Chapter Text
Aerion was a dragon. He knew he was wild, like fire itself, strong and tough like the greatest armour, invincible and ruthless like a god. He was everything the house of Targaryen needed in burdensome times like these – someone who was merciless, someone who spoke through pain and ignited fear in people’s hearts.
When dragons were no more, Aerion had to become one. He needed to become one. House Targaryen ruled with dragons, with fire and blood, not kindness and pleasantries.
Aerion always believed he was born into the wrong body – he was supposed to have unbreakable scales and immense weight, his throat ready to bear the hottest fire. He knew it like a fact. And he wanted everyone else to do so as well. He was so much more than some filthy lowborn, after all. He was from House Targaryen – he was closer to gods than men. Born from fire, hatched by fate – he was a dragon, he had to be.
A dragon in a cage, born in the wrong flesh. So, he needed something to make him feel alive, to actually awaken the beast in him. It was no random thought, he planned this, he wanted this. And he would have the power he desired all his life – no matter what it took.
Aerion Targaryen decided to drink wildfire. He was fireproof after all, wasn’t he? He could take it – in fact, it would make him a legend, transforming him into a true beast.
He gulped eagerly, ready for the change, for the fire to pleasantly awaken him and heat up his veins. He did not stop at one or two swallows – no, he drank the entire cup of wildfire. His stomach and throat felt warm. He smirked, already feeling the power ran through him. But soon enough, that pleasant feeling shifted, turning into a heat so immense he felt like he was burning from the inside. He groaned and fell to his knees, the empty cup rolling away from him as if cruelly rejecting his transformation.
Turned out, his throat and stomach weren’t immune to heat. His insides and skin burned the same it did for a lowborn. It was a pain so sharp and heavy he couldn’t even think. He screamed and trashed around, but he couldn’t escape the horrible sensation – the fire burned him alive. In that moment, he was anything but a dragon. He was human. A simple, burning human, whose dreams led him to believe that he was more than what he looked like. And yet, it seemed like everything was just a cruel lie – he was breakable and very much combustible.
With no one by his side, alone and scared, the infamous Aerion – Brightflame – Targaryen died, his cold heart setting on fire in a way he had not anticipated nor planned for.
But he awaited death at that point. The burning of his own flesh, the immense pain was so unbearable that dying felt like a gift, even though the unknown scared him. Mercifully, every sensation in his body soon came to a halt and he felt like he was floating – the closest he got to flying through the endless sky, he believed. It... wasn’t unsatisfactory. It was almost comfortable in a way, peaceful. The pure lack of pain was also a nice touch, after what happened. If this was death, he couldn’t complain.
After what felt like the longest minutes of his entire life – was it even life at this point? –, he sensed something in the distance with phantom eyes that were no longer in his skull. He didn’t even have a body right now, he was sure. Yet he saw it, a spark of… fire? A tiny thing, barely noticeable in normal conditions. But in such a pure void, its light was blinding.
The little spark did not move, but it grew in size and brightness. In time, it turned into a fire so huge it could have dwarfed a lesser mountain. But it wasn’t burning him, even when the size of it almost reached him. It felt like... destiny, something that he couldn’t simply avoid. In that moment, he began to feel his body again. Not his burnt flesh – his healthy, lean body. It felt heavy, but he willed himself to move his arm, curious. Just as he reached out, the fire enveloped him completely. Aerion flinched, expecting pain and even more suffering – unable to forget what he felt before he closed his eyes for the final time. Or at least, what he thought would be the final time.
And yet, pain didn’t come. Only a strange, but comfortable warmth. As if the fire was… hugging him. Like a mother’s embrace.
Aerion did not fight against it – not that he even could at all. He let it take him, make him feel warm. He was already dead, wasn’t he? Led by his nightmares and delusions, he killed himself, only wanting to be reborn. So why not enjoy this sensation while it last? It was so similar to what he imagined drinking wildfire would feel like. He was clearly wrong about that, he had to admit.
And then, out of nowhere, air forcefully rushed into his lungs, cold and almost rude in its invasion, completely shattering his relaxation. Could he seriously not have a moment’s peace even in death? Fucking ridiculous.
