Chapter Text
The Ashford Meadow was supposed to be a spectacle of chivalry, but to Aerion Brightflame, it felt like a tedious pantomime. Having been barred from the lists for his "excessive zeal" against Humfrey Hardyng, he sat in the royal box, nursing a bruised ego and a simmering resentment.
His father, Prince Maekar, was deep in a stern discussion with Lord Ashford, while Prince Baelor Breakspear leaned over to offer a calming word to his brother. They were so preoccupied with the logistics of the tourney that they didn’t notice the chaos brewing in the lists.
Down on the field, a hedge knight, a towering, clumsy oaf who called himself "Ser Duncan the Tall", had failed to set his lance correctly. As his opponent’s shield caught the wood at a disastrous angle, the lance didn't just splinter; it pivoted wildly. The heavy shaft, tipped with a blunted but still lethal crown, spun through the air like a guided bolt toward the royal dais.
Aerion saw it first. Not because he was vigilant, but because he was bored and looking for any excuse to move. Without a word, Aerion lunged across the seating. He slammed his shoulder into Maekar and Baelor, shoving them both off their chairs and onto the floor of the box. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough to clear the path for himself. The lance-head caught Aerion squarely in the ribs, the sheer momentum lifting him off his feet.
The sound was sickening, the crack of wood against silk and bone. Silence fell over the meadow, broken only by the frantic neighing of horses and the clatter of the fallen lance on the wooden floorboards.
Prince Baelor was the first to scramble up, his eyes wide with shock. He looked down to see his nephew pinned against the back railing of the box. The fine summer silks of Aerion's doublet were already turning a deep, visceral crimson.
"Aerion!" Maekar’s voice was a guttural roar, a mix of fury and sudden, piercing terror. He grabbed his son just as he began to slide toward the floor.
Aerion coughed, a fleck of blood hitting his lip. He looked up at his father, his usual arrogance replaced by a dazed, glassy stare. The bright flame of his eyes flickered. For the first time in his life, Aerion Targaryen had done something truly noble, and it looked very much like it might be the last thing he ever did.
The crunch of the impact had sounded like a death knell, but as the Maesters rushed the dais and frantically cut away the blood-soaked silks, a frantic hope took hold. Beneath the finery, the "Mad" Prince had been wearing a shirt of fine-linked, high-quality chainmail, a habit born of his own paranoia rather than any foresight of a stray lance.
The mail had held. It hadn't stopped the force, but it had prevented the wood from skewering him like a hog.
"I told you..." Aerion wheezed, his hand feebly clutching Maekar’s forearm, "...this tourney was... poorly managed."
The atmosphere in the Maester’s tent was thick with the copper tang of blood and the sharp, medicinal sting of boiling wine. On the central table, Aerion Targaryen lay stripped of his finery, his skin a ghostly, waxy pale that made the purple bruising spreading across his torso look like a violent sunset. Prince Maekar stood in the corner like a mountain about to crumble, his eyes fixed on the pale form of his son.
The impact had been catastrophic. While the fine-linked chainmail had prevented the splintered lance from physically skewering his heart, the sheer kinetic force had treated the metal like a blunt instrument.
The Maester worked with grim focus, his fingers stained red as he assessed the carnage:
Three ribs on Aerion’s left side were not merely cracked, but shattered. The jagged ends of the bone had been driven inward, dangerously close to the lung. Every shallow, raspy breath the Prince took was punctuated by the wet, clicking sound of bone fragments grinding together.
The force had been so localized that the pattern of the chainmail links was literally stamped into his flesh. In the center of the impact, the rings had been forced through the skin, creating a mangled "plug" of metal and muscle that the Maesters had to delicately debride to prevent the rot. Beneath the surface, a massive hematoma was forming. His side was swollen and rigid, a sign of significant internal bleeding. His breath came in ragged, agonizing hitches, each one a reminder of how close the "Brightflame" had come to being extinguished.
