Chapter Text
News regarding Aerion Targaryen were never good, especially if they asked for Duncan’s presence in the Red Keep.
There was an unusual amount of activity when Ser Duncan arrived considering that it was almost midnight. Servants runned in with buckets full of water and returned with red stained rags. Maidens gossiped in the corners and hushed each other when he came closer.
He yearned for a familiar face, anyone who could explain what had happened and how much it concerned him.
It took him a while, but he finally recollected by the whispering servants that a guard had been killed.
Remove the body. A good man. Bring new bedclothing. Third this week. The hedge knight. Asking for it. The maesters. The king. Unmated. Letter to the family. Same every heat. Asking for it. Asking for it. Asking for it.
Then all the whispers died and were replaced by the smell of blood and something else.
Duncan turned in the direction in which the remaining servants in the room were bowing.
Seven hells. Aerion Targaryen stood before him with his face half covered in fresh blood. By the way the prince’s silent gaze settled on him Duncan knew he had been watching him for a while, before he had noticed his presence.
None of them greeted the other.
It was the first time they had seen each other since Ashford. Despite having grown out of his child face, Aerion looked almost the same. His hair was barely longer than it had been when he was sixteen. He must have cut it again recently, for Egg had told him that when Aerion returned from Lys his hair was almost as long as a lady’s. Like a curious child, Duncan felt slightly disappointed that the prince had cut it before his arrival.
One of the very scared servants approached Aerion and started removing the blood from his face. When she cleaned the right side of his cheek, a scar was revealed in the prince's face. It started at the corner of his mouth and disappeared as it got closer to the white streaks that covered his temples. Duncan knew that scar as if it were his own, in a way it was. Last time he had seen it it was yet an open wound, ugly and filled with blood. Now it had healed into a formidable mark. Back then, Duncan had wondered how Aerion’s face would look when the wounds healed, if they would ruin his valyrian beauty. They didn’t. The prince looked as unearthly as the first time Duncan laid eyes on him.
He remembered Ashford. During the trial he hadn’t thought too much about the little lord being an omega; but later, while he slept under the effects of poppy milk he had a strange dream. He was back in the mud, trying to resist Aerion’s attacks, but every time he touched the prince his hands left a painted mark on the other’s armour and Aerion’s hands did the same on his. Suddenly he noticed the silence that came both from the spectators and the rest of the knights, nobody fought, yelled nor cheered, they just stayed quiet and astonished. Duncan finally took a second to look at the princeling and himself, just to realise they were all covered in each other's colours. He felt a sudden and desperate need to explain himself even after waking up.
When the effects of the poppy faded away Duncan came to the realization that Aerion and the trial had been the most physical touch he ever had. He remembered the weight of the prince over him and how many times they had been on top of each other. He remembered his dream and the traces of his hands all over Aerion’s back, neck, waist and thighs. Was that his first time touching someone’s thighs? Well, that was embarrassing! If ser Arlan could see him he would laugh for hours. Egg would do the same had it been anyone else but his brother. Not any brother, he reminded himself, Aerion who was cruel to his brothers, Aerion who had broken sweet Tanselle’s hand, Aerion who had killed a horse in the tournament, Aerion who wanted him dead.
With such thoughts he dissuaded himself from the foolish idea of checking on the prince. What would he say, anyways? That he was sorry? He wasn’t. He didn’t regret winning and he didn’t regret hurting Aerion. He barely could even say he regretted the whole affair.
Besides, Duncan was too embarrassed to let anybody know about his dream, so he told himself what he would have wanted the maesters to say, that it didn’t mean anything, that the milk of the poppy messes with men’s minds. That had been the answer to which he had stuck with through all these years. But now the scars on the prince's face mocked how naive he had been to believe it was just a dream. He had marked the prince permanently and now anyone who looked in the face would have to remember what happened in Ashford.
The King was too busy cursing the butchered guard to give Duncan a proper welcoming. He just repeated what the letter that brought him to Kings Landing had already stated: Duncan was there to guard the prince while the omega’s heat lasted, for the previous guards had proven themselves unfit for the job. That explains the bloodbath, Duncan thought.
