trying to chase the ghost of citrus and sea-salt that no longer lingered on his skin.
“I am sorry,” he whispered into the quiet, though he did not know whether he meant it for the child, or for the man across the sea, or for himself.
Another knock. More insistent.
“Aerion.” His father’s voice.
He closed his eyes. Silence. The latch shifted. He had not locked it. The door opened. His father took in the dim room, the drawn curtains, the untouched tray from that morning now joined by another from midday. Aerion did not turn.
“I told them not to disturb you,” Maekar said quietly. “You did not come to breakfast.”
No response.
“You did not attend training.”
Still nothing. Maekar crossed the room slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal. He stopped beside the bed.
“Aerion.”
A long pause.
“I am tired,” Aerion muttered into the pillow.
“You have not eaten.”
“I am not hungry.”
A lie. Maekar stood there a moment longer, then sat carefully on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. Aerion’s shoulders tightened instinctively at the shift but he did not move away.
“You think starving yourself will undo this?” Maekar asked, not unkindly.
Aerion’s breath shuddered. “I do not care to be strong today,” he said hoarsely.
Maekar exhaled through his nose. For a long while he said nothing. The silence felt different here than it had in the solar. Less confrontational. More… uncertain.
“I sent a man to Lys,” Maekar said at last.
Aerion flinched.
“I am gathering information.”
Aerion rolled onto his back at that, staring up at the canopy with red-rimmed eyes. “You will not find him in Lys. Not anymore,” he said dully.
Maekar studied his son’s hollow expression, “You know where he has gone?”
Aerion didn’t answer. “He would have stayed,” Aerion whispered instead. “If I had asked.”
His father didn’t reply. They sat in silence for a long time.
On the third day, he still had not left the bed. The trays had been removed and replaced twice more. Untouched. Maekar returned before midday, jaw tight.
“You will eat,” he said.
Aerion did not answer.
Maekar set the tray down heavily on the table by the bed. Bread. Broth. Fruit. “You are not only yourself now.”
Aerion’s hand drifted unconsciously to his stomach again.
“I know,” he whispered.
“Then act like it.”
Aerion’s eyes slid shut. “I cannot do this without him,” he admitted, voice breaking completely at last. “I wake and he is not there. I sleep and he is not there. I thought I was strong enough for that. I was wrong.”
Maekar’s composure faltered then, just slightly. He had never been good at this part. Battles, yes. Grief, less so.
“You do not have him,” Maekar said quietly. “But you have me.”
Aerion’s eyes opened. Raw. “You would have dragged him here in chains.”
“If necessary.”
A tear slipped sideways into his hair. “And you think that comforts me?”
Maekar’s jaw flexed. “No,” he admitted.
He moved then, hesitant and almost awkward, rested his hand over Aerion’s where it lay over his abdomen. “You will not waste away in this bed,” Maekar said, voice low but fierce. “I will not lose you to despair.”
Aerion stared at their joined hands. He felt small. Young. Foolish.
“I do not want to be here,” he whispered.
Maekar’s hand tightened. “This is where you are.”
Silence stretched. Then, after a long moment, Maekar lifted the bowl of broth and held it out.
“Sit up.”
Aerion did not move.
Maekar’s voice sharpened, not angry, but desperate. “Sit. Up.”
Something in that tone cut through the fog. Slowly, painfully, Aerion pushed himself upright. His head swam. His body felt weaker than he expected after only three days. Maekar steadied him with a firm hand at his back. Aerion took the bowl. His hands trembled. He forced himself to swallow one mouthful. Then another. Each felt like swallowing grief itself. Maekar did not look away until the bowl was half empty. Only then did he allow himself to breathe. And only then did Aerion realise that his father was afraid.
Aerion ate. But only just. A few mouthfuls of broth. A torn piece of bread. Half an apple left browning on the plate. It was enough to quiet his father’s sharpest fears, but not enough to restore what had dimmed inside him.
He did not return to training. He did not attend the small council. He did not sit at the table. Instead, he moved from bed to window and back again, as though the space between were the borders of a small, private kingdom.
He would sit for hours on the cushioned ledge, knees drawn up, staring out toward the distant line where sea met sky. On clear days the water was a hard blue-grey. On overcast ones it blended into the horizon until the world looked endless and unreachable. Essos lay somewhere beyond that line. Somewhere beyond sight. Somewhere beyond his reach.
His hand rested almost constantly over his stomach now, not from panic but from a strange, grounding instinct. The nausea had eased again, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He slept often, though rarely well. Servants came and went more quietly than before. No one tried to touch him anymore. That, at least, was a relief.
