𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝 ┅ 𝖠𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇 & 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦.
﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
The first time you met Aerion Targaryen, you were both too young to understand that the realm would one day hinge on your names.
He toddled across the mosaic tiles of the Water Gardens, silver-gold hair bright beneath the Dornish sun. You were seated beside your mother of House Martell, chubby fingers wrapped stubbornly around a bracelet of tiny golden suns.
He grabbed it.
You hit him.
Hard enough that he blinked in shock and stumbled back.
His caretakers immediately rushed to his side, queerly scolding him for committing such a brash act towards the young princess without asking.
“It shines,” he insisted in his soft child’s voice.
“It’s mine.” You stubbornly stated.
He scowled. “Dragons always take what shines.”
Your mother’s expression did not change as she patted both yours and the Targaryen boys head. “Not in Dorne, dragons don’t. Prince Aerion.”
From that moment, rivalry was simply inevitable.
—
You saw each other often in those early years of youth, the summers in Sunspear, winters in King’s Landing. Each meeting left sparks and bruises.
At seven, he tried to command you during a game of soldiers.
“You will defend the castle.” He pointed at you with his well crafted wooden sword he was gifted for his 7th name day.
“No,” you replied.
He stared at you as though you had insulted his blood. “I am a prince.”
“And I am not your bannerman.”
“You must obey me.”
“Why must I?”
“Because dragons rule.”
You smiled crossing your arms. “Dorne was never ruled by your dragons.”
He hated when you said that.
He hated that it was true.
—
When you were five and ten, both courts traveled to Ashford for the great tourney, events later told in tales of The Hedge Knight, with a certain Ser Duncan the tall.
It was there you saw the worst of him.
You stood in the crowd when he tormented the poor women puppeteer.
“Dance for your dragon,” he mocked, voice ringing with arrogance.
When the hedge knight, Ser Duncan, intervened, Aerion sneered. He almost looked ugly. As ugly as a Targaryen prince could become.
“Do you know who I am?”
“A knight,” Ser Duncan replied evenly.
“A dragon.”
You watched the tension build.
Later, when Aerion had the women beaten, you found him behind his pavilion.
“You shame yourself.” You scoffed.
He did not even turn. “She insulted me.”
“She was performing. With paper and wood.”
“For smallfolk.”
“And what are we without them? They are your citizens.” you demanded.
He turned sharply. “We are rulers.”
“You are cruel.”
“I am strong.”
“You are reckless.”
His eyes flashed violet. “Careful.”
“Or what? You’ll set me aflame?” You say standing your ground. The atmosphere between the two of you growing dark by the second.
He stepped closer. “You forget your place.”
“My place?” you laughed bitterly. “Dorne does not kneel. We are unbent.”
That phrase again.
It always seems to cut him.
—
When Ser Duncan demanded trial by combat, and it became a Trial of Seven, the air at Ashford turned electric.
You confronted him before he armed himself.
“This is madness Aerion, and you know it well.”
“It is justice.”
“For your pride?”
“For my blood.”
“You could die, are you even aware of that.”
He fastened his helm. “A dragon does not fear judgment, not death.”
“Only a fool believes himself untouchable. You still bleed.”
For the first time, something uncertain flickered in his gaze.
“You think I will lose?”
“I think,” you said quietly, “no good will come from this silly bout.”
The Trial of Seven was chaos, steel against steel, princes against hedge knights. Blood soaked the field.
You watched him fall.
Your breath caught in your throat.
When it ended, men lay dead. Royal blood had been spilled. The cost of arrogance had been made plain, with the death of the realms beloved Prince, Baelon Targaryen.
You entered his tent later hours later, unannounced.
“You nearly destroyed yourself, and having your kin killed.”
He lay bruised, furious, and humiliated. “I was betrayed.”
“You were challenged. You simply lost your senses and payed the hefty price.”
He turned his face away.
And for the first time, he did not argue back.
—
Years passed.
The political landscape shifted.
Dorne remained the only realm not brought into the Seven Kingdoms by conquest. That fact weighed heavily in council chambers from Sunspear to King’s Landing.
You were summoned to your mother’s solar one bright morning.
“The Iron Throne proposes a marriage.” She said calmly. She was always calm. Never had you seen her raise her voice or her temperament.
“To whom?” Something deep inside of you already knew.
“To Prince Aerion Targaryen.”
You stood very still. The room suddenly becoming to warm.
“You must be jesting with me mother. It’s not funny.”
“This is not a surrender,” she said carefully. “This is strategy.”
