Chapter Text
The heavy oak doors of the St. Jude’s Academy science laboratory swung shut with a resounding thud, trapping the scent of sulfur, singed carpet, and panic within its walls.
Ten-year-old Aerion Targaryen stood frozen, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. His heart hammered a frantic, bird-like rhythm against his ribs, loud enough that he was certain the angry adults storming toward him could hear it. He hadn't meant for this to happen. That was the unvarnished truth, though he knew with sinking certainty that no one in this room was going to believe him.
Just ten minutes ago, Aerion had been staring out the rain-streaked window, his chin propped on his hand. His mind had drifted to his massive house, thinking about how cavernous and quiet it had felt that morning. He just wanted a little noise. Just something small, he had decided.
He had slipped a mild smoke pellet—the kind you bought at cheap novelty stores—under the desk of Julian Vance, the headmaster’s sniveling nephew. He was hoping for a jump, a squeak, and perhaps a ten-minute disruption so he could stop thinking about the silence.
But Julian hadn't just jumped. When the small pellet popped, releasing a harmless puff of grey smoke, Julian had shrieked like he was being murdered, scrambled backward over his own chair, and flailed his arms wildly. In his frantic backpedaling, Julian crashed violently into the pride and joy of St. Jude’s science department: a fully articulated, antique fossil skeleton of a velociraptor.
The sound of the fossil shattering against the polished tile floor was deafening. It sounded like a hundred delicate porcelain plates dropped from a great height.
Now, the priceless artifact was nothing more than a pile of jagged, dusty fragments. And Mr. Harrison was purple in the face, his finger pointed directly at Aerion’s chest.
"Do you have any idea what you've done, Targaryen?!" the teacher roared, spit flying from his lips. "That specimen is worth more than this entire wing of the school! It is irreplaceable!"
"I didn't break it!" Aerion protested, his voice cracking slightly as he took a step back. "I just dropped a smoke thing! Julian is the one who knocked it over! He was acting like a baby over a little bit of smoke!"
"Do not shift the blame, young man!" Mr. Harrison shouted, stepping so close that Aerion could smell the stale coffee on his breath. "You are a menace! A constant, unrelenting disruption! You deliberately set off an incendiary device in a laboratory setting—"
"It wasn't incendiary, it was a joke!" Aerion yelled back, the familiar, hot rush of defensive anger bubbling up in his chest. It was always like this. No matter what happened, it was always the Targaryen kid’s fault. He was the scapegoat, the easy target, because everyone knew his father was too busy to ever actually show up and defend him. "Julian tripped over his own stupid feet! Ask anyone!"
"I don't need to ask anyone to know that you are the root cause of every disaster in this grade!" Mr. Harrison grabbed Aerion roughly by the upper arm. The grip was tight, bordering on painful, and it ignited a fierce panic in Aerion’s gut.
"Let go of me!" Aerion screamed, thrashing his arm to break the man's hold. "I said I was sorry about the smoke, but I didn't break the stupid dinosaur! You aren't listening to me!"
"I am taking you directly to the Headmaster’s office," the teacher snarled, dragging the boy toward the door as the rest of the class watched in stunned, breathless silence. "And this time, Aerion, you are not talking your way out of it."
Aerion’s chest heaved, his eyes burning with unshed tears of frustration. He clamped his mouth shut, his jaw aching. Fine. Let them yell. Let them call his father. He was used to being the bad kid. If they were going to treat him like a monster, he might as well stop trying to be anything else.
Miles away, in the heart of the financial district, the temperature in the executive boardroom of Targaryen Enterprises was kept at a crisp, unforgiving sixty-six degrees. It was a temperature designed to keep men awake, alert, and uncomfortable.
Maekar Targaryen sat at the head of the sprawling, frosted-glass table, looking every inch the ruthless corporate titan the media painted him out to be. His silver-white hair was impeccably styled, his bespoke dark charcoal suit fit flawlessly over his broad shoulders, and his piercing violet eyes were narrowed into slits as he stared down the opposing legal counsel.
They were in the final, agonizing hours of a hostile takeover of a rival shipping conglomerate. Millions of dollars, thousands of jobs, and months of Maekar’s relentless, sleepless work hinged on the next few sentences spoken in this room. He had barely seen his own bed in three days. He was running on black coffee, sheer willpower, and a simmering, low-grade irritation.
"The valuation of the eastern fleet is unacceptable," Maekar said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that instantly commanded the quiet room. "You are inflating the worth of rusting hulls by twenty percent. We will offer thirty million for the assets, not a penny more, and we expect a finalized draft by—"
His private cell phone buzzed.
It was a sharp, grating vibration against the glass table. Maekar ignored it, his eyes never leaving the sweating executive across from him. "By three o'clock this afternoon."
The phone buzzed again. And then a third time.
Only three people had that number. His brothers, his personal assistant Larys, and the school.
Maekar closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, a muscle feathering in his clenched jaw. He held up a single, gloved hand, cutting off the opposing lawyer before the man could even open his mouth to argue. The entire room fell into a deathly silence.
Maekar picked up the phone, glancing at the caller ID. Headmaster Vance. St. Jude’s.
A spike of heavy exhaustion drove itself straight through his temples. He didn't have the bandwidth to deal with whatever petty, dramatic squabble his sons had gotten into today. He pressed the phone to his ear.
"Targaryen," he answered curtly.
