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Rava the servant shakes him awake in the middle of the night. Aerion wakes in panic, for there are only two instances he has allowed his servants to interrupt his sleep, and the main one is that if danger is imminent.
Soon enough, panic turns into anger, as Rava doesn’t seem scared at all, but rather excited; big brown eyes wide and shining in the moonlight coming from the balcony window. Perspiration matted his face and short-shorn hair.
“Fresh meat,” he manages between heavy breaths.
Aerion’s heart thumps, before he jumps out of bed, ignoring the impertinence of his young servants, who hadn’t even addressed him by his title.
Rava runs to pick up Aerion’s trousers strewn on the floor, but Aerion stops him. “Leave it, you dimwit! No time for that. Fetch me that brown cloak.”
Rava, for all that he is witless, he is quick to follow orders. That’s why Aerion keeps him around. He’s a simple boy who Aerion rescued from a cruel father, who promised to serve Aerion until the end of times and to never turn against him.
Aerion has his sandals on before he snatched the plain cloak from Rava’s clumsy hands. He moves it over his shoulders, ties it together messily and puts the hood up. The last thing he wants is someone recognising his hair.
And off they go.
They slink through the manor, through servants corridors like mice. Aerion’s heart beats like a drum the entire way towards the bay. It always does on days or nights like these, when fresh meat comes in.
“When did they dock?” Aerion asks, as Rava runs to catch up with him on his short legs, even shorter than his prince’s.
“Not yet, my lord. But they’ll be here right before sunrise, the men said.”
“Not yet? How do you know about it, then?”
Rava grins cheekily. “I poured some potent wine to the injured one from the crew, who stayed behind. They sent him messages from across the sea, with their stock, so he can try to sell them before they come back and put them straight to work. He’s told me all about them, my lord. Even said the prince might get the first pick after they sorted through them.”
Aerion is almost impressed. Maybe he underestimated his little servant a bit. If this turns out to be good, he might give Rava a day off or two.
“How many? One?” Aerion asks instead, keeping his eyes on the dark horizon.
“Three, the man said. Tall as trees, and strong like oxen.”
Aerion couldn’t believe his luck. Usually, he was lucky enough to get one. One would give the prince a good few weeks of entertainment before he broke them and discarded them like old toys.
“They say one of them is so violent he has to be kept in chains. They say he killed one of the crewmates for disrespecting him, smashed his skull in. They’ll be taking him right to the gallows, this one. He’s too wild to be kept around or sold, they say.”
Aerion hums in interest, as they enter the docks, looking at the slave ship approaching, about to dock. He hopes the rumours are true, and he will find a man-mountain with the temperament of a wild beast on board. It would be something different, something interesting, at least.
Usually, the slaves brought to Aerion’s feet are not right; either too soft in appearance or disposition; either too tall or not tall enough; either too slim or too fat; either too meek or too aggressive. Aerion hates the meek ones the most, but the feisty ones fight back, and it makes days pass quicker.
Recently, all he does is wait for new toys, hoping for a perfect one to appear before him, and as always he’s disappointed when it doesn't. He’s exhausted, longing for something that might never come. Tormented by the memories in his sleep, and the yearning in his waking hours. It drives him mad, to the point most days he wants to rip his heart out, just for a moment of peace.
Aerion watches from the shadows as they disembark. It’s the first time he sees it with his own eyes, the three years he’s been here. He is not oblivious to the hash treatment of he pirates, who catch people at the wrong place, wrong time on their travels and bring them to Lys, where the slave trade’s booming. They know which ones to pick to make the most money: pretty ones for the brothels, strong ones for serving and work.
Big ones for the dragon prince to have his pick from.
All of the slaves are dirty, chained at the hands and feet, as they are led out of the ship. Some of them are lightly bruised, but that’s about the extent of their injuries.
Aerion sees his man-mountains, his gaze snapping to them like a moth to a flame. They are brothers, clearly, with fiery red hair and pale freckled skin. They are big enough, Aerion supposes, already thinking up ways to play with them later.
Then the prince spots him: a giant. Bigger than the brothers, both in height and might.
The first thing that stands out is that he’s held by three big crewmates, and the tallest of them doesn’t even rich past his shoulder, and two of them are beaten and bloody.
A beast, Aerion thinks with a shiver of excitement.
