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Chapter Text

Aerion looks down at the cage, brimming with white-hot rage. The boy could not be more than ten, and yet he looked impossibly younger. Too thin. Too battered for a youth that ought to be playing with wooden swords and wearing his sire’s too-big armor, rather than sit in a mangy cage. The smell of the boy’s fear was palpable. Aerion could taste it on his tongue– the smell of salt, blood, and mead as a poor excuse for cleansing what looked to be days-old wounds. 

He was not supposed to stop his journey tonight. Aerion was to ride north and farther still before his father got word that his bed was left unkempt, and his belongings no longer plagued his wardrobe. He was to ride to freedom, away from the ship leading him to Lys. To his doom. 

He was not supposed to see the campsite. 

And he was not supposed to see the boy’s Valyrian pallor illuminated by the campfire. 

In a blink, Aerion had killed half the men at the camp– his blade coming down like the gods’ judgment upon sinners who dared to harm one with the blood of the dragon flowing through his veins. Aerion thought himself unbound by anything aside from his instinct as a dragon, and a dragon protected their own. His sword had bloodied all those who came to deter him from his path, narrowly missing those wise enough to stray from the area of his wrath. 

Their screams had filled his ears like a sonnet, pleading a goose’s screech whilst he gutted them dry of crimson– dripping and marking the soil his feet chanced on. 

The cage did hold a boy with white hair and pale skin, but his eyes were a deep, lowborn hazel. 

At the sight, Aerion sneered, “A blackfyre bastard.”

The boy cowered further into his cage, as if the shadow in front of him were the Seven Hells made man. Hazel eyes looked at his violet with fear, “If you must kill me, then do it!” The words were shouted into the cold night’s air, filling the silence devoid of the songs of battle a mere moments before, “Kill me!” His voice trembled. 

“Indeed, I should,” Aerion rolled his eyes, bringing his sword down to strike at the chains barring the cage. “If I had known you were not of my kin, I would have left you to be eaten by the wolves.”

Metal hit the ground with a loud thud, and the gate swung open with an ominous creak– and yet, the boy did not move, seemingly curling into himself further. The sight made Aerion’s blood run hot, “You dare glare at your prince, boy?”

“I dare much if I’m to die by your sword anyway,” The boy sniffled, fat droplets of salt dripping down his cheeks, dirtied with grime. “You’re no better than the men you’ve just killed, m’lord.”

“Ah.”

“You ought to kill me, I’ve no use for a life on the run.” His words struck a blow to Aerion’s chest, and the feeling of something akin to pity nearly made up a singular heartbeat, “We may not share the same eyes, but all of us are made of the same thing.”

Intrigued, Aerion lowered himself to look the boy head-on, careful of the mud underneath him, “And what is that?”

“Evil.”

Aerion always thought himself above the philosophies of the lowborn– to live is to work and to work is to die, or the like. But the boy’s words had a startled laugh bubble from his throat, a sound that had the boy flinching into the corner of the cage. He felt himself charmed by the boy’s audacity not only to spit on his own blood, but Aerion’s as well. The blood of the dragon was both loathed and loved by a divided many in Westeros– though Aerion never thought he would live to see the day a Blackfyre bastard would shun his own blood.

Boast, yes. Perhaps even stake a claim to the throne, if he or she so dared– but never speak of it with utter disgust that it felt as if his own tongue grew heavy. 

The boy stammered, brows furrowed, “What’s– what’s so funny?”

“Nothing at all,” he shook his head, a smile still painting his lips. “And we are evil, are we not? Evil men do not find things funny.”

“In– Indeed…” He whispered.

The boy’s breath wafted onto Aerion’s face– hot, as if he were already assessing the distance in which he could outmove him and escape from the cage with his head still on his shoulders. His hazel eyes darted from one point on Aerion’s body to the next, finding him clad in garments the colors of Targaryen pitch, save for the frivolities that usually accompanied a royal’s status. 

Aerion himself was on the run, too. And whilst he was willing to part with the luxuries of Summerhall, he was not willing to let go of the blood that tied him to a home that has long gone cold from the lack of dragon flame– and the lack of his mother’s touch.

“What is your name, boy?” Aerion clicked his tongue, loosening his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Answer lest I cut off your tongue.” He meant that part as a jest, though Aerion knew it would not be taken as such.

He watches as the boy’s body trembles underneath fabrics too thin to keep out the cold– or from the fear of the man in front of him. He mutters, “...Conan, m’lord.”