"Mr. Targaryen, it is Headmaster Vance. I apologize for the interruption, but I need you to come to the school immediately. It concerns Aerion." The man's voice was remarkably composed, but there was a hard, uncompromising edge to it that Maekar had never heard before.
"I am in the middle of a multi-million dollar acquisition, Headmaster." Maekar kept his voice low, though the frost in it could have frozen water. "Whatever he has done, have him sit in detention until my staff can collect him at three."
"That will not be possible, Mr. Targaryen. Aerion has destroyed a priceless historical artifact in the science wing. Given his... extensive disciplinary history, the board has already convened an emergency meeting. We are formally expelling him. You need to come and collect your son."
Maekar stopped breathing.
Expelled. A Targaryen, expelled. The word echoed in his skull, loud and obnoxious. His family name was synonymous with excellence, with power, with perfection. And his ten-year-old son was being thrown out of the most prestigious academy in the state like common trash.
"I will be there in twenty minutes," Maekar said deadpan. He ended the call, placed the phone face-down on the table, and stood up. The leather of his chair creaked loudly in the quiet room.
"Gentlemen," Maekar said, buttoning his suit jacket with sharp, precise movements. "Something requires my immediate attention. My legal team will remain to hash out the finer details. If you do not accept the thirty million by the time I return, the deal is dead, and I will personally see to it that your stock plummets by morning. Good day."
He strode out of the boardroom without waiting for a response, his face a mask of icy calm. Inside, however, he was seething. He was a single father to four boys—Daeron, Aerion, Aemon, and little Aegon. It was a chaotic existence that he managed by throwing money, nannies, and strict schedules at the problem. His wife had left him shortly after Aemon was born, unable to handle the pressure. She had returned briefly, just long enough for a disastrous, alcohol-fueled night that resulted in Aegon, before vanishing entirely, leaving Maekar to pick up the pieces.
He didn't know how to be a father. He knew how to be a CEO. He knew how to manage crises. And right now, Aerion was a crisis severely damaging his schedule.
The drive to the school was a blur of traffic and mounting fury. By the time Maekar’s driver pulled the sleek black car up to the front steps of St. Jude’s, Maekar was ready to tear the building down brick by brick.
He bypassed the receptionist, ignoring her sputtered protests, and pushed open the heavy mahogany door to the Headmaster’s office without knocking.
Aerion was sitting in a hard-backed wooden chair in the corner, looking small. His uniform tie was askew, his hair was messy, and there were red, blotchy patches on his cheeks. He looked up the moment the door banged open, and the terror in his eyes was palpable.
Headmaster Vance stood up from his desk. "Mr. Targaryen. Thank you for coming so quick—"
"Save it," Maekar snapped, his voice echoing loudly in the stuffy office. He didn't look at the Headmaster. His violet gaze was locked on his son. "Get your things, Aerion."
"Dad, listen to me, please," Aerion started, his voice trembling as he gripped the edges of his seat. "I didn't do it! I mean, I dropped a smoke bomb, but I didn't break the fossil! Julian tripped over a stool and fell into it! He’s lying because he doesn't want to get in trouble!"
"I said, get your things!" Maekar roared, the sheer volume making both the boy and the Headmaster flinch.
"Mr. Targaryen, the damage is upwards of a hundred thousand dollars," Vance tried to interject, holding up a file folder. "We have statements from the teacher—"
"Send the invoice to my accounting department. It will be paid by five o'clock," Maekar cut him off, finally turning his glare onto the older man. "As for your school, consider my family's annual endowment permanently revoked. If you cannot manage a ten-year-old boy without resorting to expulsion, you do not deserve my money."
Maekar turned back to Aerion, who was hurriedly shrugging on his blazer, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't grasp the fabric properly. Maekar didn't offer to help. He simply grabbed Aerion by the scruff of his blazer, hauling him forcefully toward the door.
"Dad, you're hurting me—Dad, tell him! Tell him I didn't break it!" Aerion pleaded, stumbling as he tried to keep up with his father’s long strides down the hallway. Students were peering out of classroom doors, whispering and pointing. The humiliation burned in Aerion’s chest, hot and suffocating.
"Be quiet," Maekar hissed through his teeth, dragging the boy out the front doors and down the stone steps toward the waiting car. "You have embarrassed me enough for one lifetime. You will not say another word until we are in the car."
He practically shoved Aerion into the back seat, slamming the door before climbing in the other side.
"Drive. The office," Maekar barked at his driver. The partition rolled up silently, sealing them in an airtight, soundproof bubble of tension.
"Dad," Aerion whispered, tears finally spilling over his lashes. He wiped at them angrily with the back of his sleeve. "Why won't you just listen to me? I'm telling the truth. I didn't touch the stupid skeleton. I just wanted to make Julian jump."
"Do you think I care about the truth right now?!" Maekar exploded, turning in his seat to loom over his son. "Do you think the board of directors cares who actually knocked over a pile of bones? All they know is that my son is a delinquent who was just expelled from the finest institution on the East Coast! You are ten years old, Aerion! Ten! And already you are out of control!"
"Maybe if you were ever home, I wouldn't have to do stuff to make people notice me!" Aerion shouted back, the defensive anger shielding his breaking heart.
"Do not test me today, boy," Maekar warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper. "I work seventy hours a week to provide for you. To give you the life your mother abandoned you to. And this is how you repay me? With arson and vandalism?"
