Chapter Text
The summons came at dusk, delivered by a steward who would not meet Aerion’s eyes.
He had only been permitted to leave the maesters’ care three days prior. The worst of the bruises had faded to sickly yellows and greens, the cracked ribs still ached when he breathed too deeply, and the shield-bash across his face had left a lingering tenderness along his jaw. Syrax’s presence in the Dragonpit had been the only constant comfort through the long, feverish nights, her distant, restless croons carrying through the stone whenever he stirred.
He dressed carefully. A high-collared doublet of deep violet, the embroidery restrained, none of his usual flair seen. His gold-silver hair was left loose down his back, the way Valarr had always preferred it. The scent of honey and lavender clung to him, carefully soothed with oils so that nothing sharp or distressed would escape.
The walk to the king’s solar felt longer than it should have.
When the doors opened, the air inside was heavy with nutmeg, incense, and the colder, darker notes of warm spice and black tea.
King Daeron sat behind the great desk, looking every one of his sixty-four years. The whites in his hair seemed more pronounced, the lines around his purple eyes deeper. Valarr stood to his right, half a step behind the chair, arms folded. He wore black, simple but fine, the silver streak in his dark hair catching the candlelight. His mismatched eyes, one purple, one brown, were flat.
Aerion stopped three paces from the desk and bowed his head, hands clasped loosely in front of him the way he had been taught since childhood.
Silence stretched.
He flinched when his grandfather finally spoke.
“Valarr has brought a matter to my attention regarding the betrothal between the two of you.”
Aerion’s breath caught. He kept his head lowered, waiting.
“I find myself in agreement,” King Daeron continued, voice rough with exhaustion and something older, heavier. “It is no longer a suitable match. The arrangement is dissolved. Effective immediately.”
Aerion’s head snapped up.
The words did not make sense at first. They hung in the air like something spoken in another language. He stared at his grandfather, then at Valarr, waiting for the correction, the soft laugh, the of course not, byka perzys, don’t be ridiculous.
Valarr only looked back at him.
Cold. Steady. Unmoved.
Aerion’s lips parted. A small, broken sound escaped before he could stop it.
“Valarr-”
Nothing.
He took a half-step forward before he remembered himself. His hands had begun to tremble. The honey-and-lavender scent of him sharpened with distress, sweet turning almost cloying in the closed room.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.” His voice came out thinner than he intended. “I’ve spent my whole life-everything I am was for-”
“Enough.” King Daeron’s tone was final, though not unkind. Grief had made him blunt. “Baelor lies still as stone because of the chaos that began with you. The realm watches. The succession must be protected. Valarr will need a consort who does not bring further scandal to the name of the dragon.”
Aerion’s gaze remained locked on Valarr, pleading, searching for any crack in that cold expression. Any sign that this was a test, a cruelty meant to be walked back once Aerion had suffered enough.
Valarr’s jaw tightened once. That was all.
“You will leave for Lys on the morning tide,” the king continued. “Syrax remains here. You will not take her. When I am satisfied that you have learned restraint, and when the realm has forgotten the ugliness of Ashford, you may be permitted to return. Not before.”
The floor seemed to tilt.
Stripped of his dragon.
Exiled.
No longer Valarr’s.
Aerion’s knees threatened to buckle. He locked them, spine rigid, because collapsing would only prove every accusation that had been whispered since the trial. That he was fragile. That he was the weak link. That an omega prince was a liability the moment things turned bloody.
“Grandfather-” His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “Please. I can be better. I will be better. Don’t take him from me. Don’t take her.”
King Daeron looked at him for a long moment, something almost like pity flickering behind the weariness. Then he looked away.
“It is decided.”
Valarr still had not spoken.
Aerion turned fully toward him now, dignity fraying at the edges. “Say something,” he whispered. “Please. Tell him this is wrong. Tell him you still-”
Valarr’s mismatched eyes met his at last.
“I watched my mother weep over my father’s body while the maesters said they did not know if he would ever wake,” Valarr said, voice low and even. “I watched them cut the ruined helm from his head. All of it began because you could not control your temper over a mummer’s farce.”
Aerion recoiled as though struck.
“I spent years believing you would grow into someone worthy of the position beside me,” Valarr continued. “I was wrong.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Aerion stood there, breathing shallowly, the last of the colour draining from his face. Something inside his chest, something that had been carefully, desperately tended for years, folded in on itself with a quiet, catastrophic finality.
He bowed again, deeper this time, because if he did not move, he would shatter in front of them.
“As His Grace commands.”
He turned and walked out before either of them could see his face fully break.