Aerion furrows his brows, lowering his head, “Odd name for a Blackfyre bastard,” he whispered to himself. 

His distant relatives were fond of using Valyrian names to title their tainted offspring with the prophecy of conquerors and warriors, using the fickle branding of a name to stake a claim on the soil underneath their overly expensive leather. Aerion once sneered as he watched the beheading of a traitor when he was a toddler. The man’s face was painted with a taut smile, as if he could pretend himself strong despite facing the Stranger’s eyes head-on. 

He watched as the crowds marveled at the man’s audacity to face the King’s Justice with eyes that showed no fear– and he watched what the crowd did not see. 

Aerion caught a glimpse of the man’s quivering lips and the slight tremble of his bound hands. He watched as the blade fell in an elegant arch before the man’s eyes finally showed a glimmer of despair, as if meeting Aerion’s gaze could save his tainted blood from hitting the wooden scaffold. 

He watched it all. 

And he had learned the man’s name was Aegor. 

But Conan was meagre. It was common. As if his father had brought him into this world only to see what the poison in his seed could make, and nothing more. 

“Conan is certainly not a warrior’s name,” Aerion leaned his head against the metal bars of the cage. “Your father had poor taste–”

“It was not he that I got it from,” the boy practically spat the words out. “My mother named me. I am Conan Stone, and Conan Stone only.”

He tutted, “No, you are Conan Blackfyre–”

“Stone! I am Conan Stone!” The boy sneered, finally uncurling himself to shout his name into the night’s air. 

“Alright, Conan Stone,” Aerion backed away from the cage, sheathing his sword. “How would you like to die tonight?”

He bit his tongue to stop another laugh from bubbling from his throat when he saw the boy’s escape from the cage halt the moment the words left his mouth. The boy stood with his back hunched, eyes wary of the man in front of him, and he did not speak– taking in the sight of his captors dead on the ground whilst blood spilled in an array of decorated brutality. 

Aerion’s lips curled up, “And?”

“And, what?” Conan hissed, closing his eyes whilst his hands came up to grip the bottom of his tunic. “Kill me however you see fit.”

“I will.” Despite his words, Aerion stayed lax, hands resting on his hips rather than on the sheath of his sword, “Before I do, I would like to know how you came upon these bandits, however.”

The crackling of the campfire was the only thing Aerion could hear for a second. 

For a moment, he thought he was to hear another story of kidnapping, theft, or worse yet, for kids of Conan’s age. The silence only gave his mind the time to wander to different possibilities, each worse than the last. 

“...I killed my father.”

The one thing he hadn’t expected was the words that crept from the boy’s mouth. His tone had not been somber, nor were they regretful. He said it as if it were a fact– like the gods had not been slighted by the sin he had committed. Aerion’s lips part slightly, eyes darting from the boy’s muddied clothes to the faint specks of dried blood underneath his fingernails. He saw the tremble in his lips, and the wetness pooling in the corners of his eyes.

Aerion knew he was not crying for his father’s death– and the guilt that followed any sane man. Rather, Conan was crying because he had not felt any guilt at all. 

He had said the four words with such finality that it almost seemed to pause in the air. 

Aerion was no sinless man, but he could not picture himself taking Maekar’s life in his hands and rendering it pulp with a mere movement. 

“And the bandits?” Aerion steadied his voice. “How have you come under them?”

Conan shook his head, “They’re Blackfyre loyalists, m’lord. When they found me atop his body, they had deemed me worthy of the blade– and… and sought to send me off to one of my uncles to await their justice.”

His breathing grew labored, though he hid it well. “Where were they sending you off to?”

“Father mentioned a gathering in Lannisport,” he whispered, his grip on his tunics tightening. “But we left days ago, and they would expect us, no doubt. They would question the lack of my delivery soon enough.”

Aerion’s journey had been purposeless, mostly. He had gotten on his horse and made off into the distance, unable to make himself look back. He had decided anywhere was better than going to Lys– a place so far removed from what Aerion deemed familiar. His journey was out of pure selfishness, he admits. However, Conan Stone’s journey was out of desperation. 

A boy was made to run from the gods’ punishment. 

A boy made to run against fate with legs too small to even hoist himself up on a horse.  

Aerion huffed, “I see that even Blackfyres have stooped low enough to kill their own kind.”

“I am not one of them, m’lord. And I never have been.” The boy sniffled, “I am simply my mother’s son.”