Aerion shrank back against the leather seat, the fight draining out of him all at once. The mention of his mother always felt like a physical blow. He turned his head, staring blankly out the tinted window as the city sped by, his chest heaving with silent, suppressed sobs. His father had already made up his mind. He was guilty. He would always be guilty.
Targaryen Enterprises was a towering monument of glass and steel, an intimidating fortress that mirrored its owner.
Maekar marched through the grand lobby, his stride purposeful and aggressive, with Aerion trailing miserably a few steps behind. Employees scrambled out of their way, murmuring rushed greetings that Maekar ignored. He swiped his keycard, bypassing the standard elevators for his private executive lift, and dragged his son up to the top floor.
When the doors parted, Maekar bypassed the sleek reception desk and headed straight for the glass-walled perimeter of his personal office.
"Larys!" Maekar barked as he pushed open the door.
His personal assistant, a thin, nervous man with impeccable posture, practically leapt from his chair in the adjoining cubicle and scurried in. "Yes, Mr. Targaryen? I thought you were in the acquisition meeting—"
"Aerion has been expelled," Maekar stated flatly, shrugging off his overcoat and tossing it onto a chair. He pointed a rigid finger at the long, stiff leather sofa against the far wall. "Sit there. Do not move. Do not speak. Do not touch anything."
Aerion trudged over to the sofa, his head hung low, and curled himself into the corner, pulling his knees up to his chest. He felt insignificant and entirely in the way.
"Expelled, sir?" Larys squeaked, his eyes darting to the boy. "Oh dear. Shall I... shall I contact St. George’s? Or perhaps Wellington Academy? We have standing applications—"
"Contact everyone," Maekar ordered, sitting down at his massive mahogany desk and pulling open his laptop. "Call every private institution within a fifty-mile radius. I don't care what the tuition is. I don't care if you have to bribe the admissions board. Get him enrolled somewhere by Monday. I cannot have him sitting at home destroying the estate while I am trying to finalize this merger."
"Right away, sir." Larys scurried out, pulling the heavy glass door shut behind him.
The silence that fell over the office was oppressive. The only sound was the frantic clicking of Maekar’s keyboard and the distant, muffled hum of city traffic dozens of floors below.
Aerion sat on the sofa for what felt like hours. He didn't dare move. He watched his father work, watching the deep furrow between Maekar’s brows, the tight clench of his jaw. Aerion wanted to speak. He wanted to apologize for the smoke bomb. He wanted to explain that he missed his brothers, that he hated the nannies, that he just wanted his dad to look at him with something other than exhausting disappointment.
But he knew better. He pulled his legs tighter against his chest, burying his face in his knees.
The afternoon dragged on into evening. The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows bruised into shades of purple and dark blue.
Larys returned three times. The first time, he looked anxious. The second time, he looked pale. The third time, he looked as though he was walking to the gallows.
"Report," Maekar demanded without looking up from his screen.
Larys swallowed hard, clutching a tablet to his chest. "Sir... I have contacted twenty-four different academies. Every prestigious school, every private institution, every boarding school within commuting distance."
"And?"
"And... it's a no, sir." Larys winced. "Across the board. Unanimous rejection."
Maekar finally stopped typing. He slowly raised his head, his violet eyes locking onto his assistant with terrifying intensity. "Excuse me?"
"Word of the incident at St. Jude’s traveled quickly, sir. The broken velociraptor fossil. And, combined with his previous record—the flooded gymnasium, the bullfrogs in the staff restroom—"
"Are you telling me that not a single school will take my money?" Maekar’s voice was dangerously quiet.
"They consider him a liability, Mr. Targaryen. They said his reputation is too much of a risk to their standing. I... I did expand the search parameters, sir. I spent the last two hours looking into alternative education."
"Alternative education?" Maekar stood up, bracing his hands flat on the desk. "What the hell does that mean, Larys?"
"Public schools, sir," Larys squeaked, shrinking back. "Mainstream schools. Specifically, those with behavioral programs. But even then... the districts are full. We are looking at a two-week waiting period just to get an interview."
"Two weeks?" Maekar exploded, swiping a hand across his desk, sending a stack of manila folders scattering across the carpet. Aerion flinched violently on the sofa, pressing himself harder into the corner. "I am not having this boy sitting at home for two weeks under the care of household staff! He requires discipline! He requires structure! Find a school! Now!"
"I am trying, sir, but there simply isn't anywhere that will take him on such short notice!"
The office door clicked open, breaking the tense standoff.
Mrs. Vance, the current head nanny—and, coincidentally, the sister-in-law of the Headmaster who had just expelled Aerion—stepped into the room. She was a tall, severe-looking woman with her graying hair pulled back into a painfully tight bun. She was carrying a tailored wool coat over her arm, her lips pursed in perpetual disapproval.
"Good evening, Mr. Targaryen," she said smoothly, completely ignoring the scattered papers and the terrified boy on the sofa. "I received your message that Aerion would need collecting. I came as soon as I got the baby down for a nap."
"The boy is a disaster," Maekar snarled, rubbing his temples. "He has managed to get himself blacklisted from every private school in the state. Larys tells me we are looking at two weeks before a public school will even look at him."
Mrs. Vance’s eyes flicked to Aerion. The boy was glaring at her from the sofa, his eyes red-rimmed but defiant. She hadn't forgotten the bullfrog incident. She hadn't forgotten the sheer terror of opening her toilet lid to find a dozen slimy amphibians staring back at her. This little shit needed to be knocked down a peg. He needed to be put somewhere he couldn't act like a spoiled, untouchable prince.
