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Pursuing the boy was not his duty. His duty was to ensure all were aware of just what Aerion had brought upon them- guilty and innocent alike. He'd done all he could by this hour; the hedge knight had been sent off to desperately cobble together his chosen, Lords Tyrell and Ashford gone for the evening, and his own family scattered about doing as much or as little as they were bid.
He was furious- beyond incensed at the turn of events and how Aerion had blown it into some great showing of house power upon that of a lowly knight. There was no honour or glory to be gained here even amongst lords, let alone amongst the commonfolk, who would only see a cruel beast exerting its power for the sake of fun and bloodshed.
In spite of it, he had heard the din of his brother's rage long after he'd dragged his second son from the room. He'd caught echoes of it whilst he'd seen to the accused, knew that all three of his brood had caught an earful or more over the course of the evening. He knew Maekar to be harsh on the boys, but he'd not been witness to it before- not since Lady Dyanna's death, and he was sure such a thing had not made Maekar any kinder.
He'd felt suffocated under his own shortcomings since they were boys, and now he hoped to save his own from such comparisons and cruelties through the guidance of a heavy hand and a distant, cold heart. One could see how it had gnawed away at his sons: Daeron a haunted, hollowed out husk; Aegon already avoidant and defiant; and Aerion… perhaps worn down most of all. Baelor had not seen his third son for many years, but he hoped the sanctuary of a citadel could give him direction and purpose he'd not otherwise find at Summerhall.
He'd spoken with Aegon, though the boy seemed disinterested and more concerned with his new friend, and Daeron was likely tucked away at the bottom of a bottle again, even on the eve of battle, and so he found himself before Aerion's chamber, waving away the house guard as he considered the grain of the door.
He is not your son, he is not your responsibility, he thought to himself as he pressed a hand against it. He expected resistance- for it to have been jammed shut and barricaded from the other side as Valarr had so often resorted to in the aftermath of a punishment or tantrum, but it fell open as any door should under his palm.
Valarr had locked himself away to avoid the coddling warmth of his mother- it had made him feel small and stupid he'd always said, though Baelor knew now he wished dearly to have enjoyed her kindness more. Perhaps Aerion had never thought to be followed, or perhaps Baelor was overthinking the matter.
At first he thought the room to be empty, though it was clear someone had been here and had made a mess of it all. He saw goblets drooling wine onto the floor, cushions thrown and clothes strewn about. The candles and hearth were all extinguished and if he hadn't been wearing his thick surcoat over his tunic he may have been cold.
His gaze stopped on a crumpled shape in the corner of the room, a dull head of white hair stark in the darkness of the room. He half turned and pulled the door quietly shut, stepping further into the room. "Aerion?"
Silence stretched on, though he knew the man had likely been watching him since he'd stepped through the doorway. The answer that came was spoken with a voice raw and cracking, and made a simple 'yes?' sound like a great feat of strength.
He'd thought to check whether the boy knew exactly what was expected of him before dawn's trial; he'd thought he would hammer the weight of the situation into the boy's head till he was sure he understood. Though now he stared down at how Aerion sat on the cold floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around himself, and he felt his resolve crack.
He was a terrible boy. He'd hurt people because he wanted to and because he could and he'd never spared any of them a second of empathy, Baelor was sure. He'd dragged over a dozen men into a trial that had no place here at Ashford, but his reasons were plain enough to see- even if Baelor did not think they were correct or proper.
He could not believe men could be born rotten or corrupt, and that included Aerion.
"Are you quite alright?" he asked softly, masking a deep sigh as he set aside his role as hand and protector in favour for that of a father- a protector of a different, deeper kind. He approached the hearth, eyeing off the smouldering embers that could likely still be tempted back to life. He gathered kindling from an alcove full of larger logs and sticks and carefully placed it amongst the embers.
"I'm fine," Aerion replied after many more beats of silence, a quiet sniffle audible only thanks to the stillness of the room. "Leave it, uncle."
Baelor disregarded the request, "you're likely to freeze on a night like this- you've put yourself in this trial, the least you can do is show your face on the morrow."
"Don't talk to me about the fucking trial… you all…" his voice raised with anger that burnt out as quickly as it sparked, cutting himself off with a sigh and a deep wince as he buried his face in his knees. "I do not regret calling for such a trial… don't think to try and change my stance now."
Baelor hummed- it would be unlike Aerion to walk back on a choice now, even with all the grief he'd been given.
Small licks of fire danced along the kindling, kissing and flickering against the colder, half-burnt logs atop it. He fed it more kindling and watched the fire continue to feast- growing slow but determined.
"I'm not going to offer you any more advice on the matter, it's done now…"
"What are you here for, then?"
He stared at the flames, felt them tickle at his fingertips as he placed a final piece of kindling into the hearth; it was strong enough to grow on its own now, crawling up the cold pile of wood to reheat it anew. Baelor stepped back and dusted off his palms, turning to look at Aerion. The light of the fire hardly reached him, but even in the low light Baelor could see the sharpness of his gaze- knew he had to tread carefully if he wished to be any help at all.