“And who exactly is your mother?” Aerion rolled his eyes, picking at the dirt on his nailbeds. “I’ve no doubt that she’d want you tucked in bed by now–”

“...that is no concern of yours.”

He smiled. 

“Of course it is, I’m your prince.” His words came out slow, deliberate– waiting for the Stone to crack. “Who is your mother–”

Conan panted, breath coming out in unruly bunches of air, “Must you torture me before I die–”

“I simply want to know–”

“I do not want to tell you–”

Aerion huffed, “What is the harm–”

“She is dead!”

Aerion tilted his head, eyes searching. For what, he does not know himself. The boy looked as if he were about to die on his own, with the way his breathing resembled that of a horse who just won a tourney and not a boy who’s survived death. There was anger in Conan’s eyes, now wide open and glaring at Aerion– anything he could set his eyes on. And, despite the hazels that distinguished Conan’s blood and his, Aerion found himself staring at someone familiar. 

Rage poured out of him when his own mother died, and no one had stood to catch it. No one had dared to drown in him– no one looked at the prince burning in his own grief. They had only seen the Brightflame wreaking havoc upon the castle walls. They had not seen the boy heaving breaths as he used his own sword not to hurt, but to regain balance. They had not seen Aerion Targaryen, son of Dyanna Dayne. They saw Aerion Brightflame, another one of Maekar’s failed sons.

They had only seen what they could pick apart– what they could send away. 

He whispered, quietly, “Who are you, Conan Stone?”

Like this, Aerion was sure he’d get an answer–

“...son of Quinn.”

–because he’d once prayed to be asked the same question. 

Aerion took one step forward, then another, all while Conan firmly planted his heels into the damp soil. He fixed his hand on the hilt of his sword, smelling for the fear he chanced upon passing their camp, only to find none. Conan stood firm as he looked up at him. Unfearing for death because he knew who would be waiting on the other side. 

With a breath, Aerion shook his head, tilting his eyes upwards to gaze at the vast expanse of stars above him– willing them to speak. No answer ever came. 

“What are you doing?” A quiet voice came. 

“...praying,” it was a lie. Aerion was never a pious man. 

“For what?”

A beat passes. 

“The heat of my mother’s chiding gaze,” Aerion couldn’t help the wry smile that painted his lips. 

Conan sniffled, wiping the snot dripping from his nose, “Well, can you hurry up, m’lord? My feet hurt.”

Impossible. The boy was to die by Aerion’s blade, and he had demanded that he hurry up. Aerion felt himself grow warm despite the night’s chill. 

“No matter,” he smiled, then– a taut, insincere thing. “I shall take you.”

The boy’s eyes widened, sweat pooling on his brow, “What? Take me where?”

“Oh, but you ought to ask nicely.” Aerion feigned hurt.

“Ask you what?” Conan hissed, eyeing the sword at Aerion’s hip. He is close enough now for Aerion to distinguish his features. The signature Valyrian pallor was not lost on him, and neither were the freckles that littered his nose and cheeks. He was a scrawny thing– not unlike Aerion when he was around his age– but lacking all of the necessary strength needed for a boy to survive on his own. 

He grinned, feeling the way his fang got caught on his lip, “Ask me for help.”

The boy’s brows furrowed angrily, “as I’d ever–”

Aerion shrugged, making a show of dusting off his clothes and turning on his heel– stepping over a dead body as he did. He would walk back to his horse and leave the boy in its dust as he made for freedom. He would forget about this encounter and ignore the pang in his chest whenever he looked at the stars; reminiscent of the boy’s own freckles. He would ride till the sun met the sea a thousand times over. 

Aerion would forget Conan Stone. 

However, just as he was about to hoist himself up on his saddle, Aerion felt a slight tug on his pants. He stood still for a moment, waiting with bated breath. 

“...help me, m’lord.”

The world spun as it does when Conan whispered his plea. There had been no groundbreaking twist of fate, nor were there any other pleas that accompanied his words. It was the unselfish wish of a child who had nowhere else to go– and no one else to turn to. Sometimes, Aerion had learned, befriending the monsters in the dark was better than being in the dark alone. He supposes that Conan had learned of the very same thing the moment he saw Aerion walk away. 

Aerion had once thought of going to the north. Now, however, it seemed as if Dorne was better suited for his journey. Away from Lannisport, Summerhall, and all of the ghosts that followed them. 