He was supposed to be given a night of rest after his travel, but the prince had decided to slaughter the previous guard so now he stayed by the door of Aerion’s chambers, which for now were located in a distant wing of the Red Keep designated for to bring comfort and protection to the omegas of the royal family during their heat. The access was denied to almost everyone and the walls were way thicker.
Yet, Duncan could catch faintly the faint scent of plums that escaped from the corners of the door as the prince slept, now fresh and clear of the blood that darkened it a few hours earlier.
The access to such area of the Keep was restricted to almost everybody so he practically jumped, hand reaching for his sword, when he heard footsteps approaching.
—No need for that, Ser. I can assure you I have no interest in disturbing my brother’s rest.
So Duncan allowed the intruder to get closer. He wasn’t a stranger though, despite how much the years had withered his face, Duncan would recognize that sad voice anywhere.
Daeron didn’t look any better, and Egg had never mentioned how his face was now shadowed by blueish dark circles and a beard of days. A beggar in prince clothes, Duncan thought.
—My father gave you a tedious job, didn’t he? Although you must be used to tedious jobs, I suppose—. Daeron said as he sat down in front of him with his legs crossed. —Still, I thought you could use some company… And food… And wine.
As he said this, the prince placed in front of him a plate of fresh fruits, a jug and two empty cups.
Duncan wasn’t particularly fond of the eldest prince, but couldn’t refuse his company, so he sat down as well.
—I can’t accept the wine.
—Oh, that’s fine—. Of course it is, Duncan thought, wondering if this visit had been an excuse for Daeron to grab a little extra wine than what his father allowed. —Grab some plums then.
—I don’t think it is very appropriate right now—. He answered with a shy smile.
Daeron tilted his head with a quick and slight frown. He looked confused and amused at the same time, although not as much as to ask what Duncan meant. However the movement of his head revealed a purple and veiny mark in his neck that caught the hedge knight’s attention.
—Did someone hurt you?— He asked carefully.
—Oh, that—. Daeron answered with dragged words, smiling softly as he spoke. —No, I brought that on myself.
Then he brushed his hair back, revealing an infected bite mark, venomous purple, already rotting with black veins crawling towards the healthy skin. It was the most horrible wound Duncan had ever seen.
—Don’t make that face, Ser—, Daeron said with a sad chuckle, letting his blond hair hide it once again.—The person who did it has been gone for a long time.
And so Duncan understood. The mark wasn’t infected because it came from an unwanted alpha, but from a dead one.
—Your father…?
—Oh, no! Of course not. It was the spring fever.
Duncan was at loss for words.
—It is unlikely it will ever heal, but the maesters are working day and night. Did you know? My Aemon will come to Kingslanding to try to help as well. Brilliant little creature he is—. And his face softened at the mention of his little brother. —Everyone is doing all they can. And so am I.
So he stole Duncan’s cup of wine and swallowed the whole drink at once.
Duncan stared at the eldest prince in silence as he ate the fruits by himself. Why would the Gods take his mate away? Weren’t the dragon dreams painful enough?
His lemon cake scent was almost entirely gone and Duncan knew it right then, the prince was dying.
But then he noticed the absence of something else.
The fear filled his body as he rose and hurried towards the door of Aerion’s chambers. Empty. How was that possible? He had guarded the only door the whole night.
He hadn’t noticed Daeron had followed him until he heard his voice at his back: —Oh! There he is.
Duncan hurried towards the eldest prince, who was dangerously bent over the window. He put Daeron behind him first and then looked down as well. Daeron was right, his brother was at the gates of the red keep, looking up at them, unamused.
—Why is he- why are you like this?— Duncan heard Daeron ask his little brother without trying to raise his voice. It was unlikely Aerion could hear him.
—Are those plums?— The younger prince yelled from below.
Both looked at Daeron’s hands, incredulous. None had realized he still carried the fruits.
Daeron answered by throwing one of the plums, which exploded on the stone floor a few steps away from Aerion. But Duncan couldn’t care less for whatever this exchange was about.
—How did he…?
Then Daeron opened his eyes widely, as if he had been sleepwalking and someone had abruptly woken him up. His sight wandered through the room for a moment before a childish smile brightened his face.
