Chapter Text
Sir Steven hadn't been born to live as a man lives. He was not meant for those creature comforts that most men—most alpha-born men, namely—tended to aspire towards. His life was not his own; it belonged first and foremost to the King he had sworn allegiance to, and—by extension—to the realm he fought to protect. He had no illusions that a time would come when he'd set aside shield and sword to make a home for himself; the kind of home where some fair omega would happily nest down and bear his pups, glad to be mated to an alpha such as him. That was a dream for other men.
Unlike most of his kind, Sir Steven had a destiny in him that even that siren call of nature could not hinder. His mother had recognized it from an early age, fearing that even the strength of her love could not shelter him from the blood-soaked path that fate had chosen for her only son. For despite all of young Steven's physical frailties, there was a fighter in him that would not yield— not even to the limitations of his stunted body. No matter how hard his mother tried to interest him in safer pursuits, young Steven would not be dissuaded from his determination to squire for a knight of the realm -- and so she'd had choice but to watch him go on that fateful morn when he'd taken up with Sir Phillips—the Captain of the Guard, himself—who'd reluctantly accepted her son's impassioned plea to be of service to his King.
His mother could not have known the particulars of what Steven would later grow into, under the guidance of Sir Phillips and Master Erskine—the Royal Physician—whose bitter draughts and instruction in uncompromising asceticism would ultimately raise Steven up above his peers, molding him into an alpha of formidable skill and stature over many years of arduous training. She would pass away well before her son would be dubbed 'Sir Steven of Lynnebrook,' never seeing him ascend so high as to become the King's most favored knight, whose renown as the invincible protector of the Iron Realm would spread far beyond Howard's kingdom, elevating his status to that of a living legend.
And yet, Lady Sarah of Lynnebrook had been endowed with enough prescience to glean that her son was destined for greatness, one way or another. That knowledge had always troubled her, though Steven had never understood why it should.
That understanding became all too clear soon after he'd been introduced to Prince Anthony.
Since taking up with the King's Guard, Steven had forsworn the lure of mated life. Master Erskine had insisted that he avoid the company of omegas at all costs, in order to preserve his vital essence and channel all of his virility into combat. Such an austere, regimented way of living was unfeasible for most alphas, whose natures demanded that they indulge in the pleasures of the fairer sex from time to time, lest they succumb to the maddening consequences of an unfulfilled, instinctual drive to sire pups; a drive that—for most alphas—characterized their very designation.
Steven was unlike most alphas, however. Given his stunted development, he hadn't experienced pubescence the same as his peers; he'd never known those feverish, unbridled hormonal episodes that necessitated seeking relief wherever it might be found— and with the help of Master Erskine's bitter draughts, he never would. Those baser instincts had been kept in check so that others might develop more markedly, allowing him the focus to refine his martial technique while sharpening his senses and honing his mental acuity beyond that of most alpha-born men, until he'd surpassed even Erskine's greatest aspirations for the type of alpha he might become. His bodily strength was matched by a nobleness of heart that King Howard valued as highly as his skill in combat, trusting that this good knight's loyalty ran deeper than that of his own blood. An example to knights everywhere, Sir Steven had renounced worldly pleasures in exchange for a capacity to serve his King like no other could— and for that, King Howard loved him like the son he wished had been born to him.
Instead, the Queen had borne him Anthony.
Since his arrival at the castle, Steven had heard all manner of tales about the young Prince's exploits. Though he knew better than to put much stock in gossip—particularly where the royal court was concerned—Steven couldn't help getting drawn in to the wildest of yarns spun by the pages and squires, who spoke of a princeling far too clever and mischievous to be believed. Still, their accounts were more entertaining than anything else that young Steven heard tell of, and so he'd laugh and shake his head, charmed by their colorful imaginations— however much they'd insist that the stories were true.
Not long after the young Prince had presented as an omega and had his designation made known to one and all, the stories about him began to take a turn for the lurid.
Scandal seemed to follow the young Prince like a pestilence, who quickly gained a reputation as the most unruly sort of omega-born master. Though such behavior might have been forgiven had it been associated with a royal of any other sex, for an omega prince, it was considered most unbecoming. Female omegas, to be sure, were notorious for their flights of fancy and poor judgement; any indiscretions on their part were often excused as the result of an inadequate upbringing, which was at least a correctable offense. Male omegas were invariably held to a higher standard, expected to behave with a decorum befitting their naturally superior temperament. Any wayward tendencies observed in them were thought to be a fault of pedigree rather than of nurturing, and as such were considered not easily correctable, impairing their prospects of being well-matched to a tolerant alpha. Even if such an omega had the distinction of being the sole heir of a monarch as powerful as King Howard, society dictated that his royal blood could only go so far in securing him an ideal mate.
And so it was that the most vicious of rumors preceded the heir apparent. Prince Anthony was widely regarded as an incorrigible flirt, who flaunted his wealth and beauty and cleverness as if he were more full of himself than the most insufferable of alpha-born nobles. He was rumored to be a headstrong, peculiar creature utterly devoid of modesty, with a mouth on him that could make hardened soldiers blush. Though his mating prospects might have looked grim under any other circumstances, the fact that he was King Howard's only son still made him a highly sought-after prize for those looking to benefit from such a prestigious alliance. This was due in no small part to it being well-known at court that, for all of his disgraceful conduct, Prince Anthony had been subject to mandatory physical inspection which confirmed that the most precious of fleshly commodities—his omegahood—was fully intact.
Like Sir Steven, the Prince was still a virgin. Surely he could not, therefore, be the worldly-wise coquette everyone made him out to be...
Or so Sir Steven had chosen to believe, before Anthony himself would prove the rumors to be quite well-founded.
It had started—poetically, perhaps—in a forge. A place where hardened metal—nature's toughest substance—is reduced to molten fire, subjected to heat of such intensity that not even the heaviest iron could withstand its fiery obliteration; where it must endure the anguish of being reshaped into something new -- something other than what came before -- henceforth beholden to the whim of the forgemaster.