Still, the loneliness pressed in heavier each day. He missed the warmth of another body at his back. Missed the steady rhythm of breath not his own. Missed laughter in the dark. By the fifth night of this half-existence, the silence of his chambers grew unbearable.
The sea beyond his window was invisible in the dark. Only the sound of distant waves remained. He sat there long after the candles burned low. Then, abruptly, he stood. The corridors were quiet at that hour. Guards bowed but did not question him. Word had spread enough that no one challenged his wandering.
He walked without a cloak or escort. Barefoot. The stone was cold beneath his feet. He did not hesitate when he reached his father’s chambers. He did not knock. He opened the door. Inside, Maekar stood near the hearth, speaking in low tones with Baelor and Valarr, who were seated on the couch.
All three turned at the sound. Aerion did not acknowledge them. He crossed the room in silence. His hair hung loose over his shoulders. He wore only a thin nightshirt, pale in the firelight. He looked younger like this. Smaller. He did not look at Baelor. Did not look at Valarr. He went straight to the bed. And climbed into it.
There was no hesitation, no request. He simply pulled back the heavy coverlet and slid beneath it, curling onto his side, facing the wall. The room was utterly still. Valarr’s brows lifted. Baelor exhaled slowly through his nose. Maekar stared at the slight, rigid line of his son’s back beneath the blankets.
“Aerion,” he said.
No answer. Just the faintest tightening of shoulders. Maekar crossed the room after a moment. He paused at the bedside.
“Aerion.”
A small, raw voice from beneath the covers: “I could not breathe.”
The words were barely audible.
His father took a deep breath, “The list.” He muttered,
Aerion rolled a little to look at him, brow scrunching in confusion.
Baelor crossed the room and pressed a long piece of parchment into Maekar’s hand, “Are you certain?” He asked, eyeing Aerion carefully.
“It is necessary.” His father replied, but he wasn’t looking at Aerion, only the parchment, “Watch him.” He commanded Baelor, “You too.” He gestured at Valarr.
Valarr moved cautiously across the room coming to stand by his father. Aerion watched them, confused. His father began reading. Names. At first, he didn’t recognise any, but slowly, slowly, they became more familiar.
“Are you reading out a list of everyone I interacted with in Lys?” He asked, disbelief colouring his voice,
“Yes.” Maekar said between names, “Do any stand out to you?”
Aerion snorted, “Not really.” He shrugged, “To what purpose is this?”
“Donyros Sanerah,
Noryros Maegaenor,
Belicho Fyllelion,
Thorynno Hestaenor,
Harlarro Vollelar,
Maerriros Hartirah,
Lazys Marohr,
Aren Stassonnis,” His father continued to list,
Aerion shrugged, “I barely knew them,”
His father ignored his remark, “Maro Eranor, Vaelon-”
Aerion flinched. He hadn’t meant to. He knew it had been coming. But still. It hurt.
“Him.” Baelor murmured, Maekar looked up.
“Vaelon.” Valarr repeated.
Aerion swallowed hard, rolling over and refusing to look at them.
“Last name?” Baelor asked.
Maekar took a long breath, “Why Aerion?” He asked, voice soft with defeat, “Out of all of them, why did it have to be him?”
“Last name?” Baelor repeated, looking confused,
Maekar turned to him, “Meltalor.”
Valarr took a full step back, “As in the prince?” He asked, disbelief colouring his voice, “As in the crown prince? The heir to Meltarys?”
“Yes.” Maekar ground out, “That one.”
Silence fell thick and suffocating. Aerion kept his back to them, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
“The Crown Prince of Meltarys,” Maekar said slowly, as though testing the weight of it. “He is not merely beyond our reach. He is his mother’s reach.”
Valarr ran a hand through his hair. “Meltarys commands half the eastern shipping lanes. An insult would not remain contained.”
“It would be war,” Baelor agreed quietly.
On the bed, Aerion’s fingers curled into the cover. Maekar stared down at the parchment as though it had personally betrayed him.
“Out of every man in that cursed city,” he muttered again, more to himself than to Aerion, “you chose the one man we cannot compel.”
“I did not choose him for his crown,” Aerion said into the mattress, voice raw. “I chose him because he was-” He cut himself off.
Baelor watched him carefully. Not unkindly. But not indulgently either. “And he knew who you were?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew who he was.”
“Yes.”
Valarr let out a disbelieving breath. “Gods.”
Maekar’s jaw flexed.
