Chapter Text
It was the despondent state he’d been in, Aerion would reason to himself afterward. Would blame his peculiar fixation on that.
He’d been busy carving nonsensical lines into the surface of the inn’s table, the skritch skritch of it scraping his ears annoyingly. Still, he continued on, finding nothing better to do at the present moment than play with his blade. If he could not find someone’s skin to mar it with, then he would simply deface this piece of wood.
The innkeeper’s daughter had kept throwing him quick, curious glances from her seat at the stairs. Aerion had half a mind to snap at her, tell the child to keep the ogling to herself lest he take away her ability to look at all. There were times when Aerion appreciated a good deal of staring, but not tonight.
A few more hours of this and he was sure to go mad.
The boredom clung to his skin like a sticky sheen of sweat that needed to be washed off. Such was how it was when you were in the middle of Gods-knew-where, with not even a pretty wench to keep him entertained.
His brother, Daeron, was sat at another table. When Aerion had come down for dinner earlier, his brother had already been swaying in his seat, a cup of wine held loosely in his hand. Now he was slumped over it, unconscious. Aerion almost envied his ignorant slumber.
If Aerion didn't take some pleasure in watching his brother drink his days away and spiral further into becoming a disappointment to their father, he would have objected to this little excursion. He should have, he sighed, this was proving to be rather uninteresting.
His eyes flit over the sad tableau of the inn, lit only by low candlelight.
Aegon, that bothersome child, was nowhere to be found. Truth be told, Aerion couldn't be bothered to notice where the little whelp was. Doubtless, he was just lurking in some shadow; he tended to melt into them when Aerion was around.
He was taking another sip of his own wine when the inn's door opened.
The first thing that hit Aerion was the scent — the sweet scent of earth, warm and soothing, almost like cedarwood, prickling at Aerion's skin with its mellowness. The strength of it indicated that this was an alpha, most likely.
The second was the hulking figure of the man who came in. He wore a thin cloak wrapped around his shoulders, covering roughspun clothes that looked like they needed a proper washing, or better yet, a replacement. A sword hung from his belt, oddly made of rope, and in his hand was a worn-out shield.
Someone of that size, you'd expect to look intimidating, but the man's face betrayed otherwise. He cast a curious glance around the inn, stark, blue eyes wide like the sky. A comely enough face, Aerion found himself noting, almost as an afterthought.
Later on, Aerion would wonder if it had been any other guest who walked in that night, would he have acknowledged them just as much? He doubted it.
Aerion fixed his gaze on the giant of a man, sticking his blade upright on the table with a rather loud thump. “And what are you supposed to be?,” he drawled.
The man’s eyes landed on him. There was confusion and a tired indifference in them at first, then the flash of shock and recognition as he took in Aerion's silver hair.
“M’lord- Your Grace- you-” he stuttered out.
“A sellsword? Though you would look meaner if you were. Perhaps a knight's squire, then?”
The man bunched those heavy shoulders, standing straighter and smoothing a hand over his clothes as if it would make him look more proper. “Well, I used to be, Your Grace. My master just recently passed on, he knighted me before he died. So I-” he raised his head from his downcast look, daring to meet Aerion's eyes. “I have the honor of being a knight, my lord.”
“Hm,” Aerion downed another mouthful of wine, appraising the man before him, from his ruffled, blond hair to the tips of his mudded boots. “Knighthood has fallen on sad days.”
Then he turned his attention back to nicking his table, having no interest in looking eager for conversation. The knight had looked down again, seemingly confounded by Aerion’s slight. Even so, Aerion could feel the so-called knight’s gaze sneak towards him time and time again as he was accommodated by the innkeeper and offered food.
Aerion let him gape. He knew it must be a rather blessed experience for the smallfolk to be faced with the blood of the dragon. Besides, this one’s gaze he didn’t mind so much. It felt rather like a warm blanket over him rather than tiny pinpricks of scrutinizing needles. Aerion wondered if the knight could smell him, could recognize that he was an omega. What must this hedge knight think of that? An omega of royal blood drinking at this dismal tavern, presumably all alone?
“Bound for the tourney yourself?” he heard the innkeeper ask the man.
Before the knight could answer, Daeron stirred from his sleep.
Aerion watched, pausing the scratching of his blade as his brother saw the newcomer and glared at him, spit flowing from his mouth.
“I dreamed of you,” Daeron said, brandishing his dagger, eyes wild and mad. “Stay the fuck away from me, you hear?” His threat conveyed, Daeron staggered up from his seat, paying no heed to his own brother as he dropped a coin on the table and stumbled up the stairs.
Interesting, Aerion thought.
Daeron often muttered such nonsense, being out of his wits half the time from drinking. But what business did he have dreaming of this lowborn alpha of a hedge knight?
“Nevermind him,” Aerion said, sheathing his own knife, the knight's startled eyes finding him again. “He is but a drunkard.”
He saw the knight nod, putting down his own cup. Then he cleared his throat.
“If you don’t mind me asking, m’lord,” he started. “What brings you here?”
