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ROYAL WATCH WEEKLY | WEDDING EDITION
“Bitter Prince” Aerion Seethes at Historic Wedding
Body language experts weigh in on the spare’s “barely concealed fury”
The wedding of the century has come and gone, and while the realm celebrates Crown Prince Valarr’s historic union with both Prince Daeron Targaryen and Lady Kiera Rogare of Tyrosh, one family member seemed notably less than thrilled.
Prince Aerion Targaryen, seventh in line to the throne, was photographed throughout the ceremony wearing what sources describe as a “thunderous expression” that “never once softened, even during the vows.”
“He looked like he’d swallowed something rotten,” said one guest, speaking on condition of anonymity. “Everyone else was in tears — happy tears — and Aerion just stood there like a statue. It was honestly uncomfortable to watch.”
The difficult second son of Prince Maekar has long been rumored to harbor ambitions above his station. Palace insiders suggest that Aerion had hoped his brother’s relationship with the Crown Prince would result in scandal and disgrace — potentially moving him up in the line of succession.
“The plan backfired spectacularly,” our source reveals. “Instead of Valarr being forced to abdicate or Daeron being sent away in shame, they got a fairy tale ending. Valarr kept his position as heir AND got to marry for love. Aerion must be absolutely seething.”
Body language expert Dr. Helena Massey analyzed footage from the ceremony for Royal Watch Weekly. “The clenched jaw, the rigid posture, the way he avoids looking directly at the happy couple — these are classic indicators of suppressed rage and jealousy. This is someone who expected a very different outcome.”
The historic triple marriage — the first polyamorous royal union since Aegon the Conqueror wed both his sisters nearly three centuries ago — has been celebrated across Westeros as a triumph of love over tradition.
But for Prince Aerion, it seems, the celebration rings hollow.
“He’s always been the difficult one,” another source close to the family confided. “Volatile. Unpredictable. I think he genuinely believed this would tear the family apart, and when it didn’t — when it actually brought them closer — he didn’t know what to do with himself.”
Continued on page 14: “Prince Aerion’s History of Mayhem: A Timeline”
*~*
Duncan set his phone face-down on the café table and breathed out slowly through his nose.
Barely concealed fury. Seething. Suppressed rage.
He thought of Daeron’s voice months ago, sitting across from him in the Foundation’s large office. They’d been sorting donations — winter coats, mostly, sizing them for distribution — and Daeron had been quiet all morning. Quieter than usual.
“Aerion told Valarr to abdicate.” Daeron hadn’t looked up from the coat in his hands. “At the gala. He told Valarr that if he loved me, he should abdicate.”
Duncan had froze with a child’s parka in his grip. “Yeah, I read about it in the papers. Course, they do always exaggerate a bit.”
“Especially about Aerion.” Daeron’s laugh had been soft. “But he’s never really gone off on Valarr like that. He usually buries his feelings.” Daeron pressed his hand to his chest, over his heart. “Valarr told me this morning he’s decided he’s going to marry us both.”
2:47. Thirteen minutes early.
He was sitting in a corner booth at a place called The Drip, a coffee shop on the edge of Visenya’s Hill that he’d chosen specifically because it was neither Flea Bottom nor anywhere a prince would normally be spotted. Neutral ground. Mismatched furniture and a chalkboard menu and baristas too busy being aggressively alternative to care who walked through the door.
Duncan had already ordered — a black coffee he wasn’t drinking, more prop than beverage — and he’d already checked his phone six times to make sure Aerion hadn’t sent a text saying he wasn’t coming after all.
This is stupid. He pressed his palms flat against the table, felt the wood grain rough beneath his skin. You’re a grown man. You’ve played in front of sixty thousand people. You can drink coffee with someone.
But the someone was Aerion Targaryen, and that made all the difference in the world.
Five years ago, Duncan had been seventeen years old and just joined the Ashford Eagles. He’d been at The Dragonpit because his teammates dragged him there to celebrate and they never checked ids, because they thought he needed to “loosen up”. They didn’t know that clubs made his skin crawl and the bass in his chest felt too much like a heartbeat stopping.
He’d been nursing a drink near the back when he saw Aerion on the dance floor.
Not dancing. Moving like dancing was a dare he was losing. Too sharp, too bright, too much — and Duncan had grown up in Flea Bottom, had learned to read desperation before he’d learned to read books. He’d known. The same way he’d known about Rafe, that last afternoon, when she’d been laughing too loud and hugging him too hard and he hadn’t understood until later that she’d been saying goodbye.
