Chapter Text
It was a curse to be born the only girl.
Four sons had sprung from the loins of Daeron II Targaryen, the scholarly King who almost never was. A paltry number, for his half brother, and challenger, the Black Dragon had birthed seven.
Seven sons for seven gods, one of the signs, among many, folk whispered, that Daemon Blackfyre should have been King over his feeble half-brother, and his Dornish Queen.
And though the Blackfyres had been defeated, fled across the Narrow Sea to nurse their wounds there were many who still looked askance at her royal grandsire and whispered how his reign— his family; his heirs—were not enough.
And thus their lives had proved to be one grand race, to see who could outdo the other first.
Uncle Baelor, the eldest son was all an heir should be. Strong, fierce, competent. An amiable Hand, a dutiful son, a kind brother. But… he favored his Mother. Dark of hair, and skin, more Martell than Targaryen, just like his sons.
The King’s other children were no fairer. Aerys, the bookish son, who read so much, men whispered how Baelor the Blessed had been reborn, but without the piety. Rhaegel, the Mad, the halfwit uncle who muttered to himself, and oft wandered naked about the Keep in the dead of night. And Maekar; the forgotten son. The anvil to uncle Baelor's hammer.
In the very first memory she had of her father, he was scowling. He was a stern man, temperate and unforgiving, the kind of person who was prone to rash judgements. In her girlhood, she'd oft wondered what she'd done to displease him, for out of all her kin, he was the only one she couldn’t get to crack a smile.
But it was pride that ailed her Father; the curse of being born last, of being forced to live in the shadow of a charismatic older brother. There wasn’t a man Maekar resented more than Baelor, save mayhaps himself. And when resentment mingled with love, the results grew ugly.
* * *
Aerea was special because she was a girl. After four sons, and three grandsons, the court was delighted to welcome a Targaryen Princess to the world. Though she had not come alone.
Her Mother had labored for a day and a half to bring her and her brother into the world, a delivery that almost pushed Lady Dyanna Dayne into the Stranger's arms. The attention was immediate. Praise and adoration from her grandmother Myriah, talks of a potential marriage. They at last had a girl in their line, a match that could be paired with her cousin Valarr to strengthen their House and heal old wounds.
Later, Aerea oft wondered if that was what had triggered it. The attention.
Aerion was loved as well. A proper Targaryen princeling, he was doted upon since boyhood. He'd inherited Father's Valyrian coloring, along with the beauty so praised in their line. He was charming too. A precocious child who always knew what to say to make the adults around them smile, love him, believe him the innocent.
But he wasn’t innocent. Not to her.
Her earliest memory of him involved him pinning her down to steal the doll she'd received from grandmother as a nameday present.
“Give it, give it! It’s mine!” she'd whined, her hands pawing frantically for the toy. But Aerion was taller, stronger, and he easily kept it out of reach.
“No! We're one, sister. What’s yours is mine.”
He'd smiled as he'd said it, all small teeth and blazing violet eyes. And Aerea had hated it. She'd tried to steal it back; crept into his chambers to fish it from under his bed. But he'd caught her.
“You don’t want to share?” he'd sneered at her, his lips pouty. “Fine.”
Whirling on his heel, he'd marched to the wall, and swung. The wood screamed and splintered, the doll’s head rolling off.
Aerea had tried to tell Mother. Begged her to punish Aerion, insisted it was his doing. But her tears were no match for his.
“I just… I wanted us to share… we're supposed to share!” he'd wailed when he was brought before Father, letting tears stream down his marbled cheeks.
Aerea had screamed and tried to lunge for him, but was rebuffed.
“Enough!” Father had warned. “I’ll not have you acting like a wild beast! Aerion is your brother, not your whipping boy. Should he wish to play with your toys, you’re to oblige him.”
“But I—”
“No, I’ll not hear it,” Father warned, jabbing a finger right into her face. “Behave yourself and be kind. And if you break anything else, Mother help me, Aerea, I’ll make certain you don’t receive another gift for the rest of your life. Do you understand?!
Silence blanketed the solar. Aerea shrank into herself, her vision blurring, her chest tight.
“Yes, Father,” she forced through her teeth, her limbs trembling. Behind Maekar, Aerion was smirking. Gone were the tears, the ruddy cheeks, the pouty lips. He was staring at her, triumphant, like he'd won some great game she hadn’t even realized they were playing.
It was all a game to him, she'd learned later. The jests, the cruel words, the outbursts. Aerion was a vindictive creature, one who did not appreciate not being the center of attention. Any time Aerea got something he didn’t, he'd lash out. He'd break her toys, ruin her schoolwork, steal her clothes.
