Kid

Aerion eyed the large guest chambers with quiet awe. The last time he had been here, he'd stayed with the Bracken retinue, confined to a cramped servant's room while the nobility occupied every fine chamber. 

This was different—luxury surrounded him now. His hands brushed the dark velvet curtains framing the large, soft bed. His boots sank into the lush rug beneath his feet, and through the window, he caught a glimpse of Blackwater Bay stretching far into the horizon.

He almost wished he'd asked to stay a full moon instead of a week.

For a moment, he stood still, absorbing the room's quiet elegance. The air felt clean, free of the stale stench that clung to the inns. His gaze shifted to his crow, perched near the window, its beady eyes surveying the room with curiosity. The bird seemed oddly at ease here, its black feathers glossy in the morning light.

His eyes then darted toward his belongings, half stacked near the door. Among them, a particular piece of parchment that caught his attention. 

Time to do what he came to this damned city for.

—

The clang of hammers and the hiss of molten metal greeted him as he walked through the busy street of steel. The noise of the smiths' work drowned out the shouts of passing vendors and the hum of the city. Aerion clutched the parchment tightly in his hand, brushing past a tall man before turning into a small smithy, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted to the dim light inside.

A tall, tanned smith stood at the anvil, carefully measuring a breastplate. Aerion waited, observing as the man worked with precision. After a few moments, the smith finally glanced up. His eyes widened in recognition.

"Ser, I thought you'd forgotten," the smith exclaimed, wiping his hands before disappearing into the back. Aerion raised an eyebrow, confused, but followed cautiously. He heard the clattering of metal as the man searched through piles of steel, the noise reverberating through the small shop.

Moments later, the smith returned, holding a small sheath. "Here it is," he said, handing it over.

Aerion took the sheath, still perplexed, and drew the blade free with a soft metallic hum. His breath caught in his throat as he examined the short sword, guilt creeping into his chest. He knew this blade.

"That's the one for the little lord, remember?" the smith added, his words a sharp reminder of the past. Aerion had commissioned this blade for Garrett, a memory that now weighed heavy in his heart.

His reflection stared back at him from the blade's surface, distorted and twisted. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the hilt before shakily sliding it back into its sheath. The weight of it felt unbearable, heavier than the whole of Westeros on his shoulders.

"We agreed on half payment upfront," Aerion remembered this smith, he'd come to him before Rhaenys had…had suspected his heritage. His voice was dull, as though the blade had stolen his strength. The smith nodded, thumbing through his record book.

"Three dragons," the man confirmed.

Aerion reached for his coin purse, handing over the silver with barely a second thought. His original purpose in coming here was all but forgotten. As the coins clinked into the smith's palm, Aerion lingered in place, the paper in his hand now crumpled from his grip.

"Was there anything else?" the smith asked, eyeing the parchment in Aerion's hand. "That there, looks important."

Aerion blinked, as if pulled from a fog, and glanced down at the paper. Right. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, handing the parchment to the smith.

"I want this design forged onto my helm," Aerion said, placing his dark, battered helm on the table with a heavy thud.

The smith studied the helm, then glanced at the design on the parchment. It was a spiked crown—a bold, almost ominous symbol. The smith hummed thoughtfully. "It can be done within the next few days" the man estimated. 

Aerion nodded. "Good."

—-

The streets of King's Landing were quieter now, the moon hanging low in the night sky, casting a pale glow over the city. Torchlight flickered from the walls as Aerion moved through the narrow alleyways, his black cloak billowing behind him. His hood was drawn low, concealing his face in shadow. A sword hung at his side, but his hand rested on the hilt of a dagger hidden beneath his cloak.

The air reeked of piss and rot, a foul stench that clung to the city like a sickness. His every step was cautious—he knew these streets were dangerous, especially at this hour. The darkened alley felt like a place where secrets came to die.

Then, a shrill cry cut through the stillness.

Aerion's hand flew to his dagger as he quickened his pace, rounding the corner. His eyes locked onto the scene before him—a tall, ragged man had his dirty hand clamped over the mouth of a child, a boy with wide, terrified purple eyes. The man pressed a blade to the boy's throat, fresh blood trickling down his neck, onto the floor.

The black haired boy squirmed, his purple eyes desperately looking at him, his cries muffled by the man's rough palm.

Aerion's blood ran cold. His vision narrowed, and in an instant, he stepped forward, but the ground beneath him seemed to shift and twist. His heart raced as the world spun. 

He gasped and jolted upright, waking suddenly in his bed, drenched in sweat.

His chest heaved, the remnants of the dream still burning behind his eyes. He shakily tried to calm his beating heart, the—he hadn't even noticed it was a dream. He swallowed, his fists clenching around the blanket as visions of the child shot back through his mind. 

Was it a vision of the past? Or a warning for the future?

—-

Aerion briskly made his way through the crowded, humid streets of King's Landing. The sun beat down relentlessly, casting sharp shadows and drawing beads of sweat across his brow.

His dark cloak trailed behind him, brushing past market stalls. Traders shouted offers of fresh fish, silks, and swords. He ignored their calls, his focus set ahead as he slipped into a quieter alley, the din of the raucous streets fading behind him.

This was the same alley from last night. The scene of his unsettling dream. He quickened his pace, his boots tapping against the uneven cobblestones. When he turned the corner, the noise from the markets fell to a murmur, replaced by the eerie quiet of a nearly empty street.

