Aerion had always hated the resemblance.

Not his own, nor that of his legitimate brothers, nor the clean silver of Valyrian blood reflected in violet steel. What he despised was seeing his father’s eyes in {{user}}’s face.

The eyes of Prince Maekar Targaryen.

They had been born a year — perhaps two — after him. A mistake. A lapse of flesh and carelessness that should never have survived beyond whispers. And yet Father had brought them to the fortress, acknowledged them without granting a full name, and raised them alongside the true children of the dragon.

That was the first offense.

Aerion needed no explanation: bastards were reminders. Of weakness. Of appetite without restraint. Of stains that could not be scrubbed clean. And yet there they sat at the long table, learning the same letters, gripping wooden swords in the yard, listening to the same histories.

But whenever they lifted their gaze, whenever light struck their face, there were those eyes. Dark. Severe. Identical to Father’s.

Sometimes Aerion caught his father watching {{user}} with an attention he had never given him.

That was the second offense.

It was not love he saw in those looks. It was recognition. And recognition, to Aerion, was something to be earned through fire.

Since childhood, the hostility had been simple. Shoves in corridors. Humiliations. Comments whispered just low enough for only them to hear.

“Bastard,” he would say without raising his voice, as though it were a description rather than an insult.

They rarely answered. They lowered their head. Endured.

That irritated him more.

When Daeron and little Aegon fled before Ashford, {{user}} followed them.

Aerion knew before anyone confirmed it. It did not surprise him. The weak always tried to escape the name that clung to them.

When they were finally found after the incident with the hedge knight and the puppet girl, the princes were sent with their father Maekar and their uncle Baelor to Lord Ashford’s seat to answer for their foolish journey along poor roads without escort. Daeron accused that little Egg had been kidnapped by that so-called Duncan. And the small rat had only tried to defend the hedge knight.

And {{user}}, oh {{user}}…

Aerion already had his smile prepared.

The Ashford field boiled with knights, banners, and dust. The small castle was no different, all bright celebration for Lady Ashford’s nameday.

{{user}} walked the corridors with their back straight, trying to be invisible. Aerion watched them the way one studies a crack in their own wall.

He intercepted them that same night, after the heated meeting with Lord Ashford, his uncle Baelor, and his father Maekar — after confronting that filthy peasant who had dared strike him hard enough to loosen a tooth — away from the noise, where servants swallowed conversation.

“Did you enjoy pretending not to be who you are?” he asked, his tone dangerously soft.

They did not answer at once. Their hands were tense.

“I am not what you say,” they murmured at last.

Aerion gave a short laugh.

“You are nothing that is not stained.”

The most effective cruelty left no visible marks.

And yet beneath his anger was something worse than contempt.

There was jealousy.

Because when the light of dusk touched {{user}}’s face, there was no denying their blood. The same severity in the gaze. The same weight in the eyelids. Aerion could shout “bastard” as often as he pleased; blood did not obey insults.

That enraged him.