—I know where we are. We used to come here when we were kids to escape from father or the guards. We knew by heart how to climb down, I bet I still can.
Duncan bet he couldn’t, so he hurried to pull him back to his side as soon as Daeron tried to rise his knee to the window.
—If any of you comes down make sure to bring me some of those—. Aerion yelled, still unamused, before turning his back and leaving in the dark.
—The guards will stop him, right?— Duncan asked, already feeling the panic filling his system once again.
—If there are any.
Now he was terrified.
—What do you mean if there are any?— He asked, holding Daeron by the shoulders. But the eldest prince already looked overcome by the wine… again.
Daeron raised his shoulders in a dismissive way with a slow and drunken smile.
So Duncan hurried to exit the chambers and rushed through the corridors, dragging Daeron by the hand. He knew this was slowing him down, but was too worried about Daeron’s idea of climbing down in his state. As soon as he encountered another guard he throwed the prince in his direction, ordering him to keep an eye on him, and then tried to regain the time he had lost.
As soon as he reached the gates through which Aerion had disappeared he noticed Daeron was right, there was not a single soul guarding the Red Keep. Now he worried he should have asked the eldest prince if he knew where his brother could be heading. He had no choice but to choose a street and hope to find Aerion before another alpha.
The streets in the capital were unusually quiet and deserted. The only proof of other people’s presence was the muted voices that came from the Street of Silk. Maybe Duncan should look for the prince there, that’s where the guards who skipped their duties usually were, after all. Besides, what else could Aerion possibly want that the Red Keep couldn’t offer?
Then a familiar voice interrupted the silence and the rhythm of his steps.
—Did you bring my plums?
He turned around to find the prince resting his back in one of the alleys that departed from the main street. He sighted, relieved of not having to look for the prince among the brothels.
Aerion did not seem interested in escaping once again, instead he waited for his now personal guard to meet him in the interior of the dark alley.
Duncan was surprised to find the prince dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. It was the first time he had seen him without fancy clothes in the colors of his house, perhaps what he wore underneath his armor? Yet, it wouldn’t be appropriate to say that he was disguised as a civilian. Anyone who saw him would easily know that the person before them was the bright prince. Not even the filthiest drags from Flea Bottom would be enough to distract the attention from his white hair and violet eyes.
—Couldn’t you at least wear a cloak?— He sighed.
—What does that have to do with my plums?— Aerion asked with the same expression of fake innocence he often used with his father. —Daeron is gonna eat them all.
—It has to do with you attracting all the alphas in the city—. Duncan answered while taking off his own cloak.
—Isn’t it a little bit late to worry about that? I already attracted you here.
—Not the same, my prince—. He answered, hoping that Aerion couldn’t notice his annoyance.
—Oh it isn’t? Why is that?
Duncan had no interest in entertaining whatever this exchange was; yet, it was better than chasing the prince once again.
—I’m here to protect you—. He muttered while he offered his cloak. Aerion looked at it without interest nor intentions of accepting it.
—So did the past three alphas my father sent. The three of them forgot about it as the moon came out and the three of them died like pigs, with their throats open in half.
—And I’m sure that was what they deserved, my prince—, he answered. Duncan knew about it and didn’t feel sorry for his predecessors, Aerion could have skinned them and he wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t feel precisely sorry for Aerion either, because he, who still carried the proof in his skin, knew better than anyone that the prince was perfectly capable of defending himself from any alpha, beta or omega. He also knew Aerion wasn’t trying to raise any kind of pity on him. —But I can assure you I have no interest in anything but following your father’s orders.
—Really?— Aerion tilted his head slightly and started shortening the distance between them, but Duncan was quick on covering the prince on the piece of cloth he had already offered him, stopping his steps and whatever game Aerion was trying to start.
—Really. Please wear that. Use it to cover your hair and face while we go back to the Keep.
But Aerion didn’t seem interested in going anywhere.
—I don’t want your filthy clothes—. He answered, spitting the words as if they were bitter in his mouth and throwing the cloak as if it was some rotten dead animal. —They stink. Besides we’re in the middle of the summer, I will sweat to death.
