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The solar Lord Ashford had granted him was more humid than Aerion believed any room had the right to be. The solid stone walls shone with beads of condensation and the meadow outside became a blurry picture through the fogged up window panes. He had felt the hairs at his nape curling involuntarily the moment they entered through the gates of the keep, and now he felt like he was breathing pure water. He wondered if he could drown in it, as it surely felt like he might at any given minute.
“You truly have heard nothing of your brothers, Aerion?” his father asked, then, and he tilted his head away from the distant grasslands toward him. They had ridden for days, and Aerion had no patience left for exhaustion of travel. He wished to be left alone with his cup of wine and to rest, more than anything else. Still, his father had barged in his temporary solar and demanded talks of his two incompetent brothers.
I cannot say I have been troubled by their absences, Aerion wanted to say. Instead, he shook his head.
“Yes, father. I haven’t heard a thing.”
“They were expected back before supper,” his father said. He was still dressed for the evening, though the signs of the day’s frustration were written plainly upon him.
“Daeron is a grown man,” Aerion pointed out the truth.
“Aerion,” the warning in his voice was mild, but it was there.
“What? You asked me if I knew where they were. I do not. And I am certain you would agree with me if I said Daeron is better off at a brothel than in this tourney’s lists.”
“Do not speak of your brother that way.”
It was always your bother this and your bother that when Daeron embarrassed the family. Aerion was much too sick of it, even if it came from a place of love. His father wanted Daeron to be wiser and Aerion to be kinder and Aegon to be less reckless. He wanted them all to become something greater than what they were, and then he acted wounded when they failed.
Aerion realized his father was speaking a beat too late. He forced through the constant low buzzing in his ears and asked, “What?”
His father’s face hardened. He hated having to repeat himself.
“I asked whether you would ride with the search party at first light.”
“I am to compete tomorrow,” Aerion responded, staring at him as if he was told something absurd.
“So is Daeron.”
“Then perhaps you should send men after him who are not expected to enter the lists.”
Purple eyes narrowed in his direction. Aerion had to sigh, leaning back into his chair.
“Father, if Daeron has gotten himself lost because he wandered off chasing wine and omegas, I fail to see why I must abandon my own duties to find him,” he argued. Then, slowly, he tilted his head. “Is it because you expected us both to prove something?”
That made his father ball his fist.
“Is it not?” Aerion pressed, smiling. “This tourney is important because Daeron and I are meant to distinguish ourselves. Because you have spent years comparing us to my dear cousin Valarr.”
“Valarr is a fine young man,” his father defended through gritted teeth. “And that is what you believe? That my concern for my sons is only because I wish to see them win a foolish tourney?”
Aerion shook his shoulders. He saw the exact moment when his father decided that whatever conversation they had been having was no longer worth continuing, and soon he was out the door, closing it behind him with all his might.
He found himself listening to the silence with an irritation he could not explain. A lot of it came from the uncomfortable warmth prickling underneath his skin, the dampness at the roots of his hair, that strange heaviness to his limbs since they passed through the gates of the keep that morning and that he had naturally attributed to the journey, because anyone who spent days upon horseback with little more than brief stops to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves of the necessities of the body would find themselves fatigued.
Even a prince was not exempt from the inconveniences of flesh, though Aerion often wished he were. His body had always been a terribly undignified thing, after all.
Perhaps his first warning that something was wrong, since arriving, had been the ache and pressure behind his eyelids, to which he attributed the unpleasantly bright sun and the dust raised by dozens of horses. He had thought it was some ordinary discomfort and nothing more. He had survived far worse than a simple headache. Yet it followed him through the morning, worsening gradually, until by midday the pounding in his skull became much too difficult to ignore. When afternoon came, he began wondering if something else was at work.
His moon fevers had passed days ago. The worst of it, the fever and the heightened senses and the restless pull of instinct, all of those humiliating reminders of what he was underneath his silks and chainmails, had ended, as they always did. He was not ashamed of his designation; he was an omega of House Targaryen, who would bear heirs to the Iron Throne. Shame was for those who lacked the strength to accept what they were, and Aerion did not lack strength. Still, in these moments, he wished he could rip the organs that made who he was clean out of his body and set them on fire. He felt foolish. He had been so certain that his moon fevers had come and gone. He had endured it in the privacy of his own chambers before departing, suffered through the worst of it through gritted teeth, screamed into his pillows in frustration, presented his untaken body, his everything, to an empty room, and bled through his sore gums until he emerged three days later, convinced the matter was settled, feeling as hollow and disgusted as ever.
