Rogue Prince

"This price is excessive" Aerion said coolly as he shook his head, the noble merchant scowling at him. But Aerion couldn't justify the price, just for farming equipment, ridiculous.

"The old bridge was washed away in last spring's floods, my lord," the merchant explained, spreading a map of the crownlands across the table. "We've been forced to go miles downstream to find safe passage, which increases the price."

Aerion felt a rugged smile tugged at his lips. "That will not be necessary. I had that bridge rebuilt, along with new crossings here and here." His finger moved across the map, tapping two more points.

The merchant blinked, startled. "My Prince…I was not aware." His voice faltered, and he glanced at Aerion with new respect. "That will shave days off the journey, surely. Perhaps…" He hesitated, calculating. "Fifteen dragons off, then."

Aerion shook his head "Twenty, and see that the goods arrive in full. If I am satisfied, I may find future business here," Aerion's gaze hardened, leaving no room for refusal. 

The merchant's face tightened, but he nodded, extending a hand with a deferential bow. "As you say, my prince. May the Seven guide your hand and prosper your lands."

Aerion took his hand, shaking it firmly and ignoring the words about the Seven. "A fair bargain" he said, tossing a pouch of coins onto the table. "Let us hope the next is as agreeable."

Aerion left the building, his eyes gazing on the Red Keep in the distance. He was in Kingslanding, simply because here was where it was cheapest to buy in bulk. 

He would give the equipment to his smallfolk, free of cost. 

Aerion valued his people more than coin. Hoarded wealth meant nothing if his smallfolk starved, their fields barren. But with tools in their hands and crops growing tall beneath the sun, they would be loyal—not by force, but by their prosperity. 

A thriving land was worth more than gold, and their gratitude would sustain him long after the coins had been spent.

But then a high-pitched screech pierced the air, shattering his thoughts. Aerion's head snapped up, his heart skipping a beat. The city seemed to collectively hold its breath.

Smallfolk looked up, whispering to one another as they stopped in their tracks. 

A red, serpentine dragon soared across the sky, its leathery wings casting long shadows over the streets below. Aerion's pulse quickened as his eyes locked onto the platinum-haired rider atop the beast's saddle.

Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince—had returned to Westeros.

His brother…

Aerion felt a strange mix of emotions welling inside him: nervous excitement, a cold apprehension. His first impression of Daemon had been poor. And yet, seeing him now, something about the man still drew him in.

He did not think him a trustworthy man, nor a particularly good one like Viserys. But he was most certainly an interesting, dangerous one. 

—-

He approached the Red Keeps gates, whispers and apprehensive glances trailed in his wake. His reputation among the smallfolk of Kingslanding was mixed. Some loved him, happily calling him their prince, especially those directly affected by those fighting pits.

Most however seemed to be wary, their eyes tracking him as he walked by. Tales of what he had done to the spectators of the fighting pits running through their minds. 

Rumours of dark, barbaric northern sorcery clung to him like a shadow, rumours that he had even cursed the King, forcing him to legitimise him. 

He scoffed at the rumours as he approached a surprised looking guard. "My prince" he murmured as he stepped to the side, opening the gates with a screech.

Aerion had originally planned on staying for the day, getting some purchases made and then riding back to Crows Point, so he had never even approached the palace.

The King likely didn't even know he's here. 

He walked through to the main entrance, his steps steady but his heart beating harshly against his chest. His cloak wrapped around his form, wolf fur warming his neck. 

He walked past murmuring servants, most visibly surprised to see him. His eyes however were focused on the two large wooden, closed doors to the throne room.

He pushed them open slowly, ignoring the guards who stood to the side as he entered the seemingly empty room. He swallowed as the heavy doors closed behind him with a thud, he looked both ways, his eyes searching for life as he stepped into the room. 

Nothing.

No-one.

His eyes ran across the grand room, stopping when they settled upon the Iron Throne. The throne was gigantic, a mountain of malformed, burned sharp blades that had even killed Maegor the Cruel. 

The throne was a shadow, light seeming to be absorbed into the blackened blades, the room almost thrummed in response to its very presence. 

The air in the throne room was cool, heavy with the weight of over a hundred years of fire and blood. His footsteps echoed, sharp and lonely, as he approached the looming monstrosity of the Iron Throne.

It was beautiful. 

For a moment, Aerion wondered what it would feel like to sit upon the Iron Throne, to command the realm with a single word. But the thought chilled him as much as it stirred him.

He was within feet on the base of the throne, slowly, carefully his hand outstretched. His breath caught as his thumb ran down the sharp edge of a blackened blade. Memories of the bronze circlet he had once placed atop his head running through his mind. 

"Brother"

Aerion's hand recoiled from the throne as if burned, his heart skipping as a voice echoed in the empty hall. For a fleeting second, he thought it was Viserys—calm, reassuring. But no. The figure leaning casually in the doorway had an entirely different presence—sharper, darker, dangerous.

Daemon's platinum hair was shorter than the last time Aerion had seen him, years ago, his eyes—those mocking, knowing violet eyes—gleamed with untold amusement. He stepped into the room, his boots clicking softly against the stone as he approached Aerion like a hunter sizing up his prey.

"I didn't realise your ambitions led you so high" Prince Daemon mockingly said, his voice like silk, as he casually came to a stop across from Aerion. 

Aerion looked at the taller man, Dark Sister sheathed at the man's hip. He was wearing red and black, Aerion instead wore just black, a dark cloak wrapped around his shoulders. 

Daemon moved without warning, his hand snapping out like a viper's strike, clamping around Aerion's jaw. His grip was iron, his gaze sweeping over the younger man's features with calculating intensity. 

Aerion clenched his jaw and pulled back out of the man's iron grasp. His eyes narrowed and burning as he looked up into Prince's amused gaze. 

"Iksis konīr iā zaldrīzes gō konīr?" Prince Daemon spoke in High Valyrian. Aerions eyes narrowed further at the words, slowly he translated them in his mind.

'Is there a dragon under there?' 

Aerions fists clenched by his sides as he spoke "Kessa konīr iksis" he said coolly, the words not as smooth, not as polished, but edged with iron.

'Yes there is' 

—-

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