“It changes nothing,” Aerion said sharply, rolling onto his back at last. His eyes were red but dry now. “You cannot summon him. You cannot threaten him. You cannot drag him here.”
Maekar did not argue. Because Aerion was right.
Baelor crossed back toward the hearth, thoughtful rather than furious. “No,” he said slowly. “We cannot drag him.”
Maekar looked up.
“But we can write.”
The room shifted again. Aerion’s heart stumbled.
Maekar’s gaze narrowed. “To what end?”
“To inform him,” Baelor replied. “Not command. Not accuse. Inform. Implore him to come here and make things right.”
“And if he ignores it?” Valarr asked.
“Then we have lost nothing.” Baelor said reasonably,
Maekar nodded, “Draft it.” He commanded,
“He will not come.” Aerion muttered, “He can not come.”
“We shall see.” Maekar murmured.
Aerion rolled back over, closing his eyes and comforting himself with his fathers scent. Behind him, he could hear the quiet scratch of quill on parchment as Baelor began to draft the letter.
Vaelon Meltalor. Crown Prince of Meltarys. Son of a dead king. Heir to a living queen. Aerion swallowed. Vaelon’s father had died when he was five, cut down during a coastal uprising that had nearly fractured Meltarys in two. Aerion remembered the story as it had been told in Lys, half political cautionary tale, half reverent myth. Vaelon was her eldest child. Her heir. He could not simply leave. Not without consequence. Not without permission. And certainly not for a foreign prince carrying a child conceived in secret.
Aerion pressed his face deeper into the pillow. He would not allow himself to hope. Hope was a treacherous thing. It bloomed too easily, too brightly. And when it withered, it left rot behind. If he let himself imagine sails on the horizon, imagine Vaelon striding into the courtyard, salt wind in his hair and that familiar half-smile on his mouth…
If he let himself believe, it would undo him. Because if Vaelon did not come, if the letter was received in some bright, sunlit solar in Meltarys and folded away with a measured sigh… If duty outweighed memory, then Aerion would shatter. And he did not think he could afford to shatter again.
“He will not come,” he said once more, firmer this time.
Maekar did not contradict him. But neither did he agree. The letter was sealed before midnight. Sent before dawn. Aerion did not go to the window to watch for the ship. He refused. Days passed. He counted in his head, kept tally. Three days for the letter to reach Vaelon. Three days for a letter to be returned. He remained in his father’s chambers at night, though he returned to his own during the day. He still ate little. Still avoided the halls when they were crowded. But the sharpest edge of his earlier panic had dulled into something quieter. He conserved himself now.
He did not ask whether the ship had departed.
He did not ask if the letter had arrived.
He did not ask if a reply had been received.
On the fourth night after the letter was sent, Maekar found him once more by the window, staring east.
“You will wear a trench into that stone,” his father observed quietly.
Aerion did not look at him. “I am merely admiring the view.”
Maekar came to stand beside him. “You think he will not come,” he said.
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “He cannot.”
“That is not the same answer.”
Aerion was silent. Maekar studied his profile, the pale hair, the hollowed cheeks, the stubborn set of his mouth.
“You love him,” Maekar said again, not as an accusation this time, but as fact.
Aerion’s hand moved to his stomach. “It does not matter.”
“It matters to you.”
Aerion finally turned his head. “If I let myself believe he will come,” he said softly, “and he does not… I will not recover from it.”
The honesty of it hung between them. Maekar did not offer false assurances. He did not promise outcomes he could not control.
Instead, he said only, “Then do not believe.”
Aerion blinked.
“But do not despair either.”
A strange compromise. Aerion let out a slow breath. Somewhere beyond the horizon, across leagues of restless sea, a letter bearing the Targaryen seal was cutting through salt wind toward Meltarys. Aerion would not count the days. He would not watch the harbor. He would not imagine sails. He would endure.
The raven arrived at midday. Salt-streaked. Exhausted. Bearing a seal none of them mistook. The wax was deep blue, impressed with the sigil of Meltarys. Six days. Three there. Three back.
Which meant-
“He answered the same day,” Baelor said quietly, already calculating.
Maekar broke the seal without ceremony.
Aerion had been standing by the window again. He had sworn he would not wait. Not watch. Yet he was there when the raven came. He turned slowly as his father unfolded the parchment. His pulse skittered, leaping and diving, wild and unmanageable. His throat went dry. His jaw hurt from where he clenched it so tightly, his bones protested. Maekar’s eyes scanned once. Then again. Something shifted in his expression, subtle, but unmistakable.
“Well?” Valarr asked.
