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Another day of hard riding, and each league seemed longer and more grueling than the last. Beside him, Egg rode in a sullen silence, his small face drawn. Somewhere ahead, leading the vanguard, rode Aerion. Daeron did not know his mate's exact position, nor did he rightly care. No doubt the gilded omega was preening beside Maekar, the two of them muttering dark words concerning Daeron and his wretched, sorry state.
Both his father and his brother had descended upon him before they broke camp that morning, having finally had their fill of his folly after he had gotten so blind-drunk the day before that he could scarce form a sentence. They had granted him a miserable, measured stint of weak wine and a stern decree: This much, and no more. You will not shame me. Daeron could not quite remember whose mouth the words had tumbled from—in his fog, they spoke as one. They were cut from the same uncompromising cloth, matching in their silver-gold hair and deep violet eyes. Between them, they shared an eternal look of disappointment, each leveling it squarely at him.
Of course, Daeron had nodded. He always nodded, and he never listened.
He had drained his own wineskin before midday, then emptied every other skin within arm's reach. But the gods were fickle; they had bypassed the wayside inns today, leaving him with no way to replenish his stock. He had been reduced to drinking lukewarm water, slumped over his pommel with a head that throbbed like a war drum. The forced sobriety made him painfully, brutally aware of himself—and worse, aware of the looks of the men around him.
When they finally struck camp for the night, his thighs were raw and his back was entirely spent.
He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his tent and vanish, but he lacked the courage to face his father’s wrath on the morrow. A prince must show his face, Maekar always dictated. A prince must break bread with his knights. Even if those very knights thought him a craven, pathetic excuse for a dragon, jeering and whispering the moment his back was turned. They thought themselves better than the Drunkard Prince. They were likely right.
He forced down a supper of grey mutton stew and stale, cold bread. It was fair enough, he supposed. The air was cool, the fire was warm, and all of it was dreadfully tolerable—but tolerance was a paltry substitute for the sweet haze of Arbor gold.
By the time he finally retreated to his pavilion, his skin felt too tight, itching with a restless, frantic need for something more.
He could not sit still. He paced the narrow confines of the canvas, his fingers twitching, the craving for the golden vintage gnawing at his vitals like a worm. If he could not drown his thoughts in a cask, he needed to find some other way to quiet the fever in his blood. Shaking, he flung himself onto his cot and tore at his laces. It was a desperate, ungraceful business. Seeking nothing but mindless release, he lay back against the furs and pulled his cock out, his eyes half-closed.
Aerion stepped through the tent flaps without warning. The omega's disgust was plain to see the moment his eyes fell upon Daeron exposed, a hand languidly moving up and down his own shaft.
“You are an embarrassment to your blood,” Aerion said, his voice dripping with loathing.
Daeron only let out a careless laugh at the insult. With a jerky tug, he spent himself over his knuckles, casually wiping the slick seed onto the hem of his cloak. The wool smelled sour; he had not troubled to change his garments since they took to the road, having spent the last few nights tumbling into sleep half-mad with drink. He had momentarily forgotten that Aerion would be resting here, though his brother always did. Ill-matched as they were, appearances had to be kept before the lords of the realm. They shared a pavilion and they shared a bed, though Daeron usually only remembered flashes of it—Aerion’s hissed curses as Daeron collapsed beside him, sprawling across the furs while the omega pressed himself as far against the edge of the cot as possible. Aerion was always gone before the dawn broke.
Daeron had never cared before. But tonight, the itch beneath his skin was a raging fire.
“Let me fuck you,” Daeron said abruptly.
The expected sneer contorted Aerion’s haughty features. The loathing his brother harbored for him was a living thing. Daeron laughed again, a brief, dry sound. He honestly could not recall the last time they had lain together—months, surely. Usually, the wine made his member soft but his mind pleasant. Tonight, he had no wine and no pleasant thoughts, only a dull, throbbing ache between his thighs.
“Use your mouth on me. At least do that.”
