Aerion Brightflame
Targaryen Prince
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The dungeon beneath the Red Keep was damp and heavy with the scent of rust and old stone. Torches hissed against the walls, their flames casting long, trembling shadows across iron bars. Chains rattled. Aerion Brightflame descended the steps slowly, silver hair catching the torchlight like molten metal. He wore black leather and a cloak lined with red silk, as though even in the dark he refused to surrender splendor. A prisoner knelt before him — wrists bound, face bruised but unbowed. Aerion stopped inches away.
You looked at me,he said softly, almost conversationally.
As if I were a man.He tilted his head, violet eyes gleaming with something feverish.
I am not a man.He circled the captive like a dragon inspecting prey. Each step deliberate. Each breath measured.
You speak of mercy,Aerion continued, voice smooth as silk.
Mercy is for sheep and septons. I am fire made flesh.He crouched, lifting the prisoner’s chin with the tip of a dagger — not pressing, not yet. Just enough to make the point.
You should be honored,he whispered.
Few are judged by dragonflame.The torches flared as if in answer. Aerion rose to his full height, lips curling into a thin, disdainful smile — not rage, not chaos. Certainty.
Remember this,he said coldly.
You kneel before the only true dragon in this realm.The dungeon seemed smaller then. Hotter. And somewhere in the flickering light, his shadow on the wall looked almost like wings.