However, the concern didn’t stop him from dancing with him because he was literally the most beautiful human Duncan had ever seen.
So when he left, Duncan followed. Up the fire escape. Onto the roof.
Cold air and city lights and a boy balanced on a ledge not wide enough for his expensive boots.
He’d never expected to see him again.
Now he was thirteen minutes early to their coffee date, palms sweating against the cold wood.
The door opened at 2:52.
Aerion Targaryen walked into The Drip like he was bracing for a fight. Shoulders squared, chin up, eyes scanning the room with the kind of hypervigilance Duncan recognized from Flea Bottom kids who’d learned early that danger could come from anywhere.
Jeans and a dark sweater. He looked smaller than Duncan remembered. He was lean and sharp-featured and moved like something coiled.
Their eyes met.
Duncan lifted a hand. A small wave.
Aerion crossed the room like he was walking a plank. He slid into the booth across from Duncan, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The coffee machine hissed behind the counter. Someone’s spoon clinked against ceramic.
“You’re early,” Aerion said.
“So are you.”
“I was circling the block.” A pause. “Twice.”
Duncan felt his mouth twitch. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. Bought a coffee I haven’t touched because I was worried you’d think I started without you.”
Aerion looked at the full mug, then back at Duncan. Something in his expression shifted — not a smile,
but a loosening. “That’s deeply tragic.”
“I’m pretty tragic. You can ask any of my friends.”
“You play rugby. You’re a national hero. Children have posters of you.”
“Children have terrible taste.”
That startled a sound out of Aerion. Not quite a laugh, but close. He looked away, jaw working, like he hadn’t expected to find anything funny and didn’t know what to do with it.
Duncan waited.
He was good at waiting. Had learned it young, sitting with his mum through her bad days when the cough got worse and she couldn’t get out of bed. Sitting with Rafe through her rages, her sorrows, her fierce and terrifying love of a world that had never loved her back. Sitting on a rooftop with a prince who was trying to decide if he wanted to live.
Waiting was easy. Waiting was the thing Duncan knew how to do.
“I brought your jacket,” Aerion said finally. “It’s in my car. I didn’t want to — I thought if I walked in holding it, you might think I was just here to return it and leave.”
“Are you?”
Aerion met his eyes. The violet was darker than Duncan remembered. Bruised-looking, like the skin beneath them. “No.”
“Good.” Duncan reached down beside him, lifted the leather jacket he’d been sitting next to for twenty minutes. Cracked leather, worn soft at the elbows, still carrying the faint ghost of expensive cologne. “Because I brought yours too. And I didn’t carry this thing around for five years just to do a handoff in a parking lot.”
Aerion stared at the jacket. His throat moved.
“You kept it.”
“You kept mine.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Aerion’s mouth opened, closed. He looked genuinely thrown, like he’d had an answer prepared and it had just evaporated. “Why would you keep some random—”
“You’re not random.” Duncan set the jacket back on the seat between them. “You were never random.”
Aerion looked like he had been slapped. Pull it back, Dunk. Affection feels like violence to him.
“I saw the article about the wedding,” Duncan offered instead, and regretted it immediately.
Aerion’s expression shuttered. “Ah.”
“They’re wrong.” Duncan offered quickly. “Obviously.”
“They’re always wrong. That’s the thing about them. They’re reliably wrong. It’s almost impressive.”
“Daeron told me what you actually said to Valarr. On the terrace.”
Aerion went very still. “Daeron talks too much.”
“Daeron thinks you hung the moon. He just doesn’t know how to say it, and you don’t know how to hear it.”
Something flickered across Aerion’s face. Fuck, come on, Dunk. Slower.
“I’m not here to talk about my brother,” Aerion said. “Or the wedding. Or what the tabloids think of me.”
“Okay.” Duncan picked up his cold coffee, took a sip, managed not to grimace at the bitterness gone stale. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t do this. I don’t — sit in coffee shops with people. I don’t make small talk. I’m not good at—” He gestured vaguely. “This.”
“Neither am I.”
“You seem good at it.”
“I’m good at waiting. That’s different.” Duncan set the mug down. “I’m not expecting a life-altering conversation or undeniable charm or whatever you think you’re supposed to perform. I just wanted to see you. That’s it.”
Aerion looked at him for a long moment. “Why?”
Because I’ve been thinking about you for five years. Because I saw every headline and knew they were lying and I wanted to tell you that.