"If I may, Mr. Targaryen," Mrs. Vance said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I might have a solution. I am part of several childcare networking groups. I know of a school. A mainstream, public institution in the lower-east district. They specialize in... integration. They take troubled youths, children who have slipped through the cracks. It is a very strict, no-nonsense environment. No coddling. No luxuries."
She knew full well the school was underfunded, chaotic, and boasted terrible online reviews. It was a holding pen for kids the city didn't know what to do with. It was the absolute last place a billionaire's son belonged. It was perfect.
Maekar looked up, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. "Can they take him on Monday?"
"I believe they have an open-door policy for immediate transfers, provided the paperwork is signed and a sizable 'donation' is made to their district fund."
"Fine," Maekar snapped, waving a hand dismissively. "I don't care what it is. I don't care where it is. Tell Larys the details. He will handle it."
"Of course, sir," Mrs. Vance smiled—a thin, cruel stretching of her lips. She turned to Larys, her voice dropping to a brisk, business-like tone. "Contact King’s Row Academy. Speak to the admissions clerk. Tell them we need an immediate behavioral transfer."
Larys looked panicked. "King's Row? Mrs. Vance, that is... that is in a very rough neighborhood. Are you certain—"
"Mr. Targaryen said to handle it, Larys," she reprimanded sharply. "Do your job."
Larys swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. He practically sprinted out of the office to make the calls.
Maekar sank back into his leather chair, running a hand heavily over his face. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of his own life. The merger, the children, the endless, relentless stream of problems.
Twenty minutes later, Larys returned, holding a small stack of poorly photocopied enrollment forms. He placed them tentatively on Maekar’s desk.
"They... they agreed, sir. The donation was sufficient to bypass the waiting period. If you sign these, he can start on Monday morning at eight a.m."
Maekar didn't even read the letterhead. He didn't look at the school’s credentials, its address, or its behavioral policies. He simply pulled a silver fountain pen from his breast pocket, uncapped it, and aggressively slashed his signature across the bottom of four different pages. He was signing away his son’s safety and comfort, sealing him into an environment alien to a boy raised in mansions and chauffeured cars, purely out of exhaustion and spite.
"Done," Maekar shoved the papers back at Larys. "File them. And Larys? Get me the house manager on the phone."
Larys quickly dialed the estate and handed the receiver to Maekar.
"Davis," Maekar barked into the phone. "Aerion is grounded indefinitely. I want you to go into his room right now and strip it. Take the television, the computer, the tablet, the video games. Take every single toy—including that ratty dragon plush he drags around. Leave him his books and his clothes. If I find out he has had access to so much as a radio, you are fired. Do you understand me?"
On the sofa, Aerion let out a wounded gasp, the betrayal hitting him harder than the expulsion. "Dad, no! Not the dragon! Please! I've had him since I was a baby!"
Maekar ignored him, waiting for the house manager's confirmation before dropping the phone back onto its receiver.
Aerion scrambled off the sofa, rushing toward the desk. The panic was overwhelming now. His room was his sanctuary. It was the only place he felt safe in that massive house. "Dad, please! I didn't break the dinosaur! I swear on my life, I didn't! Julian did it! Look at the cameras! Just look at them!"
Maekar paused. His hand, resting on the polished surface of his desk, stilled. He narrowed his eyes at his son, a micro-second of hesitation flickering in his gaze. He could make the call. He could verify it.
Then, he looked away, waving a hand in blunt dismissal. He chose not to know.
"I told you to be quiet!" Maekar roared, slamming both hands down on the desk as he stood up, towering over the boy. "I do not want to hear another word of your pathetic excuses! You are a menace! You are destructive, undisciplined, and out of control!"
"I'm not!" Aerion cried, tears finally spilling hot and fast down his cheeks. "You never listen to me! You never listen to any of us! You just throw money at people and make them go away!"
Maekar’s eyes darkened, a storm of fury brewing in the violet depths. He stepped around the desk, pointing a finger directly in Aerion’s face. "I provide for this family. I break my back to ensure you have a roof over your head and a future handed to you on a silver platter! I am currently trying to salvage a deal that secures this company for the next fifty years, and you are incapable of simply behaving yourself for five minutes! Why can't you be more like your cousins? Hmm? Baelor’s sons never act like this! Valarr and Matarys are gentlemen. They excel. They do not set fire to their classrooms and humiliate their father on a weekly basis!"
The comparison hit Aerion like a physical punch to the gut.
Baelor’s sons. Baelor the Breakspear, his father’s older brother, the golden child of the Targaryen family. Baelor’s sons were perfect. They were polite, they won awards, they never stepped out of line. And his father clearly wished he had them instead of him.
The fight drained out of Aerion instantly. The tiny, defiant spark inside him—the one that had started this whole mess, the one that usually fought back—didn't ignite. Instead, he felt it firmly snuffed out, leaving behind nothing but the cold, burnt ash of rejection.
His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back from his father, looking incredibly small and defeated. He didn't say another word. He just wrapped his arms around his own stomach and slowly walked back to the sofa, curling into the tightest ball he could manage, pressing his face firmly into the leather cushions so his father wouldn't hear him cry.
Maekar watched him for a fleeting second, a sudden, sharp pang of guilt flaring in his chest. He pushed it down ruthlessly. He didn't have time for guilt. He had a company to run.