"I've seen to your brother, Aegon. I hope now to see to you," he offered, picking a goblet up off the floor and placing it back on a table. "Whether it was deserved or not, I've had the pleasure of overhearing your father's wrath this evening- towards all three of you."
Aerion snorted, shaking his head as he watched Baelor step around the room. He made no move to unfurl himself or stand up, instead electing to sit and watch the older man like a beaten dog might- anticipating the next strike no matter how dearly it hoped it wouldn't. "What does any of it have to do with you?"
It was Baelor's turn to scoff and shake his head. "You're family, Aerion. I would not see my nephews left to lick their own wounds."
More silence, and Baelor cautiously sat himself at the foot of Aerion's bed. It was the one part of the room that had seemingly been spared from vandalism, and he hoped it would not put the worst ideas in the younger man's head. He'd stop it if it did, he thought, though with as much sureness as one could claim they knew tomorrow's weather.
"You haven't seen Daeron?"
"Perhaps I'll find him once I leave you, but no, I've not yet found Daeron."
"Probably fucked off to another backwater inn and found some sickly whore to drown him in wine and old cunt by now."
His jaw clenched and he sighed deeply, unwilling to rise to any of Aerion's jabs. His eyes glanced to the fire again, watching it crackle and pop as if it had never been doused. "May be so, but he'll be expected at tomorrow's trial, same as you."
Aerion grunted and offered no further argument. He moved after many long moments, stretching out his legs and scooting close enough to the fire that the glow lit him up in shades of orange and gold. Baelor looked over him, trying to gauge the physical state of the boy without breaching his personal space and risking angering him all over again.
There was a dark smudge on his lip- though he'd worn such a wound earlier in the evening, thanks to Ser Duncan's boot. He watched his lip tremble as Aerion stared into the flames, brow twitching and eyes blinking quickly as if he was at war with himself inside. Baelor wished to ask what could be troubling him, but of course he didn't expect cooperation nor honesty in the matter.
They sat like that for a long while, Aerion warming himself in the glow of the hearth and Baelor watching him, waiting for movement or any indication as to what the boy wanted.
It came in the form of Aerion turning to finally face him, eyes glowing at their centre with the reflection of the flames- he looked like a hellbeast. "You're not leaving" he stated, with a voice playing at bold but sounding anything but.
"I can leave if you'd prefer."
Aerion shook his head softly, masking the slightest movement closer to Baelor as a mere shift to make himself more comfortable. He opened his mouth and closed it with a wince, cheek bulging where he tongued at was was likely a cut or wound inside his mouth.
Baelor busied himself with his surcoat, adjusting the belt and plucking at the sleeves; his ears burned at the rasp of fabric- Aerion moving himself closer again.
He wasn't sure what the boy would want when at last they were close enough to touch- what could he want? Comfort that he seemed ill at ease with thus far, a lecture he was well past fed-up with, intimacy that Baelor couldn't think less appropriate for this moment?
The first touch was laid against his boot, Aerion's hand almost grasping at his ankle as he settled at Baelor's feet. He didn't dare raise his eye to the older man as he settled, fitting himself into the space between Baelor's knees. In the silence of the room he could hear the rasp of their breaths amongst the quiet crackle and pop of the hearth.
Aerion didn't make a sound as he laid his cheek against the inside of one of Baelor's thighs, eyes directed at some far-off object in the room. Now that he was close enough, Baelor looked over the boy's face, frowning as he took in the now burst seam along his lip where earlier it had worn a simple bruise from his fight with the hedge knight. He'd been struck, though the cut would be thanks to a ring adorning the hand of whoever had hit him; it would scab and scar him for many years to come if he was unlucky- a constant reminder of this evening.
Baelor raised a hand slowly and laid it against the feathery softness of Aerion's pale hair, stroking over it gently, even after Aerion made no move to suggest he was uncomfortable with the touch. He shifted his hand over the side of his head and pulled away when the boy jolted with a sharp hiss.
"What's the matter?" Baelor asked softly, returning his hand to where it had touched without causing Aerion any pain.
"Goblet," Aerion said simply- flatly. His hands remained against Baelor's ankle, nails scratching over the creases in the leather.
His father's rage painted a gruesome picture, and Baelor dismissed the thought that came after, the one that pondered whether any of the boys had been spared, or if they'd all had much of the same treatment this evening.
He made sure to avoid the bump on Aerion's head as he pet him, fingers grazing down the back of his skull and dragging through where he'd let his hair grow longer on the nape of his neck, almost long enough to twist around a finger. Aerion wasn't any more forthcoming, but his eyes had slid softly shut under Baelor's touch.