Prince Anthony was a young man of a great many skills— not the least of which was his aptitude for forging hard metal into the most wondrous of creations. Iron bent to his will; was it any wonder that Sir Steven, himself, should do the same?
⋯⊱⚔︎⊰⋯
"The battle is over, Samuel. We won," Steven wearily reminded his friend, not that anyone needed reminding of that. The entire kingdom had been celebrating the victory for days as the bedraggled soldiers had made their way home from the battlefield, some in better form than others, welcoming them with all the good will and hospitality owed to them for what they'd accomplished. Everyone knew how close this last fight had brought the kingdom to ruin; had fortune gone the other way on that battlefield, all would have been lost.
"There will always be more battles to fight," Samuel retorted, steering his friend out into the open air of the darkened fortress. "And you'll need to be ready when that time comes."
"I'm always ready," Steven grumbled, stepping out into the empty street and lifting his eyes heavenward, trying to catch a glimpse of the moon peeking out from behind the drifting clouds. The celestial sphere sat high enough in the night sky to indicate that it was, indeed, as late as Steven's tired bones felt it to be. After so many sleepless nights traveling with his retinue, the debt his body had incurred was at last catching up with him.
"Yes. I know," Samuel sighed. "You're practically wedded to that shield of yours. Still, your armor didn't walk away from warfare quite as unscathed as you somehow managed. You'll be needing a new gorget, at the very least -- it's a wonder you still have a head."
"What blacksmith would have me fitted for it at this hour?" Steven complained, wiping his hand over his beard in case any stray crumbs still clung to his chin. Though he did tend towards an ill temper, he felt he was right to be annoyed that Samuel came to drag him from his supper all because some blacksmith had need of him, specifically, for a special fitting he'd neither asked for nor required.
"As I told you, I am merely the messenger," Samuel insisted. "All I know is that the order came down from on high. Likely a well-meant gesture from the King, I expect."
Sighing with resignation, Steven knew there was no point in resisting. If King Howard wanted him fitted for a new suit of armor, then so it would be. He supposed that the King did have a habit of being overattentive when it came to looking after his best knight, and tonight's unexpected summoning was no exception.
Bidding his friend a good night, Steven trudged out into the crisp night air, abandoning the remnants of his supper. He'd been eating well ever since his arrival at the castle—better than he'd eaten in so many months of campaigning—but still his body hungered, as ever, for more. Sometimes he felt as if his appetite were a pit that had no end to it; that the strong body he'd traded for the frail build of his youth came with a price— and that price was a hunger he could never fully sate.
He couldn't help feeling ashamed at the ungratefulness of it, given how lavishly he'd been received at court. He wanted for nothing. His King saw to that. Even now his King was sending him to be fitted for a new suit of armor, ensuring that Steven would be safely outfitted for whatever may come, and here he was begrudging the fact that he was being summoned at such an hour. It often seemed to him that the more one had access to, the greater the inclination to desire more still. Such was the perverse nature of mankind. Master Erskine had taught him the virtue of self-denial, but actually mastering this lesson was proving to be a lifelong endeavor. It was far easier to adhere to its tenets away from places such as this, to be sure. Castle life—with all of its bounty, riches, and earthly temptations—was not for the likes of him.
Outside the smithy stood two guardsmen, to Steven's surprise. Had the King, himself, come to oversee the fitting? That would be most unusual— though King Howard was hardly a predictable sort of man. The men were none that Steven recognized, though, neither resembling any of the guards he'd seen protecting the King, before...
It was dark in the smithy but for the dim glow of the hearth, where the fire had been allowed to smolder down to hushed flames flickering tamely over crackling embers. Sir Steven would later blame the low visibility for his oversight, adding further blame on the smoky air for distracting his nose from noticing at once what lay in wait for him that evening.
Truth be told, he had never caught the scent of an omega from nearly so close, before -- his sense of smell—refined though it was—had no context for the peculiar aroma that pulsed in the stillness of that seemingly empty space, invoking some strange sensation in him which he did not recognize in the slightest. The exotic scent betrayed no hint of that distinct smell of man that he was so intimately accustomed to—of sweat and blood and unwashed bodies that had been marching for days on end—which surely would have alerted him to the presence of another. Indeed, it wasn't until he heard the voice from the shadows that Steven even realized anyone was there, at all -- and by then, it was too late for him to retreat.
"So you are him."
Head snapping in the direction of the voice, Steven's eyes peered into the shadows to make out the figure of a man perched upon a wooden stump in a posture incongruous to that of a common blacksmith. He was further surprised to find that this man was of a much smaller stature than the sort he might've expected—petite, in fact—though he still held himself with a poise that belied his size...
"You're a big one, true enough. I'll grant you that. Wouldn't have pegged you for a 'slayer of thousands,' though... not with features as fair as yours. I've had tutors who looked far meaner than you."
"M'lord?" Steven queried, sensing at once that whoever this man was, he undoubtedly outranked a mere knight. He spoke with a fluent, offhand haughtiness unlike anything Steven had heard before, outside of his audiences with...
Oh gods, be it not so...
"I believe that 'Your Highness' is the appropriate honorific," the man drawled as he pushed himself up from the stump, standing tall in spite of his scant height.
All at once, Sir Steven knew exactly who it was standing before him. He was an idiot to not realize it sooner.
Dropping to his knee, Sir Steven bowed his head deeply in a show of deference as he uttered a breathy, "Your Highness!"
With a short sigh the Prince stepped forward, tutting, "Now, now. Enough of that. Let's skip past the formalities, shall we? I wouldn't be lurking in the shadows if I wanted anyone groveling at my feet tonight. Time and place for that sort of thing, if you catch my meaning."
