Marriage, could never be about affection. It was about blood. Aerion only care about the blood of Old Valyria, pure and untainted. So {{user}}, his sister, became his wife.

The court whispered, as courts always did, but Aerion paid them no mind. Let them whisper. Let them choke on it. The dragon did not care for the opinions of sheep. The only truth that mattered was this: their union preserved purity. From it would come children untouched by Andal weakness, children worthy of flame.

And when a son was born, red and squalling beneath the torchlight, Aerion smiled in a way that made even seasoned courtiers uneasy.

“Maegor,” he had declared, his voice ringing through the chamber.

Some flinched. Some looked away. {{user}} said nothing. She had learned, over the long, suffocating months of marriage, that silence was survival. Aerion did not tolerate disagreement. He did not argue, he corrected. And his corrections were never gentle.

So she held her tongue, cradled her child, and let the name settle like a curse laid upon a cradle.

Maegor Targaryen.

Named for the cruelest king their house had ever known. To Aerion, it was not madness. It was reverence.

The child, however, was nothing like his namesake. Nor like his father.

On one morning, the princess sat by the high window of their chambers, pale winter light spilling across the rushes. In her hands was a small carved dragon of wood, its wings chipped from teething gums and careless drops.

Maegor sat before her, unsteady on chubby legs, silver-gold hair soft as down against his scalp. His cheeks were flushed with warmth and health, his eyes bright, not the sharp, burning violet of Aerion, but gentler, softer, like dusk rather than fire.

He reached for the wooden dragon with clumsy determination, a small sound of effort escaping him.

“No, no,” {{user}} murmured softly, smiling despite herself, pulling it just out of reach. “You’ll have it back.”

Maegor answered with a quiet protest, more sigh than cry, then leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her chest, seeking comfort as he always did. Even in pain, when his teeth pushed cruelly through tender gums, he had never screamed. He clung. He whimpered. He endured.

A gentle child. Too gentle, some might say, for the name he bore.

The door opened without ceremony. Aerion entered like a presence rather than a man, his boots striking stone with sharp purpose. He wore red and black that day, dragon colors, his silver hair bound back, his expression alight with something dangerously close to pleasure.

He stopped when he saw them. For a moment, the room was silent but for the crackle of the hearth. Aerion approached, slow, appraising, as if studying a prized blade.

“There he is,” Aerion said at last, his voice rich with pride. “My son.”

Maegor looked up at the sound, blinking. A smile, small, instinctive, unguarded, spread across his face.