"Mrs. Vance," Maekar said coldly, turning his back on his son and sitting down at his computer. "Take him home. He is to go straight to his room. He is not to interact with his brothers."
"Of course, Mr. Targaryen," the nanny said, her voice dripping in false sweetness. She walked over to the sofa, tapping Aerion sharply on the shoulder. "Up you get, Aerion. Time to go."
Aerion didn't look at her. He didn't look at his father. He slid off the sofa, his feet dragging on the carpet. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the floor as he walked toward the glass door.
He paused, just for a moment, his hand resting on the polished metal handle. He looked back over his shoulder.
His father was already staring intently at his glowing laptop screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard, immersed in his world of numbers and contracts. He looked so far away.
"Bye, Dad," Aerion whispered, his voice thick and watery. "Love you."
Maekar didn't look up. He simply raised one hand from the keyboard, waving it in the air. A gesture of distracted dismissal.
Aerion swallowed a sob, pushed the door open, and followed the nanny out into the sterile, brightly lit hallway, the heavy glass swinging shut behind him with a quiet click.
For a long moment, the office was silent save for the clacking of keys. Maekar finished typing his email, hit send, and finally let out a long, ragged exhale. He rubbed his eyes, the headache pounding relentlessly against his skull. The anger was fading, leaving behind only an exhausted, hollow ache.
He glanced toward the door, staring at the empty space where his son had stood just moments before.
"Love you, too," Maekar murmured into the empty room, his voice rough and quiet. "We'll talk once I'm home."
He turned back to his screen, unaware that his son was already miles away, sitting in the back of a town car, convinced with absolute certainty that his father hated him.
The drive back to the Targaryen estate was suffocating. The silence in the back of the town car pressed against Aerion’s chest until he felt like he couldn’t draw a full breath. Mrs. Vance sat opposite him, her posture rigid, her face locked in a mask of smug satisfaction that she didn't even try to hide.
When the wrought-iron gates of the estate finally parted and the car pulled up the long, sweeping driveway, Aerion didn't wait for the driver to open his door. He scrambled out, his backpack thumping against his shoulder, and bolted up the marble steps. He ignored the greetings of the entryway staff, his small feet pounding against the grand staircase as he took the steps two at a time.
He just needed his room. He needed his space. He needed to bury his face in his pillows and scream until his throat was raw.
But when Aerion threw open his bedroom door, the breath was knocked out of him entirely.
He stopped dead in the doorway, the handle slipping from his numb fingers.
His room had been gutted.
The large flat-screen television that usually sat on the oak dresser was gone. The half-finished Lego castle he and Daeron had been building for three weeks was entirely dismantled, the table wiped clean. His tablet, his gaming console, the VR headset—all of it had vanished. Even the posters of his favorite bands and comic book heroes had been stripped from the walls, leaving behind pale, empty squares on the dark blue paint.
It didn't look like his room anymore. It looked like a guest room in a sterile, unfriendly hotel.
Panic, hot and jagged, spiked in Aerion’s chest. He dropped his backpack on the floor and scrambled frantically toward his bed.
"No, no, no," he chanted under his breath, dropping to his knees. He threw the expensive duvet aside, tearing at the pillows. He checked behind the headboard, his hands shaking violently. He crawled around the edge of the mattress, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
It wasn't there.
His dragon teddy was gone.
It was a faded, crimson-and-black plush dragon, its stuffing slightly lumpy, one of its felt wings sewn back on with clumsy, uneven stitches by a housekeeper years ago. It was the only thing Aerion truly, deeply cared about. His father had given it to him when he was just a year old. It was practically an antique; Aerion had secretly found old, grainy photographs in his father's study showing a very young Maekar holding an identical dragon plush. It was the only tangible proof Aerion had that his father had ever been soft, that his father had ever loved him enough to pass down something so personal.
Aerion scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He sprinted out of the room, his socks sliding on the polished hardwood floors of the hallway.
"Davis!" Aerion screamed, his voice echoing shrilly against the high, vaulted ceilings. "Davis!"
He found the house manager at the end of the corridor, directing two maids who were carrying a large plastic bin filled with Aerion’s confiscated video games.
Davis turned, his normally impassive face softening just a fraction at the sight of the distraught ten-year-old. "Master Aerion. You are supposed to be in your room. Your father’s orders were—"
"Where is it?" Aerion demanded, his chest heaving, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. "Where did you put him?!"
"Your father instructed us to remove all entertainments and distractions from your quarters, sir," Davis said, his tone perfectly even, though he avoided looking directly into the boy's tear-filled eyes. "You are grounded indefinitely."
"I don't care about the games!" Aerion shouted, his voice cracking violently on the last syllable. "I don't care about the TV or the Legos! Where is my dragon?! You took my dragon!"
"All non-essential items were removed," Davis repeated, stepping slightly in front of the plastic bin as if shielding it.
"He's not a distraction! He's mine!" Aerion surged forward, trying to push past the tall man to get to the bins, but Davis caught him gently but firmly by the shoulders.
"No, Master Aerion. Your father was very explicit. You are allowed your books and your clothes. Nothing else. You are not allowed your things."
"I don't want all my stuff!" Aerion sobbed, the tears finally breaking free, spilling hot and fast down his flushed cheeks. He thrashed against Davis’s grip, desperation clawing at his throat. "I just want my dragon back! Please! Just the dragon! You can keep everything else forever, just give him back!"