Maekar did not answer immediately. Aerion’s pulse roared in his ears.
“Father.”
Maekar looked up. “He is coming.”
The words did not feel real. Aerion stared at him. “What?”
“He received the letter six days ago,” Maekar said, voice even. “He wrote and then departed that same day. He writes that he sails under full escort and expects favorable winds.”
Baelor exhaled softly. “Then he is-”
“Three days from King’s Landing,” Maekar finished.
Aerion crossed the room before he realised he was moving. “Give it to me.”
Maekar hesitated. Aerion snatched it, tearing it from his father’s grip. His hands trembled as he brought it close. And then he stilled. There. Faint but undeniable. Citrus. Sea-salt. Vaelon. Aerion closed his eyes and inhaled. The scent had faded in transit, thinned by air and distance, but it was there. Real. Tangible. He clutched it to his chest, unable to bring himself to even read the words.
He made a broken sound. Relief hit him so suddenly it stole the strength from his legs. He crashed to his knees. The impact jarring him. The parchment crumpled slightly in his grip as a sob tore free from his chest, raw and unguarded and utterly unlike him. He bent forward over the letter, pressing it to his mouth, breathing it in as if it could fill the hollow space inside him. His eyes blurred with tears. He could not read the words now even if he tried.
“He’s coming,” he choked.
Maekar stepped forward instinctively but stopped short, watching.
Aerion’s shoulders shook. “I didn’t think-” His voice fractured completely. “I didn’t think he would.” The admission spilled out between sobs. “I told myself he wouldn’t. I told myself he couldn’t.”
Baelor moved closer but did not touch him. Aerion clutched the parchment tighter.
“He said he loved me,” he whispered, the words tumbling out as if they had been damned too long. “He told me before I left. He said he loved me-” His breath hitched violently. “I didn’t believe him.”
Silence held the room.
“He's coming for me.” Aerion repeated, "He's coming for me.” The relief was too large for him to contain. It poured out of him in shaking gasps and tears he did not try to hide.
His father moved forward, crouched low beside him. Placing a steady hand on his son’s shoulder, “He comes of his own will,” Maekar said quietly.
Aerion nodded frantically. “He didn’t hesitate,” he whispered. “Six days. He left the same day.” His fingers slid down to his stomach. “He’s coming,” he said again, softer now. “For us.”
In three days the horizon he had refused to watch would bear sails. In three days the emptiness in his bed would end. He couldn’t breathe. He was crying too hard. Finally, Maekar leant forward, wrapped both arms around him and drew Aerion close.
Three days.
Aerion lasted perhaps an hour before abandoning all pretense. He told himself he would not wait at the window. He was at the window before sunrise.
The sea stretched grey and endless beneath a low sky, gulls wheeling and crying over the harbor. Every dark speck on the water made his breath catch. Every distant sail turned his pulse erratic, until it resolved into something merchant, something mundane, something not his.
By the second morning he had taken to the ramparts. He told no one. It did not matter. His father found him anyway. Barefoot. In nothing but his nightshirt and a hastily thrown cloak that did little against the wind whipping in from Blackwater Bay.
“Aerion.”
He did not turn at first. The wind flattened the thin linen against him, outlined the faint curve at his middle he was only just beginning to acknowledge. His pale hair lashed across his face.
“He could make good time,” Aerion said distantly, eyes fixed east. “If the winds hold.”
“It is barely dawn,” Maekar replied evenly. “And you are going to freeze.”
“I am not cold.”
He was. Maekar stepped forward, draped a heavier cloak over his shoulders without asking, and steered him back toward the stairwell with firm hands.
“You will not greet him coughing and fevered.”
Aerion allowed himself to be guided inside. He lasted until midday before slipping back out. By the third day it had become a silent ritual. Aerion on the rampart, staring at the sea. Maekar retrieving him. Again and again. Sometimes Maekar said nothing at all, only wrapped him in wool and marched him back inside like an errant child. Sometimes he stood beside him for a while, both of them staring east, neither speaking. Aerion ate little. Slept less.
Hope had made him restless, electric beneath the skin. Every hour felt swollen and slow. He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat, in his wrists, in the fragile, secret place beneath his palm. Three days. By afternoon the sky cleared, sharp and blue. The wind shifted. Aerion stood on the ramparts once more, nightshirt clinging to him again, he had forgotten his boots again. His fingers curled white against the stone as he scanned the horizon.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
A flicker.
He narrowed his eyes.