Sir Steven did not, in fact, catch the Prince's meaning. He could only stare at the dirt beneath him in befuddlement, trying not to panic.
It had to happen, eventually; the idea that he might go through life without ever crossing paths with an omega was hardly realistic, however much he took pains to avoid their company. That he should at last chance upon one like this, however—that it should be the Prince before him, of all omegas—was well beyond anything he might have been prepared for.
"Rise already, for the gods' sakes," the Prince huffed. "No need to overdo it."
Cautiously lifting his head, Sir Steven's eyes slowly rose to catch the Prince's amused smirk before darting away again, breath catching in his chest as he willed his body not to overreact. There was no telling what might happen, though he'd heard recountings enough about the sort of changes alpha bodies experience in the company of omegas to fear any number of possibilities.
"Do you intend to crouch there all night?" The prince flatly inquired. "I believe I told you to get up."
"Your Highness," Sir Steven breathed, carefully averting his gaze from the penetrating stare he could practically feel upon his bowed head, "...I humbly beg that you allow me to take my leave of Your Grace at once."
"...Have somewhere more important to be, do you?" The Prince lightly teased, though there was an unmistakable thread of danger in it.
"I..." Steven started, faltering briefly before managing, "I am an alpha, Your Grace."
"Oh? Are you, truly?"
Mind racing to comprehend the Prince's meaning, Steven was further perplexed when he added, "My father neglected to mention that, I suppose... except maybe once or one thousand times."
As the omega moved to close the distance between them—the slow approach of his footsteps heightening Sir Steven's anxiety—he tried to come up with any excuse he might employ that would allow him to extricate himself from this situation. All thought fled from him the instant he felt warm fingers beneath his bearded chin, lifting his head until he was staring back helplessly into a face more beautiful than any he'd ever looked upon.
"Gods, but I hated hearing about you," the Prince murmured, still holding Steven's face aloft with that light, unbearable touch. "The 'golden knight' -- an alpha superior to all others, who he'd have been proud to call 'son'... but instead, he got me."
The Prince was so close to him that Steven could smell the wine on his breath. Was he drunk? Or was he always so incautious as to speak so candidly to a complete stranger? Whatever the case, it made Sir Steven quite uneasy. At last the Prince's hand withdrew as he took a step back, gesturing loosely in mock gratitude as he gibed, "I thank you for that, by the way. As if my circumstances weren't trying enough, I had you to overshadow me, as well. Fucking get up already, would you?!"
Swallowing thickly, Sir Steven pushed himself to his feet at the Prince's command. The scent of omega irritation was like pepper in his lungs, demanding conciliation. He'd heard of this; of their ability to influence an alpha merely by the scent of their capricious moods. It was just as unsettling as he'd always thought it would be.
With a contrite sigh the Prince deliberately relaxed his posture, settling into a more placid tone when he remarked, "Let us speak no more of it. My quarrel is not with you. I've come here tonight to offer you something, as a show of gratitude for your exceptional service to the Iron Realm."
When Steven simply stood in place staring fixedly at a point on the wooden beam behind the Prince, the omega prompted, "...Well? What say you?"
"...I ask for nothing in return for performing my duty, Your Highness."
"Maybe not— but you still won't be so ungrateful as to reject my generous offer, now, will you?"
Blinking rapidly, Steven tried to come up with a reasonable response. Should he be accepting gifts from his Prince? From an omega? The etiquette of the situation was completely foreign to him. He couldn't imagine giving any answer that wouldn't put him in the wrong, one way or the other.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" The Prince demanded. "Are you dimwitted? Have all the accounts I've heard of your 'great mind for strategy' been falsified, or do you know nothing beyond your knack for bloodshed and battlefield maneuvers?"
"Your Highness has the right of it," Sir Steven weakly allowed. "Of...this...I know nothing, whatsoever."
Peering at him curiously, the Prince dully asked, "Of simple conversation?"
"...Of conversing with one of your like, Your Highness."
Considering Sir Steven's reply for a moment, the Prince tilted his head as he queried, "Omegas, then— is that it? You've not met many of us, I gather..."
Then—when Steven's face apparently gave him away—the Prince clarified, sounding somewhat taken aback, "...Any of us?"
Steven could only stand there stewing in his own mortification as the Prince continued, "I've heard tell of your... aversion... but if this is truly your first time even speaking to an omega, I do wonder how it is that you came to be quite so discriminatory, Sir Steven. Whatever you might've heard about us, surely it can't be enough to warrant such extreme prejudice..."
Though Steven could not agree with the Prince's sentiment, he knew better than to admit as much. Taking another slow step toward him, the Prince seemed to radiate curiosity as he pried, "What, pray tell, it is about my sex that you're so afraid of? An alpha as big and mighty as you... Oughtn't it be the other way 'round?"
Tensing further as the Prince stepped closer still, Steven didn't know what he could say to that. It hardly mattered, since the Prince had a tendency to speak enough for the both of them.
"Some would say that it was foolhardy of me, venturing to meet with you alone like this... To order my guards to stand outside, leaving myself in a position where I'd be defenseless against your considerable brawn... Why, if you had a mind to, you could overpower me at any moment— could you not?"
The Prince spoke of savage things so delicately, allowing the unthinkable to drift about the space between them like slow undulations swirling between two bathers in a still pond, his violent notions caressing over Steven's rigid body as he stood in place, utterly flummoxed by the suggestion.
"I would not," was all he could manage, hoping the truth of it was plain enough.
"Is that what you're so afraid of, I wonder?" the Prince mused, "Not me—not us—but your own alpha nature? Urges you mightn't be able to control?"
The Prince was much too close to him, now; so close that he barely needed to whisper to be heard. Whatever scent Steven was picking up from the omega this time was more inscrutable than anything he'd smelled thus far, however subtly it pulsed between them. He felt it more than smelled it— felt it stirring something low in his belly, as if a venomous serpent were coiled there, troubled in its slumbering, not to be disturbed.