As the milk of the poppy began to wear off, the reality of the injury set in. Aerion, usually so full of fire and venom, was reduced to a creature of pained whimpers and cold sweats.
"Keep him still," the Maester commanded, his voice tight. "If he shifts too violently, a splinter of that bone will puncture the lung, and he will drown in his own blood before we can reach for a needle."
Maekar watched from the foot of the bed, his face a mask of stone, though his hands trembled slightly. He saw the way Aerion’s fingers clawed at the furs in a blind reflex of pain.
The verdict was grim, though seasoned with a sliver of hope. Aerion was young and possessed the legendary resilience of the dragon’s blood, but his tourney days were over for the season—and perhaps longer. He would live, but he would carry the ache in his chest every time the weather turned cold or the wind blew damp off the narrow sea.
Aerion turned his head toward his father, his violet eyes glazed and unfocused. "Did... did I save you?" he wheezed, the arrogance gone, replaced by a raw, hollow vulnerability.
Maekar stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on his son’s sweat-slicked brow. "You did, Aerion. Now lie still, before you finish the job that hedge knight started."
The fever came in the middle of the third night, a silent, creeping heat that proved more dangerous than the lance itself.
While the Maesters had successfully bound Aerion's shattered ribs, they could do little against the "red thirst" that began to bloom around the deep lacerations. The punctures where the chainmail had been driven into his side had turned a jagged, angry crimson, the skin around them pulled tight and radiating a dry, baking warmth.
By midnight, Aerion was no longer the arrogant prince who had dominated the lists. He was a boy drowning on dry land. His breath came in shallow, scorched gasps, each one a sharp battle against the broken bones in his chest. The fever took his mind first. He began to mutter in Valyrian, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. He thrashed weakly, clawing at the air as if fighting off invisible phantoms.
His skin, once pale and regal, turned a sickly, mottled yellow. Sweat soaked through the fine linen sheets and the heavy furs, yet he shivered so violently that the bedframe rattled, a terrifying sound given the fragility of his splintered ribs.
The Grand Maester and two acolytes worked by the flickering light of a dozen beeswax candles. The smell of the room had changed; the sharp scent of wintergreen and wine had been replaced by the heavy, cloying odor of infection and hot copper.
"The milk of the poppy is no longer enough," the Maester whispered, his brow furrowed as he pressed a cold cloth to Aerion's forehead. "His blood is boiling. If we cannot break the heat, his heart will give out before the sun rises."
They applied poultices of moldy bread and crushed herbs to the wounds, but as soon as the cool bandages touched his side, Aerion let out a sound that haunted those in the tent—a thin, high-pitched wail of pure agony that broke into a wet, hacking cough. Each cough brought up a spray of pinkish foam, a sign that the lung was struggling under the pressure of the internal swelling.
Maekar took his son’s hand—the hand that had shoved him to safety just days before—and held it tight. "Hold on, Aerion," the iron-willed Prince commanded, his voice cracking. "The dragon does not fear the heat. Hold on."
The fever eventually broke in the gray, chilly hours before dawn, leaving Aerion spent and hollowed out, but alive. When the fog finally cleared from his mind a few days later, the reality of his new existence settled in—and it was a reality he found utterly loathsome.
While Aerion mended, the fate of Ser Duncan the Tall hung by a very thin thread. Because the Prince was the one injured, and because that Prince had technically been acting as a shield for the Crown Prince and the Prince of Summerhall—the legal situation was a nightmare.
Lord Ashford argued it was a freak occurrence of the lists.
Prince Maekar wanted the boy's head for the sheer incompetence that nearly extinguished his line.
Prince Baelor, moved by the fact that he was only alive because of Aerion's intervention, pushed for a more tempered response.
The tension inside the Maester’s pavilion was stifling, thick with the smell of blood, poultices, and the unspoken threat of execution. Ser Duncan the Tall stood bound and trembling, his massive frame hunched as Prince Maekar loomed over him.
"My son lies broken because of your incompetence," Maekar said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Accident or not, you struck a Prince of the Blood. There is no law in the Seven Kingdoms that allows a hedge knight to walk away from such a grievance."
