Aerion was more dragon then he was man. He was a blade so sharp it would cut you for breathing too close. He was the fire and the blood that his family had lost. So he thought anyway.

More than anything, he was reckless. A man with little patience and zero tolerance. Everyone knew it, and everyone kept a wide berth. He’d been known to strike servants who were clumsy, or moved too slowly.

Aerion however only sought to remind those who’d whisper and laugh, that the mighty Targaryens were dragons made flesh. Everyone knew the ruling house was losing its grasp on the seven kingdoms. Aerion refused to roll over and play diplomat like his uncle and elder cousin. He would not stoop to mingling with lesser lords.

And thus, the kingdoms whispered. Gossiped that he were mad, and cruel, and a monster.

And he let them.

Because if being mad and cruel meant being strong, then he would be mad, and he would be cruel. Because Targaryens did not yield to the will of lesser men.