"You're injured," The Prince suddenly observed, interrupting Sir Steven's discomfiture.
"Merely a scratch, Your Highness," Steven replied, dry-mouthed, once he realized that the Prince was referring to the mark on his neck where an opponent's sword had left quite the indentation in his gorget.
"That's one word for it," the Prince murmured, eyeing the mark dubiously.
"I heal quickly," Steven felt the need to add.
"No doubt," the Prince allowed, still studying the mark on Steven's neck as if something might be gleaned from it. "Master Erskine was a fine physician -- the finest, I daresay. It is said that he endowed you with esoteric faculties of body and mind; that you were built to withstand more than most. I used to think what they said about you was more fairy tale than truth -- until I saw for myself what you were capable of, on that battlefield."
Finally daring to meet the Prince's eyes, Sir Steven asked, astonished, "You were there, Your Highness?"
"I was. Disguised, as you might've guessed. Held at a discreet remove, at Commander Rhodes' insistence. Jamesy's mother-henning is bad enough under milder circumstances— never mind in the midst of battle."
Sir Steven didn't know whether to be more bewildered at hearing that his Prince had been present at such a gruesome scene, or that he referred to the respected Lord Commander of the City Watch as "Jamesy."
"Which, as it happens, brings me to why I brought you here." Stepping aside, the Prince began to move away as he explained, "I watched you fight, Sir Steven. I saw what you could do out there -- and, perhaps of greater import: what you could not. Fortunately for you, I have the solution."
Watching as the Prince strode over to a table covered in a large tarpaulin, Steven wondered what could possibly be happening. He needn't wonder for long: with a flourish the Prince pulled the covering away to reveal an assortment of armor unlike any Steven had seen the like of, before. Cautiously he stepped closer as the Prince went about lighting candles and arranging these to better illuminate the table, his eyes scanning the various pieces as he tried to make sense of what he was looking at. Though he could recognize the greaves and gorget and vambrances well enough, they resembled none of the styles he was familiar with, either in this realm or those beyond. He'd never seen metal with a dark blue cast to it such as this; never seen a helm shaped to allow so much visibility. Everything looked sleeker; more streamlined and less bulky than he was accustomed to, in a curious hybridization of both the scale armor he recognized from Sir Phillip's illustrated tomes, and the more modern plate armor he'd worn since his knighthood. Picking up one of the greaves, he was astonished to find it far lighter than he was expecting.
"It's made of an alloy I invented, myself -- the color results from the treatment process," the Prince mentioned, as if he could guess at the turn of Steven's thoughts. With a touch of smugness, he added, "I think you'll find lifting the helm to be even more surprising."
"You made this?" Steven marveled aloud. "All of it?"
"My people were ironmongers long before the time of kings," The Prince replied, seating himself at the edge of the table and folding his arms in front of himself as he watched Steven reach for the helm. "Some of the greatest armorers throughout the centuries were Starks. I'm well-studied in all of it. Our histories, sciences... as well as those of a great many others. Alchemists. Metallurgists. All fascinating to me. I leave the warmongering to the likes of my father... and yourself. Armoring, though... now that is an art form worthy of my talents. If I can't take up a sword on account of my sex, then this, I suppose, is the next best thing."
"It is a marvel," Steven breathed, running his fingertips over the polished metal. "...But how will it hold up against an enemy's blade?"
"Far better than what you're used to, I can promise you," The Prince declared, sounding very sure of himself. "I fashioned it with you in mind, specifically, after I'd observed your movements on the battlefield. What struck me most was that, unlike the others, you don't actually benefit from any added bulk; what you require is maneuverability. You're fast, to be sure, but you're hampered by the weight and clumsiness of lesser armor. The same rules don't apply to you; not of physics, nor vulnerability. What I've fashioned for you will suit you far better than anything you've been outfitted in prior. But you needn't take my word for it: you ought to put it to the test before rushing into battle -- you'll soon recognize the advantages."
"Your Grace wishes to arrange a mêlée?"
"I wish to see you joust," the Prince corrected, smiling at Steven in an oddly conspiratorial manner before clapping his hands together and rubbing them against one another with apparent enthusiasm. "A tourney! It's high time we held one at Stark Castle. There hasn't been one in ages."
"I've never fought in a tourney, before," Steven frowned, hesitating at the idea. Protecting the realm was the only fight he was interested in; he had no wish to make sport of such a thing.
"I daresay you'll do just fine," the Prince assured him, before he seemed to catch on to Steven's resistance.
"You won't disappoint me," the Prince said with finality, sliding off the table to take a step toward Steven. Once again standing too close for comfort, the Prince cocked a hip to lean against the edge of the table, skimming his fingers over the concave surface of the chestplate beside him as he added in a milder tone, "Aside from how entertaining it'll be to see you paraded out in my armor, my motives aren't entirely selfish. You've seen what this war has cost us. After all the loss we've lately endured, a tourney is just what we need to uplift our people's spirits -- they need a real champion, such as yourself, to root for. Come: you ought to be used to that sort of thing by now... Think of it like riding into battle— only with an audience cheering you on, and hopefully much less bloodshed. What say you? Can I count on you, Sir Steven?"
Despite his misgivings, there was nothing to be done about it if this is what Prince Anthony asked of him.
"I am your servant, my Prince."
Though Steven's head was bowed, there was no mistaking the wry smile in the voice that answered, "Very good."
Something in the air seemed to crackle just then— though it was not the sparking of embers from the nearby hearth. The air smelt strangely of something honeyed; faint, but sweet enough to draw water across Steven's tongue before he gulped it down discreetly, suddenly all too aware of the thrum of his own pulse.
"Well, then," the Prince smiled, moving to drag a wooden stool into position before seating himself primly on top of it and folding one leg up over the other. "There's but one thing left to do."
"...Your Highness?"
"Strip."