Duncan shrugged. “Because I wanted to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Aerion stared at him. Then, slowly, he reached for the menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. “Fine. If we’re doing this, I need caffeine. What do you like so I know not to order it? Daeron said you have horrendous taste in coffee. ”
“No offense, but your brother is a little dramatic. I bought the coffee for the break room at the foundation in bulk and he threw it all out because he didn’t like how it tasted.”
That surprised another almost-laugh out of Aerion. “Sounds like Daeron.”
Duncan smiled as he looked at the menu.
“You haven’t figured out what you wanted yet?” Aerion asked, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“No, I was nervous, so I circled the block three times.”
“You said you’ve been here twenty minutes.”
“Yes, I drove past, parked, sat in my car, drove past again, parked in a different spot—”
“Oh my god.” Aerion was almost smiling now. “You’re a disaster.”
“Complete disaster. Absolute wreck of a human being.”
“You’re nearly seven feet tall and built like a wall. You’re not allowed to be a wreck.”
“Height has nothing to do with emotional stability. I’m very large, so I have more space to hold more anxiety.”
Aerion laughed. Bright and unexpected, like sunlight through storm clouds.
Duncan wanted to hear it again.
“Okay,” Aerion said, studying the menu with far more focus than a chalkboard list of coffee drinks required. “I’m getting a cortado. You’re getting a new coffee because that one’s cold and sad, and then we’re going to — talk. Like normal people.”
“I don’t know how normal people talk.”
“Then we are fucked.”
They talked for two hours.
Not about the rooftop. Not about tabloids or weddings or the weight of five years of watching each other from a distance. They talked about nothing, about everything — rugby (Aerion had opinions about his defensive line that were surprisingly informed), coffee (Aerion was a snob, Duncan had no taste, they argued about it for ten minutes), the weather and the traffic and the way the city smelled different in autumn, woodsmoke and fallen leaves and something almost sweet beneath the exhaust.
It was easy in a way Duncan hadn’t expected. Aerion was sharp and dry and occasionally cutting, but there was no cruelty in it. Just precision. A mind that moved fast and a tongue that could keep up.
Duncan found himself laughing more than he had in months.
At 5:00, Aerion looked at his phone and made a sound of annoyance. “I have to go. I have—” He hesitated. “A thing.”
“A thing?”
“A work thing. Flea Bottom. Lysara will kill me if I’m late again.”
Duncan nodded. He knew about the work. He knew Lysara very well. Had heard about Aerion at the distribution centers, the needle exchanges, the community meals. Had kept his distance because it hadn’t felt like his place to approach Aerion there.
“Can I see you again?” Duncan asked.
Aerion’s fingers stilled on his coffee cup. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“People ask things they don’t mean all the time. It’s one of the foundational pillars of polite society.”
“I don’t.” Duncan held his gaze. “When I say something, I mean it. It’s a character flaw. I’m extremely literal and bad at subtext.”
Aerion studied him. Looking for the lie, probably. Duncan let him look.
“Friday,” Aerion said finally. “There’s a — there’s a place in Flea Bottom. Not a coffee shop. A food stall. Street food. It’s objectively terrible and the woman who runs it is rude to everyone and I go there sometimes when I want to remember that not everything has to be pleasant to be worth doing.”
“Friday,” Duncan agreed. “You’ll text me the address?”
“I’ll text you. If I don’t lose your number. Which I might, because I’m careless with things.”
He won’t, Duncan thought. But he didn’t say it.
They both stood. The jacket was still on the chair.
“We should probably exchange these,” Duncan said.
“Probably.” Aerion didn’t move to pick his up. “Or.”
“Or?”
“Or we do it Friday.” He was looking at the jacket, not at Duncan. His voice had gone careful, stripped of the dry edge, and Duncan could see what it cost him — the effort of saying something that wasn’t wrapped in armour. “So there’s a logistical reason. For showing up.”
“I don’t need a logistical reason.”
“Well, I’d like one. I’m not good at doing things without a practical justification. It’s a personality defect. I have several.”
“Friday, then.”
“Friday. Don’t be late. Don’t bring flowers. Don’t do anything that could be mistaken for romance. This is a business transaction involving jackets and bad food.”
“Understood.”
“Good.”
Aerion left first. Duncan watched him go, watched him pause at the door and glance back — just for a second, barely a flicker — before he pushed out into the autumn afternoon. Grey light and the smell of rain coming.
Duncan sat back down in the booth.
He picked up the jacket next to him and let himself feel the impossible, terrifying weight of hope.
Friday, he thought.
He could wait until Friday.