Dragon
Aerion eyed his chest of drawers in his room, his chambers were in the castle just close to his uncles. The small fireplace crackled as the orange glow flickered in his dark eyes.
He stood, walking over to the drawers and took out a small wooden figure hidden underneath a tunic, a small chewed up dragon stared back at him.
The wood was oddly soft, clearly a gift meant for his infant self. The figure long worn down, it's details faded as the years passed.
'Blood of the first men, flame of the dragon'
He clenched his jaw as he placed it back into the wardrobe, the ominous words ringing through his head. His fingers then gently lifted a different tunic, the shine of silver reflecting back at him as he lifted a small necklace.
About the size of a coin the familiar three headed dragon stared back at him, the flames reflecting in the pendant. His father was a Targaryen, that's all his uncle had ever said. He didn't know who it was apparently, Aerions mother had kept it secret.
He clenched his fist around the pendant and carefully placed it back underneath the tunic, images of him in the luxurious red keep running through his mind. Feasts on a grand scale, a circlet upon his head, his hair a shining platinum.
Yet he was here, his eyes ran across the small room and he felt the flame of ambition burn within him. He could have been a prince of the realm, he could have sat at the head table.
If only he'd been born true.
Yet he was here, reminiscing on what never happened, what will never happen. His hands shakily lifted another tunic, grabbing at the soft dragon toy.
His jaw clenched, his eyes running over the nostalgic toy. This was all he got, this was all he was given, not a name, a face to imagine when he was sad, he instead got a dead mother and an accursed child's toy.
Teeth marks littered across the dragon's head, its long tail half snapped due to general wear and tear. He clenched his fist almost desperately around the wooden toy.
He tried to imagine a face in his mind, an older man with platinum hair and lilac eyes staring down at him. But it seemed to just dissipate into smoke before he could ever finish.
Did his father have scars? Was his father a warrior, was he the King? A Prince, exiled…dead.
Was his father dead too?
His nose twitched, his jaw clenched his lips almost quivering as he suddenly threw the toy with all of his strength. The item smashing against the cold stone walls with a pathetic crack.
—-
He sat in the hall, his mind clouded as he ate bread, a bowl of grainy porridge to his right, he washed down the dry food with a sip of bitter ale. His eyes wandered to the head table, resentment building in him as he eyed the cured meats, cheeses and fruit upon the table.
He sighed and dropped his head, ignoring the sudden quiet filling the hall as Lord Bracken stood.
"Men, I must announce an approaching tourney!" He said grandiosely. Aerions head rising in interest.
"The gracious King Viserys has invited our house to his grand Heirs Tourney!" He said In jubilation, the hall murmuring in interest.
"We will be leaving within the moon, so if you are to join be prepared" he warned as he sat back down, the hall exploding with excited whispers and laughter.
Aerions eyes were wide as his eyes fixed onto the head table, his mind racing with the possibilities. A grand tourney always held squire competitions, something that he could enter.
The bitterness rose, but Aerion forced it down. The thought of his father—unknown, untouchable—still gnawed at him, but the prospect of glory, of proving himself, was enough to keep the fire in his veins. He had no choice. He needed this.
—-
He waited outside of the hall, waiting for a specific man, his eyes locked onto the large doors. A taller, broad man strode out, his eyes instantly locking onto Aerion, a small smile building on his scarred face.
"Aerion" he acknowledged with a nod as he walked towards his excited nephew.
"Can I come?" Aerion asked quickly, getting straight to the point as he looked up at his uncle who just chuckled quietly, the excitement even getting to the man.
"As my squire" he said with a nod, he must have already sorted it out with Lord Bracken. Aerion felt a grin stretching his face as he ran a hand through his hair.
All the worries of last night seemingly overcome by the excitement of a grand tourney. "We need to train then!" Aerion exclaimed, his jubilation taking over his usually soft spoken nature.
His uncle nodded, already walking in the direction of the training yard "Come" he said simply, the older man's excitement even overcoming his usually gruff tone.
—-
That night he awoke in a sweat, his chambers cold, the air still as his eyes were wide and panicked. Memories that weren't his running through his head, fighting in dark desert dunes.
His heart pounded in his chest, the feeling of swinging a sword—of fighting for his life—still fresh in his bones. But the battle wasn't his. It had never been his.
Who—what was he?
—-
It had already been a fortnight, his chest falling and rising rapidly, his body covered in a thin sheening of sweat as he eyed the cloudy sky.
"Up" his uncle said casually as Aerion winced, lifting himself carefully, bruises littering his body.
"Gods" Aerion groaned as he stumbled, his tourney sword felt so undeniably heavy at this moment, exhaustion taking over him.
"When—when do we start to train for the joust?" Aerion asked, panting rapidly.
His uncle snorted "Never, you're not entering the joust" he said casually, Aerions head snapping to the older man in confusion.
"What?" He asked, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as shock took its place "Jousts are the important parts!" he exclaimed with wide eyes.
"You've never trained for jousting" he said with a shrug "We will focus on the melee" he explained.
"But—but what do the melee even win?" Aerion asked pitifully, the melee was a place for second sons and bastards, it wasn't the place to catch the eye of nobility.
"You could be knighted" His uncle shrugged as he picked up Aerions helm "Now we start again" he said as he threw the helm towards Aerion who barely caught the item before a sword was swinging towards him.
—-
Aerion winced as he dropped to his knees, he would be leaving for Kingslanding tomorrow morning. His body was bruised and frankly exhausted so wouldn't train on the journey, making sure he stays in shape for the squires melee.
His bitterness at not being able to enter the joust was shaken off, he needed to focus on winning something—even if it was just the melee, he didn't have time to mope.
Would his family recognise him? He didn't have their signature hair nor eyes, his hair brown and eyes a dark purple.
Whereas the Targaryens were bright, platinum hair with bright lilac eyes.
The dark night was quiet, the castle in seeming anticipation for tomorrow. The excitement was palpable in the air at the feast, even Myrra seemed happier than usual.
His eyes briefly ran over the familiar weirwood, his mind racing with the images the weirwood had sent images through his mind more than a moon ago. The dreams that have been plaguing him, all seemingly pointing south.
He needed to go south.
His fingers didn't shake as they slowly outstretched towards the tree, this time he felt no pull, no need to touch. He simply did it out of curiosity.
Would he see visions once more?
He couldn't hide his nerves nor his slight fear as his hand got closer to the red weeping face. His eyes slightly narrowed as the wind seemed to still, the moonlight barely illuminating the dark Godswood.
His fingers brushed the bark, his palm pressing against the bark, the red sap dry and hard. The hair on his neck rising as goosebumps ran down his stretched arm.
A moment of stillness passed.
Then he blinked and he was somewhere else, atop a throne, the weight of a crown pressing heavily down onto his neck. Swords surrounding him, the throne bending them to its will.
The sweet smell of honey, wine and ash filled his senses, his eyes focused on a small crowd ahead of him, they were speaking though he could barely hear them, their words muted.
He thinks they were talking about flames, something burning in the distance, but the words were lost in the haze. The scent of smoke and honey mingled, and he could almost hear the roar of dragons, distant and haunting.
Then he was gone, back in his own body as he panted rapidly, his hand pressed against the rough bark, the wind silent as his desperate shaky gasps for air filled the silent night.
He felt as if the crushing crown was still atop his head, for a moment feeling as if he might crumble beneath the pressure.
What had he seen, what did any of this mean?
—
Thoughts so far?