Sir Steven regarded the Prince's expectant face as he sat there waiting for Steven to comply. When Steven only looked down at his garments in confusion, the Prince harrumphed, "Any day now would be appreciated, Sir Steven. The sooner you disrobe, the sooner I can see you properly fitted."
"Surely your armor isn't meant to be worn against bare flesh, Your Highness?" Steven carefully protested.
"Of course not. It will, however, require a gambeson and chausses of non-standard construction, of which I've brought prefabricated segments with me, this evening. Once you've undressed, I can start to pin these about your person accordingly. Shall we get on with it?"
"Would not a tailor be better suited to such a menial task, Your Highness?" Steven tried, voice gone thick with nerves, hoping to find some way of avoiding such an intimate procedure with the omega prince. What Prince Anthony was so casually suggesting was highly unorthodox, to say the least.
"Not when it comes to designs of this level of ingenuity," The Prince countered, sounding increasingly impatient. "This is my own undertaking, and I intend to see it through as only I can. Now will you undress yourself, Sir Steven, or must I summon my guards to hold you down and see to it by force?"
Swallowing thickly, Steven muttered a half-hearted "As you wish, Your Highness," before reaching to unlace the collar of his tunic, feeling a hot blush already spreading across his consternated face.
Without further word, the Prince sat atop his stool and watched as Sir Steven disrobed beside the ambient heat of the hearth, removing each garment with a bashfulness that he'd never known in all his life. Countless times he'd disrobed in the company of other men without ever giving the matter a second thought— but whether on account of being in front of his Prince this evening, or—moreover—that he was being observed so intimately by an actual omega, Steven was finding himself intensely discomfited.
"The braies as well," the Prince suddenly interjected, turning Steven's cheeks an even deeper shade of crimson. There was no hiding the flush that ran all down his neck and over his bare chest as he stiltedly complied, stripping off the last hope he had of any degree of modesty in this situation.
There he stood before his Prince, all six foot and five thumb of him, naked as the day he was born.
To his dismay, the Prince made no move to outfit him straight off, as promised. Instead the brazen omega lingered upon that stool and simply gazed at him— though to what end, Sir Steven could hardly fathom. He would make no further protestations, knowing the futility of his position; if his Prince wished to sit there and rake his eyes all across Sir Steven's bare skin—taking in his impressive musculature and mapping the dark golden hair that spread over his chest, then trailed all the way to the root of his cock—he'd no choice but to stand there and endure it for as long as the Prince saw fit.
"How fortunate that such a generous physique is proportionate to the rest of you," the Prince leered, eyeing Steve's cock with apparent approval. "That isn't always the case... It is rather delightful to learn that the legend hasn't been unduly exaggerated in this respect, either..."
Steven could only shift in place awkwardly under the Prince's scrutiny, too overwhelmed by what was happening to pay any heed to the Prince's report that tales were being told about his cock size, apparently.
"Well, then. Let's have a proper look at you," the Prince murmured as he at last rose from his seat, approaching Steven with a slow, peculiar swagger. "Raise your arms out to your sides for me."
Doing as he was told, Sir Steven stretched his arms out accordingly.
"Good. Hold that position, Sir Steven. Do not move unless I specifically tell you otherwise, understood?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
Expecting the Prince to reach for some fabric to drape over his outstretched arms, Steven was further discomfited when the omega made no such move. Instead he began to circle Steven where he stood, his eyes continuing to rove over Steven's bare flesh appraisingly. As the Prince rounded his circuit to encounter Steven's backside, a low whistle issued from the omega's lips.
"The gods are gracious, indeed," the Prince murmured in a sultry tone. "Speaking of generous proportions... It appears that the good knight possesses a rump round enough to rival mine own..."
Before he could even parse the full meaning of the Prince's statement, Sir Steven was startled into a tight gasp at the sudden touch of the Prince's hands against his bare skin, rubbing over the swell of his buttocks as if he were a buyer inspecting the build of a new horse. Humming some approving sound, the Prince cupped his hands beneath the rounded globes and squeezed as Steven tensed further, his breath caught in his lungs like a cornered animal too petrified to make its escape.
Satisfied, the Prince released his hold on Steven's flesh as he continued his circuit around him, trailing the tip of a single finger across his skin as he went. Steven felt this fingertip trace a meandering trail from the base of his spine, then up and around the dip of Steven's waist as the Prince easily ducked under his left arm. Pausing as he righted himself, the Prince settled his full hand against Steven's waist, clinging there as he inhaled deeply through his nose.
"What is that?" the Prince murmured, as if to himself, sniffing the air for a moment before leaning in and following his nose until it found the source of what had interested it so. To Steven's shock, the Prince buried his face in the pit of Steven's arm and moaned as he inhaled the scent clinging to the hair that grew in that spot, his hand tightening against Steven's waist as he breathed deeply of Steven's musk.
"Gods... you smell quite unlike any alpha I've known before," the Prince marveled, sounding almost drunk on Steven's scent. "I never imagined that alpha musk could smell so clean...... Why, it's as if you were made of the very quintessence all baser alphas derive from -- yes— that's it— the purest form, unsullied -- as if you were the primordial fount, itself..."
As his other hand rose to take hold of Steven's opposite side, the Prince leaned in again and inhaled more of Steven's scent, humming with intoxicated pleasure.
Frozen in place, Sir Steven hadn't the faintest idea what he should do in such an unprecedented situation. For all his thorough teachings on avoiding omega entrapments, Master Erskine had never advised Steven on the proper course of action should an omega prince ever command that he disrobe before groping and sniffing at his naked body...
As his heartbeat quickened and another hot flash of embarrassment spread over him, Steven's scent spiked from his elevated body heat, further enticing the Prince as he leaned in so close that his clothed body was now flush with Steven's left side.