The corridors blurred. Guards stepped aside. Somewhere far below, Syrax screamed once, sharp and questioning, as if she had felt the severing through the bond that still tied them.
Aerion did not go to her.
He went to his chambers, closed the door, and slid down against it until he was on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, the carefully composed scent of honey and lavender collapsing into pure, undiluted grief.
By the time the sky lightened toward morning, the ship was already waiting at the docks.
Maekar found out only when the chains were already on his son’s wrists, and the tide was turning.
He had been in the training yard since before dawn, driving the younger squires through forms until their arms shook, because movement was the only thing that kept the image of Baelor’s ruined helm from filling every quiet moment. The clang of steel and the sharp bite of coffee-and-iron that always clung to him had been enough to drown out thought.
A page came running, white-faced, breathless.
“My lord-Prince Aerion-they’re taking him-”
Maekar did not wait for the rest.
He was already moving, boots striking stone hard enough to echo, the scent of him turning sharp and metallic with fury. Servants scattered. A steward tried to speak and was shoved aside without a glance. The corridors of the Red Keep blurred past in torchlight and early grey. He took the steps to the lower levels three at a time, heart slamming against his ribs like a warhammer.
The docks smelled of salt and pitch and the low-tide stink of the Blackwater.
And there, halfway down the gangplank of a sleek Lyseni galley, was Aerion.
Chains.
Iron manacles locked around pale wrists, the links short enough that his hands could not separate more than a handspan. His gold-silver hair was still loose, tangled from a sleepless night, and the high-collared violet doublet from the evening before was wrinkled, the careful composure long since shattered. Two Gold Cloaks flanked him. A third stood at the foot of the plank with a ledger, as though this were nothing more than cargo being recorded.
Aerion’s head was bowed. He had not yet seen his father.
“Aerion!”
The name tore out of Maekar’s throat, raw and loud enough that every head on the dock turned.
Aerion’s head snapped up. For one heartbeat, the lilac eyes found him, wide, red-rimmed, already gone somewhere far away, and the omega’s scent, usually soft honey and lavender, spiked with pure, undiluted panic and grief.
Then the Gold Cloaks seized Aerion’s arms and forced him the rest of the way up the plank.
Maekar charged.
He made it six strides before the first pair of guards intercepted him. He shouldered one aside hard enough that the man staggered into a piling. A second grabbed his sword arm. Maekar snarled, the sound of pure Alpha rage, and drove an elbow into the man’s face. Blood sprayed. More cloaks poured from the nearest warehouse and the base of the pier, six, eight, a dozen. Hands clamped on his shoulders, his arms, the back of his neck. Someone tried to twist his wrist behind him. He nearly broke free again, boots sliding on wet stone, until three of them drove him to his knees by sheer weight.
“Let me go-” His voice was a growl, almost unrecognisable. “That is my son-”
“By order of His Grace the King,” one of the captains panted, forearm locked across Maekar’s throat from behind. “Prince Aerion sails with the morning tide. No one is to interfere.”
Maekar strained forward anyway, muscles corded, the coffee-and-iron scent of him rolling out in waves of pure threat. The chains on Aerion’s wrists clinked once as the boy was shoved the final steps onto the deck.
Aerion twisted in the Gold Cloaks’ grip, looking back over his shoulder. His mouth shaped the word Father, but no sound carried across the water. Tears cut clean tracks through the residual bruises on his face. For a moment the omega’s control shattered completely; his scent flooded the dock in a sharp, sweet cry of distress that made even some of the guards flinch.
Maekar roared.
He surged again, nearly lifting the men holding him. One lost his footing. Another’s helmet was knocked askew by the force of Maekar’s thrashing. It took a barked command and two more cloaks slamming into him from the side before they finally pinned him flat to the wet planks, a knee in his back, a gauntleted hand shoving his face sideways against the wood.
He could still see the ship.
The gangplank was already being hauled up. Ropes were cast off. The first oars dipped.
Aerion stood at the rail between two Lyseni sailors, chains gleaming dull in the rising light. He was shaking so hard the links rattled. His eyes never left Maekar’s.
Maekar’s voice cracked when he shouted again, no longer a command, only raw and breaking:
“Aerion-! Look at me. Look at me. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not-”
The distance widened. The current caught the galley. Aerion’s figure grew smaller, the pale gold of his hair the last bright thing against the dark hull.
One of the guards above Maekar muttered, almost apologetic, “It’s done, my lord. The king’s will.”
Maekar stopped fighting.