“He despises me, and I despise him more.”
“He respects you.”
“Dorne might freeze over before he does.” You pace around the solar, the fabric of your dress fluttering in a frenzy.
“He will listen to you, as he has always done since your younger years.”
That silenced you.
In King’s Landing, the conversation was colder.
“You would bind me to a Dornish princess?” Aerion demanded.
“You will have a better chance at being king with this arrangement.” His father replied.
Silence fell.
“A voluntary union with Dorne secures the southern border, strengthens fleets, and prevents rebellion.”
“She will not submit. That women’s as stubborn as tar.” Aerion sat down on the spare chair in his father’s meeting room.
“She does not need to. She needs to stand beside you.”
Aerion exhaled slowly. “She challenges me to no end. She might as well lead me to an early grave and take the iron throne for herself.”
“Good,” Maekar said, stamping a letter with the ornamental seal of house Targaryen. “A king should be challenged. You out of most need it.”
Aerion scoffed and left his father alone in the room.
Being wedded to the Dornish princess sounded to absurd for his liking.
—
The negotiations were far from being romantic, they were ruthless.
Dorne demanded autonomy in local law.
Dorne retained control of its armies.
Dorne would enter as equal, not subject.
In council, one Stormlander lord scoffed. “Dorne has defied the throne for generations.”
You answered calmly. “And we have survived.”
Before Maekar could help defend, Aerion leaned forward. “Dorne enters by choice. Any man who calls that defiance calls it from beneath my crown.”
The room fell silent.
Later, alone, you confronted him.
“You did not have to threaten them for my sake.”
“It was not for your sake, it was for the unity of this agreement. They must understand unity.”
“You mean obedience.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I mean strength.”
You studied him.“When did you learn restraint?”
He smirked faintly. “Perhaps when I nearly died for lack of it.”
Seems like Ashford still haunted him.
—
The sept glittered with red and gold, dragons and the sun intertwined.
As vows were spoken, he leaned toward you and whispered.
“You know that this changes everything.”
“Yes.”
“Do you resent me?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you trust me?”
A pause.
“I am learning to.”
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
“I will not cage you.”
“As if I would let you. So stop this foolish talk. The whole kingdom is watching us. They do not need to know the incessant questions you will ask me for the rest of our lives.”
“You look terribly gaudy in this dress by the way.”
Your eye brows twitched slightly. “I hate you.”
He leaned back with a larger smile on his face.
This wasn’t romantic, not tender, but real.
—
When Aerion was crowned instead of Aegon, the realm trembled.
Many had expected another.
But Aerion stood tall, dragon banners unfurled behind him.
And you stood beside him.
In council meetings, he made known the dragon was not to be belittled.
“The Reach grows restless,” he said once.
“Send grain from Dorne during winter,” you suggested. “Our army’s loyalty grows where hunger lessens.”
“And the Stepstones?”
“Joint command, the Dornish fleet, they will follow the crown authority.”
“You would trust our armies?” He asked you quietly aside the conversation of the other men at the table.
“I would trust mine.”
A faint smile.
“Our armies,” he corrected.
—
Not all had accepted the union.
A rebellion flared in the Stormlands. Whispers of “Dornish influence” spread.
In war council, voices clashed.
“They will not follow a Dornish queen.”
You rose slowly. “Then they will learn to prefer to follow a victorious one.”
Aerion watched you carefully.
After the meeting, he spoke to you in private, as always.
“You thrive in this.”
“I survive in this Aerion, there is a difference.”
“Fine fine. Though I must say you are formidable.”
“So are you.”
A beat.
“We were terrible as children weren’t we,” he admitted, shaking his head.
“You were insufferable, not I.”
“You struck me first.”
“You grabbed my bracelet without my permission first. How un-prince like.”
He almost laughed. Instead he settled for an arm around your lower back.
—
Years into the marriage, standing together on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, he said quietly, “When I was young, I thought ruling meant complete dominance.”
“And what of now hm?” You reply back, wrapping the silk closer to your body as you lean into his side.
“It means endurance.”
“And partnership?”
He met your gaze fully.
“Yes. I suppose that to.”
Years spent together, through thick and thin.
Perhaps that had changed him.
“We said we would never love one another,” you murmured, “do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“But we never said we would not choose one another.”
He reached for your hand, not as conqueror, not as rival.
As king, and as your husband.
—
The dragon did not burn alone.
The sun did not stand isolated.
And for the first time in history, Dorne entered the Seven Kingdoms not in chains.
But crowned.