And yet here he was, sitting yet again alone in a borrowed chamber, feeling heat gather under his collar and knowing exactly what it meant. His head throbbed as a war drum. Even on the second floor of the small keep, he could hear the noise from outside, the clatter and shouting, and smell the scents from dozens of different people gathered together in one place, a stench that clung to his sensitive nose and refused to leave.
Despite there being multiple signs pointing toward it, only now he came to realize that he might be experiencing another wave of fever.
He rose from his chair, restless. The room suddenly felt too small and warm. Reaching up, he loosened his collar, as the fabric was rubbing uncomfortably against the sore, irritated skin around his throat, and moved towards the windows again, cracking open one of them. The humidity was instantly suffocating, though the breeze helped cool his overheated body down.
It was not yet nightfall. Still, Aerion convinced himself that if he simply rested and allowed his body to recover from the strain of travel, the symptoms would disappear by morning. This was not a full-fledged moon fever. It cannot be, he thought, padding over to the bed.
Tomorrow, he would ride and remind everyone who Prince Aerion Brightflame was.
He would make sure of it.
-
That night, however, he discovered that sleep was cruelly denied to him by the gods. The hours stretched on mercilessly slowly as he lay awake in the unfamiliar chambers that had been granted to him by the courtesy of Lord Ashford. The solar was undoubtedly a fine one, adorned with rich tapestries, warmed by a generous hearth, and furnished with all the comforts befitting a guest of noble blood, yet none of its splendor could offer him the ease he so desperately sought. It was not his own private chambers and the familiar sanctuary where every scent and texture belonged to him.
His restless body shifted beneath heavy duvets, the fever making his skin uncomfortably sticky-warm.
It troubled him more than he wished to confess. The following day would mark the beginning of the lists, and he was not merely a spectator among the assembled nobles and knights; he was one of the challengers who would be expected to mount his horse, raise his lance, and prove his worth. He did not care for the fair maid, Lord Ashford’s daughter. He wanted to compete, unhorse one of the champions, be one of the last five by the third day, and this fever-induced weakness was an indulgence he could not afford, for he needed all his strength and clarity and pride.
Yet the longer the night endured, the more his own body betrayed him.
Perhaps, though the very thought wounded his vanity, he could quiet the fever for a day and temper the relentless demands of his omega nature, if he found an alpha suitable enough to take him. He could not openly do so; he would never hear the end of it if word reached the wrong ears. His dear cousin was off limits, already bound by marriage, and the thought of turning to some grimy aged lord, some coarse and grasping nobleman was unbearable. He would sooner endure the fever itself.
Thus, by necessity, he arrived at the conclusion that he would have to go himself.
There were countless alphas gathered at Ashford Meadow, knights and lords from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and surely among them there existed one with enough refinement to suit his needs. He had never doubted his own ability to charm, and with the remnants of his moon fever, his sweetened scent, surely some unsuspecting alpha would be more than willing to offer what he required.
To quell this ache, he needed nothing more than a knot. Only that.
Determined, he sat up abruptly. The movement made the room tilt for a couple of seconds. Fever-drunk, that was what they called when instincts began to cloud your judgement, when an omega’s desires became difficult to separate from ordinary thought.
“Gods,” he found himself murmuring. His throat felt as dry as the deserts in Dorne.
Moving toward the chest where his belongings had been placed, he abandoned the extravagance of his usual attire and dressed himself in simpler garments, choosing fabrics that would not draw immediate attention. He took up a dark, hooded cloak, fastening it securely around himself, and opened the door, stepping quietly into the corridor. His fingers curled upon the wooden frame as his vision swam for a second. The halls were narrow and the turns more abrupt, the stairways less grand and therefore less memorable. It felt like a maze. Every so often, as he continued forward, he found himself staring at a doorway or corridor longer than necessary as his mind wandered into strange little foolish illusions. Once, a shadow at the end of the hall became a person waiting for him, and the whisper of the wind against the narrow windows sounded like voices calling his name.
He knew better than to trust such things, yet the fever played tricks to his own better judgment and mind. The staircase he found led not toward the outer grounds, but upward into a collection of smaller chambers where servants likely slept. He realized his mistake only after several moments of dissociative climbing. His pride demanded he turn back quickly, pretending the error had never occurred. He rested a hand against the wall, feeling the rough damp stone under his palm as he waited for the faint dizziness to pass.
