FIC: Metamorphosis for mathia
Recipient: mathia
Title: Metamorphosis
Author: smirnoffmule
Rating: PG13
Characters: Aerion Brightflame Targaryen and family.
Word Count: 1430
Summary: Daeron isn't the only one who dreams.
Daeron is not the only one who dreams.
Aerion Brightflame sleeps on Myrish silk in a room without a fire, for the dragon is always warm. He dreams of his skin cracking, smoke and steam and clear fluid pouring from the fissures. His spine arches and bends, his muscles twisted by heat. His hands become claws and cut at the air. There is pain, but it is a dream-pain, an abstract thing he can observe without feeling. There is screaming, somewhere, but it cannot be him, because his jaw and his tongue have fallen away. He breathes fire, a great gouting vomit of flame. He is flying, just for a moment, flying, the ground gone, his flesh gone, his eyes great orange orbs that glow with strange heat.
Then he falls and he wakes, tangled up in red sheets. He is soaking with sweat, his throat rough from acid bile. He swallows hard, and tells himself it is the fire starting. Flesh made fire. He has dreamed this before. It is a dream of his Becoming, he is sure, but it always disquiets him that he can see the change but not the end.
He stands and crosses the room naked. It feels strange to walk on human feet. His senses are always keener after his Becoming dreams, and he can smell the Blackwater and the night air through the open window. He will be gold and silver, he decides, like his dragon’s egg, a rich and terrible beast with wings wide enough to cast the whole Red Keep into shadow. He presses his face to the window and pictures himself soaring until he begins to sway.
The next morning, he wakes with a headache. A tight sick feeling across his temples, as though he cannot be contained in his own skull. Part of Becoming, he thinks, and blinks like a lizard, slow and deliberate. It helps cool him down.
***
His father is displeased. Aerion can feel it as soon as he enters his solar, a blank wall of atmosphere he has to push through at the door. He pretends not to notice and blinks like a lizard at Aegon, who is sitting between Rhae and Daella at the foot of the table. Aegon glares back at him, his eyes rimmed with red.
“Sit,” his father commands. The empty space is between him and Daeron. It is Daeron, then, who is in disgrace. When their father is angry, he invites all his children to witness. Aerion moves lightly to his place.
“Good morning, brother,” he says. Daeron nods dumbly. He looks ready to be sick into his mug of brown ale. Aerion unwraps his recollections of the previous evening - he had pushed Daeron off his stool when their father wasn’t looking, and Daeron had fallen like a sack of stones, too drunk even to catch himself.
A servant places food in front of him, but Aerion is not hungry. His tongue tastes the air, and the tension and Daeron’s drink fumes are filling enough.
“Is anything amiss?” he asks, all innocence, when the silence has drawn out to snapping point. All eyes flick to Father to see if he will speak first. Father turns the weight of his gaze on Aegon, who addresses his plate.
“Shadow drowned in the well.”
“Shadow?”
“My cat.” Oh yes. Something else he had forgotten from last night. He smirks at Aegon so their father can’t see.
“I’m sorry brother,” he says. “It is a shame. Still, a good cat shouldn’t be so clumsy as to fall down a well. Perhaps you’re better off getting a new one.”
“He was a good cat. He wouldn’t fall.” Aegon’s voice sounds about to crack. Rhae bumps her shoulder against his in sympathy. Aegon spends a lot of time with his sisters since Aemon went away, and now sitting between them, he looks just like another sister, with his long wispy hair and large eyes. Aerion wonders idly how many cuts it would take to make him a sister in truth.
Daeron hiccups indiscreetly. Father’s frown deepens, but he keeps his eyes on Aegon, an imperative for him to keep on talking. Father never explains his own displeasure to his sons.
“Daeron said -” Aegon begins, and Daeron winces and Father’s face is like a thunderstom. Aegon can see no way out, having started. “Daeron says he saw it,” he finished quickly.
That can’t be so. The cat had cut across Aerion in the courtyard as he returned to his rooms. By that time, Daeron had been sprawled under the table.
“I told Aegon,” Daeron says, his voice resigned. “I dreamed of a shadow in the well, and a dragon overhead.”
“He told me yesterday. He knew before it happened.”
“A dragon?” Aerion’s breath feels hot in his throat. He closes his fists beneath the table. A shadow. With wings wide enough to hide the Red Keep? Perhaps Daeron had seen his true face.
“He saw what happened.” Aegon repeats stubbornly. “And he saw who did it.” His eyes are the accusation he does not dare speak out loud. Not if you want your next cat to live. Aerion opens his fists and smiles at him sweetly.
“We are all dragons at this table, brother. Who’s to say it wasn’t you?”
“Enough,” Father cuts in. “Daeron dreams of shadows and beasts of the air. As do we all. The rest of us are not so foolish as to think our sleeping visions will come true.”
And some of us have but one vision. Aerion has dreamt of himself ablaze ever since he was a child. He has always known that his face is a mask, that his true form coils and hunches, has clashing teeth.