"My father has been wise to keep you from me," the Prince murmured hotly against Steven's skin, his breath tickling so unexpectedly that it inspired a faint shudder. "I had every intention of behaving myself, you ought to know... I truly wished to see you better armored. I swear it. But now....."
"...Your Grace?" Steven gulped, head spinning as he tried to discern the Prince's meaning. Meanwhile the hand at his right side began to sweep up over his chest, stroking against him in a sensual manner and igniting sparks of sensation wherever it went, so remarkably unlike anything he'd ever felt from another's touch, before.
"Is it true that you've never laid with another, Sir Steven?" the Prince breathily queried, his voice darkening with prurient interest.
"...I..."
"Tell me," the Prince urged.
"Never, Your Highness."
"Has anyone even touched you before, as I have?" the Prince pressed, dragging his bejeweled fingers down through the thickest of the hair in the center of Steven's chest, deliberately tugging against it as if he were determined that Steven should feel his touch as keenly as possible.
"Never," Steven husked out. He'd begun to tremble slightly as an unfamiliar anticipation started to coil within his taut body, setting him further on edge; it seemed almost as if his body were at war with itself as he stood there trying his damnedest not to react to the tender assault. Everything Master Erskine had ever taught him about omegas centered around how to avoid landing himself in a situation like this in the first place -- he knew nothing whatsoever about how to conduct himself should he end up trapped like this, unable to flee at the first sign of temptation. Though all of the most dreaded warning signs were appearing, he was not at liberty to heed them -- not when his Prince commanded otherwise.
"But you do, at least, find relief in your own hand now and then, surely," the Prince suggested with a pointed glance down at Steven's cock, eyeing it where it lay heavily between his legs.
Swallowing thickly, Steven felt his face flush with heat at the mere suggestion of such a thing. He tried to turn his head away from the Prince in embarrassment, but the Prince wouldn't even allow him that.
"Oh no you don't," the Prince gently chided, reaching for Steven's chin to tilt his head forward again as he murmured, "...do not hide your blushes from me. Not when they please me so."
Though it felt cowardly to shut his eyes, Steven didn't know what else to do. He felt the Prince move his hand back to Steven's chest as he softly demanded, "Answer the question."
Inhaling a shaky breath, Steven awkwardly admitted, "It is forbidden of me, Your Grace."
"So I've heard tell -- but surely even one as virtuous as you could not resist such a natural temptation, entirely..."
Shaking his head in denial, Steven opened his eyes to stare determinedly at his favorite wooden beam as he croaked out, "I made a vow."
The Prince huffed out a short breath through his nose at that, studying Steven's flushed face for a long moment before trying, "...Not even once?"
"Never."
It was the truth, sure enough. Steven never dared take himself in hand; not even on those trying mornings when he awoke to find himself in a dreadful state of rigor, betrayed by his own body. Still staring at him with unnerving attentiveness, the Prince licked his lips before a dark, queer little laugh bubbled out of him, the sound turning into a thoughtful hum as the Prince looked Steven over with renewed interest.
"Do you even know if this thing works?" the Prince wondered, the sudden tap of a finger against his heavy shaft causing Steven to jump slightly in response. His lips tightened into a thin line as he stiffened further, hoping that the Prince didn't actually expect him to answer such a question.
"Oh... well that is promising..." the Prince smiled, amused by Steven's reaction.
"You certainly are a fascinating creature, Sir Steven," the Prince cooed, stroking over the tense muscles of his belly in a lazy, circular motion that made Steven's head swoon. "An alpha in his prime, young and handsome and as strong-bodied as they come -- who fights with more skill than the greatest warriors this realm has ever seen... Why, you could bed a new omega nightly if you wished to -- several at once, I imagine -- each begging you to sire their pups, moaning for your knot like bitches in heat... You'd surely have your pick of them; a devoted harem at your disposal!"
Inhaling sharply at the unexpected slap of the Prince's palm against his buttock, Sir Steven swayed slightly on his feet as he regained his composure, blinking against the vulgarity of the Prince's words. It was hardly worse than anything he'd heard from his fellow soldiers, before; but coming from his Prince—this Prince—Steven found the provocation far more difficult to ignore.
Why should it matter so, that his Prince proclaimed him so remarkably virile? Strong? Skilled? ...'Handsome,' even? Was he not immune to such flattery? Hadn't he been taught to pay no heed to the sweet praises of omegas, whose sly tongues were known to speak any manner of honeyed words in their efforts to seduce the attention of alphas they wished to—
Gulping nervously, Sir Steven realized at once what was happening, here.
The Prince had a mind to corrupt him. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
"...And yet you would deny yourself all of that in service to your King..." the Prince marveled, as if such a thing were beyond comprehension. The Prince's voice took on a cooler edge as he continued, "...He does demand much, my father. I am no stranger to his... untenable expectations. The man takes great sport in shaping people to his will, you see—one of the many pitfalls of endowing a self-doubting beta male with so much power—and you, Sir Steven... we all know what he made of you, don't we? You embody his greatest achievement."
After idly skating his fingertips along Steven's neck, the Prince's hand had come to rest high on his throat, carefully encircling it in a delicate hold as Steven swallowed against the light press of the Prince's palm. "There have been times when I've resented you for it," the Prince murmured, fingers curling more securely around him, "—for the impossible standard you've set, which he saw fit to hold me to— only to find all of his great hopes dashed by the presentation of my accursed sex."
The scent suffusing the air around the omega Prince had darkened into something that set Sir Steven's hackles on edge. He resisted the shudder that nearly resulted, trying desperately to appear as unaffected as possible, lest he betray any further vulnerabilities that the Prince might be inclined to exploit. These efforts, he feared, were becoming a lost cause.
