Chapter Text
Two moons. It had been nearly two whole moons of self righteous lecturing from a lowborn knight by the time Aerion decided he could no longer stomach the farce.
His father assigning Ser Duncan the Tall to his company of personal knights was the most ridiculous and insulting choice the man had ever made. Had he not seen the oaf nearly cave in his skull? Had he not heard the giant express his disdain for "spoiled princes"? Why he would pick such a man to guard his son was beyond Aerion's imagination. Much less why he would give his blessing for said man to disrespect aforementioned son without consequence.
"I will only allow you to join me if you swear to leave Egg alone today. Not a word to him, or I’ll bring you right back here."
Allow. Something in the world must have gone terribly off kilter for a knight from Fleabottom to allow a prince anything. He didn't even want to speak to Aegon, but it still took Aerion a long moment to decide if he should resist on principle alone.
"Fine. I'll stay away from your precious squire."
Ser Duncan only looked pleased with himself until Aerion swung his legs over the side of his bed to stand up.
"Hey, none of that. You wait for me to get your cane."
"I have no need for that stick any longer, and despite what my father may have you believe, you hold no power over me."
"Maybe I don't, but I'm the only one who'll take you out of this room, and I won't be doing that if you don't follow the maester's orders."
Aerion was not a man unfamiliar with rage or bloodlust, but he couldn't recall a time he felt it as strongly as he did watching his knight bring him his temporary cane after speaking to him like a child. He snatched the stick from Duncan's hands once he got close enough, and ignored the exasperated sigh it earned him.
"I do this only for your own good, Aerion."
"I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, oaf."
The Prince didn't even need to look at Duncan's face to know he was thinking of their first week back at Summerhall, when Aerion tried to regain his independence too quickly. It had been most enjoyable to see Maekar's disappointment with his new personal guard after Aerion reopened several of his wounds, and decidedly less enjoyable when that disappointment was directed towards himself tenfold.
"Do you want to join me or not?"
The question surely didn't require a verbal answer, considering Aerion would rather die than admit he wanted to accompany the knight to the training yards. It wasn't his fault that his days had grown dull in his recovery; he hadn't been permitted to leave the castle grounds a single time, not even to hunt. It was as much a punishment as a prescription.
Truly, Aerion did not think he could be blamed for stooping so low in his boredom as to watch his knight train. He only hoped it would be a day where Duncan took the role of a student rather than a teacher. It was far less entertaining to watch him guiding Aegon with a gentle hand than it was to see him pushed to his limits by his senior knights.
The man looked best bloody.
"Fetch me my boots."
"You're already wearing boots."
"I want the other pair."
Duncan sighed again as he retrieved the shoes he already knew Aerion would make him put on the Prince's feet. It wasn't a knight's job to clothe his charge, but Aerion did seem to enjoy him kneeling. He took a knee and began unlacing the boots Aerion wore, nearly identical to the pair replacing them.
Aerion watched his knight remove his shoes with a tilted head. It was a mystery how such huge fingers could even manage to tie and untie the laces. Once the first boot was slipped off his foot, Aerion reached out to kick away the replacement Duncan had set next to him. Duncan looked between Aerion and the boot, now a good distance away. Aerion shrugged.
It was a bit irritating that Duncan didn't even need to leave his position to retrieve the kicked shoe, and strangely less irritating the way his grip on Aerion's calve tightened unconsciously to keep his balance. He tightened it further when the muscles beneath his palm twitched in preparation of a second kick.
Neither of them spoke as he removed Aerion's other shoe with far less gentle hands. They didn't need to; they both already knew the next step in this dance. Duncan couldn't hold both of his legs when reaching for the new boot, and Aerion used the moment of freedom to swipe it away with his foot before the knight could grab it. Duncan's jaw clenched, but his irritated huff sounded strangely close to a laugh.
Aerion didn't generally enjoy the victim of his tormenting to find humor in it, but he didn't feel the familiar rush of irritation when Duncan smiled at him after thwarting his third kick by pinning his ankles to the bed frame with one hand. Aerion looked away with a roll of his eyes.
"Enough playing. Just put on the boots."
Duncan chuckled under his breath at the insinuation that he was the one who began their game.
"Of course, my prince."
"Good work, Ser Duncan! Do try to land a strike next time?"
Aerion's place under the overhang had him facing Duncan's back, but the rise and fall of the man's shoulders let him know the wind carried his jab far enough. He ignored the glare from the little boy to his left.