Aerion’s beast is weaning rags, hanging off of his powerful frame in scraps. His hair was long to his shoulders, obscuring his dirty face. But from what Aerion can see, his jaw is strong, even through the bushy beard.
This one, Aerion decides at once. I shall have this one.
And there was no way to change his mind, once it’s set on something.
“Stay here,” Aerion instructs as he goes to speak to the captain.
He makes a quick argument of it. The captain laughs, as he knows, as most Lysians, of the prince’s strange proclivities.
“That’s why we brought the twins, my lord,” he says.
“Fuck the twins. I want the beast.”
“He killed one of my men, almost killed two more. He needs to pay.”
“I will pay for it. And I will punish him as I see fit, on your behalf.”
“He deserves the gallows.”
“Maybe. But far worse fate awaits him at my hands, do you not think so?” Aerion says, conversationally.
The captain thinks about it for a long moment, and squints down at the prince. “That’s not gonna be cheap?”
Aerion grins. He has the money and nothing to spend it on but himself. His father is second in the way to the throne, they have inherited riches beyond the realm’s comprehension from their fallen kin. Anyone would be stupid to refuse the crown’s coin.
The captain doesn’t refuse. Smart man.
The crewmates wrestle the beast into a tent, where the captain said the prince can review the merchandise first before committing to buy. Strangely noble slave trader, it seems.
Aerion pulls the flaps of the tent away, and doesn't realise Rava slinks in behind him.
The beast doesn’t care about them, too focused on trying to get out of his shackles, his wrists bloody or break the wooden pole he is shackled to. Aerion wonders which one will give under that brute strength.
“Kindly stop hurting my property, oaf,” Aerion orders. “How good are you to me with broken wrists?”
The words register slowly, then all at once, the giant’s eerie light eyes snap to him with a gasp, as the fight suddenly leaves him. “Aerion?” he says and it sounds so painfully softly Aerion shivers.
He is met with the eyes that haunt him in his dreams and waking hours alike, lips that he can’t stop thinking about, face that under the dirt is all too familiar. He is rooted in his spot.
“My prince? Why does he call you by your name?” Rava asks, and for a boy of three and ten, he is not perceptive enough to come to his own conclusion.
“Go, Rava. Leave us,” Aerion dismisses him quickly, and the servant does what he does best - follows orders without question.
He doesn’t dare turn back to look at the beast.
The beast who has a name Aerion has spoken only in the darkest shadows of his mind since that fateful day.
Duncan the Tall.
“Are we in Lys, then?” Duncan asks. “I didn’t know where they were bringing me. I thought surely they are bringing me straight to the gallows.”
“You killed one of their crew.”
“Because he was raping a girl!”
Aerion snorts. Noble as always. Pushed to violence only out of noble ideals.
Aerion turns to him, then. He’s holding his breath as their eyes met for the first time since… well, since Ashford. Suddenly, all the memories come crashing back. The violence, the bloodshed, the trial… A big body against his, pushing, pulling, slapping, grabbing, dragging him across the mud… Chest against his back, ragged breaths against his ear telling him to yield.
Aerion glares at this poor excuse of a knight. “What happened to your hedge knighting? Got bored so you went back to the mud?”
Duncan’s expression doesn’t even twitch from the huge relief at seeing a familiar face in foreign land. He thought he was gone, and even Aerion’s insults couldn't damper his relief.
“No. We were attacked, me and Egg.” Aerion’s expression twitches at the mention of his brother. “Egg got away, but we separated. And then I got captured. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
Aerion pursues his lips. What does he want Aerion to do? The letters he gets from his family are few and far between, the last one maybe three months back, and it was just to inform him another family member was dead.
“If Aegon was gone, I would’ve heard about it,” he says anyway. He doesn’t know why he offers this small mercy, but he deems it worth it when Duncan slumps with relief, tears brimming in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, needlessly. He sniffs like a child, and clears his throat. “But what about you, my prince? What are you doing here?”
“I was banished here.”
“In the docks, I mean, waiting for a slave ship.”
“Nevermind you that,” Aerion snaps. “Aren’t you glad I got you out of your miserable fate? It cost me dearly too.”
“Cost…? Oh,” Duncan finally realises You brought me. As a slave.”
Aerion nods, watches Duncan’s expression, which doesn’t twist with disgust or distaste. Instead he lowers his head in reverence.
“It is a high debt to pay but I will. I owe you my life.”
Aerion laughs. “Oh, you will. Now let’s get you washed. You stink.”