“Daenys the Dreamer had the gift,” Aegon insists. “She saw the Doom of Valyria.”
“Daenys was not a drunk or a fool. The only gift Daeron has is for finding the bottom of a wine skin. Like as not, he threw the cat down himself in his cups.”
“He didn’t,” Aegon says.
“I don’t think I did,” Daeron says, miserably. He hiccups again. Father’s patience snaps.
“This stops. I will not have the servants talking. Not again. They call you Daeron the Drunkard on the street, did you know?”
Daeron laughs softly. “Then it is a good thing I will never be king.”
“You are still my heir. If you spent less time drinking and less time dreaming, perhaps you would remember that from time to time.”
Aegon seems about to speak again, unwisely. Father cuts him off before he starts.
“And as for you, Aegon, stop sulking. The castle is full of cats. You can get another.”
“I don’t want another.” Softly.
“Then don’t get another. Gods give me strength. Your cousins are training in the yard this morning. Daeron, Aerion, I want to see you down there too. At least one of you may not disgrace me at Ashford.”
Aerion runs a fingernail that is really a claw over the rough edge of the table and says, “I will do my best, Father.” Daeron hiccups again.
Breakfast over, their father leaves first. Freed of his presence, Daeron leans back in his seat and exhales deeply.
“Ouch,” he says. “Aegon, I am sorry about Shadow.”
“I know it wasn’t you,” Aegon says. He looks at Aerion again, his eyes accusing.
“Oh shut up, Egg. Why would I risk a scratch to throw your stupid cat down a well? I’ll throw you down if you keep bleating lies.”
“Oh, let him be,” Daeron says wearily. He is an unlikely peacemaker, but raised voices give him a headache. Aerion can’t make sense of the idea that Daeron, slow drunk Daeron, with his common brown hair, might have seen his true form.
“Do you often dream of dragons?” he asks, when the children have left.
Daeron shrugs, and then smiles in self-mockery. “Often,” he says. “I’ve seen dragons hatch from eggs and rise from the ruin of castles. I’ve seen a dragon born with wings that spanned the narrow sea. I don’t know what it means, though. Perhaps it is all just dreams.”
“Perhaps.” Aerion’s blood picks up a notch. “Do you ever see your future?”
“I see more wine. I truly hope that is prophetic.”
“Do you ever see me?” He has to work not to lean forward in his seat, to look to eager.
“Yes,” Daeron said. His smile seems sad. “At least, sort of. Brother, in my dreams, you burn so bright I can hardly see you.”
That is pleasing, at least.
Title: Metamorphosis
Author: smirnoffmule
Rating: PG13
Characters: Aerion Brightflame Targaryen and family.
Word Count: 1430
Summary: Daeron isn't the only one who dreams.
Daeron is not the only one who dreams.
Aerion Brightflame sleeps on Myrish silk in a room without a fire, for the dragon is always warm. He dreams of his skin cracking, smoke and steam and clear fluid pouring from the fissures. His spine arches and bends, his muscles twisted by heat. His hands become claws and cut at the air. There is pain, but it is a dream-pain, an abstract thing he can observe without feeling. There is screaming, somewhere, but it cannot be him, because his jaw and his tongue have fallen away. He breathes fire, a great gouting vomit of flame. He is flying, just for a moment, flying, the ground gone, his flesh gone, his eyes great orange orbs that glow with strange heat.
Then he falls and he wakes, tangled up in red sheets. He is soaking with sweat, his throat rough from acid bile. He swallows hard, and tells himself it is the fire starting. Flesh made fire. He has dreamed this before. It is a dream of his Becoming, he is sure, but it always disquiets him that he can see the change but not the end.
He stands and crosses the room naked. It feels strange to walk on human feet. His senses are always keener after his Becoming dreams, and he can smell the Blackwater and the night air through the open window. He will be gold and silver, he decides, like his dragon’s egg, a rich and terrible beast with wings wide enough to cast the whole Red Keep into shadow. He presses his face to the window and pictures himself soaring until he begins to sway.
The next morning, he wakes with a headache. A tight sick feeling across his temples, as though he cannot be contained in his own skull. Part of Becoming, he thinks, and blinks like a lizard, slow and deliberate. It helps cool him down.
***
His father is displeased. Aerion can feel it as soon as he enters his solar, a blank wall of atmosphere he has to push through at the door. He pretends not to notice and blinks like a lizard at Aegon, who is sitting between Rhae and Daella at the foot of the table. Aegon glares back at him, his eyes rimmed with red.
“Sit,” his father commands. The empty space is between him and Daeron. It is Daeron, then, who is in disgrace. When their father is angry, he invites all his children to witness. Aerion moves lightly to his place.
“Good morning, brother,” he says. Daeron nods dumbly. He looks ready to be sick into his mug of brown ale. Aerion unwraps his recollections of the previous evening - he had pushed Daeron off his stool when their father wasn’t looking, and Daeron had fallen like a sack of stones, too drunk even to catch himself.