—You should have thought about it before wandering outside the Keep—, Duncan replied with almost the same bitterness. His clothes weren’t as fine as the prince’s but he didn’t appreciate having them thrown in the dirty streets of the capital. —You would be comfortable inside, sleeping and wearing whatever you wanted. Now we can’t take the risk of every alpha in the city following the damned scent of plums.
Gods, he was so tired of the plums. Even with all the suppressants the maesters must have given the prince his scent was strong enough to make Duncan’s head dizzy. He hadn’t noticed back in the Red Keep when there had been thick walls between them, but now that they were face to face the scent was starting to be a problem.
Duncan picked his cloak once again. He didn’t try to clean it up for the prince, he had thrown it, now he would wear it all dirty.
He felt eager to leave all that nonsense behind and go back to the safety of the Keep, but when he intended to throw the cloak back over Aerion’s shoulders he noticed the other’s confusion.
—Plums? What do the plums have to do?— His voice was natural, almost soft, and his expression didn’t show any trace of the previous fake innocence nor any attempt to mock him. Even when he tried to hide it with poorly executed disdain, the prince seemed genuinely confused.
—They have to do with you, you… you smell like plums—. Duncan muttered with his feelings shifting quickly from annoyance to embarrassment. There was something intimate in speaking of someone’s scent and it disarmed him to remember that Aerion, despite all that violence and wretchedness, was still an omega.
—Seven hells, you are stupid—. Aerion replied, less confused and much more annoyed; yet, his face and neck had become slightly red. —Targaryen’s do not smell like fruits. That’s a commoner’s scent.
Of course Duncan knew about it. Everyone in Westeros and beyond was well aware that the Targaryens smelled of blood and ashes, each one with a slightly different undernote except for the Conqueror, who was said to smell like pure fire. Not ashes, no burned wood or flesh, just fire in its most pure form. When Duncan was a child he often wondered what that meant until he fell asleep.
Yet, he would put his own life in the fact that Aerion smelled like fresh plums. One deep breath and he could picture them in his mind: fresh and red, dripping juice like blood.
Both of them stayed in silence for a moment, each one trying to figure out each other’s thoughts. This made Duncan feel at disadvantage. When Aerion insulted and complained he resembled a spoiled child, but when he stayed quiet like then his sharp purple eyes seemed able to read anyone’s mind.
Some distant voices broke the silence. The knight’s hand hurried to reach his sword as he stepped in front of the prince. Aerion barely reacted.
The sounds of cheerful and drunken men soon disappeared but Duncan knew it was a good moment to leave.
—You can insult and mock me all you want when we are back in the keep. Now please wear this and-
—I have a proposal for you—. Aerion interrupted, back with his clever and scheming look in his face.
—No—. Duncan hurried to answer. —No more games. No more wandering. Let’s go back.
—I will if you kiss me.
Now it was Duncan’s turn to blush. A kiss? Why in the seven hells would the prince ask him for a kiss?
As if he could read his mind, Aerion continued: —If you dare to kiss me, I promise I’ll wear your disgusting clothes, walk beside you to the keep, and will never wander alone again.
—I’m sorry to disappoint you, my prince, but no, I don’t dare. Can we please go back?
—I don’t think you understand, beast. You kiss me or I won’t move.
By the hatred in his tone and expression it was hard to believe it was a kiss what Aerion was demanding. Not like Duncan could imagine him doing it in any other way.
They stood in silence once again, sternly daring each other to give in.
—I could lift you. I can carry you in my back to the Red Keep. I don’t care if you bite, kick and scream.
—But you do care—, Aerion replied, stepping closer. —Because you don’t want to draw any attention. You may be somewhat strong and allegedly a fine knight, Ser; but how many alphas can you take while carrying me on your back?
Unfortunately, Aerion was right. Duncan knew what happened when the masses from Flea Bottom were provoked, and didn’t even dare to imagine what would happen if they discovered the omega prince in heat among them. Was Aerion even aware of it? Did he know that half of the city would try to claim him and the other half would let them, thinking that the prince deserved it? Duncan knew it, and all he wanted was to leave as quickly and quietly as possible.