"Must you taunt him? He's already more skilled than you."
Impudent child. He only had the gall to speak to Aerion that way in the presence of his gigantic shield. Even with Duncan across the courtyard, Aerion had no doubt the knight would come running if Aegon were to call for him, but he still couldn't let a statement so ridiculous go unanswered.
"Only because I’m crippled. The moment I’m healed—"
"Who was it that crippled you, brother?"
Aerion's jaw clenched so strongly that he could hear the grind of his teeth.
"Had we fought alone—"
"But you didn't. Because you asked for a Trial of Seven."
"And you campaigned for your oaf to any pathetic knight who would listen."
"I didn't have to do much campaigning when every knight in the realm would like to see you dead. And you know Uncle Baelor isn't pathetic."
No, but he was a fucking traitor. He deserved his crack to the skull for standing against his own nephew, even if Maekar had never looked so stricken as he did watching his injured brother fail to grasp a pen. The memory spurred an uncomfortable feeling in Aerion's chest.
He stood up sharply enough to feel a tug on the scarred wound near his groin, and Duncan whipped his head towards them at the sound of Aerion's chair scraping the stone. He grimaced in pain when the wooden practice sword of his opponent hit his ribs.
"Pay attention, Ser Duncan."
"Sorry, I— My prince! You mustn't leave on your own!"
As if Aerion truly needed an escort around his own fucking home.
"Don't go, brother. Ser Duncan will be punished if you run off. Please stay, I'll be quiet."
How unexpected. To think Aegon's affection for that lowborn could outweigh his aversion to his most hated brother's company. It was infuriating that the boy believed in Duncan's ability to control Aerion to such an extent, and Aerion didn't trust that he could keep his promise not to hurt him in the face of such annoyance.
"I’m only going to my room. Let Ser Duncan finish his training."
He truly did believe the knight wouldn't be foolish enough to leave his lessons, but Aerion should have expected to hear thundering steps behind him in the halls—he knew better than anyone how dedicated Duncan was to following Maekar's orders.
"Aerion, wait!"
Aerion was not prone to emotional displays or outbursts—his cruelty almost always came quietly—but the monster on his tail had a way of frustrating him to the point of pain. He stopped walking to take a deep breath. It wasn't as if he could outrun the giant, regardless.
"What happened? Did— You promised you wouldn't say anything to Egg."
Of course he would assume Aerion was the one at fault. What was it Aegon claimed? Every knight would like to see him dead? Aerion whirled around to glare at his unwanted "protector".
"You should mind what that little wretch says to me."
Duncan huffed a laugh of disbelief.
"Egg? No, he's just a boy, I’m sure he didn't mean to hurt you."
Of course he did, you fool.
"I am not hurt, I’m angry. You have made my life hell from the moment you made yourself known to this family."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Who else has maimed me? Humiliated me? Spent every day bothering me, attached to my back like a leech?"
The knight's brow furrowed.
"Aerion, you know I—"
"And that—using my name as if you have any right to, as if you are anything more than a lowborn hedge knight biding your time until your preferred royal calls on you. Tell me, did Baelor promise you a place in the Kingsguard, or are you simply hoping that serving a noble sentence of something so undesirable as guarding me will impress him?"
Duncan looked even more confused than Aerion had ever seen the idiot before.
"I don't know what in the seven hells you're on about."
Horseshit. Didn't he ever get tired of pretending to be so perfectly honorable? Tired of pretending he didn't wish, just as much as the rest of them, for Aerion to die in his sleep? Aerion jabbed a finger into the center of his breastplate.
"Make no mistake, hedge knight, I may be a burden to you, but you are nothing to me."
From this close, Aerion could catch the desired flash of hurt on Duncan's face before his expression shuttered, but it brought him none of the satisfaction he was searching for. He wasn't even sure why such a statement could hurt the knight, nor how he knew with such certainty that it would.
"Understood, my prince."
Aerion spun on his heel and continued the walk to his room. He hated the way his stomach churned at the silence behind him, and the confirmation that Duncan wasn't going to follow.
Aerion's sulking lasted through nightfall, though he’d be slow to call it sulking. He was just annoyed. Annoyed that Aegon was so disrespectful, annoyed that Duncan had become such a constant thorn in his side, annoyed that the removal of that thorn was just as bothersome, and subsequently annoyed that he felt that way. He had plenty of reason to be in a sour mood, and the incessant tapping on his window did little to help.
"Aerion… I know you're awake, little brother."