Whenever the Maesters praised her for something, he made sure to do it three fold better, just so he could steal the attention from her. When they’d turned seven, and Mother had gotten her a companion, he'd gotten wroth.
During their shared outing around Summerhall's tranquil streams, he'd shoved little Iris Carron into the water. Ser Donnel had to dive in to rescue her; not only had she almost drowned, she'd also sprained her wrist during the struggle.
Mother was wroth with them both, but Aerion was able to play it off as a simple mishap.
“Sweet sister is prone to those,” he told Lady Dyanna. “How many toys has she broken so far? Two dozen?”
Cheeks blazing, Aerea had attacked him, fists aiming for that stupid, pouty mouth.
The assault earned her a weeks worth of confinement, with her Septa, where she was to repeat prayers till she'd learned proper manners.
“You did that on purpose,” she confronted the wretch later, when her imprisonment expired.
Aerion had merely smiled.
“I told you I didn’t like her.”
“So?!” Aerea shrieked. “I liked her. She’s my friend! I don’t need you to like all my friends! I don’t like any of yours.”
Though calling them friends was a disservice. They were lickspittles; awful boys who trailed after him simply because he was a Prince who got them into mischief.
The violet of Aerion’s eyes turned a rich shade of indigo, so dark, it could almost pass for black.
“I told you. What’s yours is mine. And if I don’t like it, you can’t have it.”
She squinted at him. Yes. She could not have companions. Toys, achievements, praise, happiness. Nothing and no one, save him. The twin she'd had the misfortune of sharing a womb with. The twin, who would, given his way, bind her to him till the rest of her life.
* * *
By the time she was two and ten, Aerea was no longer special. Two more brothers had followed her, one named after the Dragonknight, the other the Conqueror, before Mother had at last birthed a second girl; Daella.
Their extended family also received a daughter, when uncle Rhaegel's wife, the Lady Alys birthed him a set of twins; a boy and a girl. The one thing that had made father stand out amongst his kin was no longer his alone; even more so because her aunt and uncle had decided to give them names similar to hers and Aerion's: Aelor and Aelora.
Aerea and her twin were still the older set, and as the only Princess in her family nearing womanhood, the time had come for her to be taken to court and presented to her grandsire; and cousin.
“Valarr is but two years your senior,” Mother had told her a year before their departure. “Handsome lad. Witty too. He would make a fine match.”
“Does father even want that?” Aerea had mumbled.
She couldn’t imagine her Father going to his brother to propose the match. Father was too proud to broach the subject, lest the ask be perceived as groveling.
Mother’s lips pursed in the looking glass. Dyana worked the comb deftly through Aerea’s silver curls, before pulling two strands to braid.
“He will. Once he ceases being so pigheaded.”
Aerea almost said how they were far likelier to see a summer without end than to get Father to concede on something. Still, she kept her silence and let Mother work.
Regardless of the outcome, she was looking forward to the trip, if only to find relief; relief and different company.
Daeron was a useless drunkard who spent more time searching the bottom of his wine cup than spending time with her. Aemon was poised to become as bookish as Aerys, while Aegon, and Daella were but babes. Not that Aerion would allow any of them to get too close.
He may have feigned affection before their parents, but he liked their siblings no more than he'd liked little Iris Carron. And he especially misliked her going near them. Them, or anyone else.
Especially since everyone else seemed keen in going near her.
The attention had come… suddenly.
One morn she'd just awoken to find the squires in the yard gaping at her in ways they hadn’t before. It was the chest. The moment she'd turned two and ten, her breasts had started sprouting, along with her hips, legs, backside. It was wretched. Mother had told her she was poised to have her figure, and if Lady Dyanna was anything to go by, Aerea would have preferred not to grow at all.
She already received sufficient attention for her ‘mischief'. Though… she'd be remiss to say growing didn’t have one advantage.
“You’ve outgrown your skirt,” Aerion had told her. She'd been in the yard, plucking at the lychee vines to weave a laurel for little Daella when he chanced upon her.
“And?” she'd snorted. “Long skirts are not a requirement for flower picking. In fact, they do me good. Less chance I might trip over the hem,” she paused, smirking to herself. “Though I imagine you would be all too pleased to see me fall and break my face.”
“Why? I’m quite fond of that face.”
Aerea paused, and turned. He was leaning against a wall opposite her, hair loose, tunic unbuttoned. He'd grown too. Sprouted at least a head taller, his limbs growing long and spindly. The Maester said he wasn’t like to inherit Father's thick build the way their elder brother, Daeron had, but he would grow to be a fine warrior. Aerea couldn’t help but be glad of it.