"My Lord, please," Dunk stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I never intended—the lance, it just caught the light—"
"Silence!" Maekar snapped, his jaw set in a hard line. "The only question left is whether you lose your hand or your head."
From the shadows of the tent’s entrance, a small, hooded figure stepped into the torchlight. The boy was caked in the dust of the road, but there was a sudden, jarring authority in his stride.
"He didn't mean it, Father! It was a freak occurrence!"
Maekar froze. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing at the stable boy who had been trailing the hedge knight like a lost dog. "Who are you to speak to me? And by what right do you call me—"
The boy reached up, yanking back his hood and pulling off his dirty cap. In the flickering light, his head didn't just look bald; it shimmered. It was the unmistakable, pale silver-gold of the Dragon. He dropped to one knee, not with the clumsy fear of a servant, but with the practiced grace of royalty.
“Aegon ?”
the boy said, his voice ringing clear through the tent. "Father! this man is no criminal. He is Ser Duncan the Tall, and he protected me when I had no right to his protection."
The room went deathly quiet. The Maesters paused their work on Aerion’s bandages, and even Prince Baelor, watching from the periphery, let out a soft, sharp breath of surprise.
Egg didn't flinch. He looked his father directly in the eye, standing his ground.
"He didn’t know who I was, Father. I lied to him. I told him I was a stable boy. He took me in when he had nothing, and he treated me with more care than I deserved. If you punish him for what happened to Aerion, you are punishing the only man who looked after your son when he was alone."
Prince Baelor stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. "It seems the gods have been busy today, Maekar. One son saved your life, and the other was kept safe by this man. Perhaps mercy is the only coin that can pay such a tangled debt."
Maekar’s expression remained hard, but the murderous edge finally faded. He looked at Dunk with a mix of exhaustion and grudging acceptance. "Get up, Ser Duncan. It seems my family is entangled with you, for better or worse. But if you ever pick up a lance in my presence again, I will personally ensure it is the last thing you ever hold."
After the accident, Aerion sat propped up against a mountain of silk pillows. He looked like a ghost of himself; his cheeks were sunken, and his silver hair, usually meticulously groomed, hung limp and dull. The Maester had just finished tightening the linen wraps around his torso, a process that required Aerion to remain perfectly still while his nerves shrieked in protest.
"The danger of the rot has passed, my Prince," the Maester said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "But the bone... the bone was shattered quite thoroughly. You will feel a certain... heaviness in the chest. A sharpness when the air turns damp or the winter winds pick up. It may fade in a few years, or it may be your companion for life."
Aerion stared at the tent ceiling, a bitter, crooked smirk twitching on his lips.
"Great," he rasped, his voice still thin from the fever. "Absolutely great. I am to be a human weather-vane. I shall be the first Prince of the Blood who can predict a rainstorm by the sheer agony in his ribs."
He looked down at his trembling hands. The "Brightflame" had always defined himself by his perfection, his lethality, and his untouchable royal grace. Now, he was a man who had to be helped to the chamber pot and who winced if someone closed a door too loudly. He had saved the Crown Prince and the most powerful man in the realm, yet he felt less like a hero and more like a broken toy.
"Will I be able to wear plate?" Aerion asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing.
The Maester hesitated. "In time, perhaps. A very light harness. But the weight... the weight will be a burden, my Prince. You must be patient."
"Patient," Aerion spat, the word triggering a sharp, stabbing pain in his side that forced him to catch his breath. He slumped back into the pillows, his face darkening. "I save the line of the Dragon, and my reward is to be a frail old man in a 17-year-old’s body. If I see that hedge knight again, I may just have him executed simply for the boredom of my recovery."
He closed his eyes, his hand drifting to the bandages. He could feel the irregular pulse of his heart against the jagged cage of his ribs. He was a hero by accident, a cripple by choice, and a Targaryen by blood. And he was going to make sure everyone in the Seven Kingdoms heard about his suffering for a long, long time.