Releasing his throat, the Prince trailed both hands down Steven's torso. As he moved to stand directly in front of him, the scent that radiated off of the Prince turned... interesting. Each of his hands curled around the dip of Steven's waist, fingers flexing and kneading there as he said in a hushed voice, "I shall tell you a secret, Sir Steven -- one known only to a handful of others: the King, my father, once tried to meddle with my own development, as well -- experimented, just as he'd tasked Master Erskine with doing to you, some years prior. Tried to ensure I'd present as an alpha, you see. As if siring an alpha son would prove something of himself. He made Erskine brew all manner of potions in the hope of eliciting a desired result, no matter how much the good physician cautioned him as to the dubious efficacy of such an endeavor."
Reaching around to massage warm hands over the top of Steven's ass, the Prince leaned forward to pillow his forehead against Steven's furred breast, no doubt sensing the erratic thumping of the heart beneath as he continued, sounding slightly distracted, "...His efforts backfired. The gods, in answer to his meddling, saw fit to endow me not only with omegahood -- but with a whole host of traits typically reserved for alphakind. Rather than possessing the meekness so coveted in our sex, I was made shameless. Instead of gentility, I craved the sweat and toil of the forge. And instead of chastity— that most vaunted of all virtues?"
As he spoke the Prince curled his fingers around Steven's ass cheeks, favoring them with a tight squeeze. In the next moment he straightened himself, hands traveling up the length of Steven's back before grasping behind his shoulders for leverage. Steven held his breath in shock as the Prince rose up to balance on the toes of his fine leather turnshoes and clung closely to Steven's naked body, his mouth ghosting hot breath over the join of Steven's neck and shoulder and making his pulse jump in response. Holding tightly to him, the Prince then confided—his voice thick with desire— "...I prefer carnality."
Then, to Steven's great horror, the Prince's slick tongue licked right across his pulse point, lewdly wetting the sensitive spot beneath which his scent gland lay before that wicked mouth closed over it and sucked, forming a tight pressure seal against his flesh.
The resulting sensations were unbearably rousing. As the Prince's mouth drew his blood to the surface, Steven was provoked into a simultaneous grunt and involuntary spasm, making the Prince moan incendiary vibrations against his wet skin. Gritting his teeth as he felt the Prince's fingertips dig more deeply into his shoulders—his smaller body swaying against Steven's and tantalizing his bare skin where silk brocade and the cool metal of his belt buckle rubbed against him—Steven was helpless to do more than stand rigidly in place as his blood thrummed with some kind of primal warning, his body understanding the Prince's lascivious intentions even better than Steven, himself, could...
Amongst Steven's retinue was a marksman of extraordinary ability—appropriately dubbed "Clinton the Hawk-eyed"—whose keen vision could survey an enemy's procession from a great distance away and spot the exact target at which to aim a fire arrow, knowing that such a hit would incite rapid upheaval amongst their ranks. With just a single arrow this marksman could land a blow of untold consequence, as Sir Steven had witnessed on more than one occasion with his own eyes.
The Prince, it seemed, possessed a similar talent— his too-clever mouth targeting the precise spot on Steven's body that was sure to be his undoing.
Had he been less distracted by the wild thrumming of his blood, Sir Steven might have been aware of which of the two effects presented, first -- but such as it was, he didn't notice that either were happening until it was too late to try to restrain them. The rush that overtook him came on far too fast and far too strong, dulling his higher faculties as he succumbed to a force he'd never known the true power of, and thus had never learned to defend against.
Indeed, it wasn't until—with a vulgar smacking of lips—the Prince at last withdrew enough to observe the state of his captured knight, that Steven was granted enough awareness of himself to recognize what it was that had suddenly fascinated the omega, so:
Steven's fangs were out, swollen to fullness in his panting mouth—
—and worse than that: jutting out prominently from the apex of his thighs, impossible to ignore, stood his engorged cock.
"Gods have mercy..." the Prince murmured, sounding suitably impressed, "...that answers the question of whether it works or not..."
"Forgive me, Your Highness!" Steven begged, mortified beyond all reason by his lack of control. He could not help how deep his voice had gone, suffused as his body was with those same alpha hormones that were known to flood one's bloodstream on the precipice of battle -- the "fight or fuck instinct," as the more vulgar soldiers had oft termed it. For Sir Steven, such a rush had only ever preceded the instinct to fight, exclusively. He had no idea that he was even capable of experiencing it in relation to the latter urge.
"What is there to forgive?" the Prince smoothly countered, quirking an amused brow as he took hold of Steven's hips and stepped back to better take in the view.
"If it pleases you, Your Grace— might I be permitted to clothe myself now, to shield my Prince's eyes from such offense?" Steven miserably implored, unaware of how he was making his biceps bulge more markedly from clenching his fists so tight. The Prince's appreciative gaze hadn't overlooked this effect.
"There is nothing about you that my eyes require shielding from, Sir Steven," the Prince leered. "It pleases me more than I can say to look upon you just as you are in this moment."
And look, he did. To Steven's endless dismay, the Prince's admiring observation of his predicament would not allow his alphahood to flag, no matter how desperately he willed it to abate. That gaze was like a caress upon his flesh, the way it bore down on him so heatedly, tracking every tick of his muscles; every flash of his throat; every drop of sweat that beaded upon his flushed skin. His awareness of being alone with the omega was a constant strain; one that bore upon him all the more vividly as their scents seemed to dance together in the thickening air, each responding to the other in kind, amplifying in concentration and intensity as Steven felt overcome with a need that he could not satisfy— not even if he knew how.
"Here is what will happen," the Prince at last asserted, just as Steven was becoming woozy with arousal. "You are to remain in this position, unmoving, as I fit my garments to you. My hands will touch you. Yours will touch nothing. If you find yourself desiring to reach for me, you will not. You will hold your position, no matter how much you may wish to do otherwise. Can you do this for me?"
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Sir Steven managed a rough-sounding, "Yes, my Prince."
"Are you certain, Sir Steven?" the Prince pressed, eyes boring into him intently. "You will not falter?"
"I will not," Steven promised.