At last, he descended again and forced himself to pay closer attention. He followed the sounds of distant activity, the muffled voices of guards and the occasional opening and closing of doors. The keep was not nearly large enough to obscure them entirely. The smallness that had first confused him slowly became his advantage, and soon he was stepping into a lower hall where he could smell the grassy, muddy fields outside. He drew his hood farther over his head and took another turn to an even narrower corridor, one he recognized deliriously as the servants’ entryway to the castle. There were no guards lining the walls. The door at the end of the tunnel became closer and closer.
His hand found the iron latch and pulled it open. Cool, humid air swept over his fevered body. He stepped outside unaware of precisely where he was or where he intended to go, but the sound of a gravely voice spooked him enough to continue marching forward, past a wooden arch, and at last into the muddy pathways of the meadow.
Most of the pavilions were dark, with their occupants having surrendered themselves to sleep after the festivities of the day, but not every pavilion had fallen silent. No, some still glowed warmly from within, laughter drifting off from them.
From other tents came sounds of an entirely different nature. Breathless whispers, shameless moans and cries of pleasure.
Madly, the idea of choosing one of those tents and spare himself the humiliation of searching further almost seemed sensible to his heat-idled mind. Within them, he would most likely find a strong alpha whore willing to take coin. There was no shortage of such people at gatherings like this, and surely one of them would be more than enough to quiet the fever scorching through him.
Aerion nearly turned toward the nearest tent when it came to him that he had no coin. Not even jewelry he could perhaps trade for a couple of hours of fucking.
It was then that a voice emerged from the darkness beside him, deep and gritty, saying, “Lost, are you?”
He bristled. The man who had approached him stepped directly in front of the moonlight, obscuring most of his complexion. Aerion saw little beyond the outline of him, broad shoulders and large belly, one hand resting over the pommel of a sword strapped to his hip. A knight most likely. An alpha. He lifted his chin, ready to remind the stranger who exactly stood before him, when the man spoke again.
“Didn’t think I would find one wandering out here,” he looked him over, and Aerion felt hunger in his assessment. With a great inhale, the man continued, pleasedly, “Well, you must be looking for work, then. Although I haven’t seen many pleasure omegas this far from the tents.”
Aerion’s eyes went as big as saucers. The man believed him to be a whore. He mistook him for some common omega wench roaming the fields in search of coin. It was so absurd, so impossibly insulting, that in another state of mind he would have drawn steel immediately. He would have made the man regret every breath he had wasted speaking such vile words. There were insults that could never be forgiven.
But Aerion was not in his right mind. No, the fever had already taken too much from him. His thoughts were sluggish. He opened his mouth to speak, and the stench of that alpha coated his tongue. He almost doubled over to vomit.
The man took a step closer, pressing, “How much, pretty thing? You know, I could smell you from yards away. Smells ripe.”
Aerion stepped back. The towering man reached for him, but that was the last straw. Without even considering how it might appear, he turned sharply and fled into the darkness of the trees. Behind him, the stranger called something, but Aerion couldn’t hear past the painful thundering of his heart against his ribs. The branches caught at his cloak and tangled in his hair. Leaves brushed against his face as he stumbled forward, driven by the overwhelming need to put distance between himself and that humiliating encounter.
Gods, how foolish he had been. He let himself be vulnerable enough for someone to make such a terrible mistake.
Perhaps, he thought at that instant, he should abandon this ridiculous search entirely and return to the castle. Perhaps he had been arrogant to believe he could wander through the night leaking pheromones into the air and not experience gruesome consequences. Perhaps…
Underneath the thick smell of damp earth and leaves, his nose twitched, catching a different, intriguing scent. It seemed to call to him from deep within the woods. Swaying on his feet, Aerion moved between the trees, deeper and deeper, until the sounds of the meadow disappeared behind him. The ground grew softer under his feet as he emerged into a small clearing. Before him lay a dark pool hidden among the foliage, reflecting nothing but the night sky.
He could not see anyone, for the darkness swallowed everything beyond the edge of the pond, but he could hear a disturbance in the silence, the quiet ripple of water.
That scent grew thicker. Its notes were earthy. It reminded him of summer rain, slick grass and thunder.
It lured him to the edge of the black water. Breathing deeply and open-mouthed, Aerion could feel it coating his tongue. His gums began to ache and warmth curled in his lower belly. Gods, he had never encountered such an enticing scent in his life that could make him slick up like this. He could feel it between his legs.
Another ripple cut across the water. Aerion leaned closer, muttering under his breath, “What…”, when suddenly, in the middle of the pond, a figure rose from the water.
His first thought was that he had found some spirit of the forest, some old tale made flesh.