"Piss off."
"Ah, so the servants did not jest."
Aerion unlocked his window and made no move to catch the drunk brother who came tumbling in. There was a cushioned bench at the windowsill, he'd be fine.
"Jest about what?"
Daeron took a moment to right himself on his feet before answering.
"I heard whispers of the injured prince being even more bitter than usual."
"I am no longer injured."
"But you are certainly bitter. No matter—" Daeron clapped and winced at the sound. His voice dropped to a whisper as he continued speaking.
"I have the perfect proposition for you."
"No."
"Come now, you don't want to join me?"
Not particularly.
Aerion frowned at his own thoughts. Why didn't he want to go? He’d been locked up for ages, had hardly even seen a woman worth looking at, and he'd never regretted accompanying Daeron to a brothel before. What was making him hesitate? Not to mention that Duncan's unusual choice to trade posts with a less overbearing knight could make it the only chance he had to sneak away.
Unless he doesn't return, then I’ll have plenty of opportunities.
No, the hedge knight wouldn't leave his sworn station simply because of a few harsh words from a man he already hated. He’d be back, probably by the morning. Even if Aerion didn't feel especially excited to spend his night with Daeron's favorite whores, he’d been without a single taste of freedom for far too long.
"Let's go."
"Oh. Really? I thought you might take more convincing."
"What kind of convincing could you do?"
"Eh, begging, most likely."
"Have you no pride?"
Climbing back out of the window, Daeron sent Aerion a wink over his shoulder.
"A man with no pride is a man most free."
Aerion should've stayed home.
The scented air was too strong, Daeron couldn't seem to stay in one place for more than a moment, and every whore who tried to get Aerion's attention had done nothing but irritate him. He'd just waved off the most recent prospect when her place beside him was filled by his brother.
"How can you stay sulking in a place like this?"
Aerion accepted the cup of wine handed to him and downed half of it before gracing that pointless question with a reply.
"I am not sulking."
"What would you call this?"
"Boredom."
"Then go upstairs! Have some fun instead of wallowing in your boredom."
Couldn't Daeron see that wasn't an option? Maybe if even a single woman caught his eye, he could do it, but he’d rather not waste his time and money on something that would simply maintain his boredom with additional work.
Though, it wasn't entirely true that no one had grasped his attention. Aerion's gaze had been following a tall, dark haired woman for the majority of the night. She looked very little like the puppeteer Ser Duncan was so clearly fond of, but there was enough resemblance for Aerion to wonder if this woman would attract him as well. Dark hair, tan skin, great height, feminine form—Which of her traits did the knight find enticing? Which of them could he do without?
Daeron drank from his own cup and regarded Aerion over the rim.
"What's got you so woeful, anyway?"
"I’m not woeful, I’m angry. At that stupid giant."
"Ser Duncan?"
"What other giant do you know?"
Daeron shrugged with a lift of his eyebrows.
"I simply thought you'd grown rather fond of that one."
"You're getting me confused with Aegon, brother."
"No, I don't think I am. But if you haven't noticed how much you favor that knight over the others, I doubt it can be helped."
Aerion felt his face heat with indignation.
"I do not favor him. If I could do away with him this instant, I would. I simply have no choice in the matter—not until Father is finished punishing me."
"You speak to Duncan all day."
"He speaks to me."
"And you respond."
"Occasionally."
They sat in silence for a long moment, with Aerion pretending not to notice the amusement on his brother's face.
"You know, it's not a crime to make a friend."
A friend? Had he lost his fucking mind? Even if a dragon did have any need for friendship, he would not search for it in an ape. Aerion stood up and pulled his cloak over his head.
"It seems the wine has finally drowned your senses wholly. I’m going back to Summerhall."
"Fine, fine. I suppose I’ve enjoyed myself enough for the night."
"You needn't join me."
Daeron made a dismissive hum as he pulled himself to his feet with the help of his brother's unwilling arm.
"Father will already be furious if he discovers I sneaked you out, he'll have my head if I let you run off alone."
"I'm not a child."
Aerion tore his arm away and stomped to the door when Daeron made a second, more condescending hum.
The pace they took down the street after leaving the brothel was far too slow for Aerion's liking, but he’d come to expect such a leisurely drag from his brother.
"I dreamt of the knight recently."
Aerion imagined Daeron would take his lack of a response as permission to continue. He did.
"A dragon tried to light him aflame, but only succeeded in burning itself."