He lay there on the cold, wet wood of the dock, breathing like a bellows, the weight of six men still holding him down, though he no longer struggled. The coffee-and-iron scent of him had gone flat and dead; the fury burned out into something far worse.
He watched until the ship was only a dark shape against the brightening water.
Until even that was gone.
For a moment the Lord of Summerhall simply stared. Coffee and iron rolled off him in a wave so sharp the guards outside the solar actually stepped back.
Maekar moved.
He did not ask permission. He did not wait for an announcement. He slammed the family solar doors open hard enough that the heavy wood cracked against the stone wall. The sound silenced every conversation at once.
The entire family was already gathered for breakfast.
King Daeron sat at the head of the long table, the weight of sleepless nights carved deeper into his face. Queen Myriah was beside him, honey-brown eyes red-rimmed, the scent of cardamom and saffron muted with grief. Baelor’s empty chair stood like an accusation. Valarr occupied the seat to the king’s right, spine rigid, mismatched eyes fixed on the untouched plate in front of him. Lady Jena sat further down with a protective hand on the back of young Aegon’s chair. Matarys, Daeron the Younger, Aemon, Daella, and Rhae filled the remaining places, every one of them frozen mid-motion.
Maekar’s voice was low, dangerous, and shaking with the effort not to roar.
“You sent my son away in chains.”
King Daeron did not flinch. “I did.”
“Without one word to me.” Maekar advanced another step. The purple eyes that so many of his children had inherited burned. “Aerion is mine. My blood. My omega. If the Red Keep no longer wanted him under its roof, I would have taken him home to Summerhall myself. He would have been safe. He would have been watched. Instead you put irons on his wrists and threw him on a ship to Lys like a common criminal.”
Queen Myriah’s breath caught. Little Aegon’s milk-sweet scent spiked with fear as he pressed harder against Daella’s side. Daella’s arm went around him at once. Rhae’s lower lip trembled. Aemon’s old-books-and-mint scent turned sharp with distress; he looked between his father and grandfather as though waiting for the world to right itself.
Valarr’s jaw tightened. Something cold and uneasy slid under his ribs, an instinctive flinch he refused to name. Every time the feeling rose, he forced himself to picture his father’s still face on the pillow, the thick bandage around Baelor’s head, the way his mother had wept until her voice gave out. The image worked like a fist closing around the doubt. He crushed it down and kept his gaze locked on the table.
King Daeron’s voice remained weary and absolute. “You will not bring him back, Maekar. That is a command from your king. Aerion remains in Lys until I decide otherwise. If I learn you have sent men, gold, or messages to fetch him home, I will consider it defiance of the crown.”
The silence that followed was brittle enough to shatter.
Maekar stood rigid in the centre of the solar, every line of his body screaming the desire to refuse. Coffee and iron flooded the room until even Jena looked pale and the younger children breathed shallowly. He was the fourth son, the Anvil, the one who had always bent the knee when it truly mattered. He could not openly war with his own father while Baelor still lay between life and death and the realm watched for any crack in the dragon’s unity.
Something in him broke, quietly and permanently.
He inclined his head the barest fraction. The surrender tasted like ash and blood.
“As His Grace commands.”
Then he turned on his heel.
“Children,” he barked, voice raw and final. “We are leaving. Now. Pack nothing. We fly for Summerhall within the hour.”
Daeron the Younger moved first, golden hair catching the morning light as he rose and began shepherding the younger ones toward the door. Aemon followed close, one hand hovering near Rhae’s shoulder. Daella kept Aegon’s small hand locked in hers. None of them looked at Valarr. None of them looked at the king.
Maekar paused only once, at the threshold. His gaze swept the room one last time, lingering on Valarr with something that was almost pity and almost disgust.
“You will regret this,” he said, so quietly only those nearest heard. “All of you.”
Then he was gone. His children’s footsteps hurried after him down the corridor, the heavy scent of coffee and iron trailing behind them like smoke from a dying fire.
The solar remained silent long after the doors had closed.
Queen Myriah stared at the place where Maekar had stood, one hand pressed to her mouth. Jena quietly gathered the youngest who had lingered and led them out. Matarys followed without a word.
Valarr remained standing beside the king’s chair.
The sinking feeling returned, heavier this time, settling low in his chest like a stone. He had loved Aerion once, truly, fiercely, in the quiet way of someone who had grown up knowing the omega was meant to be his. The memory of Aerion’s lilac eyes in the solar the night before, wide and pleading, still tried to surface.
Valarr stared at the closed doors and forced the image of his father’s unmoving body to the front of his mind again.
Hate was easier.
He told himself it would stay that way.
He was wrong.