Aerion scoffed, a low sound of derision in his throat as he moved about the pavilion, stripping off his riding leathers. As he shifted, there was a brief, teasing flash of his slit, pale and silver-white like the rest of him. Aerion was comely, undeniably so, but his teeth were too vulpine and his natural scent was acrid and bitter. Daeron preferred softer, sweeter things. Yet, tonight, a bitter mate was better than nothing.
“Let me see the pink of your cunt, then,” Daeron needled. His tone bordered on the pathetic, though he cared not a whit.
“You are depraved,” Aerion said flatly, ignoring the request entirely as he pulled a fine, silk robe over his shoulders—the pampered, pretty prince once more. “Utterly repulsive. Gods, what I would give to be rid of this tent.”
Daeron wished for the same. If he were alone, he could have found some willing camp follower to ease his ache. “I am your alpha,” Daeron drawled, leaning back against the pillows. “I could simply command you to yield.”
Aerion paused, letting out a mocking laugh that sent a fresh, involuntary twitch through Daeron’s cock. The sound from those twisted, rose-pink lips was venomous.
“Try it,” Aerion whispered darkly, his violet eyes flashing in the candlelight. “Try it, and I will sever your cock from your body while you sleep. It is no empty threat, brother.”
Daeron knew it wasn't. He groaned, stretching his stiff limbs as Aerion climbed onto the bed, pointedly turning to reach for a small, porcelain jar.
Aerion scooped out a dollop of thick balm and rubbed it into his pale skin. A cloying scent of lilies and sweet milk immediately filled the enclosed space, making Daeron’s nose twitch in irritation.
“Why do you smother yourself in that filth?” Daeron grumbled, turning his face away. “The scent is stifling.”
“Not everyone cares to smell of sour wine and vomit,” Aerion said thinly. “Some of us take a modicum of pride in our appearance.”
Why bother? Daeron wanted to retort back. Aerion could look like a bloated, reeking sow, and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would still bow and scrape and smile to his face. But voicing it would only earn him more derision, and he lacked the strength for another bout of venom.
“Your natural scent is better,” Daeron muttered instead. It wasn't truly, but he preferred it over these pungent oils that made his head ache harder.
The porcelain lid clicked shut with a sharp snap. “If this is your best attempt at flattery, I shudder to think of your worst. Is this the wit you use on one-eyed tavern wenches to lift their skirts?”
Daeron rolled onto his side to face him. The flickering candlelight caught the cruel angles of Aerion’s jaw, casting long shadows across his face. “I don’t usually say anything at all,” Daeron said, propping his head up with a bent hand. “I find a simple nod suffices. They see the red and black, and they follow.”
“Oh, yes, I am certain they are all mad to bed a dragon prince—even one who looks nothing like a dragon, and who pisses his breeches on occasion. How the trulls must claw at one another for the privilege,” Aerion jeered nastily. “Tell me, brother, how much coin is usually missing from your purse when you finally crawl out of your cups?”
Daeron let out a bark of laughter, genuinely amused despite himself. He reached out, his fingers brushing forward to cradle that cutting jawline, though he hardly blinked when Aerion slapped his hand away.
The sudden movement, however, jostled the silk robe. The fabric parted, baring the gentle curve of Aerion's chest and a dark pink nipple. Daeron stared at it, entirely unashamed, his gaze lingering where the silk pooled.
“I have been known to misplace a stag or two,” Daeron admitted wryly.
This time, the sound Aerion let out was a huff—still acerbic, but lacking the blatant malice from before.
“I have never known an alpha,” Aerion said, looking down at him with cold fascination, “who possessed so little shame for his own wretchedness.”
Daeron shrugged. He had never been good at anything—not with a sword, not with politics, not with words. But he was remarkably good at knowing what he was, numerous as his faults were. Let the rest of the world hide behind false smiles to conceal their own rot; Daeron would not trouble himself with it.
Aerion was still watching him, the coldness in his eyes shifting into something considering, almost calculating.
“I will allow you to fuck me,” Aerion said softly, “if you let me compete in the lists.”