"I am sorry, Aerion," Davis said, his voice dropping slightly, a hint of genuine regret bleeding through his professional facade. "But no. If I disobey Mr. Targaryen, I will lose my job. I cannot give it back."
Davis let go of the boy's shoulders, gave a stiff nod to the maids, and turned on his heel, walking away down the corridor.
"Davis, please!" Aerion screamed after him, the sound tearing from his throat. But the house manager didn't turn back. He simply rounded the corner and disappeared, taking the only piece of comfort Aerion had left in the world with him.
Aerion stood in the empty hallway for a long, agonizing moment. The silence of the massive house pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating. He felt entirely, utterly alone.
A low, guttural noise of pure frustration tore its way out of his chest. Aerion spun around and stormed back into his room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the picture frames in the hall.
The meltdown hit him like a physical blow.
He didn't just cry; he erupted. He grabbed the heavy glass paperweight off his desk and hurled it across the room, screaming as it shattered against the far wall. He swept his arm across the top of his bookshelf, sending dozens of hardback novels crashing to the floor in a chaotic avalanche. He grabbed his desk chair and shoved it over, kicking it viciously when it didn't break.
"It wasn't me!" he screamed to the empty room, tears blinding him as he grabbed his pillows and threw them violently at the door. "I didn't do it! I didn't break it!"
He was so angry his vision was swimming with black spots. He was angry at Julian, he was angry at the headmaster, he was angry at Davis, but most of all, he was furious with his father.
The bedroom door clicked open, and Mrs. Vance stepped inside, stepping smoothly over a discarded pillow. Her face was a mask of cold, imperious fury.
"What on earth is the meaning of this behavior?" she snapped, her sharp voice cutting through Aerion’s sobs like a knife.
Aerion froze, his chest heaving as he stood in the center of the destruction, his hands curled into tight, shaking fists. "They took my dragon! Tell them to give him back! Dad gave him to me!"
"Your father gave explicit instructions that your room was to be stripped, and that is exactly what happened," Mrs. Vance said coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Look at this mess. You are behaving like a feral animal, Aerion. It is entirely unbecoming of a boy of your station."
"I WANT MY DRAGON!" Aerion yelled, stepping toward her.
"You will not raise your voice to me!" she barked back, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You will not get a single one of your things back until your father explicitly says you can. And seeing as you have just been expelled for destroying property, I highly doubt he will be feeling generous anytime soon."
Aerion flinched, the words hitting their mark flawlessly.
"Now," Mrs. Vance continued, her lip curling into a sneer. "You will pick up every single book on this floor. You will clean up the glass you just shattered. And then you will sit on your bed in silence. If I hear so much as a peep out of you, I will call your father's office and inform him that you are having a psychotic break."
She didn't wait for his answer. She turned and swept out of the room, pulling the door shut with a sharp, dismissive click.
Aerion stared at the closed door, the remaining fight draining out of his body like water through a sieve. His shoulders slumped, and a fresh wave of quiet, miserable tears spilled over his eyelashes.
He didn't pick up the books. He didn't sweep the glass.
Instead, Aerion walked over to his bed, grabbed the trailing edge of his duvet, and dragged it down onto the floor. He crawled underneath his bed, dragging the blanket in with him, pulling it over his head like a protective shell.
It was dark under there. It smelled faintly of cedar wood and dust. It was cramped, pressing down on his back and shoulders, but for the first time all day, he felt somewhat safe. No one could look at him. No one could yell at him.
He curled himself into the tightest ball possible, wrapping his arms around his own chest where his dragon should have been, and buried his face in his knees. He cried until his throat was raw and his head pounded with a vicious, throbbing ache, the silent, shaking sobs rocking his small frame in the dark.
He didn't know how long he laid there. The sliver of light filtering in from beneath the bedskirt shifted from bright afternoon gold to the bruised, murky purple of early evening.
Eventually, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by the familiar, muffled voices of his brothers returning from their private tutors.
Aerion’s bedroom door creaked open.
"Aerion?"
It was Daeron. His twelve-year-old brother’s voice was hesitant, lacking its usual confident swagger.
Aerion didn't answer. He just held his breath, pressing his face harder into his knees.
He heard Daeron’s footsteps cross the room, pausing as they likely took in the scattered books and the shattered glass. There was a long silence. Then, the bedskirt lifted, flooding Aerion’s dark sanctuary with the harsh glow of the overhead bedroom light.
Daeron’s face appeared, upside down, as he peered under the bed frame. He looked exhausted, his school tie loosened, his dark blonde hair messy.
"What the fuck did you do now?" Daeron asked, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine concern.
"I didn't do it," Aerion mumbled defensively, his voice thick and raspy from crying. He turned his face away, glaring at the wall.
Daeron let out a heavy sigh. He hesitated for a second, glancing over his shoulder toward the open bedroom door. Then, surprisingly, Daeron dropped to his stomach and shimmied under the bed, knocking his shoulder against the wooden frame before settling awkwardly next to Aerion in the cramped space.
"Move your elbow," Daeron grumbled, shoving at his younger brother until he had enough room to lie on his side, facing him.
Aerion sniffled, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his uniform, but he uncurled just a fraction.
"Rumors around the school are wild, you know," Daeron said quietly, picking at a loose thread on the carpet. "Some kids are saying you actually blew up the chemistry lab. Like, with dynamite. Julian Vance was crying in the courtyard saying you tried to assassinate him."