He tried to find another way, there had to be another way. But he couldn’t find a reason to threaten the Bright Prince into returning quietly and he would sooner see the Narrow Sea turned into a desert than Aerion changing his mind.
His heart started racing and as he realized that he had no choice.
—Just one kiss—. He said while he pretended to look around, to make sure nobody was near. Actually, he just wanted to avoid Aerion’s victorious expression.
By the moment his sight returned to the prince had already stepped closer, and his voice was low and velvety: —I promise.
Yet there was something predatory in the way he stood and looked at him. Duncan hated how small the prince made him feel. He had thought that after all those years and travels he would be free of whatever power the prince used to have upon him the first time they met, but he was wrong.
—I don’t trust your promises.
Aerion’s smile widened: —Too bad you don’t have any choice.
Those words were the last Duncan heard before leaning towards the prince’s lips.
It wasn’t a tender kiss, not even from the beginning.
Days later he would think of that night, trying to remember in which moment his intentions of leaving a meaningless kiss and leaving had vanished, yet no matter how many times he went back in his memories the answer was always the same.
It was the most scary thing. Despite the fact that he was well aware of how much he despised the prince, he could perfectly hear a voice in the back of his head telling him that was everything he ever wanted.
Duncan practically melted over him, he even had to push Aerion to the wall so he could grab onto something, if he hadn’t he would have probably fell on his knees. The prince grunted when the back of his head hit the wall and Duncan couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t help the need of doing it again. He soon realised that he liked kissing Aerion because he could embrace him and bite him and push him and hurt him, all the same. It was a way of showing the prince he still despised him, even when he made his knees tremble.
He couldn’t feel guilty because he knew Aerion felt the same. His hand now pressed against Duncan’s face, not tenderly, but in a possessive and almost spiteful way, with the prince’s nails sinking into his skin in the same way his sweet scent did. Yet, he was as gone as the knight, letting out soft and sweet sighs now and then against the other’s lips.
With one hand Duncan held onto the irregularities of the bricks and with the other he held the prince’s waist. In that moment he regretted how small his hand felt in comparison to how much of Aerion’s body remained untouched. He wished to swallow him whole.
Then he remembered the dream he had back in Ashford. The memory of Aerion covered on the traces of his hand made him jealous of his own younger self and at the same time it excited him to think that he was already there, that Aerion had secretly worn his touch all those years.
Such thoughts gave him the strength to let go of the wall and use both his hands to lift the prince and place him over some wooden boxes a merchant must have thrown in the alley. It was almost laughable how small the prince had remained after all those years.
The boxes didn’t resist much under the movement of the kisses and touch, so Duncan told himself to be prepared to hold the prince when the wood gave in. Just then, he could swear he heard Aerion laugh. A genuine giggle, nothing like the scornful smirks that filled his words.
So he felt guilty. Guilty over ever thinking that taking care of the prince during his heat could be a burden. Guilty over feeling pleasure in hurting him. It was madness (and instincts, most likely), he knew it, and yet he couldn’t distract his mind over how sweet the prince seemed now. The way he moaned against his mouth, how he had giggled in his arms, his scent that only kept getting progressively sugary; everything about him was sweet now.
He was still deep and drunk on these thoughts when Aerion broke the kiss abruptly.
—Well that should be enough—. He declared as he walked away a few steps.
Aerion’s voice was even, but he looked as if he had just walked out from a brothel. His hair was messy, his shirt undone, cheeks flushed and lips swollen; it was the most painfully beautiful view, and he made no attempt to fix any of it, instead, just wrapped Duncan’s cloak around him and over his head, hiding the mess he had become. If Duncan had been quicker in that moment he would have pulled the prince towards him once again, but he was ruined as well. His legs still felt weak and his thoughts slow. He had been far too drowned into pleasure and now he was being forced back into reality.
He must have been quite a sight as well, for Aerion took a second to stare at him and smile before starting to walk back to the Red Keep without giving Duncan a chance to recover himself. He hurried and followed the prince without daring to ask himself whether the anxiousness that guided his steps came from dangers of losing the prince once again or from something else.