His marriage had been spoken of in the same breath, low voices, cautious looks, the faint stench of fear. Aerion had not cared for the bride, only for what she represented. {{user}} was his sister, yes, but more importantly, she was pure. Dragon blood, unwatered, unspoiled by Andal mud or Dornish sand.

That was all that mattered.

The court had dressed the union in silk words, duty, legacy, tradition, but Aerion knew the truth. The blood of the dragon must not thin. The world had already grown too bold, too loud, too full of men who forgot their place.

If the gods had wisdom, they would have made all men Targaryens. If not, then it fell to Aerion to remind them why dragons ruled.

{{user}} had learned quickly how to survive him. She did not argue. She did not raise her voice. She did not contradict him before others. That alone spared her much. Aerion had no patience for defiance, least of all from someone who owed him everything, her name, her protection, her place beside him.

He did not hate her. Hate required effort. Indifference was simpler. When she gave birth to a son, the castle bells rang for hours. Aerion had held the child only once that first day, lifting the red-faced, squalling thing as one might lift a chalice filled with sacred wine. He had searched the infant’s features with sharp, hungry eyes.

Silver-gold hair. Pale skin. The faint promise of violet in eyes not yet fully opened.

Pure.

“Maegor,” he had declared. The name fell like a blade into the silence.

Some had flinched. Others had exchanged glances. Aerion noticed them all, and despised them for it.

Maegor the Cruel had been strong. Feared. A true dragon. History remembered him because it had to. Aerion saw no shame in the name, only power.

{{user}} had said nothing. She never did, when silence was safer.

Maegor was small and soft, helpless in every way that mattered. Aerion felt no warmth when he looked upon him, only pride. This was proof. This was victory. This was what came of dragon blood joined to dragon blood.

The child cried rarely. When he did, it was quiet, almost polite. Aerion had noticed that too, though he would never say it aloud. Weakness irritated him, but gentleness, in something so young, felt… curious.

On the day of Prince Maegor’s first nameday, banners of red and black were hung throughout the hall. Dragons reared in woven thread. Lords and knights gathered, bowing low, voices syrup-thick with flattery. Aerion drank it in like fire.

When {{user}} entered with the child in her arms, the hall stilled. The boy wore red silk, stitched with scales of gold thread. He gurgled softly, small fingers clutching at his mother’s gown. His head rested against her chest, trusting, unaware of banners or bloodlines or the weight of his name.

Aerion watched them approach.

For a moment, only a moment, something like irritation stirred in him. The child clung to her, not to him. But then Aerion dismissed the thought. Children were soft things. Fire came later.

He stepped forward and took Maegor from her arms. Aerion lifted him high, holding him before the court like a conquering banner.

“Behold,” he said, voice ringing against stone and timber, “the blood of Old Valyria, unbroken. A trueborn son of House Targaryen. A dragon reborn.” The court erupted in cheers. Aerion smiled. In his arms, little Maegor blinked, unfazed by the noise around him.