His gaze swept the ground, taking in every detail. A shiver ran down his spine. His focus however caught into a glaring detail, he walked over.

He dropped onto one knee, his fingers brushing the stone as his eyes narrowed at the sight of three small drops of dark, dried blood. His memory sharpened, recalling the boy's wide, terrified purple eyes and the blade at his throat.

He clenched his jaw, his breath steady but slow. This blood had spilled just last night.

Aerion stood, quickly realising there was another dark alley just ahead. His mind raced, wondering if the man had dragged the boy into that alley after the dream and had slipped away.

The scrape of footsteps startled him. He turned, hand instinctively moving toward his dagger, but stopped short at the sight of a woman. She was petite, with raven-black hair pulled tightly behind her head, her face drawn and pale. Her eyes, wide with worry, locked onto his.

"Ser," she began, her voice shaking slightly, but her tone urgent. "Have you seen a boy—my boy?"

Aerion stiffened, suspicion prickling at his instincts. In a city this vast, how could she have found him?

He kept his face calm, hiding the unease creeping into his mind. "A boy?" he asked, his voice measured. "Is he missing?"

The woman blinked at his question, her expression tightening for but a moment as if unsure whether to trust him or not. Her hands twisted the fabric of her dress. "Yes…I—I can't find him. Not since last night. He has black hair, like me. Purple eyes. A scar…over his eye." Her voice cracked, trembling as she hurried through the description, as if time itself was her enemy.

Aerion's stomach sank. Black hair, purple eyes—it had to be the boy from last night. But this was too convenient, too sudden. King's Landing teemed with thousands, most of them anonymous faces. Yet here she was, standing before him in this very spot.

His mind whirled, and though his face remained impassive, suspicion gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Was this some kind of trap? Or was she simply a desperate mother, grasping at any hope in this maze of a city?

"Where did you last see him?" Aerion asked, his voice soft but cautious. He didn't reveal what he knew—no, not yet.

She faltered for a moment, her hands trembling. "Near the merchants bridge, last night" she said, almost breathlessly. "But no one's seen him since. Please, Ser, if you know anything…"

Aerion studied her carefully, weighing her words, her desperation. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a mother searching for her lost son.

But if the vision had been real, if that boy was truly in danger…he wouldn't simply ignore it. He met eyes with the woman, swallowing as the memories of a black haired boy being taken rushed through his mind. 

"No" he said hesitantly, weighing his words. "But an informant let me know that a child…of similar description was taken last night, in this area" he slowly said, even saying the words felt…wrong.

The woman's eyes widened "How—how tall?" She desperately asked "My little Thoren is about this tall" she shakily raised her palm, indicating the boy's height. 

Aerion's throat felt oddly swollen as he eyed the woman's trembling hand. He regrettably nodded and the woman's breath caught, she was panicked, unravelling. "He—he wouldn't do any good down there—he wouldn't ser—they—he's only frail" she blabbered, her eyes filling with tears. 

She continued to mumble, her fingers picking at her plain dress anxiously. Hope seemed to seep from her with every word that spilled from her lips, a sense of dread rising from the woman.

But something caught Aerions attention.

"Down where?" He asked, his eyes narrowing.

She froze, staring at the ground as if she'd said too much. Her face grew pale, and guilt flickered across her features. Aerion gently but firmly grabbed her arm, guiding her into a nearby alley. It was dark, damp, and empty—the perfect place for a quiet conversation.

"Down where?" he asked again, more forcefully this time. His violet eyes bore into hers, demanding an answer.

Her green eyes snapped up, wide and confused, darting over his face like she had just realised who she was talking to. Her entire demeanour shifted—fear crept into her expression, real fear, the kind that made people desperate to hide. 

She pulled away from him, stepping back until her spine pressed against the cold brick wall of the alley.

"Please…" she whispered, her voice cracking. "I didn't…I didn't mean to say that. You—You don't know—you—you can't know—"

Her eyes flicked around the alley, her panic rising as she scanned the shadows as though expecting someone—or something—to emerge from the darkness. She was trembling now, her words coming faster, more disjointed.

"They're watching," she breathed, barely audible. "I shouldn't have said anything. Gods, they'll come for us—please, just—forget—forget what I said."

Aerion followed her gaze, his instincts on edge as he scanned the empty street behind them. The hair on the back of his neck stood up—whoever she was talking about, whoever she suspected had taken her son, had power. 

But so did he. 

His grip tightened on her arm, but his voice softened.

"Who took him?" Aerion pressed, trying to break through her panic. "Tell me what you know. Who are they?"

She shook her head frantically, her eyes wild with fear. "No…no, you don't understand. Ive said too much already. I can't—"

She ripped her arm free from his grasp and took another step back, her eyes darting toward the alley's entrance like she was preparing to flee. "They'll know—they always know. Please, just leave me be—forget you ever saw me."

Aerion stepped closer, blocking her exit. "I can help," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "But you need to tell me what you know. If you don't, you'll never see him again."

Her lip trembled, her resolve cracking. But she bit her lip, shaking her head one last time, then bolted down the alley. Aerion didn't follow—he'd seen enough to understand. 

Whoever had Thoren wasn't just some petty kidnapper.

—-

Thoughts so far?

Can I also ask where everyone wants the story to end up? Do you want Aerion to die as a tragic hero, live a happily ever after, I'm not even considering the ending yet but I'm just wondering what you guys think?