"A foolish dream. Fire cannot burn a dragon."
Daeron gave him a pointed look.
"Perhaps it was a foolish dragon."
"If foolishness could weaken the body, Duncan would be dead a hundred times over."
"Do you relate everything you hear to Ser Duncan?"
What kind of a question was that? They were already talking about him. Aerion opened his mouth to say as much, but decided against it when Daeron suddenly froze and patted his hip.
"Forget something?"
"Yes, my—"
Daeron stopped himself with a falsely sheepish smile.
"Uh, stay right here, brother. I’ll only be a moment."
Aerion rolled his eyes as Daeron took off in the direction they'd come from, bumping into several passerby with hasty, halfhearted apologies. Whatever it was he left behind, he was undoubtedly embarrassed by it. Aerion wouldn't be surprised if he’d forgotten his dagger on a whore's nightstand.
Daeron had barely made it out of sight when Aerion felt a spell of dizziness overtake him. Gods, there was no reason for his tolerance for wine to have deteriorated this much. He may not have been leaving home, but it wasn't as if they served only water at Summerhall.
Perhaps he just needed a moment of quiet to get his head on straight—the street was still full and too loud for him to think. He ducked into a nearby alley and balanced himself with a hand on the wall, but he felt no more stable than he had before.
Aerion was a skilled fighter, that he knew for a fact. He was strong, and swift, and well trained enough to defeat a man twice his size, though he rarely had the need to. Aerion was not, however, accustomed to being attacked. It was why the oaf was able to land so many hits on the night of the puppet show, and it was why he didn't presently look up in response to the crunching of steps behind him.
"Quite the pretty hair you've got."
What? With his head hung, Aerion could still see his hood from the corner of his eye. How would this stranger know a thing about his hair?
"Move along, worm."
"My, the arrogance of a prince, as well. Pray tell, you a bastard or a true highborn?"
Gods, Aerion could hardly stand speaking with a gutter rat at his very best, he wished the man would just drop dead and stop pestering him.
"Go away."
He sighed at the sound of more footsteps. The last thing he needed was more flies buzzing about.
"'Cause I’ve never fucked a highborn before."
Even in his slowed state, such a brazen, unexpected declaration was enough to make Aerion's head snap up. He had barely gotten a glimpse of the silhouette blocking the alley's entrance when a sharp blow to his temple had his vision failing him.
No, Aerion was not accustomed to being attacked at all.
Awareness returned to Aerion's body just as quickly as it'd left it, though it must have taken longer than what it felt, considering he opened his eyes to the night sky instead of a stone wall. Had he fallen when they struck him? No, he wasn't near the street any longer. He didn't know where he was.
Before he could even begin to determine where he'd been moved to, he was jostled on the ground, and a wave of pain surged through his body, overwhelming enough to stop any thought he'd been forming. He tried to take stock of where he was injured, but he couldn't make sense of it.
His head hurt for obvious reasons, but his throat burned, his wrists ached, and the lower half of his body was on fire. What the fuck had those lowborns done in his mere seconds of unconsciousness to cause so much damage?
"Awake now?"
That same fucking voice from before, but far closer. Strangely close. Close enough to feel the man's breath.
Ah.
Aerion's wrists strained against their bindings above his head, but the stranger kneeling on them kept him from making any progress. He was equally as successful in his attempt to shout, only getting an odd gurgling sound and worsened agony for his efforts.
"Ah, ah—No use trying to call for help."
He wasn't going to. He only wanted to tell the man above him exactly how he would go about killing him. It would not be quick, that much he could promise.
"You'd need a throat for that," the one restraining his arms said with a quiet laugh.
The fuck does that mean?
The obvious assumption would be that they’d carved out his throat, but Aerion sincerely doubted he would still be conscious and alive in that case, even with whatever was making him so dazed dulling his senses. He wanted to reach down and feel the origin of his pain, to assess the extent of what they'd done to him, but that was clearly out of the question. A second attempt at speaking brought him no new knowledge, but it did confirm that he couldn't seem to make a proper sound.
"Still trying?"
The false sympathy in the man's voice made Aerion grit his teeth and glare, which was somewhat undermined by an uncontrollable cough spraying blood into the face above him.
It took Aerion a moment to realize the blood hadn't come from his mouth.
His attacker made a disgusted expression under the sheet of red, and Aerion found himself more offended by that look than the fact he was still being violated.
He should be so lucky to wear the blood of the dragon. A single droplet is worth more than his entire family line.