There. Far out, where sea met sky, a dark pricking shape against the light. He did not breathe. It could be anything. Merchant. Fishing vessel. Another false hope. He leaned forward, as though sheer will might drag it closer. Another shape appeared beside it. Then another. His heart began to pound so violently he thought he might faint. The lead sail caught the sun. Colour bloomed.
Not white. Not striped. Purple. Deep, unmistakable purple. Aerion’s breath left him in a broken gasp. As the ships drew nearer, the sigil became clear, huge against the canvas, rippling in the wind. A dragon entwined with a crown. Purple and gold. Meltarys.
“He’s here,” Aerion whispered.
His knees nearly gave out. Behind him, boots struck stone, Maekar, no doubt, coming to drag him inside again. But this time Aerion did not move. He could not.
“He’s here,” he said again, louder now, voice breaking as the wind carried it away.
On the horizon, the sails of Meltarys swelled full and proud, bearing down on King’s Landing. Three days. He had come. Vaelon had come. Aerion watched for all of a minute as those three ships grew closer. Then he turned and raced down from the ramparts. He ran as fast as he could, bare feet slapping against stone as he took the stairs two at a time. He didn’t make it far before his father caught up with him. Days of eating so little and moving so infrequently had slowed him significantly. Maekar snatched a hold of his arm, dragging him to a stop.
“Let me go!” Aerion yelled, thrashing in his father’s grip,
“Aerion!” His father struggled to keep a hold of him, “Enough. Enough. Calm yourself.”
“Get off.” Aerion squirmed, ignoring his fathers words,
“You will see him, but you will not be running through the streets to him, and you will certainly not be leaving this keep dressed in naught but your nightgown.” Maekar argued, trying to keep his voice calm and level. “We will wait for him in the throne room, as is customary.” He hesitated, “You really ought to dress first.”
Aerion's resounding growl had him giving up,
“Fine.” Maekar sighed, “Just, head to the throne room.”
Aerion hurried as fast as he could with Maekar holding tight to his arm the entire time. He tugged at his father’s grip uselessly, chafing at the restraint. Maekar did not release him until they stood before the towering doors of the throne room.
“You will behave,” his father said quietly, though his hand remained firm on Aerion’s arm.
Aerion was vibrating where he stood. “I am behaving.”
“You are trembling.”
Aerion bared his teeth, then visibly forced himself to smooth the expression away. He dragged in a breath. The doors opened. The throne room felt cavernous without the court. No murmuring lords. No curious whispers. Only the echo of their own footsteps and the distant crackle of torches. Baelor, Valarr and Daeron were the only others in the room and they looked up as Maekar and Aerion entered.
Aerion stood at his father’s side, fingers knotted in his sleeves to keep from shaking apart. The great doors opened. Bootsteps echoed. Vaelon did not enter alone. Six men in deep purple cloaks bearing the sigil of Meltarys strode in first, disciplined, alert, hands resting near sword hilts. Salt still clung to their boots and armor. They parted.
One stepped forward, striking the butt of his spear once against the stone.
“In the name of Her Majesty, Queen of Meltarys,” he called, voice ringing through the cavernous hall, “I announce his Royal Highness, Crown Prince Vaelon Meltalor!”
Then Vaelon entered. Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Built like a warrior rather than a court ornament. He looked just as Aerion had remembered him. Big and muscular and heavily intimidating. But Aerion knew the truth, beneath that intimidating exterior was a heart of gold, eyes of kindness and a deep warmth that rippled throughout his entire being. His dark hair was pulled back, though the sea wind had loosened it. Travel leathers fitted close over powerful muscle, sword at his hip, cloak lined in deep purple falling heavily behind him. He walked with the calm certainty of a man accustomed to commanding fleets and armies alike. His violet eyes swept the hall.
They passed over Maekar. Over Baelor. Over Valarr. Measured. Assessing. Then they found Aerion. He faltered. It was small, barely a stutter in his stride, but it was there. Aerion saw it. And that was enough. He moved before thought could intervene.
“Aerion,” Maekar warned sharply.
Too late. Aerion broke from his father’s side and ran. His bare feet slapped against the stone, echoing in the vast space. His white nightdress fluttered around his thighs. It was highly inappropriate. Aerion didn’t care. His heart pounded so violently it drowned out everything else. Vaelon’s composure shattered entirely as Aerion closed the distance.
“Aerion-”
Aerion launched himself at him. It was reckless. Undignified. Entirely improper. Vaelon caught him with effortless strength. As though he weighed nothing. His hands locked firmly around Aerion’s waist, lifting him clean off the ground as if it required no effort at all. Aerion buried his face against his shoulder. Arms around his neck. Legs wrapping instinctively at his waist. The scent hit him full and overwhelming, salt, sun, citrus, leather. Home. A broken sound escaped him.