A servant places food in front of him, but Aerion is not hungry. His tongue tastes the air, and the tension and Daeron’s drink fumes are filling enough.
“Is anything amiss?” he asks, all innocence, when the silence has drawn out to snapping point. All eyes flick to Father to see if he will speak first. Father turns the weight of his gaze on Aegon, who addresses his plate.
“Shadow drowned in the well.”
“Shadow?”
“My cat.” Oh yes. Something else he had forgotten from last night. He smirks at Aegon so their father can’t see.
“I’m sorry brother,” he says. “It is a shame. Still, a good cat shouldn’t be so clumsy as to fall down a well. Perhaps you’re better off getting a new one.”
“He was a good cat. He wouldn’t fall.” Aegon’s voice sounds about to crack. Rhae bumps her shoulder against his in sympathy. Aegon spends a lot of time with his sisters since Aemon went away, and now sitting between them, he looks just like another sister, with his long wispy hair and large eyes. Aerion wonders idly how many cuts it would take to make him a sister in truth.
Daeron hiccups indiscreetly. Father’s frown deepens, but he keeps his eyes on Aegon, an imperative for him to keep on talking. Father never explains his own displeasure to his sons.
“Daeron said -” Aegon begins, and Daeron winces and Father’s face is like a thunderstom. Aegon can see no way out, having started. “Daeron says he saw it,” he finished quickly.
That can’t be so. The cat had cut across Aerion in the courtyard as he returned to his rooms. By that time, Daeron had been sprawled under the table.
“I told Aegon,” Daeron says, his voice resigned. “I dreamed of a shadow in the well, and a dragon overhead.”
“He told me yesterday. He knew before it happened.”
“A dragon?” Aerion’s breath feels hot in his throat. He closes his fists beneath the table. A shadow. With wings wide enough to hide the Red Keep? Perhaps Daeron had seen his true face.
“He saw what happened.” Aegon repeats stubbornly. “And he saw who did it.” His eyes are the accusation he does not dare speak out loud. Not if you want your next cat to live. Aerion opens his fists and smiles at him sweetly.
“We are all dragons at this table, brother. Who’s to say it wasn’t you?”
“Enough,” Father cuts in. “Daeron dreams of shadows and beasts of the air. As do we all. The rest of us are not so foolish as to think our sleeping visions will come true.”
And some of us have but one vision. Aerion has dreamt of himself ablaze ever since he was a child. He has always known that his face is a mask, that his true form coils and hunches, has clashing teeth.
“Daenys the Dreamer had the gift,” Aegon insists. “She saw the Doom of Valyria.”
“Daenys was not a drunk or a fool. The only gift Daeron has is for finding the bottom of a wine skin. Like as not, he threw the cat down himself in his cups.”
“He didn’t,” Aegon says.
“I don’t think I did,” Daeron says, miserably. He hiccups again. Father’s patience snaps.
“This stops. I will not have the servants talking. Not again. They call you Daeron the Drunkard on the street, did you know?”
Daeron laughs softly. “Then it is a good thing I will never be king.”
“You are still my heir. If you spent less time drinking and less time dreaming, perhaps you would remember that from time to time.”
Aegon seems about to speak again, unwisely. Father cuts him off before he starts.
“And as for you, Aegon, stop sulking. The castle is full of cats. You can get another.”
“I don’t want another.” Softly.
“Then don’t get another. Gods give me strength. Your cousins are training in the yard this morning. Daeron, Aerion, I want to see you down there too. At least one of you may not disgrace me at Ashford.”
Aerion runs a fingernail that is really a claw over the rough edge of the table and says, “I will do my best, Father.” Daeron hiccups again.
Breakfast over, their father leaves first. Freed of his presence, Daeron leans back in his seat and exhales deeply.
“Ouch,” he says. “Aegon, I am sorry about Shadow.”
“I know it wasn’t you,” Aegon says. He looks at Aerion again, his eyes accusing.
“Oh shut up, Egg. Why would I risk a scratch to throw your stupid cat down a well? I’ll throw you down if you keep bleating lies.”
“Oh, let him be,” Daeron says wearily. He is an unlikely peacemaker, but raised voices give him a headache. Aerion can’t make sense of the idea that Daeron, slow drunk Daeron, with his common brown hair, might have seen his true form.
“Do you often dream of dragons?” he asks, when the children have left.
Daeron shrugs, and then smiles in self-mockery. “Often,” he says. “I’ve seen dragons hatch from eggs and rise from the ruin of castles. I’ve seen a dragon born with wings that spanned the narrow sea. I don’t know what it means, though. Perhaps it is all just dreams.”
“Perhaps.” Aerion’s blood picks up a notch. “Do you ever see your future?”
“I see more wine. I truly hope that is prophetic.”
“Do you ever see me?” He has to work not to lean forward in his seat, to look to eager.
“Yes,” Daeron said. His smile seems sad. “At least, sort of. Brother, in my dreams, you burn so bright I can hardly see you.”
That is pleasing, at least.