“Of course. It’s your face after all,” she snickered, holding his gaze. It disgusted her at times; how alike they were. Mirror images, so much so, that their maids oft jested that if they cut Aerea's hair and dressed her in his clothes, no one would be able to tell them apart.
“Well, I for one am glad of it. The more I grow, the less alike we’ll be,” she exclaimed, her head raised high. “I’ll finally have something you don’t.”
She expected him to grow wroth; bluster and throw a fit, cause mischief he could later pin on her. Instead, he just gaped. Lingered on her face, her eyes, her lips.
Something cold bloomed in the pit of her stomach.
She fled then, basket in hand, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her like a hammer, striking an anvil.
That… was not how he looked at her. He looked at her with scorn. Like a petulant child, wroth at the prospect of being upstaged; displeased someone was stealing his toy. This was… different. Heavier. Darker.
As improper as the stares the squires in the yard gave her each time they passed her by.
On the eve of her thirteenth nameday, the final curse had struck her.
She'd been in the midst of opening her presents, when she’d felt it. Her belly contracting. Something warm blooming between her legs, soaking into her small clothes. Aerea had quickly excused herself to her chambers to sneak a hand under her skirt.
Her fingers came away red.
“Where did you run off to?” a voice echoed behind her.
Aerion barged into her quarters, uninvited, an impatient curl to his lips. “Are you daft? We’re to cut the pie. Father wants us both in the common—”
“Go away!” she squealed, turning away. “Leave me alone! I don’t want to cut the pie.”
Behind her, Aerion snickered.
“Now who’s being an insolent wretch? I didn’t ask. You’re to come with me now—what have you got there?”
In two quick strides, he was on her, trying to turn her around.
“Stop it, no!” Aerea squirmed against his grip, cursing his strength and her own lack thereof. “Get off!”
“I told you, you can’t hide things from me! Give it!”
His fingers clamped around her wrist, turning her around. He squinted at her bloodied fingertips, before his lips peeled into a smile.
“What? Did you cut yourself?” He scoffed. “Poor little Arri. Always the ditz.”
“Shut up!” She attempted to yank her hand out of his grasp, but the wretch wouldn’t let her. He tugged on her hand tighter, splaying her fingers open to get a better look.
“Idiot. There's no cut here. Where did this blood come from—?”
Her yanking finally bore fruit. She wrenched free, staggering into her nightstand, hard enough to knock a cup over. Wine spilled over the carpet, a dark stain blooming across the fabric.
“Mother will have your head for that,” Aerion chortled.
“Leave,” she managed to wheeze. Her cheeks were burning, that uncomfortable sensation of wetness sticking to her thighs. “This has naught to do with you.”
His eyes narrowed, then turned dark again. Petulant. Aerea was sure he was going to open his mouth to scream at her; he stayed quiet.
His brows knitted, his gaze slowly dipping down; down her chest, her ribs, then her belly. He lingered there, his irises like two pinpricks of light pointing right to her navel.
“How grand. Little Arri's a woman now,” he said after a beat. “Suppose Father can finally peddle you to sweet cousin Valarr.”
His tone oozed spite, a vicious kind of resentment that bit right into her chest. Still, she wouldn’t be cowed.
“Good. A woman needs her a man. Cousin Valarr is a man.”
She blinked. A pale hand grabbed at her face. Aerion’s fingers sank into her flesh, pulling her so close to him, she could feel his breath ghosting over her lips.
“And what am I, then?” He flashed his teeth, his canines sharp. Aerea didn’t squirm. She didn’t fight back. Just met his gaze with equal ferocity.
“A pathetic wretch,” she snapped, and pushed him off. She expected him to laugh. To stomp out, cause some chaos and blame it on her. Instead he just stared. Nose scrunched, nostrils flaring. Almost as if… he was hurt.
Aerea rushed past him then, howling for her maids.
* * *
The stares didn’t stop. In fact, they grew worse.
As they finally arrived to King's Landing, just in time for grandsire's forty-ninth nameday, Aerion had taken to acting as her personal minder. Always trailing her like a shadow, careful to chase off any curious courtiers. When they were being presented to the King, he was the one who had led her to the foot of the iron throne, shoving her forward when the announcer called her name.
It was only sheer luck she’d managed to steady herself in time, elsewise, she'd have impailed herself on one of the melted blades fused into the base of the steps.