Aerion drummed his fingers on the table, considering, thinking if he should spout out some made-up story. Alas, for once, the truth seemed more fitting to tell. At least, some of it. “The tourney. My grandfather, the king, bade us attend that wretched circus. I found it best to travel ahead of my relatives, find some respite for myself in the midst of our mundane journeys.” Not that he’d found any respite or excitement. Well, perhaps now, he had.
“And what of you, ser?” he drew out the title, leaning towards the direction of the knight. “What are you called?”
The man took a while to answer. He, too, seemed to be considering. “Dunk. I am called Ser Dunk, my Lord.” Then he frowned, as if he was unsure of his own words. Foolish, really, how could one be unsure of one's name?
“Dunk,” Aerion repeated, rolling the syllable around on his tongue. How odd it sounded, and how fitting that was, as it didn’t sound like any name for a proper knight. He glanced once again at the heavy set of the knight's shoulders, broad arms that could perhaps break a man's neck with minimal effort, a height that guaranteed he towered over every man in a room.
“You are an alpha, are you not?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Aerion's mouth twitched. He thought of leaving. He would much rather not suffer another dreary day in the company of his impudent brothers, especially when Daeron might take days to sober up. Aerion simply refused to wait around, staring at walls like some mindless fool. He didn’t think this boorish knight deserved his company either, but at least he was something new.
Aerion licked at his lips, tasting the wine’s bitter aftertaste and the alpha’s scent on the air. It sparked something inside him, the beginnings of an idea whose flaming tongues promised elation.
“You will do,” Aerion decided.
He stood up, digging around in the purse attached to his belt for a coin for the inkeeper and another that he flicked towards Ser Dunk's direction.
The knight's head snapped up, hand reaching out just in time to catch the golden dragon. He looked almost comical in his surprise at it. “D-do what, my lord?”
Aerion gave him a sideways glance. “To escort me to the tourney at Ashford, of course. I take it you are also looking to join the lists?”
“Yes, but-”
“Then would you let an unmated, omega prince journey alone to this tourney? Without even a single knight to escort him?” Aerion questioned. It served him well to sound like a damsel in distress; alphas responded better when they thought an omega needed protection. Though, to be honest, Aerion wouldn’t have minded traveling alone. He didn’t think there was much danger in this countryside, and if there was, he could just as easily slice the balls off any man who dared approach him.
Ser Dunk was quick to shake his head fervently. “Of course not, Your Grace.”
What a chivalrous knight, as he expected, already willing to serve Aerion. “Very well, then. I expect you to prepare our horses while I gather my things. We depart as soon as we can.”
For a few seconds, Ser Dunk only blinked at him, seemingly stunned into silence. Was he truly slow? Or was the idea of accompanying Aerion so wondrous that it rendered him dumb? How easy it seemed for the prince to catch his tongue.
He raised a brow at the knight, waving an impatient arm out. “Well, you oaf?”
Dunk finally launched into action, “Of course, my prince.” He stood and collected his cloak and shield, attempting to give stilted bows to Aerion at the same time. “I'll see to the horses. Thank-thank you, Your Grace.”
The man finally lumbered away. Aerion sneered after him. This decision better be worth it. He headed upstairs to collect his things from his room. There was not much to pack; he had only taken a couple of clothes and a singular book on Targaryen history with him, should he feel the urge to read. The rest of his things were to be brought by his father and his uncle's entourage. He guessed they would not be far off behind, perhaps a day or so.
Satchel slung across his shoulders, his own cloak wrapped around him, he headed to the stables, where he found Ser Dunk affixing a set of armor on his white palfrey.
“The horses are ready, m'lord,” Dunk said as soon as he caught sight of Aerion. “Took me quite a while, I found the stableboy playing with my old master’s armor. He was quite cheeky, that boy. Kept pointing out that I didn't look like a knight.”
Aerion hummed. “You certainly don't look like any knight I've come across.”
Dunk made a disgruntled noise, muttering out a quiet “I have just been knighted.”
Aerion chose to ignore him, moving to mount his saddled mare instead. Perhaps it was the wine, though he certainly did not have as much as Daeron. Perhaps it was the lesser amount of sleep he'd gotten ever since the trip. Perhaps it was none of those things. But Aerion swayed as he climbed on his horse, tilting to the side and nearly falling off the damn thing.
In an instant, a large hand grasped his middle, steadying him as Aerion settled himself atop the saddle.
The scent of cedarwood grew stronger, invading Aerion's space, the undertones of something sweet mixing into the fray.
Aerion jerked away from the touch, as though the fingers upon his clothed skin burned like a brand. Strange, because a dragon cannot be burned.
“Keep your hands to yourself!” Aerion snapped.
Dunk moved away, hands quickly tucked behind his back, like a child who'd just been scolded. “I apologize, my prince, I only meant-”
“I do not care what you meant! Keep your hands to yourself, lest you wish to keep them at all,” he scowled.
Reproached as he was, Dunk only gave him a stiff nod before mounting his own horse. Silence settled between them as they made their way out of the stables, and Aerion tried not to take note of how one of the knight's hands had nearly eclipsed his entire waist, and how a simple touch urged him to want more.