The man paused his movements to wipe his face on his sleeve, and it forced Aerion's fogged mind to feel the intrusion into his body beneath the pain. He turned his head to the side when he began to think he might vomit.
"I think this one might die early, lads."
Lads? Aerion blinked at the darkened, chuckling figures around him and realized he had indeed misjudged how many there were. Of course there were more—two commonfolk could surely never have subdued him. He chose to think of only that, rather than what a group of men might mean for him.
"Are you certain this is the right place?"
Aerion's eyes blew wide when his ears faintly picked up the voice that was never very good at controlling its volume. They must've hit his head quite hard for him to be having such discernible visions.
"Yes. Well, no, but I could've sworn it was right around here…"
"This is serious."
"You think I don't know that?" Daeron hissed.
"I left him here. Or— No, it was here."
The men over Aerion returning to what they'd been doing all but confirmed that he was imagining the voices of his brother and oaf. Even so, he forced himself to focus his eyes in their perceived direction, which happened to be the mouth of the alley. Meaning, these maggots knocked him unconscious and simply, what, dragged him into a slightly darker corner of the place where they attacked him?
They were lucky that it seemed everyone else alive was just as idiotic as they were.
"Then where would he—"
Aerion couldn't make out much in his view of the street, but he could see a head standing high above and far closer than the rest, with a shrouded figure standing next to its owner.
"What is it? Oh, that. Are you not from Fleabottom? Why do you look so surprised?"
"I’ve never… Should we—"
"We should find Aerion. Unless you'd like to explain to my father that we gave up so you could play hedge knight again."
Even just in Aerion's mind, his brother was a drunken fool. Him a drunken fool, and Duncan a disappointing one. Aerion saw firsthand how far he'd go to protect others, and apparently couldn't even imagine the man doing such a thing for him.
"Gods, look at that fucking giant. Think he'll come over here?"
Aerion's silent gasp burned his throat. Not in his imagination, then. Unless one of these lowborns was so proficient in magic that they could step into Aerion's mind, Duncan was truly there. Their eyes met, Duncan's stunned face illuminated in the street—illuminated just enough for Aerion to see his conflicted expression as he turned away.
He was real, he saw him, and he left.
The groan Aerion released was far from voluntary, and it felt as though it ripped his throat to shreds on its way out. It hurt. For some odd reason, the sight of Duncan's back hurt more. Aerion watched the knight freeze. His shoulders raised and fell in what appeared to be a sigh, but Aerion's sight was too unstable for him to even be certain Duncan moved.
"I’m sorry, Aerion."
Clearly fucking not.
Aerion turned his face away from the street despite the pain it caused in his head. He was still completely sure he didn't see Duncan as a "friend", or whatever other strange ideas Daeron had come up with, but the knight had sworn to protect him. He took an oath. Even through all of the annoyance and irritation, Aerion never even considered that Duncan, someone so fucking devoted to knighthood, could despise him enough to intentionally break it.
Strangely, the heavy footsteps his awareness had become so attuned to seemed to be getting louder.
"Step away from her, now."
What?
Aerion's head whipped back around fast enough to make him dizzy. The man on top of him stopped moving with an aggrieved groan.
"Is it a hedge knight's oath to intrude in matters that don't concern them?"
Duncan's polished sword caught what little light reached them as he unsheathed it. Hm, perhaps Aegon wasn't completely incompetent as a squire.
"It's every knight's oath to protect the innocent."
"Oh, believe me, he's no innocent."
For a man already standing still, it was rather impressive that Duncan could visibly go stiff.
"…He?"
"What's the matter? Never—"
"Aerion, is that you?"
You would know if you looked, fool.
But Duncan kept his blank gaze fixed on the stranger. Aerion wanted to respond—he tried to respond—but he could only hope that his unfortunately pathetic whimper was enough of an affirmative.
He received his answer in the form of a severed head landing heavy on his chest.
The following moments passed in a series of blinks, where Aerion cared very little for what was happening around him. His mind was far too focused on the fact he had a fucking corpse inside of him. He used his newly freed legs to shove the headless body away; unintentionally—fortunately—kicking it onto one of the other assailants. The dead weight unbalanced him long enough for Duncan's sword to swing down, shoulder to stomach. Aerion laughed.
Well, attempted to laugh, at least. Whatever noise left his mouth was apparently quite concerning, considering it was quick to steal Duncan's attention from the group he was slaughtering. Aerion heard only one set of footsteps using his distraction to sprint away.