“You came,” he gasped.
Vaelon’s arms tightened reflexively, holding him closer.
“Of course I came,” he said, voice roughened by travel and something deeper.
Aerion pulled back just enough to see his face. Up close, Vaelon’s violet eyes were bright and unguarded.
“You left the same day,” Aerion said breathlessly. “You didn’t hesitate.”
Vaelon let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “You think I could?”
Aerion’s fingers twisted in his tunic. “I told myself you wouldn’t,” he admitted, words tumbling out. “That you couldn’t. I thought when you returned to Meltarys you would remember who you were and forget me.”
Vaelon’s jaw tightened. “I told you I loved you.”
“I know.” Aerion’s voice wavered.
For a moment Vaelon said nothing. Then his hand rose to cradle the back of Aerion’s neck, thumb brushing gently through pale hair. The silence behind them felt heavy. Maekar watched, unreadable but no longer hostile. Baelor observed carefully, calculating. Valarr looked stunned. Daeron, for once, had nothing clever to say. Vaelon’s hand drifted lower, resting instinctively at Aerion’s waist. His gaze flicked down briefly, taking in the subtle change there, before returning to Aerion’s face. His expression softened.
“Oh my love.” He whispered, “I wish you had told me sooner.”
Aerion buried his face back into Vaelon’s shoulder.
“Come.” Maekar’s voice echoed off of the stone, bouncing around the empty room, “We can continue in the privacy of my solar.”
“Of course.” Vaelon agreed easily, though he kept his grip on Aerion tight, not putting him down.
Aerion crossed his ankles behind Vaelon’s back, he allowed his alpha to carry him. Vaelon moved with effortless grace, each step measured and unhurried, as though the added weight of Aerion was negligible in his arms. The hallway stretched long before them, the echo of their boots muted by the stone. Aerion’s fingers clutched at Vaelon’s shoulders, knuckles white, burying his face against the broad chest that smelled of sea, leather, and something uniquely him. He had nearly forgotten how much he was dwarfed by the other man. When standing Aerion's head came up to Vaelon's shoulder, his arms were thick and his chest broad. He made Aerion look small, look like something delicate. Aerion would be lying if he said he didn't like it.
They reached Maekar’s solar, the door swinging open before them. Vaelon stepped inside, still holding him as if Aerion were made of air, and lowered him gently onto the couch. Vaelon sat beside him and Aerion curled against him instinctively, still hiding his face in Vaelon’s shoulder.
Maekar’s eyes were stormy as he stepped forward, fists pressed to his sides. “Enough games. You will marry him,” he demanded, voice sharp and uncompromising.
Vaelon’s grip on Aerion didn’t falter. He simply rested a hand lightly on the small of Aerion’s back, keeping him close. Aerion stayed pressed against Vaelon, trembling slightly, the weight of everything, the past weeks, the fear, the hope he had barely allowed himself, pressing him into the couch. Vaelon’s arms were firm and grounding, a steady presence that seemed to erase the world beyond the solar. But he couldn't stop his rising anxiety that Vaelon might still reject him, might refuse to marry him.
“Brother,” Baelor said tersely, stepping forward before Vaelon could reply, “we cannot command him. He is not our subject, but our equal.”
Vaelon shifted slightly, chin brushing over Aerion’s hair. “I have no need of orders,” he said softly, voice steady, eyes meeting Maekar’s for just a heartbeat. “If Aerion will have me… I will marry him. No command necessary.”
Vaelon's fingers found Aerion's chin, grip tight but gentle as he tipped Aerion's head back enough to look at him, to look him in the eye, "Will you?" He asked,
Aerion stared into his eyes, violet, steady, certain. A warmth pooled in his chest, the relief so intense it nearly darkened his vision. “I… I will,” Aerion whispered, voice shaking, a fragile promise, his fingers clutching at Vaelon’s tunic.
Vaelon smiled, faint but certain, pressing his forehead to Aerion’s. “Then it is enough.”
For a long moment, neither moved. Only the quiet rustle of fabric and Aerion’s soft, shuddering breaths filled the solar. Maekar remained tense, hands still flexing, while Baelor simply watched, a measured expression that somehow conveyed both relief and caution. Aerion finally tilted his head back fully, letting his lips brush Vaelon’s shoulder, inhaling the scent that had haunted his dreams for weeks.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he whispered again, almost breaking under the weight of it.
