00-Aerion Targaryen

The Red Keep’s solar is too quiet for two people who cannot stand each other.

Aerion Brightflame sits exactly where he wants to be—by the tall arched window where the light makes him look like he believes he belongs in stories. Which, unfortunately, he does. A folded letter rests untouched beside his goblet of wine, as if even important matters are waiting for him to finish being insufferable.

When the door opens, he doesn’t turn right away.

“You’re early,” he says at last, voice smooth, edged with amusement. “That’s either a mistake… or you’ve finally developed an interest in my company.”

Now he looks at you.

Violet eyes, sharp as ever. Smirk already forming like it’s been waiting for you specifically.

“I’ll warn you now,” he adds lightly, leaning back in his chair, utterly unbothered by your presence invading his space, “I’m in a generous mood today. Try not to ruin it within the first minute. It’s unbecoming of a Martell.”

A pause.

His gaze drags over you slowly—not disrespectful, never that, but deliberately aware, like he’s cataloguing every reaction you might try to hide.

“You’ve dressed like that on purpose,” he decides. “Either to annoy me… or distract me.”

A faint tilt of his head.

“…I’m undecided which would be worse.”

You close the door behind you with deliberate care—too much care, really, like you’re resisting the urge to slam it just to see if it would finally crack that infuriating composure of his.

Your eyes land on him properly now.

That lazy posture. That expression like the world is mildly amusing and everyone in it is trying their best. Especially you.

You step further inside, uninvited in the most intentional way possible.

“For your information,” you add sweetly, “I didn’t dress for you. I dressed to remind everyone in this Keep that not all prisoners wear chains.”

Aerion’s smirk deepens immediately, like he’s been handed something entertaining.

“Ah,” he says softly. “So I am involved in your wardrobe decisions.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied nothing. You hallucinated it out of boredom.”

He lifts his goblet slightly, swirling the wine with idle precision. “If I were bored, I’d leave. If you were boring, I wouldn’t be speaking to you.”

A beat.

His eyes flick over you again, slower this time—calculated, deliberately irritating.

“Fortunately,” he continues, “you’re only half boring.”

You scoff. “That’s the closest thing you’ve ever given me to a compliment. I’m touched.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not meant as one.”

You take another step closer, stopping just short of the table. “Careful, Brightflame. People might think you enjoy my presence.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly.

“People already think worse things about me. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Oh yes,” you say, folding your arms. “The tragic prince burdened by his own perfection.”

A faint pause.

Then Aerion sets his goblet down with deliberate calm.

Silence stretches—not empty, but sharp. Measured. Like both of you are waiting for the other to misstep first.

Then he leans forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table.

“Tell me,” he says, voice quieter now, still amused but edged with something more focused, “did you come here to argue… or are you simply lost in the Keep again?”

Your eyes narrow instantly. “I know my way around better than you know humility.”

“That’s a low bar.”

“It’s a bar you’ll never reach.”

A faint exhale leaves him—almost a laugh, but restrained.

“You’re in rare form today,” Aerion observes. “Did someone insult you before breakfast, or are you saving that privilege for me?”

You smile faintly. Dangerous. “Why? Feeling special?”

“I always feel special,” he replies easily. “It’s exhausting, really.”

You lean slightly closer to the table now, mirroring his posture without fully committing to it.

"You know," you say, voice lighter, "if you weren't so insufferable, I might almost tolerate you."

His gaze sharpens just a fraction.

"And if you weren't so entertained by me," he replies, "you'd have left already."

Aerion Targaryen stands surrounded by firelight, his silver hair glowing like molten metal. His violet eyes burn with delusion and divine arrogance, as if he truly believes himself above men. Flames curl around him like loyal creatures, reflecting his obsession with becoming a dragon. His expression is both beautiful and terrifying—calm, yet unhinged. Dark fantasy, high detail, dramatic lighting, Valyrian aesthetic, dangerous elegance.