Wordlessly, Aerion lifted the boy with ease, settling him on the saddle and seating himself behind him. 

“Try not to complain, boy.” Aerion muttered, trying and failing to escape the few wisps of Conan’s hair getting into his mouth, “You’re better off with someone else, so I’m taking you to him.”

Conan jostled in place as Aerion held the reins, “Who?”

The campsite behind them would no doubt be found after dawn broke. The people that followed, however, were going to be a mixed few– Blackfyre loyalists, bounty hunters, and his own father’s men. 

Aerion scoffed, “A hedge knight who’s no stranger to taking brats under his wing.”

The boy’s tense muscles seemingly relaxed, resting against Aerion’s front. 

Try as he might to ignore the baser of his instincts, the human one alongside the dragon, Aerion knew there was more to the despair that turned his soft lines into jagged edges. He knew that the boy ran not only from his captors, but from the name his mother had given him– just like Aerion did. Running to the edges of the world so that the grief may not follow. Unfortunately, they did not account for that one human instinct that separated man from beast: Companionship.

–

They stopped at a nearby village around the outskirts of Longtable. If Aerion continued any longer, he was afraid the boy would slip from his hold in his sleep and wake to find both Aerion and the horse gone. Conan had slept most of the ride, waking only to eat bits of the bread Aerion was smart enough to take with him– and to ask questions that poured out before he could think. 

The boy pointed at every little thing– at every moving animal, and asked questions as if he were on tour. 

Aerion would murmur the answer after a complaint, voice soft in a way that his throat hadn’t felt for many years. He found himself shocked by his own patience; and he found himself wondering where it all went wrong. Still, Aerion treated the boy as if he would shatter at the slightest touch. And, even as he securely fastened a hood on his head, Aerion’s fingers trembled with the effort to remain gentle. 

The hands that wielded blades sharp enough to kill were now fighting against his own instinct to be harsh– to be cruel. It was his dragon blood fighting with his Dornish blood, he thought. 

There stood a stall in the market that Aerion had deemed worthy enough for his presence: a quaint baker’s table. With hoods on their heads, Aerion led the boy forward, “Four loaves.”

“Aye. Twelve copper.”

Aerion fished for his pouch, heavy with the wealth he had taken with him from Summerhall, pointedly avoiding Conan’s star-struck expression as the boy weighed in the amount on him. Aerion whispered, taking the four loaves in each arm, “You shall never hunger by my side, so I suggest you do not wander.”

“...right.” Though his eyes already began to flit from stall to stall until he found something of interest. 

Caring for a child was harder than he thought, Aerion gritted his teeth. But even as Conan made for an old woman’s stall, decorated with various carved figures, Aerion followed. He reined in his impatience in favor of looking at the trinkets, and, a bit more discreetly, Conan’s fascination. The boy shook a wooden figurine, listening for the sounds of rocks tumbling inside. He then moved on to a mask painted with a sorrowful expression, holding it up to his face for Aerion to see. 

“This could be a good disguise,” Conan’s voice was muffled by the mask. 

“Yes, if you were a jester.” Aerion took hold of the mask, inspecting it with eyes that have grown used to the finer things in life. 

He had never understood the intrigue surrounding the arts, unless there was a dragon involved. 

The boy’s attention was taken by another, it seemed. Aerion squinted as he saw what he was holding. In his hand, clutched in a fist, was a wooden dragon with three heads. The craftsmanship left much to be desired– and the finish was amateurish at best. Though it was a dragon. The very same worn as a sigil by his own house. 

His fingers trace the ridges that made up the dragon’s scales, “Indeed, I had not known you to have impeccable taste, boy.” He practically preened as the boy’s eyes stayed glued to the figure, “Magnificent creature, is it not?”

People’s voices crowded around them, shouting for prices, bargains, or familiar greetings. They shouted in the common tongue, laughed without a care in the world, and yet Conan’s focus remained solely on the wooden carving as if the wood held something precious. Aerion swallowed the bile that pooled in his throat at the sight. 

Like this, their similarities had no end. 

His uncle Aerys had once given him something similar, and he had slept with the gift on his bedside for the remainder of his youth. And, as he blinked the moisture away from his eyes, Aerion could picture it still at his bedside in Summerhall– wondering if its owner would ever give it a look once more. 

“My mother said that dragons once walked this earth,” Conan mumbled, pressing the wood to his cheek for reasons Aerion could not comprehend. 