"See that you don't," the Prince warned with one last, meaningful look, then moved to fetch some unfinished sections of clothing and a cup of tailoring pins from the table.
Sir Steven could not rightly say how long it took, though it seemed to him that what followed lasted for an interminable duration. Piece by piece, the Prince fitted his custom garments to Steven's body, meticulously pinning each in place as he tugged and patted and made adjustments as he saw fit, pursing his lips as he'd assess his work with a single-mindedness that Steven found utterly baffling, given the particular circumstances.
There he stood, with his cock flagrantly erect and bobbing in the open air between them— and still the Prince carried on as if this was not in the least bit extraordinary.
In fact, the Prince was rather stunningly indifferent to Steven's arousal. Surely he'd noticed the way that Steven had had to bite back overwhelmed gasps from time to time as the Prince touched his overstrung body; or the way that Steven's cock would twitch with shameful interest whenever the Prince's fingers would make inadvertent contact with his bare skin, all the while going about their task with perfunctory detachment. For all Steven knew, the Prince never even bothered to look at his swollen member, simply ignoring it as if it weren't as conspicuous as a hog in a henhouse. When—at one particularly agonizing moment—Steven realized that his cock had begun to weep tears of some ignominious fluid from such torment, leaking from the rosy tip in a slow stream that trickled down his rigid shaft and swollen testicles until they were as wet as overripe fruit splitting open in plump excess, he was certain that his Prince would soon chastise him for such an abhorrent display...
Yet all through the fitting, the Prince carried on as if Steven were made of straw. He was no more to the Prince than a model to be dressed; his legs, arms and torso gradually fitted with the Prince's specially-made gambeson and chausses while his groin and ass were left indecently exposed. For all of his suffering, not once would Steven object. There was naught for him to do but to submit to whatever treatment the Prince imposed, silently cursing as his muscles strained to hold steady, all while enduring the grievous aching of his persistently aroused cock and agonizingly engorged balls.
But hold fast, he did. Sir Steven wouldn't dream of disobeying his Prince. If His Highness wished for Steven to maintain this position all the night long, then so it would be. He dared not move to touch His Highness, however tantalizingly within reach he remained. Never mind that the Prince smelled more captivating than anything Steven knew could even exist in this world. Never mind that he was the most comely omega that Sir Steven had ever laid eyes upon (he was convinced that the Prince—with his long-lashed, stunning brown eyes and the playful turn of his impish mouth—was surely exceptional in this regard, even if all others had only ever been spotted from a safe distance away). Nevermind that the Prince's hands seemed to Steven as clever as his mouth, securing his splendid armor designs over Steven's partially-clothed body and studying the fit of each component with sharp, discerning eyes before removing these to hammer at or make other minor adjustments at the nearby workbench, then bringing them back to where Steven stood always at the ready for his Prince to check the fit again.
It wasn't until most of the candles had burned down to their fag-ends that the Prince was at last satisfied. Steven had grown so accustomed to maintaining his position in silence that he almost didn't register it at first, when the Prince finally spoke to him.
"You may stand at ease now, Sir Steven."
Still blinking away the befuddled haze that had overtaken him, Steven watched—as if spellbound—as the Prince moved to stand in front of him, encouraging him to lower his arms with gentle hands. As Steven rolled out his sore shoulders with a tremulous sigh of relief, the Prince pressed a light hand against Steven's core, assuring him in a tone that was unexpectedly fond, "You did well."
Steven was unprepared for the elation that coursed through him at such praise -- it was a bliss bright as sunshine, better than any wine he'd ever imbibed, instantly warming him all the way to his toes. Across from him, the bonny Prince's eyebrows jumped up as he regarded Steven's cock with renewed interest, having noticed that it was leaking fresh tears of apparent joy.
"I would tell you that you may stand at ease now, too, but I wouldn't expect you to comply straight away," the Prince spoke with amusement, addressing Steven's cock as if it were an overexcited dog begging for attention. "Perhaps your master will be good enough to take you in hand tonight— if indeed he has it in him to be merciful."
Glancing back up at Steven with sly eyes, the Prince favored him with a wink and a cheeky smirk before turning to fetch Steven's braies for him.
"You shall have to walk back to your lodgings in this state, I fear. My attendants will soon come to pack up my prototypes, else I'd grant you leave to seek relief at your convenience. At least you'll have the advantage of darkness," the Prince smiled, handing over the braies before moving to retrieve his fur-trimmed cloak from where he'd draped it.
"I shall have your armor ready for you within a sennight. The garments will need proper stitching, though that shouldn't take long, either. Well before the upcoming tourney, at any rate..."
Awkwardly pulling his braies back on as the Prince fastened his cloak, Steven wondered how so much had happened in so little time. He'd almost forgotten that he'd agreed to fight in a tourney, after everything. It felt as if he were in a kind of fog, wandering about in dreamlike confusion. Was it always so, when alphas spent time in the company of omegas? Or was Prince Anthony, himself, the cause, singular in his ability to inspire such an effect?
Though Sir Steven did not realize it then, in truth he'd already been completely mesmerized by Prince Anthony from the moment they'd met. Having never experienced firsthand the particular impact that someone of the Prince's sex could have on an alpha like him, Steven was entirely defenseless against such an influence. As such, he wasn't even capable of understanding what was happening to him—what had begun on that night—until it was far too late.
Despite all of Master Erskine's warnings—despite all of Steven's training, and the vows he'd made in earnest—the great, inescapable truth of the matter was that the natural order of things could not be wholly conditioned out of a person, no matter how diligent their efforts.
That which has been written in the blood cannot be unwritten. To challenge this is the height of folly.
That which has been written in the stars is the design of destiny. To resist this is to deny the inevitable.
Both the Prince and Sir Steven had learned much in their young lives. Both were uniquely talented, competent men— both daring, in their respective ways— each of whom had grown to believe himself a master of his own domain.
Together, they would soon learn just how wrong they were.