“I told you I would,” Vaelon murmured, voice low and unwavering. “I left the moment I received your uncle’s letter. I will not leave again.”
And for the first time in weeks, Aerion allowed himself to relax, to sink fully into the certainty that he was no longer alone, that the man he loved and who loved him in return, was here, and nothing else mattered in that solar. He nuzzled into his alpha, taking great refuge in his arms. A strange noise filled the air and it took Aerion a moment to realise that the noise was coming from him, a deep rumble from within. He was purring. He’d never purred before. An omega’s purr was an involuntary action that only occurred when an omega felt safe, cared for and satisfied to the fullest.
Vaelon’s lips brushed lightly against his temple, his thumb gently stroking Aerion’s back in slow, soothing circles. The vibrations of Aerion’s purr seemed to lull the tension from the room, the air suddenly lighter. Maekar, who had been watching the entire exchange with tight-lipped stoicism, finally sighed heavily. His eyes softened for the first time since they had entered the throne room.
Maekar nodded, “You will be married within the week then.” He declared.
Vaelon smiled, “Does that sound alright, my love?”
Aerion didn’t bother replying, he just nodded, snuggling his face further into his alpha’s chest.
Maekar moved a little closer, “Aerion, the maester is on their way to examine you, properly this time.”
Aerion growled.
Vaelon raised a brow, “the maesters have yet to examine him?”
“He will not let them touch him.” Baelor said calmly with a slight grimace on his face, “He tries to bite anyone who gets too close.”
Vaelon snorted, “That sounds about right.” He looked down at Aerion, tucked into his arms, “You won’t bite the maester this time, sweetling.”
Aerion peered up at him, looking petulant and pouting slightly. "I don't want to," Aerion muttered under his breath, his voice almost a growl. He glared in Maekar's direction, though his eyes were softening under the weight of his exhaustion. "They never ask before poking and prodding."
Vaelon’s fingers stroked through his hair gently, coaxing him to relax further. "I know, sweetling, I know," he murmured, the depth of his voice like a warm balm over the frayed edges of Aerion’s nerves. "But you’ll be fine. It’ll be quick, I promise. Besides," he added, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper, "if anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll take care of them."
Aerion smiled, feeling a flicker of mischief dance within him, despite himself. His fingers tightened just slightly in Vaelon’s tunic. "You'll take care of them, will you?" he asked, his voice low and with just the slightest trace of playfulness.
Vaelon’s lips twitched into a smile. "Absolutely. I’ll make sure they don’t come near you unless you say so." He tilted Aerion’s chin up, catching his gaze, violet eyes steady and loving. "No one will touch you without your permission. Not while I’m here."
The door creaked open then, and the maester stepped in, accompanied by two attendants carrying leather satchels filled with various vials and instruments. The moment Aerion caught sight of the unfamiliar faces, his expression darkened, his fingers clutching tighter at Vaelon’s chest. Maekar stepped forward, his face impassive but his eyes sharp.
"The maester will be gentle," Maekar said, his voice surprisingly soft, almost understanding, but still firm with authority. "We need to be sure you’re well, Aerion, and the baby too."
Aerion didn’t look at Maekar. His gaze was focused entirely on Vaelon, his fingers still digging into the man’s tunic as though he could pull him closer, make him a permanent part of himself. Vaelon’s hand slid down to rest on Aerion’s back, a grounding weight. The maester took a tentative step forward, glancing at Vaelon for permission before continuing.
"You must trust them," Vaelon murmured gently, though his tone left no room for argument. "You don’t have to like it, but you’ll be alright. I’ll be right here."
A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled in Aerion’s chest as he shot a quick, narrowed look at the maester, but when he saw Vaelon’s steady gaze, the tension slowly eased. After a long moment, he sighed, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.
"Fine," Aerion muttered, his voice a mixture of frustration and resignation. "But I’m not going to enjoy it."
"Wouldn't expect you to," Vaelon said with a slight smirk.
The maester began his examination, the soft rustle of linen and quiet mutters of instruction filling the room as Vaelon’s hand never left Aerion’s back. Aerion couldn’t quite suppress the occasional twitch of discomfort, but each time, Vaelon’s hand would steady him, the gentle strokes offering some comfort, grounding him in a way nothing else could. At one point the maester drew out an odd looking pendant on a chain and dangled it over Aerion’s stomach. Aerion scowled at it. The maester continued their examination, pressing on his stomach several times. Aerion bared his teeth, Vaelon tightened his grip on the back of Aerion’s neck in response.