The man who emerged was enormous, built as a brick wall. Water streamed from his dark hair to his broad shoulders as he began making his way toward the grassy edge. Everything about him was too large. Aerion was left to watch, unmoving, as the giant finally noticed his presence. The eyes that now fell upon him were strikingly blue, even in the darkness.
And Aerion knew those eyes. He had seen them that morning at the stables, irritated from the journey and already suffering from his headache. Of course, he remembered the ridiculous height of him, his thick arms and even thicker accent curling in his tongue. M’lord, pardons, I’m not serving man either. I have the honor to be a knight, he had said to him, puffing his chest out to make himself impossibly larger.
Aerion had been wrong in assuming he was a stableboy. This giant of a man was no boy. No, when his eyes dared to descend for just a second, he realized that much was true.
“Seven hells,” the giant bristled, covering his manhood with his hands, attempting to preserve what little dignity the moment allowed. “What are you doing out here?”
Perhaps he should have been embarrassed by how little sense he was making of the situation. Had his mind been clear, had the fever not been burning through him cruelly, he would have understood the absurdity of standing alone in the middle of a forest at night staring at a nude stranger. An alpha stranger, his clouded mind corrected.
The scent surrounding him had just become too much, soaking into every breath he drew, and each inhale only seemed to deepen the haze that had settled over him. His vision swam. He felt himself dripping between his thighs.
“Right, that’s not strange at all,” the giant muttered.
Aerion blinked slowly at the sound of his voice. Low in his throat, he felt a tiny purr.
“Are you hurt? Did you get lost?”
His lips parted, yet he could not tell him he had followed his scent through the woods while fevered and half out of his senses. He could not tell him anything, for his voice had failed him entirely. His thoughts scattered like frightened birds.
The man took a cautious step closer.
“Look, I’m not trying to bother you, but you cannot just stand there in the dark and say nothing. I don’t know if you’re someone I need to help or someone I need to worry about,” his gaze moved to the hood covering his face. “Can you at least tell me who you are? Or what do you want?”
What did he want? A strong alpha to take him. A warm mouth, thick fingers and a knot, Aerion thought, deliriously.
“Seven hells. All right. Just... stay where you are,” the giant said when he received no response. He moved carefully, as though approaching a frightened animal. “I’m going to get dressed. At least tell me you you understand me.”
Aerion blinked slowly.
Get dressed? No. No, that cannot be. You must stay nude so you can take me, ser. You must pin me down to this very grass and knot me. You must…
“My pants are right there. Can you throw them to me?”
He forced himself to move. His legs felt strangely disconnected from him as he stepped forward, and the world tilted. Where he stood laid upon the grass a thin shirt, pants, a hauberk and a sword belt made of leather. His hand grasped the pants, and the scent reached him more pungent than ever. His fingers curled around the fabric before his fevered mind made the decision for him. Slowly, he bought the cloth upward, not toward the giant but toward his face. Drawing a deep breath, he inhaled the scent and felt it fill his lungs. His eyes tumbled back and his core weeped in response.
“What—what are you doing?” he heard the giant way closer now. He had crossed almost the whole pond, standing only a few steps from him. “Are you mad? Are you…”
When Aerion regarded him silently with glazed over eyes, with the giant’s pants still pressed to his nose, he saw recognition flashing across his face.
“...are you fevering?” the question came with a crease between his thick brows, his blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His nostrils flared. “Gods,” he muttered, dragging a large hand across his face. When he began speaking again, the words came all at once, tumbling out his lips in a one long stream, “The old man was right, after all. Said I was thick as a castle wall and too green to know what to do with an omega when one was standing right in front of me. Never thought I’d have to admit it.”
His gaze returned to Aerion.
“Pardons,” he added quickly with a dry laugh. “I—I am trying to help. I swear I am. I’m just... not exactly certain what I’m meant to do here. Perhaps I could take you back toward the meadow. There are healers there, and plenty of people. The tourney has brought half the realm to Lord Ashford’s lands. Surely there must be someone who can assist you, or...” he hesitated. “Or someone who can help you through this.”
Aerion’s lips parted, and what escaped them was not a word, but a low, warning growl. He did not want someone else. He ought to have this alpha and no one else.
In that moment, he recuperated his voice.
“You have a fevered omega standing before you, and your answer is to hand me over to another alpha?” he demanded. His already-fraying patience finally gave way, and he decided he could not stand there and listen to it any longer. Frustratedly, his fingers caught the waistband of his trousers, and before the giant could understand what he intended to do, he had already pulled the garment loose in one fluid motion.
They fell to his knees. Aerion now stood bare from the waist down.