He muttered, voice quiet despite the market’s noise, “They did not walk, boy.” When Conan only looked up at him in confusion, hazel's meeting violet, Aerion continued, “They flew.”

The woman finished tending to another customer on the other side of the stall and stood in front of them, eyes boring into them as if her gaze was enough to penetrate the hoods atop their heads. “Four stags for that one, sers.”

“That’s enough for two days' stay at an inn,” Aerion raised a brow. 

She shrugged, “I toiled for two days for that dragon.”

He scoffed, about to fire back a retort when he saw Conan place the dragon back on the table, eyes wandering elsewhere despite his clear want for the damned thing. 

Aerion bit his tongue. 

“...four stags, you said?”

“Aye,” She nodded. 

Seven fucking Hells. 

With a wary expression, Aerion brought up four stags, taking the dragon and placing it in Conan’s hold. The boy’s protests fell on deaf ears as he held him by the arm, leading him to another stall lest another wooden figure caught his eye. Despite having the means to pay for it, Aerion still felt his pouch lighten in his pockets; a feeling he would have to get used to on their journey. 

The boy clearly felt as if the dragon was not worth the extra coin Aerion offered, but when he saw the man’s listless face, he bit down his complaints. 

“…it is a marvelous gift,” Conan whispered, one hand clinging to Aerion’s cloak and the other grasping at the toy.

“It is no gift,” he huffed, eyeing a sellsword’s blade. “It is a reminder.”

The air around them grew stifling, and a pungent odour akin to muddied pasture began circulating in the air. With his free hand, he held Conan’s shoulder with an iron grip– all of Aerion’s senses on high alert whilst the crowds compressed to make way for something. Aerion ignored the boy’s frantic questions, holding him firmly against his side as the sounds of hooves drew closer. The sound of too many hooves and too many chains. And far too many riders for Aerion to take on his own shall the occasion call for it. 

People around them began moving in harsh lines to either make way for the procession or to get closer. Shoulders roughly bumped against him without a care, and Aerion found himself resisting the urge to gut the next person that did, fingers twitching.

Closer, still, it seemed as if the boy had stopped breathing altogether, face pressed onto Aerion’s cloak; and gripping the fabrics as if he might disappear if he so much as loosens his hold. 

Aerion narrowed his eyes at the intruders, taking in their attire. 

Rugged men, about sixteen in number– seventeen if he counted the injured one with a nasty gash on his shoulder sitting at his comrade’s back. The chains were not of Essos' craft, indicating that they were not the bounty hunters his father had sent on his tail, nor were their metal breastplates an eye-catching white. They were not after Aerion. Likely, they were the contingency plan lest the men Aerion killed at the campsite failed to deliver Conan. 

The injured man was heaving. 

It was a face Aerion would forget on a lax day, but now, as he looked at the scar he had carved on the man’s shoulder, and the gash on his right thigh– the memory of his sword coming down to butcher the captor bled fresh in his mind. 

Swiftly, Aerion ducked his head, doing the same for the boy. He whispered, leading them to a back alley, “Your uncle is smarter than I thought.”

“What?” Conan’s voice quivered, small legs struggling to keep up with Aerion’s hurried pace. “Are they–”

“Yes, they’re here for you, now shut up and walk.” He sneered, “The horse is on the other side of town; we’ll have to go around lest they smell your blood.”

Aerion kept one hand readied at the hilt of his sword, and another on Conan’s shoulder, leading them both into damp, rancid alleys– and ducking the boy’s head as they passed the women loitering outside of pleasure houses– before he tastes it in the air. It smelled of rot. It smelled of a fresh death brought about by an uncaring executioner. 

Unfortunately, the man had merely glanced at the Stranger’s face when Aerion’s blade pierced through his flesh. 

The smell of blood permeated the air, and the smell of decay followed not long after. 

Conan sniffled once, then twice, before burying his face against Aerion’s cloak, refusing to meet one of his captors in the eyes. Without thinking, Aerion stood between Conan and the dead man walking. He let out a wry smirk, unsheathing his blade with practiced ease, “Playing dead is most dishonorable, ser.” Not once taking his eyes off of his opponent, he nudged Conan to the side– hearing the boy’s pained wince as his shoulder collided with the wall. 

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved,” the man spat, blood on the ground, taking a jagged-edged blade in the hand attached to his good arm. “If you give us that runt, we’ll spare your head, princeling. Honest.”