He'd not ever seen him like this- not even in the moments after they'd laid together, when Aerion always seemed so intent on wringing every moment of intimacy from him, no matter how hesitant Baelor always was to give any more than what was required in the heat of the moment. He could scarcely believe the boy curled between his knees was Aerion at all- that cruel, cold-eyed young man that had gotten them into this grisly situation in the first place.
Maekar had defanged him for the evening. Tomorrow he would wake spitting venom again, Baelor was sure.
"Do you hate me, uncle?"
He stared down at Aerion, his fingertips stroking over the boy's cheek- mottled with bruising that would bloom in the night and paint him in shades of purples and reds come morning. The question both shocked him and didn't, though any amount of anticipation did little to ready him with an answer.
"You're family, Aerion."
The answer satisfied him as little as Baelor thought it would. A humourless laugh fell from Aerion's mouth, "as I thought, then."
"You have three brothers, you should know as well as I that one can at times both hate and deeply love their family. Shared blood so often complicates things, love include."
"You do hate me."
He sighed and brushed his palm over Aerion's hairline, "I hate the actions you choose to take. I cannot concede that it is simply who you are, though sometimes it is hard to see that there's anything beneath your cruelty."
He was silent, though his eyes had opened again and it was evident he was chewing on Baelor's words.
"I do not hate you," he repeated, though it sat heavy in his chest and he could not help but feel he was lying to the boy. He had seen so many conflicting sides that he couldn't imagine ever managing to parse what was his essence, and what had been taught to him on evenings such as this, when no-one was around to pick up his pieces.
He rubbed a hand down over his shoulder, frowning at the chill that still sat against the thin fabric of his tunic in spite of his time before the hearth. "Are you planning on getting up off the floor?"
Aerion rolled his eyes almost petulantly- which was encouraging in this circumstance. "Leave if you wish to leave," he huffed, though he'd slipped his hands up to Baelor's knee and shoved himself to his feet from where he'd been sitting. The movement forced Baelor to arch back away from elbows and shoulders and knees as Aerion all but threw himself onto the bed. He let out a heavy exhale as he settled atop the furs, stretching out like a cat showing its belly.
Baelor half turned to watch him settle, some minuscule curl of relief unfolding in his chest. Aerion was dressed down in his hose and a tunic, and Baelor was relieved he wouldn't need to start pulling layers off the boy to ensure he was comfortable in sleep.
Aerion rolled onto his back properly, legs bending and kicking out and folding as he shuffled himself about, "you're not going to tuck me in? No kiss goodnight?"
His attitude was back at least. Baelor shook his head and hesitantly got to his feet, anticipating the boy's momentary bluster to sink back into listless disinterest once again. He approached the top of the bed, where Aerion had almost tucked himself away under the furs. "Would that make you feel any better? Be truthful with me, Zaldrītsos."
He'd overheard Dyanna call him as such once, when their family had gathered for a name day- he'd only noticed because her pronunciation had been lacking- to be expected from one learning the language. It had struck him then as a sweet endearment, and he could almost laugh now to think what that little dragon had grown into. Hearing it now, Aerion's face lost its pinch for the sparest of moments, flushing pink and putting a crease at the corner of his mouth as he processed it.
"Mother called me that," Aerion stated simply as Baelor grasped an ankle and tucked it under the sheets, though by now, exhaustion must be have been weighing at the young man, as he'd suddenly turned boneless and weary in the warmth of his bed.
"She did," Baelor hummed, reaching up to touch over his face, inspecting the cut Maekar's ring had left on his lip. Aerion groaned as the tender flesh was prodded at, but didn't move besides. "Rest well, it'll be an early and long day for you on the morrow."
He left the boy buried in his sheets, offering a soft palm over his hairline in parting before he made for the door. Baelor still struggled to connect the glassy-eyed boy swaddled in blankets and pouting over childhood nicknames with the man he'd seen earlier, chewing on walnuts with a sore tooth and ordering lords to pick up after him.
He knew which would face down a trial of life and death come sunrise- the one shaped by his father's insecurity and coldness, the one that hoped to leave his mark in some tangible way despite being the second son of a fourth son and near doomed to mediocrity same as the man who'd raised him in his own image.
This knight did not deserve to bear the brunt of Aerion's rage; not for doing what he was bid as a knight and sworn man. Baelor had done what he could to pry him from Aerion's grasp and yet he felt as if he'd only made matters worse. A trial by combat just the two of them could have been mistaken as fair, but his… spectacle, was anything but.
He wouldn't have let Aerion take the man's head, but now he feared it was all beyond his control- rights stretched to their limits to feed Aerion's boredom and ego. He wished he could capture that soft-eyed, touch-addled boy that had been curled into him and keep him a moment longer. Perhaps that boy could be reasoned with, but alas.
Whatever the world had made of them both, he cared for them as family should- and beyond that at times that he'd never truly reconcile. For the sake of love, he hoped they survived tomorrow's trial; they'd be beaten to submission but alive, and for the sake of justice, he hoped that lowly hedge knight lived another day.