“Seven hells,” the man blurted, stumbling over his own words. “What in the bloody—what are you doing?”
“You cannot possibly be so thick that you fail to understand what I am offering you,” Aerion argued. “I require you to fuck me through my fevers.”
The giant looked at him utterly horrified. In the darkness, perhaps Aerion could not see the full extent of his reaction, but he saw enough.
“You want me to—” his voice failed him. Then, after a moment, he managed, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I cannot do that.”
“You refuse?”
“No, not—” he dragged a hand through his wet hair, visibly struggling to explain himself. “It is not that I mean to insult you. I simply... I do not know what you expect of me.”
“What I expect?” Aerion repeated, incredulous. “Surely you have been with an omega before. Why are you making such a great ordeal of this?”
“I have not,” he admitted, looking away. “I mean it. I have not. Omegas make me nervous. I’m sure you can see why,” he gestured between them. “And I have not even been with a whore either, if that is what you are wondering. Not that there is anything wrong with that, I suppose, but if I were to—if I were ever to be with an omega, I would want it to mean something. If I cannot have some highborn omega choosing me as a proper knight ought to hope for, then I would rather have someone who actually wants me. Not someone interested in my coin or my name. Not that I have much coin,” he added quickly. “Seven hells, I do not know why I am saying any of this. Gods. What am I doing?”
Aerion watched incredulously as the giant hid his face behind one broad hand. You great bloody oaf, he thought bitterly, I stand here stripped of every shred of dignity, and you choose this moment to lament your own troubles. It should have enraged him, and to some extent it truly did, to be refused by a man who, by all appearances, was nothing but a common blood, lowborn knight with a simple tongue and no understanding of the privilege he was being offered. Aerion was not accustomed to being denied, least of all when he was the one extending the invitation. Yet, still, layered between the offense was the knowledge that he had a tourney to face on the morrow and he could not afford to lose control of himself in the middle of the lists, surrounded by countless knot-headed alphas with instincts of beasts. They would notice it and feast upon his flesh. No reverence for House Targaryen would be enough to temper what the body demanded.
And the people would not see a challenger or the dragon blood in his veins or his skills. No, they would see only a whorish, desperate omega struggling to maintain control.
Aerion would not allow that to happen.
Because he knew if he chose his words carefully, if he pulled the right strings, then surely this alpha would yield even if it meant sacrificing the anonymity he had so carefully guarded. Men were not so difficult to understand, and they could be guided by pride, by duty, by the simple desire to prove themselves honorable.
“I am a knight, as you are, ser,” Aerion purred. “And I have the honor of entering the lists on the morrow. But I cannot do so while fevered,” his fingers rose slowly to the clasp securing his hood, idly worrying at the metal as he spoke. “I am not asking for anything beyond what is necessary. I merely ask that you help me through it.”
The alpha’s broad chest rose and fell rapidly. Still, he remained utterly motionless as Aerion worked at the fastening, loosening it little by little until the hood that had concealed his face fell away.
“You—” the giant began in recognition. “The princeling—”
Aerion paid no attention to the astonishment in his tone. He had grown tired of explanations.
“What is your name, giant?” he asked, letting the heavy fabric of his cloak slip from his shoulders. When it fell to the ground, he smoothed it flat on the ground.
“Dunk,” the knight blurted, then added, “Ser Duncan the Tall, m’lord.”
“Ser Duncan,” Aerion repeated the name quietly. It felt unfamiliar upon his tongue, strangely plain and yet somehow fitting. His thoughts began slipping again. “Your duty is to help me.”
Duncan looked as though he wanted to protest, but Aerion continued before he could, “I do not care that you have no experience with an omega. I am certain you possess enough sense to understand what must be done.”
Having said this, Aerion did not grant the man the courtesy of waiting for an answer. Whether Duncan meant to object or not seemed, at least for the moment, of little consequence. The decision had already been made in Aerion’s mind, and the fever that clouded his thoughts left little room for patience or negotiation.
Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, settling upon his cloak, and lifted his gaze back toward the giant. Duncan, he reminded himself distantly, letting his legs fall open to reveal the very center of him. His cunt glistened with a sheen of his early pleasure, and between dusky, pink folds lay an engorged button that he touched fleetingly with the tips of his fingers. At once his body reacted, seizing up briefly before a hum of delight tumbled from his lips.
“I am wet already, ser,” announced Aerion. He barely registered his own voice, mind much too cloudy with want. “Are you certain you will not touch me?”