Daeron choked on a breath, staring at his brother in utter disbelief. “Let you?” he asked, peering at Aerion as though a stranger had taken his place. “Since when have you ever needed my permission for anything?”
The familiar contempt rushed back into Aerion’s eyes, looking at Daeron as if he were simple. “Since our father bound us. Maekar thinks I am with child every other moon. He will not allow me to ride in the tourney, but he will listen if you tell him I have your leave. Just tell him it is your wish.”
Daeron swallowed hard. The stern, unforgiving face of his father flashed vividly in his mind. Maekar’s wrath was not a thing to invoke lightly, especially not to play Aerion's games. He looked back down at his lap. “Perhaps I shall just use my hand after all.”
Aerion snarled. “You miserable coward,” he spat, leaning over him with curled lips. “What are you so afraid of? Surely you are too old for a whipping, or does the mere thought of our father make you wet your smallclothes?”
It was easy for Aerion to say—the hypocrite who wore a false face for their prince-father and had never felt the back of a hand in his life. Daeron was still searching for a response when Aerion muttered under his breath, reached out, and wrapped his hand around Daeron’s cock.
Aerion's small hand was soft—softer than it should be for an omega who took up the blade—and Daeron's member hardened to full attention again as Aerion gave him a slow, deliberate stroke.
“Harder,” Daeron urged.
Aerion stopped instead, the spiteful creature. “No,” he snapped, “not until you swear to tell father I am allowed to join the lists.”
Daeron sighed, wishing he were simply drunk. Everything was always easier when he was. Dark shapes were starting to twist behind his eyelids now—fragments of prophetic images and dragon-dreams he was desperate to ignore. Without wine, only a good fuck could make him pass out soundly enough to escape them.
“Fine,” he bit out.
Aerion grinned, his teeth pointed, and resumed stroking. But this time, it was Daeron who knocked the hand away.
“I want your cunt, though, not your hand. You haven’t the skill for it.”
Whatever fleeting good humor Aerion possessed vanished in an instant. His face burned with hot color as he snarled, “You forget you are speaking to a prince and not some bedwhore.”
Daeron could not seem to help himself. “There’s hardly a difference now, is there?”
He was not surprised when a palm cracked across his face. His head whipped to the side, his cheek stinging. Daeron hissed, tonguing at the corner of his mouth where his lip had split. He frowned, wondering how he would explain the mark to his father. With his patience entirely spent, he said, “Be quick about it. The jest has gone stale.”
Aerion looked white with fury, but perhaps he saw Daeron grimace—saw the way he clutched his temples as the shadows of another dream tried to force their way behind his eyes. Aerion knew well enough what it took to quiet Daeron’s mind, and no doubt wished to be woken by screaming nightmares no more than Daeron did. Swallowing whatever vicious retort remained on his tongue—though Daeron was certain he would hear it on the morrow—the omega gave a stiff nod. He parted his silk robe and lay flat upon the bedding.
Daeron snorted, letting out a low chuckle at Aerion's outraged stare. “You think lying with a cold corpse will stir my blood? Rouse yourself a bit,” he taunted, feeling a mean streak of his own breaking through.
Aerion shifted onto his elbows, his jaw clenched tight as he glared down. For a fleeting second, Daeron thought he spied the faintest trace of uncertainty on his mate's face. For all his grand posturing, his brother knew desperately little of the marriage bed, given how rarely they had ever shared it.
“I’d have you ride me,” Daeron said. Aerion was quick to learn, far quicker than Daeron had ever been. “My back is spent from a day in the saddle, and I have no desire to lean over you.”
Aerion rolled his eyes at that, though he waited while Daeron propped the pillows behind his own shoulders, watching him settle before climbing across his thighs. Daeron thought they might have done this once before, though he could not truly remember through the haze of past cups.
Aerion's face pinched as he lowered himself onto Daeron’s cock, though no sound of complaint left his lips—at least, not from the ache of it. Instead, as he began to move slowly against him, he found other things to mock.
“You can scarce hold a sword or even sit a horse. What can you do?”