At the welcome feast, they sat side-by-side. A special table was set for their family to the right of the Iron throne. On the dais, sat grandsire and grandmother, clad in the rich black and red silk, and flowing orange gossamer of House Targaryen and House Martell, respectively. Uncle Baelor lingered at his father's right, alongside his two sons and Lady wife. Uncle Aerys had come only to greet them, before retreating back to his tomes, much to the ire of his wife, the Lady Aelinore, who was left alone on grandmother Myriah’s left. Uncle Rhaegel had abandoned his seat to twirl his wife on the dancefloor; or rather, let her twirl him. Meanwhile, his twins were whispering to one another in their seats, bickering over what looked like a platter of pigeon pie.
Aerea had tried to occupy herself. Fidgeting with her cutlery, swirling her water cup. At one point, she'd even attempted to fuss over Daeron, get him to cease suckling on that wine pitcher before he keeled over.
All her ignoring did was make her twin angrier.
He'd pinch her sides, and squeeze her wrist, nails clawing at her skin so hard, she was certain he meant to draw blood. When the music shifted to the Lover's Thrill, she was certain he would pull her to her feet to force her into a dance.
A shadow intercepted.
“Cousin,” a tall boy in blacks extended a hand her way. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”
Aerea gaped stupidly, her tongue struggling for words. Valarr. Valarr was asking her to dance. They’d been introduced. Mother expected her to be cordial. She craned her head to find Lady Dyanna gaping, her head falling just short of dipping into a nod.
She yanked free of Aerion's iron grip, and took Valarr's hand, allowing him to lead her to the floor.
The drums beat, the tempo slowing. She followed Valarr into a spin, stepping close when he coaxed her chest-to-chest.
“Well met. I’m pleased to see you’ve arrived safely. Its such a long journey from Summerhall.”
Aerea nodded, her gaze flicking over his shoulder. Aerion looked like he might throw something. A plate, a cup; a dagger.
He would make her pay for this later.
“Yes, it is,” she mumbled, just narrowly hitting the correct step.
“How long has it been since we've seen one another? Three years? Four?” Valarr continued. His hands gripped her waist, lifting her up, before setting her down in tandem with the bridge. Aerea startled but followed after him, chills pricking her skin.
The wretch was still gaping.
“Six, I think.”
Yes. She'd been scarce more than a child. They’d come for a quick visit, but had lingered for some months, as Mother had unexpectedly delivered Egg early.
“Ah yes. You were such a slip of a thing back then. As thin as a reed. Look at you now. All grown.”
His fingers squeezed. Aerea jerked, her gaze finally landing on his face.
“Yes… and you’ve grown… taller.”
Valarr's brows drew. “Such flattery. Careful cousin. If you don’t cease being so charming, I’ll keel over.”
Aerea grimaced. “Forgive me, I’m just…”
Nervous, frightened, ill. I’m waiting for my mad brother to do something vile I’ll end up paying for.
“Tired?” Valarr supplied diplomatically instead. “I can imagine. If someone had forced me to attend a feast fresh off the road, I’d have sent them to the deepest of the seven hells.”
She blinked, startled at the levity of his tone. He was not uncomely. Dark-haired, like his father, with mismatched eyes, one violet, the other a pale, ocean blue. A silver streak stuck out of his side, a sharp contrast to his dark locks. His face had an easy slant to it, a boyish charm that made it pleasant to look at.
He was pleasant to look at. It was a strange thing to notice; unwelcome. Dangerous.
“Thank you,” she managed to wheeze, as the song drew to a close. Valarr bowed, his black doublet glittering in the filtering light like flecks of dragon hide.
“Naturally, cousin. We shall talk more. After you’re better rested.”
He gave her a quick little wink, his mismatched eyes glinting like two precious stones. Then, he was gone; melting into the press of silk and samite. Aerea meant to retreat, to do her penance for the transgression before Aerion grew wroth to do something truly heinous.
She never got the chance. No sooner had she turned toward the table that she was swooped up by another partner; then another, and another. A Selmy, Costayne, a Bulwer, a Bracken squire who couldn’t have been older than six.
They all swarmed her like attacking dogs, taking turns complimenting her looks, her wit, her disposition; though she'd not spoken to any of them long enough to merit such praise. Still, she took it in stride. Let herself be led, shielded.
It would be different here. There were others around her. Cousins, friends, leal servants who wouldn’t ignore her woes like Daeron did, nor would they dismiss them as fables like Mother and Father.
Aerion couldn’t touch her; wouldn’t be able to. Not if she wed someone, and became a wife. Then, he'd have to leave her at peace. Let her have something of her own.
But the road to such freedom was long and arduous.