Aerion’s eyes opened abruptly on their own accord, and he coughed, expecting blood and heat. Instead, the sensation in his throat was pleasantly cold and rather fresh, sharpening his mind. He coughed a few more times, greedily trying to get air back into his lungs – the lungs that he was sure should have been burnt to ashes. Along with his eyes and whole body. He swallowed, almost choking, before lifting his head. He looked around, seeing the familiar Targaryen sigil high in the air and several people on horseback. He breathed heavily, confused and highly disoriented.
What in the Seven Hells was going on?
„What is it, little brother, has the dragon forgotten how to breathe?”
Came a voice far too familiar. Aerion immediately looked at the source, his eyes widening in surprise. Just next to him, Daeron was looking at him expectantly, a flask – no wonder filled with wine – in his left hand. He sat upon a horse, at eye level with him. That was the moment Aerion realized that he was also riding on horseback.
He opened his lips to speak, to bite back, but nothing came out. He was so fucking confused. He must have looked ridiculous, because Daeron’s expression actually changed, looking at him with slight uncertainty, maybe even worry. After a few more seconds of silence, his older brother decided he waited enough for his non-existent answer.
„You should be absolutely pummelling me into the ground with sharp words right now, brother. Are you... well?” He asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. Normally, Aerion would never remain silent if someone commented something even slightly disrespectful about him.
But oh well, Aerion wasn’t really having the most normal time of his life right now. He... died, didn’t he? In fact, he knew that Daeron was also dead, taken by pox not too long ago. So, by the gods, why was he next to him on horseback, looking younger than the last time he saw him – although not less ragged – and casually talking?
Despite his confusion, he knew he had to say something at this point, because his silence was getting ludicrous and quite frankly, humiliating. Especially after he basically choked on air a minute ago like a fumbling idiot.
“Just because I don’t react to every single word that comes out of your drunken mouth, doesn’t mean that I’m unwell, Daeron. It means that I do not wish to stoop down to your level at the moment.”
At that, Daeron let out a little sound that almost resembled a laugh.
“Now, that’s more like you.” He mumbled, his attention turning back to his flask.
Good. Now that Daeron was once again minding his own business, Aerion had time to think and find an answer to whatever was happening to him. Although it was rather unbelievable, he was alive. Clearly, this was no dream nor hallucination – he had experience with both, and this was nothing like those. He looked around once again, taking in any information that could help him. Quite a few members of the Kingsguard were riding on horseback, he also saw Valarr, and of course, Daeron. In one of the carriages, he was sure he would find Aegon as well. At the front, he could see his father’s and his uncle’s backs. His uncle, who definitely shouldn’t be alive, either. He died many years ago, he remembered vividly. This certainly didn’t make any sense.
He turned his attention to the road, needing more details. It was faintly familiar. This whole scene was, to be honest. As if it had already happened once...
And then, it clicked.
There was no fucking way.
He knew where this road was leading to. Hurriedly, he reached down to his right thigh, his hand gripping his own flesh, hard. No pain. No discomfort. He couldn’t feel his skin directly, but he knew there was no scar either. The scar that reminded him of his humiliation after the Trial of Seven. And now, it was not there, erased like it has never happened. Or at least, not yet.
Aerion’s blue eyes sharpened, and he frowned. This road, the absence of his injury, Daeron and everyone else looking years younger, his uncle still alive…
They were heading to Ashford. And this was the bloody past.
The remainder of the day, Aerion willed himself to execute two things he never really did – and was also especially bad at. Being patient and not acting out. He let things happen naturally, not disturbing the flow of the... past. He still couldn’t believe it. There was no way he was somehow sent back to life. Why him? How? For what reason?
There were too many questions and very few answers. Not knowing what was happening only angered Aerion, which – since he wanted to patiently wait and analyse this whole situation – was not the greatest. Still, he tried not stabbing anyone.
The more time passed, the more certain he was that this truly was not just some cruel trick that was caused by his dying brain. Not that he ever truly believed that it would be the case. Still… what other options were there? He was sent back to the past, right before the Tourney at Ashford? It sounded absurd, yet that was the only logical possibility – which was quite preposterous.
Did the gods want him to be humiliated once more? Or was this a chance for a different fate? If being sent back to the past was true, then maybe the gods favoured him after all? Or was this simply a test?