Daeron placed his hands on Aerion’s hips—jutting, narrow things they were. There was no extra flesh there, though Daeron usually preferred a plusher bed partner. “Drink and fuck,” Daeron said, thrusting his hips upward.
He was met with a soft gasp that Aerion tried and failed to stifle.
“You need not be silent,” Daeron said, a groan of his own leaving his throat at the tight warmth of Aerion’s heat. “I know how to please an omega.”
Aerion scowled, though he let a breathless sound escape his throat this time—lest he seem meek. “Yes,” Aerion said tightly, “every mate loves to hear how the alpha they are bound to learned his skill by pleasing countless others.”
Daeron was thrusting faster now, Aerion meeting his pace remarkably well. The omega’s hands had come down across Daeron’s chest to brace himself, his nails digging painful crescents into the skin.
“Do not pretend to be offended,” Daeron said. “You’ve been glad not to share my bed.”
Aerion didn’t deny it. “Of course I am. You are a pathetic excuse for an alpha, one who reeks and keeps himself poorly. What is desirable about that?”
Harsh words, but not untrue. Daeron could not find it in him to care.
"Still," Aerion added, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. "It is shameful. When we have pups, you will stop."
The word will hung in the air like a bared blade. Daeron wondered, with a sudden prickle of unease, just how far the omega would go to halt his wandering eye. He didn't doubt the lengths Aerion would go to. A thought to worry about for another day, he told himself, blocking out the chill as he found his stroke. The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed loudly in the quiet pavilion.
Aerion wore a pendant—a heavy, ugly chunk of blue Valyrian glass that bounced against his chest with every thrust.
“Maybe a babe will finally give you some teats,” Daeron said.
It was to be expected when Aerion’s nails sank deeper into his chest, drawing a bead of blood. “What does it matter?” Aerion sneered. “You will not touch them regardless.”
A searing warmth was building in Daeron's stomach, and Aerion’s breaths were growing shallower by the second. “You only cheat yourself to spite me,” Daeron murmured. He raised a hand from Aerion’s hip, rubbing his thumb deliberately across a puffed, tender nipple.
He was met with another sharp moan that made him raise his eyebrows. Aerion caught himself, cutting the sound off instantly. He glared hotly down at Daeron, but he did not slap the hand away.
Daeron continued to tweak the pink flesh until it was stiff and angry under his thumb, watching the proud prince’s eyes go lidded and dark with a pleasure he could not rule. Sweat made Aerion's pale skin glisten in the candlelight, his hips beginning to roll in a desperate, pleading rhythm against Daeron’s buried length. Predictably, Aerion's heat clamped down hard around his cock in retaliation. The sudden, fierce grip broke Daeron's restraint, and he drove himself upward, pinning the omega by his narrow hips as he spilled his seed deep inside him.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound in the pavilion was the ragged sound of their breathing, the scent of sweat and spent lust thick in the air.
Then, true to form, Aerion collapsed against Daeron’s chest, his eyes narrowed as he panted.
“You have your payment,” Aerion muttered. His breath was warm against Daeron’s mouth, his lips full and flushed. It was a casual curiosity that made Daeron lean forward, trapping that lower lip between his own teeth just to feel the soft plumpness of it.
Aerion hissed, his silver hair tangling about his face as his hand flew upward, wrapping tight around Daeron’s throat. A choked laugh escaped Daeron's own chest at the display.
“Everything is a joke to you,” Aerion ground out, though he released his grip to roughly tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “See that you speak to father soon. We will arrive at Ashford before long, and if I find my name is not among the riders, I will ensure your next cup of wine tastes of nightshade.”
With one last pointed glare, the omega shoved himself up and off Daeron's lap, reaching for his discarded silk robe to cover his bared skin.
Daeron didn't answer. He merely rolled onto his side, a sigh slipping from his lips as he pulled a fur blanket over his waist. The shadows behind his eyes had finally quieted, muffled under the pleasant ache of his limbs. He closed his eyes, already drifting toward a dreamless sleep, unbothered by the promise.