“And why should I trust you?” Aerion took a careful step forward, assessing for any openings in the man’s stance to ensure he could get a clean hit without making much noise. “The wind ought to do my job for me. It seems as if one gust is enough to have you toppling into the gutter.”

The man scowled, swinging his blade in a clean arch to intimidate rather than to hit. Aerion’s chest clenched at the sight, and he fought back another smile from making its way onto his face. 

Hidden behind the smell of decay and the metallic tang of blood, was the smell of fear. 

“I’m to believe that none of those sixteen men are after me, a Targaryen prince?” 

Aerion hears the man’s ragged breaths as he draws closer, readying his sword to strike, “Our orders were to bring that fucking bastard in alive. Nothing ‘bout you, princeling.” The man continued, “Though if you stand between us and our charge, then–” 

“You’ll kill me, correct?” He sneered, “And I suppose the bounty is nothing of interest to you?”

The smell of blood grows thicker. 

“As I said,” the man tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, limping closer to Aerion with his good leg, “give us the bastard. Or we’ll take him, and your head as an extra prize.”

In the corner of his eye, Aerion could see Conan’s white hair peaking from behind a stone pillar– watching the fight but staying far away from Aerion’s blade. The man lunges, and whilst Aerion does end up dodging without much difficulty, the jagged blade wedges itself through the corner of his cloak. With a rough tug, Aerion brings his own blade up to cut the fabric, giving himself more freedom of movement just as the man lunges forward once more. 

He manages to land a kick against the man’s abdomen, relishing in the sound of his pained grunt whilst he attempts to stagger to safety. 

Aerion panted, bringing up the torn fabric of his coat, “...for this, I’ll take your eye.” The sheer anger in the man’s face could almost make him laugh if they were sparring rather than attempting to gut one another, “Come on, then. Show me how your Blackfyre masters taught you how to wield your blade.”

It was a selfish taunt. Immature, Maekar would sneer in his ear. 

Though, as he sees the man’s focus move solely on him and not elsewhere, like where Conan was cowering behind the pillar– Aerion ignored all thoughts of honor. 

This time, he moves first, eyeing the fabrics hanging on a clothesline right next to where the man was steadying his breath. The walls around them did not provide him a lot of breathing room, and the arches needed for both of their blades to fatally wound each other were constricted by the lack of space.

What would the hedge knight do? 

Aerion smirked to himself at the thought. 

He would be the honorable man and fight without cheap tricks; perhaps he would even spare Conan’s captor’s life. 

Thank the Seven that Aerion was not a hedge knight.

Aerion used a nearby wooden storage box as leverage, leaping in the air and making a grab for one of the larger fabrics before throwing it at the man’s face– restricting his vision. He watched as the man struggled to use his injured arm to pry the fabric away, the pale ivory color turning into a muddied grey, then a distinct crimson from the facial wounds he bore. 

Then, as if he were the King’s Justice– Aerion lifted his blade and cleanly cut the man’s neck; watching in grave satisfaction as the fabric darkened, and the outline of the man’s head detached from his body, making itself known. 

The body fell slack on the muddied streets, ungraceful. Crimson bled around the corpse, staining the brick.

Aerion turned to the pillar, carefully using his cloak to clean the blood from his blade, “You can come out now, boy.” He called out for Conan, only to receive no reply, “...boy?”

It was not a stifling silence that greeted him.

The crowds just beyond the few houses lined up were still bustling, talking– completely oblivious to the fight that had just taken place. He could hear cart houses circling just around the town’s outskirts. He could almost hear the laughter of children as he rounded the corner, only to find no one behind the stone pillar. 

It was not a stifling silence that greeted him. Aerion’s heart raced as he turned on his heel, looking. Rather, it was the silence of a boy who could not stop talking. 

–

Aerion had left the body carelessly on the ground, uncaring of who might chance upon it. His cloak billowed around him as he frantically searched for Conan, making sure to slip past the Blackfyre loyalists that were doing the same. He moved like a man possessed– the town became a blur of greys and brown in his eyes. 

He ignored everything. All of the muddied colors in his vision.

Aerion searched for white in that monotone sea. 

He was mad with a newfound fervor that wasn’t present during his duel– if one could even call it that– with Conan’s captor. Aerion’s body trembled with exertion from the number of times he’d circled the area, only to come up with nothing– no one. The first place he had looked was the old woman’s stall, asking if she had seen his companion. The woman shrugged, ignorant of the way he seethed underneath his cloak. Aerion turned to the baker’s stall next, only to receive the same, unwanted answer. 