"Julian is a liar and a baby," Aerion snapped bitterly. "I dropped a smoke pellet. Like, the tiny ones you get at the joke shop. He jumped backward and knocked the stupid dinosaur skeleton over himself. But Mr. Harrison hates me, so he blamed it all on me."
Daeron winced. "Yeah... the dinosaur. Val and Matarys were talking about it at lunch. It sounded bad."
Daeron was trying to cheer him up, trying to normalize the situation the way he always did, but the mention of Baelor's perfect sons only made the hollow ache in Aerion’s chest flare up again.
"It doesn't matter," Aerion whispered, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I'm expelled. Dad signed some papers. I'm going to a public school on Monday. A poor person school."
Daeron’s eyes widened slightly in shock. Public school? Targaryens didn't go to public school. That was entirely unheard of. "Seriously? Dad actually did that?"
"He didn't even look at the forms," Aerion said, his voice breaking again. "He just wanted me gone so he could finish his stupid meeting. He hates me, Daeron."
"He doesn't hate you," Daeron argued, though his voice lacked conviction. He was twelve; he was starting to understand the complex, terrifying reality that their father was deeply flawed, but he wasn't quite ready to admit it out loud. "He'll get you back into St. Jude’s, or somewhere better. He's just... he's just mad right now. You know how he gets when his mergers are happening. He'll cool off in a few weeks and realize public school is a bad look for the family."
"I just wish he believed me," Aerion mumbled, pressing his forehead against the carpet. "Just once. I wish he listened to me instead of just yelling."
Daeron reached out, awkwardly patting Aerion’s shoulder. It was a stiff, boyish gesture of comfort, but it was the most affection Aerion had received all day. "You know he doesn't listen to anyone, Aer. He's too busy. It’s just how he is."
Aerion looked overwhelmingly sad, curling up tighter until he was nothing more than a small, trembling ball of fabric and limbs.
Daeron watched him for a moment, a fierce, protective instinct flaring in his chest. "Look, why don't you come hang out with me and Aemon? We're setting up in the study. You can sit with us while we do our homework, and then we'll order dinner in there, and play some video games on my console."
"I can't," Aerion whispered miserably. "Dad took all my stuff. My room is empty. I'm grounded indefinitely. If Mrs. Vance catches me playing games, she'll call Dad."
"You don't have to play," Daeron reasoned, shuffling backward slightly to prepare to crawl out. "You can play with my stuff, or just watch. I won't let the harpy yell at you."
"I'll just get into trouble," Aerion sighed. "But... I'll come sit with you guys. It's too quiet in here."
"Alright. Come on." Daeron began to scoot backward, sliding out from under the bed.
Aerion started to follow, dragging his blanket with him. He paused, half-in and half-out of the shadows. "Daeron?"
"Yeah?" Daeron looked down at him from where he was brushing dust off his uniform trousers.
"They took my dragon."
Daeron froze, his hands stalling on his pants. He looked down at his brother, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "What? No they didn't. Dad wouldn't do that. He knows you've had that since you were a baby."
"Davis took it. He said Dad ordered them to take everything that was a distraction. I begged him to leave it, but he wouldn't." Aerion’s voice was heartbreakingly small. "No one will give him back."
A flash of genuine, dark anger crossed Daeron’s young face. He set his jaw, looking startlingly like his father for a brief second. "Dad wouldn't do that on purpose," Daeron insisted stubbornly. "He probably just told them to clear the electronics and Davis went overboard. I'll go down to the staff quarters later and talk to Davis. I'll get it back for you, I promise."
Aerion nodded slowly, a tiny, fragile spark of hope igniting in his chest. "Thank you."
He crawled the rest of the way out, abandoning his blanket on the floor, and followed his older brother down the long, echoing hallway toward the grand study.
The study was Maekar’s secondary office, a massive room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and heavy leather furniture. Nine-year-old Aemon was already sitting at the large mahogany coffee table, surrounded by textbooks that looked far too advanced for his age. Aemon was the quietest of the brothers, small for his age, with pale hair and observant, solemn eyes. He looked up as Daeron and Aerion entered, offering his older brother a tiny, sympathetic smile.
"I heard the screaming," Aemon said softly, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the ticking grandfather clock.
"I'm fine," Aerion muttered, walking over to one of the oversized leather armchairs and sinking into it. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and proceeded to stare blankly at the dark, unlit fireplace.
Daeron sat down next to Aemon, pulling his own math workbook out of his bag. "Ignore it, Aemon. I'll help you with the fractions in a minute."
For the next half hour, the room was quiet save for the scratching of pencils and Daeron’s low voice as he patiently explained a math problem to Aemon. Aerion simply zoned out, his mind a chaotic swirl of the day's events. He dreaded Monday. He dreaded the thought of walking into a weird, poor school where he knew absolutely no one, where everyone would look at him like he was an alien.
The doors swung open, breaking the peace.
Mrs. Vance strode in, her face set in its usual scowl. Balanced on her hip was one-year-old Aegon. "Egg," as the boys called him, had a tuft of silver hair and large, curious violet eyes. He was currently chewing aggressively on his own fist, drool trailing down his chin.
It was glaringly obvious that Mrs. Vance did not want to be holding the baby. She held him slightly away from her body, as if he were a sack of flour that was leaking on her expensive blouse.
Daeron immediately dropped his pencil and stood up, crossing the room to take the baby from her. "I've got him," Daeron said, shifting Egg onto his own hip with practiced ease. Egg immediately stopped chewing his fist and grabbed a fistful of Daeron’s shirt, babbling happily.