Later, after the festivities had come to a close, and grandsire had set them up in their respective chambers, Aerea found Aerion waiting for her in her quarters. Sprawled on her bed, limbs loose, his red silks hanging off his arms like spilled blood.
“Little Prince, we've discussed this,” Mildrith began, ushering Aerea in to help undress her for the evening. “You can’t enter your sister’s quarters at your leisure any longer. She's a young maiden now. She must needs have her privacy.”
The wretch gave her maid a dramatic sigh.
“Oh, dearest Mildrith, I know. But I could not resist,” Vaulting to his feet, Aerion rolled his shoulders. “I simply had to come and give my sincerest congratulations to my sweet Arri. She made quite the impression today.”
Mildrith squinted, her sallow cheeks jiggling.
“Alright. I shall give you a moment to kiss one another good night. But then you must return to your quarters, understand?”
Aerea almost swore. The woman was far too lenient; but it was more like her brother had a habit of fawning at her to get her to do what he wished.
She retreated, shutting the door with the soft click of the lock. The chamber came alive in hues of orange and silver, the candle flame mingling with the rays of moonlight shining through the window.
“You didn’t really come to kiss me goodnight, did you?” Aerea snickered, before rushing for the vanity.
“Why not? I meant what I said,” Aerion followed right after, coming to hover behind her chair like a wraith. “You did quite splendidly; paraded around like a mare ripe for breeding. Sweet cousin was smitten.”
Her finger paused, mid-reach, lingering just above her braids. Aerion leaned against the backrest, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.
“Does it please you? That he thinks you pretty?”
Aerea's hand dropped. She met his gaze head on in the looking glass. “Do you?”
The question seemed to stump him. He blinked, the sneer on his lips flattening. He surveyed her for a moment, his violet eyes lingering on her reflection in the looking glass.
“Of course I do. It’s my face you’re wearing after all.”
For emphasis, he bent to rest his chin on her shoulder. Aerea grimaced; it was still there. Despite having grown, gotten fuller lips, smoother skin, they still looked alike. The same slanted nose, high brow ridge. Their eyes were the same shade of pale violet, like freshly bloomed orchids, their hair more silver than gold.
Two halves, the gods had mistakenly cleaved apart.
“That won’t change. No matter how hard you try, how much you fight it; I’ll always be in you,” his fingers crawled, to wrap around her neck from behind. “Just like how you’re in me.”
Turning, he pressed his lips into her cheek. The kiss was violent, hungry; more of a bite, than a brotherly peck. She grimaced but didn’t pull away, keenly aware she would make him even more wroth if she fought.
“There,” he whispered into her skin. “Sīr ao daor ivestragon nyke gōntan daor tepagon ao iā sȳz bantis vūjigon.”
“So you don’t complain I didn’t give you a goodnight kiss.”
He lingered for an ungodly amount of time. Still clutching her neck, kneading it slowly. For a moment, Aerea was certain he would actually start choking her; a proper punishment for her earlier disobedience. He didn’t.
Her twin just pulled away, and ran his fingers through her braids. He wrenched the pins out her hair, letting her curls spill over her shoulders.
“There. Keep it loose. It suits you much better.”
“You mean we look more alike,” she said, ogling his own hair. It reached to his chin now, luscious waves that shimmered like the finest silk. Her index teased her pearl earring, before seizing her lobe to pinch.
“Obviously.
Aerea grimaced, gathering her courage; then she swatted his hand away.
“Then I shall endeavor to wear it up much more. I’m certain cousin Valarr will prefer it that way.”
The pinching ceased. The wretch gaped at her in the looking glass.
“We'll see,” he exclaimed, and pulled his hand back.
When Mildrith returned, Aerea gave her a proper thrashing about letting her brother stay in her chambers without express permission. Mildrith seemed flustered, but defensive, chiding how Aerea needed to be kinder to him.
“He's clung to your skirts since boyhood, Princess. Poor lamb. He's been quite the devoted brother, and all you’ve done is rebuff his attempts.”
Aerea held the older woman's gaze, the scream resting at the back of her throat. No. He wasn’t a devoted brother. He was a monster; a shadow hatched from some dark abyss the gods had mistakenly allowed into the world.
All he wished was to end her. Annihilate her and absorb her back into himself where he was convinced she belonged. The missing half he needed to be whole. And she couldn’t let him do that.
She had spent her life cleaving to his cruelty. She couldn’t, wouldn’t endure more of the same.
The next morn, when Aerea dressed, she made sure to pull her hair all the way up into a tight crown atop her head. Then, she stepped out into her battlefield.