The men with chains were still searching the town, and that had given him enough to know that Conan hadn’t been found by them either. It hadn’t consoled him, though. Now, it was a race against his own physical capabilities. It was a race the men in chains didn’t know they were participating in. 

Conan was a small boy. Too small for his age– around Aegon’s, most likely. 

However, unlike the shiny bald head that could be used as a beacon– Aerion was searching for a flicker of white underneath a dark cloak. 

He was dizzy. He felt ill. 

And Aerion never felt ill. 

The maesters never frequented his bedside as they did with Rhae or Daeron, and they never questioned his diets like they did Aemon. Because Aerion never felt ill. He could smell the rancid odour of piss in the town square, just as he could practically taste the rotting meat near the butcher’s table. It was too much, and if he didn’t get his bearings together– the smell of vomit would join the assault on his senses. 

He’s asked the same people twice, now. Growing angrier upon each return. Only to receive another, much angrier answer. 

His fist was clenched, and the feel of his nails digging into his palms hard enough to bleed was a grounding feeling. It kept him awake. Alert. Even as his eyes began to water with the amount of effort it took just to keep himself standing. 

They’d been riding for hours prior to chancing upon the town, and whilst the fight with the dead man was anything but, Aerion still felt the fatigue rendering his, usually lithe, body heavy. The loaves of bread in his satchel were tempting. But he knew that a moment spent idling, nibbling on the hard crust, could be a moment the men in chains claim their victory. 

And so, he endured. 

He endured, and he looked. By the Seven had he looked. 

Aerion put one foot after the other, and did it all over again. 

“‘Scuse me.”

A voice pulled him out of his thoughts, shaking him from whatever stupor the heat and fatigue had put him in. Adjusting the hood of his cloak, he rasped, “What do you want?”

“I overheard you asking for a lad wearing a cloak, ser,” a wrinkled old man pointed towards the stables of an inn on the outskirts of the town. “I saw a boy running in that direction, ser, who looked pretty shaken.”

Aerion’s breath hitched, “Are you certain?”

“Indeed, ser. Had a wooden dragon in his hand, if that helped.” The old man nodded to himself, “You ought never lose sight of your son ‘round these parts, especially with all of these bandits.”

As the old man spoke, chiding him for being careless, the urge to cut off his tongue never crossed his mind, muffled by the intense feeling of relief warming his chest. Aerion whispered, haphazardly throwing the man two coppers, “Alright, yes– fuck, much appreciated.” Before making quick work of closing the distance between him and the inn, uncaring of the old man’s shocked gratitude behind him. 

The feeling of sickness lost its grip on his throat as he neared the stables– the air much cleaner on the outskirts of the crowds. 

He took long, careful strides inside, assessing for any sign of–

White hair peeked from behind the hay stack, and the fabrics of a dark cloak were laid out on the grounds. Aerion bit back the breath of relief that almost escaped him. The sound of his footsteps atop the scattered hay was muffled, and as he drew nearer, Conan stayed oblivious.

Without a warning, Aerion gripped the boy’s shoulder and turned him so that they were face-to-face. The near scream that escaped Conan had halted in his throat when he saw who he was. 

“Have you no sense?” Aerion seethed, kneeling on the dirtied floor, thoughtless of the state of his garments. “I asked you to stay hidden, boy. You could have been killed, or worse yet, captured– again!” 

Conan stayed, looking at his boots, clutching the wooden dragon tightly in his small hand. 

“Look at me!” Aerion whisper-yelled, “Do you understand what could have happened to you–”

“He said they were going to kill you,” Conan murmured, fresh tears pooling in his eyes. He still could not meet Aerion’s gaze when he continued, “You were to die for protecting me.”

A beat passes uncomfortably between them, and the silence was broken only by Aerion’s exasperated sigh. Shaking his head, he grabbed a hold of Conan’s arms, “I am stronger than you know.”

“I know that I only bring you trouble, m’lord.” 

Rolling his eyes, Aerion brought a palm up to rub his own sweat-slicked face, “Indeed, you do. Even more so with this runaway stunt of yours.”

Conan sniffled, “You ought to hand me over, I’m merely a sack of potatoes–”

A wry chuckle escaped him, “Well, you’re too scrawny to be a potato–”

“Do not jest!” The boy’s outburst had Aerion flinching, a small hand colliding with his shoulder. And, as if Conan had only thought of his deed after it was done, his eyes widened, “I– I am–”

Aerion hummed, brushing the area of impact nonchalantly, “There, see? Can a sack of potatoes hit me?”