“You are frowning more than usual, nephew.”
Came the voice of the man Aerion has not heard in years. He sounded quite warm, no underlying aggression in his voice. Well, Baelor was always like that. Even with him, even when he acted out or kept being disrespectful on purpose. Aerion saw him disappointed, but never angry. It was infuriating in a way, and he sometimes took it like a challenge – wanting to see how far he could go before actually getting on Baelor’s nerves.
It never happened. And Aerion stopped trying, after a while. Baelor’s composure seemed rather unbreakable. Unlike his head.
“I hardly have anything to be cheerful about, uncle.”
Aerion answered simply, looking into Baelor’s mismatched eyes. It felt strange, talking to someone who was long dead in his... previous life, let’s call it that. He wondered if he could change the course of events or the gods were just making fun of him, forcing him to relive his life again without having the power to actually make a difference.
Aerion blinked slowly, not taking his eyes off of Baelor. Mayhaps, if there was a way, he would try to avoid the death of his uncle. His passing was unplanned and unwanted, and the fact that he died for a hedge knight was laughable. The blood of the dragon, dying because of a nobody. Ridiculous. The thought alone made hatred and rage rise in his heart. Although Baelor chose to fight against his own family – an act Aerion didn’t take light heartedly – he was still a Targaryen, and his life mattered unimaginably more than any knight’s, let alone a certain hedge knight’s.
Baelor Targaryen hummed, seemingly content with his answer, but Aerion saw his eyes narrow slightly. Why was he looking at him like that? Daeron’s expression was also slightly similar to this. Was it so obvious that Aerion was not... from here? He hoped not. That would be an awkward and unnecessary discourse, one he did not wish to take part of.
“What is it?” Aerion asked slightly impatiently, knowing that there was more Baelor wanted to say.
“I believed you would look forward to the tourney. You have a taste for it.”
Aerion scoffed, clearly wanting this conversation to be over. He has been on the edge of his patience for quite a while now – and this time, it was justified, for sure.
“Well, I changed my mind. I have the right to do so, do I not?”
“Aerion.” Came a deeper, louder, and definitely less patient voice. His father, of course. Fabulous timing as always. “Do not forget who you are talking to and in what manner, boy.”
Aerion’s palms were getting sweaty. He really wished to just leave these two and disappear for some time. Back into that comfortable void, if possible. That was more enjoyable than talking to his family right now. Even though it was not... unpleasant to see his blood again. Everyone seemed less tense and maybe even happier compared to the future. However, Aerion was anything but delighted in this moment.
Before he could say anything to his father, Baelor beat him to it.
“Relax, brother. I have taken no offense.” He said, his calming voice immediately settling Maekar, even though he wasn’t even truly upset yet. Well, prevention was also important, he reckoned.
“Aerion made it clear that he does not desire our company as of this moment. We shall respect that.” Baelor continued, looking at Aerion meaningfully. He definitely wasn’t wrong. His uncle could read people quite well, Aerion noted. He was almost thankful for that.
I really ought to consider not letting Baelor pass. His composure and the way he can handle my father might be beneficial in the future.
“Wanting to be alone or not, Aerion must learn how to address his family properly.” Maekar sighed, but Aerion sensed that his father was not trying to start an argument. Not this time. Still, if he were to say the incorrect thing, Maekar would definitely not let it go.
Aerion took a deep breath in, filling his lungs up wholly. If he concentrated, he could still feel the phantom pain of his burning lungs. He shuddered slightly, but tried not to think about it too much. Seemingly, he was granted another chance, so it was time to make the best of it. He was no boy – he was as old as Baelor was when he died. He could show some restraint if must. Especially if in doing so, he can finally escape this conversation.
“You are not inaccurate, father. I acted out of order. I shall be more... attentive of how I speak from now on.”
He said, looking into his father’s eyes, then Baelor’s. He did not wait for an answer. Instead, he urged his horse to pick up the pace, leaving them slightly behind. He did catch a glimpse of their facial expressions however – and it was rather laughable. Maekar frowned, almost baffled, looking at Baelor as if not believing his ears. His uncle did not show as much emotion, but he also seemed somewhat confused.
Priceless reactions. Maybe I shall do this more often.