“I—” Duncan began, balling his fists at his sides. Aerion could see his restraint breaking bit by bit. He was just as bare as him, and no amount of trying to conceal it would truly hide how affected he was by Aerion’s scent.
Because between strong thighs, nestled between a nest of thick curls, Duncan’s cock began filling up. Aerion’s mouth watered indiscreetly. That was what he truly needed, after all.
“Tell me,” Aerion began, circling his twitchy bud with the pad of his thumb once, twice, before descending his fingers over the slick gap of his folds, pausing it at the tight seam of his cunt. “What were the words spoken to you when you were made a knight?”
The question appeared to surprise Duncan, who stared at him with uncertainty. His lips parted hesitantly, but he did not speak. And when the knight still did not answer, Aerion did.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”
He dipped one finger inside, down to the first knuckle. Slick enough, he barely felt the intrusion. Duncan’s gaze remained fixed upon him.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”
Aerion allowed the smallest pause before continuing, watching the giant’s face through his thick lashes as he fit another finger in his slippery cunt, gingerly separating the two so Duncan could see how his hole clenched around them.
“In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all omegas.”
He wished to ensure that Duncan understood not merely the words themselves, but the meaning he had chosen to give them. And then, he tilted his head slightly, asking him, “By doing this you are protecting me, are you not, ser?”
Slowly, Duncan began to inch closer. His darkened eyes only left the sight of his cunt for a brief moment in which he rasped out, “Are you certain this is what you want, m’lord? I mean... you’re fevered. You said so yourself. And I know you’ve been clear enough, but… would it not be taking advantage of you somehow?”
A lesser man might have been flattered by such concern. A kinder man might have reassured him gently. Aerion was none of those things. You think because I am fevered and came to you, because I asked something of you, that I am somehow at your mercy, he thought, but you are mistaken. Yes, Aerion was vulnerable, but Duncan was not the one taking anything from him.
Just a knot, he reminded himself. Sinking a third finger inside his cunt, he let out a frustrated sigh.
“You worry overmuch when you should be proud, ser Duncan. Not every man can claim that his first such experience was with a royal—”
Having gotten on his knees on the edge of the pond, Duncan finally, finally, relented and reached for Aerion. His first touch was electrifying. Strong hands got a hold of his ankles and spread them wider apart, creating a perfect spot between his legs, where he settled heavily, balancing himself on his forearms. The scent that filled Aerion’s nostrils was thicker than before. A storm brewing, he thought distantly, watching the knight tentatively reach for his cunt.
Slipping his fingers free, he offered them to Duncan. Coated in slick, they shone in the moonlight over the both of them.
This close, Aerion could see the widely dilated pupils of Duncan’s eyes. His core weeped. He felt his entrance clenching around nothing as the giant below him took the digits inside his mouth.
“Yes,” he found himself murmuring, blinking languidly. “You must fuck me, ser,” he insisted, fighting the temptation of having Duncan ravishingly mouthing directly at his cunt. He just knew the giant would do it well. So well, perhaps, that Aerion would peak without having anything inside. He felt fever-drunk once again, unable to straighten his thoughts. “You must give me your knot. You must…”
Aerion reached for him, catching him by the back of the head, and drew him closer.
Then, he clashed their lips together.
Above him, Duncan grunted. His large hands were clumsy and rough. Aerion could feel his huge cock between their bodies, dangerously close to his slick cunt. Shifting, he angled his hips upward, settling his thighs above the alpha’s, and felt a drooling head bump into his clit.
“Fuck, I’m—I might not last long, m’lord,” warned Duncan against his swollen lips, all glassy-eyed and desperate.
Aerion drew him back by the hair. Unconsciously, he felt his hips moving, creating one sticky friction between his folds and the bulbous head of Duncan’s cock.
“Can you knot?”
“Y-yes, m’lord, I normally—”
“Then it is enough,” his hand slipped between their bodies, and slowly he guided Duncan’s cock lower until the tip catched his weeping entrance. “Take me. Give me it, alpha.”
That was all it took. Duncan pushed inside with another grunt. Aerion’s eyes rolled toward the back of his head feeling himself being split open.
“Yes,” he encouraged, cradling the knight’s head against his shoulder.
Fully inside, Duncan began thrusting into him carefully, though his restraint lasted only a brief moment. Soon, he was driving into him so passionately he began dragging the two of them through the grass. Aerion could feel the cloak under himself budging up against his back, though he scarcely thought of it when the alpha above him was grunting loudly, pressing his head deeper into the ground, his large palm engulfing his pale, sweaty neck and restricting him from moving an inch forward.