His own youth was filled with much action despite living life surrounded by luxuries. He had fought with his cousins far too many times to remember, and his body had been littered with scars and bruises before he had even reached two and ten. Raised as a Targaryen– one had to learn to fight fire with fire. Without that mindset, Aerion would have long been swallowed by the maws of his dragon relatives. 

He recognized the same fire burning in Conan’s reddened eyes; for Aerion held that same fire when he was young. It was a black flame, unlike the reds that made up his own, but it was a flame all the same. 

The boy had run not out of cowardice, but because he was too ashamed to stay cowering behind stone whilst another fought his own battles. 

With hesitant movements, Aerion brought his cloak up to wipe the tears that dried on the boy’s face, “...you must not show weakness.”

Conan gritted his teeth, snot falling from his nose, “Must you tell a child not to cry?”

“That is not what I said, boy.”

Despite his anger, Conan let the dark fabric dry his tears, “I know I am weak–”

“You have yet to be polished, that is all,” his face softened, whether by his own doing or unconsciously. Aerion continued, “I only ask that you dig your heels in the ground, like when you faced my sword– unflinching. I ask that you stay and watch.” I ask that you stay.

The boy shook his head. 

“Stubbornness will get you nowhere,” he hissed, smoothing the rugged tunic Conan wore. “The dragons did not sit idle atop their castles; they flew and conquered. Sagon kostōba, gaomagon daor dakogon– sōvegon.”

His father had whispered the very same phrase to Aerion when he had faced his first opponent in the lists; an era that seemed to be a lifetime ago. Aerion had shaken in his armor, unable to hold his lance high. He had lifted his head to see his mother sitting in the royal box, her gaze a steady amber as she mouthed his father’s words as if they had shared the same mind. The same soul. 

“What does that mean?” Conan murmured, brows furrowed in childish confusion. 

“Be strong, do not run–” Aerion whispered, grabbing the boy’s cloak which had been haphazardly thrown on the floor, and placed it atop his shoulders once more. “Fly.”

Aerion sat on his saddle and feared– and fought, scared. And won, scared. 

“I…” If the dragon held in Conan’s hand were a real one, it would have suffocated in a matter of seconds. “I left you there.”

“...you did.”

“I– I am sorry.” 

Aerion smiled, soft– a foreign expression on his face, “You are not forgiven.” He then stood up, dusting off his knees and readjusting his satchel at his side. 

“What?” Conan’s indignant squawk seemingly echoed throughout the stable, “Why?”

Wordlessly, Aerion pulls out a dagger attached to his thigh holster, handing it over to the boy and watching with amusement as he immediately marvels at its craftsmanship, “Next time this happens, you owe me protection.”

It was a slight shift, near unseen, but Aerion saw it all the same. 

Conan’s shoulders straightened, and his reddened eyes, once filled with fear, were now clouded with something else entirely: responsibility. 

“Now, night shall soon befall us.” Aerion turned on his heel, hearing the soft sounds of footsteps following, “The inn is not such a bad idea.”

–

“This was a fucking horrible idea,” Aerion murmured to himself. 

In front of them, mouth stuffed with lemon cakes, was Ser Duncan the Tall himself. Who, upon catching a glimpse of the violets underneath his hood, immediately grabbed Aerion by the neck– large hands squeezing his windpipe and rendering him incapable of breathing. 

“You– did you follow me?” Duncan sneered. “You’ve got some nerve– shit!”

Aerion’s collision with the floor was incredibly unceremonious and a bruising wound to his pride. He held his throat as he coughed, air returning to him like a gift from the gods. His eyes blink away the tears threatening to spill, and he lifts his gaze from the floor to look up at the bleeding wound the knight now sported atop his knee. 

Behind the tall knight stood Conan, holding the bloodied Valyrian steel above his head. 

“Seven hells!” Duncan’s lemon cake-crusted mouth hissed. Though the moment he sees the boy– looking far too much like Aerion with hazel eyes– he gasps, his wound immediately forgotten. “There’s more of you?”

Aerion rolled his eyes, standing up on shaky legs, “Just the man we were looking for, ser.” 

The hedge knight pointed at himself, “Me?” Just as he heard Conan’s faint screech, “Him?!”

And that was the last Aerion would hear before his body failed him, head colliding with the floor once more with a loud thud.