The maester finally leant back, satisfied at last, “Both are in good health,” He declared, “I believe the child is likely to be girl,”
Aerion scowled, “No,”
Vaelon snorted, hiding his amusement in Aerion’s hair.
“Yes.” The maester said,
Aerion twisted to look at Vaelon, “I will give you an heir, I promise.”
Vaelon looked down at him, eyes softening, “Oh my love, is that what concerns you? Whether our child is male or female they will be my heir, they will sit the throne.”
Aerion blinked twice, “But, a girl?”
Vaelon raised a brow, “Aerion, who currently sits the throne?”
“Your mother.” Aerion answered confused.
Vaelon just looked at him for a moment, then realisation dawned.
“Oh.” Aerion murmured, then he smiled, “I am already giving you an heir then.”
Vaelon smiled back at him, “Yes, my love.”
Aerion leant back into him, content once more. His hand drifted to his stomach, fingers splaying over the slight bulge there. Vaelon’s hand settled gently over Aerion’s, resting there with a quiet warmth that sent a wave of reassurance through him. For a long while, no-one spoke. Finally, it was Maekar who broke the silence, his voice a little more patient now, but still laced with the authority of a man who was used to being obeyed.
"We will need to make preparations for the wedding," he said, his tone brokering no argument. “The sooner the better."
Vaelon’s gaze flicked over to Maekar, his expression unreadable for a moment before he turned back to Aerion. "Whatever you want," he said, voice soft but resolute. "It’s your decision too. I’ll follow your lead in everything."
Aerion lifted his head from Vaelon’s shoulder, meeting his violet eyes, “And if I want something extravagant?”
Vaelon smirked, “then it will be the grandest wedding the world has ever seen.”
Aerion beamed, “Good.” He said,
Baelor straightened, “Come, your Grace, you must be hungry after your travels.”
Vaelon stood before turning and sweeping Aerion back into his arms. He carried Aerion the entire way to Baelor’s solar and settled him into a chair. Aerion kept a hand tightly gripping his alpha’s forearm until Vaelon settled into the chair beside him. Once more, Aerion had no appetite for anything but his favourite biscuits. He reached immediately for the plate of them, dragging it toward himself and immediately seizing one.
“Not too many.” His father intoned dryly,
Vaelon shot him a sharp look, “He can have as many as he wishes.”
Aerion took another biscuit, placing it down beside the second on his plate.
Maekar scowled, “He’s already had three biscuits this morning. It seems to be all he eats.”
Vaelon shrugged easily, “He's pregnant.”
Aerion reached for a third biscuit, testing the boundaries set.
His father glowered at him, “Enough, Aerion.”
Vaelon responded by sliding the plate of biscuits closer to Aerion. Aerion grinned at his father’s irritated expression, taking another biscuit and savoring it slowly. There was something incredibly satisfying about pushing Maekar’s buttons, especially when Vaelon seemed so ready to back him up. He could practically feel the tension in the room, but for once, it didn’t bother him. The weight of it all seemed lighter with Vaelon by his side.
“I’ll eat what I please,” Aerion teased, though his voice was soft and almost playful. His eyes flickered over to Vaelon, finding a quiet strength in the man’s steady presence. He looked back at his father, "But thank you for your concern, Father."
Maekar’s glare deepened, but he didn’t push the issue further. Instead, he crossed his arms and turned his gaze out of the window, his jaw tight. Vaelon’s hand gently rested on Aerion’s knee, warm against Aerion’s bare skin. His fingers stroked lightly over Aerion’s skin, sending a pleasant warmth up his leg.
"I’ll take care of you," Vaelon murmured softly, just for him. "Don’t let anyone make you feel like you have to justify yourself."
The moment was interrupted by a soft, clipped sound from Maekar. "You’ll both need to remember," he grumbled, his tone a mix of annoyance and reluctant acceptance. "Aerion’s health is my responsibility too. And I’ll see to it that you don’t overindulge, whether you like it or not."
Aerion’s eyes narrowed slightly at his father, but the edge of his annoyance was softened by the knowing look Vaelon gave him.
“Having a few extra biscuits isn’t going to hurt.” Vaelon argued quietly, his tone firm but soft. "He’s right, though," Vaelon said, turning back to Aerion. "You can’t live off biscuits alone, sweetling. We’ll find something more… nutritious soon."
Aerion rolled his eyes, “Something healthy, no doubt.”
Vaelon chuckled softly, leaning in to kiss the side of Aerion’s head, “I’m afraid so.”
Aerion shrugged, “We’ll see.”