“Fuck,” Duncan cursed, bullying his cock inside his pulsing heat, sounding almost mad with want.
Aerion could not recognize his own voice between the slapping sound of thick thighs against his sticky skin, though he knew he probably sounded just as delirious with it. At one particular violent thrust that drove straight into the small bundle of nerves inside him, he mewled against his arm, settling his back into the most perfect bow as his fingers grasped the grass so tightly their tips whitened out. This position was perfect to take Duncan’s cock to the hilt while his cunt drooled slick against the damp expanse of skin of Duncan’s abdomen, coating the entirety of his milky thighs.
Blindly, Aerion reached up, hooking a hand around Duncan’s arm. The alpha knotted his fingers in pale strands of hair and yanked his head up. Gasping for air, he choked in the middle of it as a moan got punched from his throat.
“Yes, fuck,” his voice was ruined, past that cold, gravely tone and into an airy and desperate cadence. He took every thrust like he was meant to, opened up perfectly, swallowed that fat cock still so tightly despite the constant assault. “Fuck, right there, right there, don’t stop, please.”
Yet that was exactly what Duncan did, halting his movements to look him over, sprawled on his back. Like this, Aerion felt too exposed. Duncan took it all in for a second; the faded pink of his tight nipples, the dips of his waist, the small pudge of fat in his belly. His thighs were strong, but they trembled grandly from pleasure. A faint trail of golden hair led to his gaping cunt, matching the color of his plump lips.
Duncan swept a tongue over his own at the sight.
“I thought I asked you to fuck me, not merely look at me,” Aerion grumbled, obscuring his face with his forearm.
The knight did not respond. Placing both hands behind Aerion’s knees to spread him open, he licked a stripe of skin from Aerion’s sternum to his collarbones and sunk his teeth lightly over the center, making him hiss.
When the blunt head of Duncan’s cock slipped free from his cunt, Aerion made sure to voice a complaint, “It’s starting to feel tedious, mmmh—”
Duncan fucked his cock back in. In this new position, he thrusted deeper, pressing his whole body upon him, trapping him under his weight. Aerion let out a squeak that turned into a drawn out moan, “Yeah, that’s—gods, like that, please, fuck.”
“Yeah?” Duncan mused roughly. He leaned down as far as he could, arms on both sides of Aerion’s head while he continued the assault to his sloppy hole. “Like that, my prince?”
Aerion nodded desperately, blunt nails drawing blood at his back as he chanted, “Yes, yes, yes, harder.”
“Harder?”
“Harder, alpha.”
“Seven hells,” Duncan groaned, sucking lilacs along Aerion’s throat. “I’ll come.”
He felt Duncan’s hips stutter and the base of his knot start to swell. Feverishly, his cunt spasmed around it, as if trying to milk it. Duncan’s teeth were dangerously close to the scent gland on his neck and, suddenly, he found himself wanting something beyond what his body demanded, something that had nothing to do with instinct and everything to do with the strange, impossible kindness this man had shown him, even if he had no reason to seek comfort from a man whose story he did not even know. His fingers curled into the fabric beneath him as he struggled against the humiliating truth that he could not even explain what he felt or why he could not think properly or why his own body felt like it had turned against him.
There was only one thing that could stop the noise.
“Bite me,” Aerion whispered, holding Duncan’s head there where it was settled in the junction where his neck met his shoulder.
“Shit. I cannot, m’lord,” Duncan said while fucking into him.
Those words did not matter to Aerion. He clenched around the cock pistoning into his cunt and whined, arguing, “I need it, alpha. Mark me.”
This time, Duncan let out a distressed sound. He was larger and stronger than Aerion, and easily could untangle himself from his grip, drawing back until they could be at eye level. Vision swimming, Aerion wanted to ask why he was fighting him on this, though the thought dissipated in his head as soon as he was flipped around, belly down against his cloak. Yes, he preened internally. The position meant for taking.
For claiming.
When Duncan began fucking him once again, his thrusts became erratic. He grunted loudly, ramming his cock inside with abandon, as though he instinctively wanted to silence that specific desire blossoming in Aerion’s mind. His movements were not thoughtful or graceful. No, they showed his inexperience. I have not even been with a whore he had told him earlier. Now, he fucked him like one.
“Close,” Aerion whimpered. His cunt pulsed with every thrust, recognizing Duncan’s swollen knot as a sign to catch.