"Can we have dinner in here tonight, Mrs. Vance?" Daeron asked, projecting an air of polite authority that he had absolutely learned from watching their father.
The nanny pinched the bridge of her nose, looking at the boys as if they were an infestation she couldn't wait to exterminate. "Fine. But I am not having the staff clean up a mess. You will eat at the table, not on the sofas. And Aerion," she snapped her gaze to the boy curled in the armchair, "you are not to have any desserts. You are grounded."
Aerion didn't even blink, refusing to acknowledge her.
"What's for dinner?" Aemon asked quietly.
"The chef has prepared a steamed Dover sole with a quinoa and kale salad, and a reduction of balsamic," Mrs. Vance said briskly.
Daeron and Aemon exchanged a look of pure disgust, struggling hard not to physically grimace. It was incredibly formal, tasteless adult food. The kind of food Maekar requested when he was actually home, but entirely unappetizing to children.
"Wonderful," Daeron lied through his teeth. "Thank you."
Mrs. Vance turned and left without another word, shutting the doors firmly behind her.
Daeron sighed, walking back to the coffee table and depositing Egg onto the plush rug. "I hate her."
"She hates us," Aemon agreed, returning to his fractions.
Egg immediately began crawling toward the armchair where Aerion was sitting. The baby grabbed the leg of the chair, pulling himself up to a wobbly stand, and slapped his sticky hands against Aerion’s knees.
"Ba!" Egg demanded loudly.
Aerion looked down, the dark cloud in his head parting just a fraction at the sight of his baby brother. Aerion reached down, hauling his little brother up into the armchair with him. Egg giggled, immediately grabbing for Aerion’s nose.
For the rest of the homework session, Aerion kept the baby entertained. He made ridiculous faces, crossing his eyes and puffing out his cheeks until Egg was shrieking with loud, belly-deep laughter. He bounced the baby on his knee, whispering silly, nonsensical stories into his ear about dragons flying over the city.
Aemon and Daeron occasionally looked up from their work, offering small smiles at the sound of Egg’s laughter. It was a rare, peaceful moment in a house that constantly felt like it was holding its breath. Aerion was always undeniably good with Egg. He had an endless reserve of patience for the toddler that he didn't seem to have for anyone else.
An hour later, one of the kitchen staff rolled a silver cart into the room.
The peace shattered immediately. Mrs. Vance stepped in behind the cart, clapping her hands sharply. "Aegon, time for your feeding. Come along."
She reached down, unceremoniously hauling Egg out of Aerion’s lap. The baby immediately began to wail, reaching his chubby arms back toward Aerion, but the nanny ignored him, marching out of the room to feed him in the nursery.
The three brothers moved to the small dining table situated in the corner of the study. The food was just as dismal as it sounded. The fish was dry, and the kale was bitter. Daeron pushed his food around his plate, trying to hide the pieces under his fork. Aemon ate methodically, chewing each bite as if it were a chore. Aerion barely ate at all, simply resting his chin in his hand and staring out the large window into the dark gardens.
"Let's go to my room," Daeron finally said, throwing his napkin down on his barely touched plate. "I have the new combat game. I haven't even opened it yet. We can play until lights out."
Aemon nodded eagerly, sliding out of his chair.
Aerion perked up slightly, a spark of interest returning to his eyes. He stood up, pushing his chair back. Maybe the day wouldn't end in complete misery.
But as they reached the study doors, they pulled them open to find Mrs. Vance standing directly on the other side, her arms crossed over her chest.
"And just where do you think you are going?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"To my room," Daeron said, standing slightly in front of his brothers. "We finished our homework and ate dinner."
"You and Aemon may go to your room," Mrs. Vance corrected, her eyes darting to Aerion with a vindictive gleam. "Aerion, you will go straight to your own room. And you will go to sleep. You are grounded."
"It's only seven-thirty!" Daeron argued, his voice rising in genuine anger. "He's not a toddler, you can't send him to bed now!"
"I am the head caregiver in this household, Daeron, and you will not question my authority," she snapped, stepping closer so she was looming over them. "Your father gave me explicit instructions. Aerion is to be isolated and disciplined. If you do not listen to me, I will pick up that telephone right now, call your father's private office line, and tell him that all three of you are being insubordinate. I am sure he would love to leave his multi-million dollar merger to come home and discipline you himself."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and lethal.
Daeron clenched his jaw, his fists trembling at his sides, but he stepped back. He couldn't call her bluff. Maekar’s wrath was not something any of them wanted to invite into the house.
Aerion didn't say a word. He didn't argue. He just looked at Daeron, a look of crushing defeat in his eyes, and gave a small, jerky nod.
"It's fine, Daeron," Aerion whispered, his voice incredibly hollow.
He slipped past the nanny, keeping his head down, and began the long walk down the hallway back to his empty bedroom.
Daeron and Aemon stood in the doorway, watching their brother’s retreating back. They shot each other a look of pure, shared sadness. They knew what it felt like to be pushed aside in this family, but tonight, Aerion was entirely alone in his exile.
Aerion opened the door to his dark, sterile room. He didn't bother turning on the light. He didn't bother changing into his pajamas. He simply walked over to his bed, dropped to his knees, and crawled back underneath the wooden frame.
He pulled the discarded blanket over his head, curling into a tight, miserable ball. The silence of the room was deafening. He closed his eyes, his hands clutching empty air against his chest.
He just wished he had his dragon.