Not horrible for Duncan to have killed three out of four, especially not for what might have been the man's first time killing anyone. Aerion would have, of course, tortured them all until they begged for death, but he did like that they were dead. No matter about the fourth; he'd seen the man's face, surely he could later on—
Duncan reared his arm back, took a step forward, and heaved his sword down the alley as if he were throwing a spear. The sound of running stopped abruptly, replaced shortly by a single thud.
"Aerion— No, no…"
Ignoring the knight kneeled panicking beside him, Aerion fought through the stiffness in his shoulders to reach down and tug on his trousers, a task that proved to be impossible with bound, numb hands. Hands far larger and currently far more deft than his own took over quickly.
As much as he appreciated being afforded his modesty, Duncan was horrible at clothing an injured man. If Aerion could do any better than a choked wheeze, he'd likely have screamed at the accidental rough handling.
"Oh, Gods. I’m sorry, I’m sorry."
Aerion weakly struck Duncan's head with his tied hands in retaliation, and didn't know if the knight's lack of movement was a testament to his sturdiness, or if Aerion's strength was truly fading that quickly.
"Ser Duncan, I thought we agreed— Oh."
Breathing was painful, but the sight of The Stranger coming to take him had Aerion's breath picking up instantly. Perhaps just to confirm that it still could.
It slowed again when The Stranger removed their hood and transformed into Aerion's brother. He was losing his mind. Whether it be from the pain, the blow to the head, or whatever he’d been poisoned with, he could not say, but he was losing his mind.
Daeron stared down at him with the passivity of a man watching a bug writhe, and Aerion felt increasingly cold despite the night's warm air.
"You need to go. Now."
Duncan didn't move away from Aerion despite the hand on his shoulder or the urgency in Daeron's voice—only tilted his head the slightest bit in confusion.
"I won't leave him."
"You must. My father will have your head for this. Aerion has always been his favorite, he will think you just as guilty in his death as the others."
"He's not dead."
To Daeron's credit, he did not flinch at the dark tone the knight had taken, but that could have simply been a sign of his intoxication.
"Look at him. Look at the blood. They'll have you hanged by daybreak, hours after my brother's last breath. You need to be far gone by then."
Aerion blinked slowly at the dark sky and felt a sick sense of injustice. He lay dying in a fucking alley, and his own kin was more concerned with the wellbeing of a man he'd met only several moons ago.
"He's my charge, I won't leave him."
"Yes, your charge who happens to already be fucking dead!"
It took Aerion a moment to even recognize the voice he heard as Daeron's. His brother was not prone to such outbursts, not without at least three more goblets in him. His knees hit the ground at the same moment Aerion coughed up a mouthful of blood.
Oh, he really was dying.
"He's still breathing."
"He's had his skull bashed and throat slit; it's unbelievable he's not yet gone."
"No. Forgive me, My Prince, but I’ve seen a throat cut properly, and he would not be— Just hold his head as I lift him."
No. Don't you dare.
Aerion unthinkingly attempted to voice his disapproval of being carried, but the constriction of his throat caused more blood to bubble from his once pristine neck, and the shock of pain had his vision blurring to a point of near blindness.
"Lift him?"
"We need to reach the maesters."
"Have you heard anything I’ve said?"
"Yes, I have, and I don't care."
What didn't he care about? Aerion couldn't recall. Did he not care that his charge was dying? No, Aerion wouldn't have forgotten if he'd said that, even if he already knew it to be true. Once he died, Ser Duncan the Tall would be a free man. Would he leave Aegon behind to join the Kingsguard? Perhaps Uncle Baelor would allow the boy to stay at The Red Keep while he served his time as a squire. Perhaps he would be happier there.
Aerion's temple throbbed with the tightening of his expression. How fucking pathetic. He was going to die, butchered and violated, and not one person would feel anything but relief.
No, that wasn't true. He knew he wasn't a good son, and he would never be enough for his father, but the man still cared for him. Enough to call out for him when he was sliced by Duncan's blade, enough to sit at his bedside until the maesters were certain he'd live. Father would care that he died.
"F… Fuh… Fuh…"
Aerion's face scrunched up; both from frustration at his failure to speak, and the pain of Duncan lifting him into his arms.
"I’ll get you to him, Aerion. I swear it."
"What?" Daeron asked.
"He’s asked for your father."
"No, he didn't…"
Duncan's brow furrowed.
"Of course he did. I heard him."