“Yeah,” Duncan replied dumbly, doubling his efforts. “Fuck. I’m—”
The head of Duncan’s cock brushed violently against Aerion’s pleasure point once, twice, and he was peaking before he could even register it. A warmer wave of slick dripped from his abused cunt and from his lips came a high cry. His whole body seized up. Behind him, Duncan followed with a deep groan, burying himself to the hilt, painting the velvety walls white with his spend.
Incoherently, Aerion found himself repeating, “Bite me, bite me, bite me, bite me.”
Though the teeth on his neck never came. No, what came was the sudden sourness into Duncan’s scent the moment his knot slipped in place.
“Fuck,” he cursed distressedly, trying to pull away. “I’m sorry. Gods, I am sorry. I should have realized sooner. I should have understood that you were not yourself.”
Immediately, Aerion began to panic, “What—no, no, no do not pull—”
It was too late. Duncan was already slipping his softening cock out.
“Why,” Aerion demanded, voice high and dry. Heat prickled behind his eyelids. “Why would you do that, you great fool?”
Because for all his anger and all his pride, he could not deny the terrible and humiliating feeling that spread through him at Duncan’s refusal.
Because the alpha abandoned him.
“I’m sorry, m’lord, I couldn’t—I am no one,” Duncan said somewhere around him. Aerion could not see past the fog in his vision. “You don’t know me. I am just a hedge knight you found in the woods and—and you are fevered and not thinking clearly. I cannot take something from you tonight that you may wish you had never given me tomorrow.”
The alpha abandoned him.
Aerion had given him everything, and Duncan rejected him.
With great effort, he pulled himself to his feet. Swaying for a moment, he reached for his discarded cloak with trembling hands and fastened it poorly around his overheated body as humiliation and anger twisted together inside him.
“I—I’m truly sorry, m’lord,” Duncan said one last time.
Without another word, Aerion pulled his hood over his head and disappeared back into the trees.
-
Like a knight yet green as the summer grass, Aerion found himself, by the following afternoon, lowering his lance against Ser Humfrey’s stallion and striking true. He could scarcely have explained what impulse had driven him to such a thing. The thought had entered his mind only after he caught sight of a familiar figure amongst the gathered crowd, a great shadow of a man standing among the commoners, impossible to overlook even at a distance. To his displeasure, Lord Ashford announced that the man whose horse he had killed was the victor. Worse still, following the command of Prince Baelor, he awarded Ser Humfrey his own courser as recompense. Aerion thought, briefly, that if his father, who had left to look for Daeron and Aegon, had been present, his uncle would never have permitted such a thing. Yet the thought was fleeting and ultimately meaningless.
By the third day of the tourney, he found that his interest had waned entirely. All of it had grown tiresome. He desired only the familiarity of home.
And perhaps it was the wine, or the weariness of the days spent under the sun and surrounded by noise, or even the remnants of that fever which still clung to his blood, never quite enough to overwhelm him but enough to leave his temper unstable and patience thin. Whatever the cause was, when he encountered the foolish puppeteer daring to mock the likeness of his House, he did not hesitate nor stop to consider the consequences.
She had insulted House Targaryen. A few broken fingers were hardly punishment enough to teach her proper respect.
He had not expected the scent of rain and thunder to follow him into the pavilion. He had not expected the same giant from the woods to appear once more, nor had he anticipated that the hedge knight, so frustratingly honorable and painfully compassionate, would finally lose the careful restraint he had shown before.
And despite himself and the anger, Aerion still felt satisfaction at the sight of Ser Duncan the Tall abandoning his composure. Because for once the giant was the one who seemed unable to control himself.
-
Prince Baelor was dead.
His father never accused him, but Aerion knew his silences. Knew he wanted him humbled and to understand the consequences of his temper and his arrogance.
And in the end, Maekar had gotten exactly what he wanted. There was no fight left in Aerion after the Trial.
“Egg will leave with Ser Duncan,” his father told him. “I granted him permission to accompany him.”
Of all things, that was what his father chose to tell him, and not another reminder of the disgrace he had brought upon them.
-
The journey to Lys was made by ship, and for days Aerion stood at the edge of the vessel, watching the expanse of blue stretching endlessly before him. The sea had always fascinated him. There had been a time when he had loved it; fishing besides his siblings, collecting treasures along the shore to proudly give to his mother. He always chose the prettiest shells, the smoothest stones. Little pieces of the ocean he believed were worthy gifts.
He had never been a man easily troubled by travel. Yet the gods, it seemed, had decided that there was still some humiliation left for him to endure.
By the second day upon the waves, the endless rocking of the ship had turned his stomach. By the third, he could scarcely look at the water without feeling ill.
And Aerion had never been seasick before.
That changed on the voyage to Lys.