Chapter Text
“Perhaps we could ask Lord Duncan to join us, my lord,” Sam suggested as they walked down the stairs, his soft voice uncertain. “Wouldn’t it be better if you supervised everything together?”
Kyra rolled her eyes. “I am certain Prince Aerion can handle it, Sam. He’s a royal, you know. And household management is omega work, after all.”
Sam immediately began stammering. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to imply that he couldn’t. It’s just that my septa used to say—”
“Quiet, you two, or you can go back to my chambers.” Aerion had little patience for bickering. There was enough of that going on between him and Dunk, he didn’t need his mewling omegas to add to the cacophony. Nor did he want to be reminded of his shortcomings. He didn’t have experience in any kind of management, omega work or not.
Blessedly, they remained silent, and Aerion could focus on his task. The cellars and undercrofts of Dawnfort were cold and cramped, but he needed to explore the storerooms more thoroughly than his first, brief tour had allowed. He had decided it made the most sense to begin by looking over their provisions.
As a start, it was not as bad as he had initially thought. He was pleased to discover that none of their supplies were going off; no mold that he could see, no flies buzzing around, no bad smells. There were casks of wine and ale in the buttery, a decent quantity of meat and cheese and fish in the larder, plenty of white and brown and black bread in the pantry. The granaries were above ground, but he had already seen that they were about half-full. He made a mental note to ask the steward for specific numbers for all their stores. They didn't seem to be at much risk of going hungry soon... but he could tell that they were unlikely to withstand an actual famine or siege.
He also surveyed what Maekar had sent, mostly out of sheer curiosity. There was tableware and changes of sheets — scratchy sheets, he noted; so that was where the ones that had so vexed him had come from — bars of soap, blankets, pillows, candles. Nothing to sneeze at, but clearly old or cheaper things some steward had fished out from Summerhall or the Red Keep. Certainly nothing of much use.
At the gatehouse, he paid close attention to the arms and armor carried by the guards. Steel caps they had aplenty, and spears as well, but not much else. A couple wore hauberks and mail coifs, and one youth walked around in a pair of suspiciously fine leather boots. Dirks and daggers were commonplace, but not a single sword could be found in the whole barracks, to Aerion’s amazement. For some reason, the state of the garrison disappointed him the most. Not that a dozen men-at-arms would be much use in a fight, but uncle Baelor had always been fond of saying that a castle could be held by a handful of scullions if it was well maintained. Which, to be sure, this one is not.
He climbed up the stairs to look into the big iron strongbox. The captain of the guard, an alarmingly young man called Eric who blushed every time Aerion looked at him, fumbled with his keychain, then finally opened the chest to reveal… not much at all. There was a handful of dragons and a modest quantity of silver, but that was it. Aerion knew that landed knights and petty lords had little ready coin, but directly facing the dire state of his finances was hardly encouraging. Only Sam seemed to be impressed, looking at the coin as if he had ever seen any in his life. “Stop gaping,” Aerion snapped. “You’ll get a gadfly the size of a bloody squirrel in your mouth, the way you let it hang open.” Sam shut his mouth at once, blushing a quite pretty shade of pink.
They visited the kitchens as dinner was being prepared. Scullions and spit-boys were wandering about nearly naked, and even the cook seemed uncouth and clumsy to Aerion’s critical gaze. When he’d asked the man where he’d trained, he received a puzzled look. “Why, right here in Dawnfort, m’lord. Been serving old lord Cedric since I was a lad. I was a mere spit-boy, but I rose up high in the world, that I did.”
If Maekar could see them, he might actually be proud of the restraint Aerion showed by not responding to that statement.
He had his own dinner in the solar with the omegas, shunning the rest of the household. He didn’t quite know how to begin trying to improve on what he’d discovered. His lack of training was rearing its ugly head again, and he hated it. How could Grandfather trust a hedge knight and an errant prince with any challenging task? Has he no sense? But he was kidding himself. He had already puzzled out how the decision had probably been made. King Daeron doubtlessly admired Duncan for his actions, being himself honorable; he’d been at a loss at how to treat either Aerion or Dunk, and then Maekar butted in with his brilliant plan that would both reward and punish. Relieved, his grandsire had trusted his son with everything. He’d likely even thanked Maekar.
There was one possible solution that Aerion could see, but the thought alone vexed him. I could sell my jewels. He hadn’t taken that many of them, but still, they were bound to fetch a good price. Not that Aerion knew exactly what that price might be; his jewelry were all gifts and heirlooms, trinkets that he saw as his due and mostly paid no mind to. But he had been taught by Maester Melaquin that Queen Alysanne had used her own jewels to build a castle for the Night’s Watch, so those belonging to a prince had to be enough for the walls of Dawnfort, at least.
Yet his own pride was bristling at the idea. It was absurd; he’d fallen so low that a few gems and precious metals only meant for show should not matter to him anymore. Still, they mattered. Was he supposed to rid himself of everything that had ever made him a prince? Were his clothes next, his armor? Was he supposed to don plain wool and quietly stand beside Dunk like some meek omega fishwife? That wasn’t him. And some of those bloody jewels had belonged to House Targaryen for generations. Some were gifts from Baelor, from his mother, from the king. Why should they go to some fat merchant who would try to knock down the price like he was buying cod at a marketplace?
Despite his misgivings, the afternoon found him surveying the walls more closely. Aside from the gatehouse, one eastern tower was perilously close to tipping over, while the curtain wall by the postern gate might as well be torn down altogether for all the defence it provided. The rookery was in a pathetic state as well, but at least it looked like it would remain standing for the nonce. He walked the entire periphery, looking for hidden signs of disrepair that he hadn’t noticed so far. He found plenty; detached stones and weathered battlements and loose roof tiles. At some point he sent Kyra running to fetch some writing implements so that he could take notes about every flaw. It took a good while longer than he had expected, his ever-present handmaids looking visibly exhausted by the end.
When he entered the great hall for supper, his temper was as irritated as an open sore. Dunk, on the other hand, was beaming. He even smiled at him from the high table, a sight that might have stirred a certain unwanted fluttering if the prince wasn’t feeling so prickly in that moment. He sat on the carved chair next to the knight — a smaller, plainer chair than his husband’s, he didn’t fail to note — and called for an ewer and basin of water to wash his hands. Duncan followed suit, seeming a little ashamed he had not thought of it beforehand. He was being very agreeable, entirely too satisfied with everything for Aerion’s sensitive temper.
As the servants began bringing in the various dishes, he couldn’t contain himself. “What's made you so merry?” he asked, keeping his voice mild.
Dunk smiled again. “Willem went over our holdings with me. The lordship claims the lands from the border with the riverlands almost to Cracklaw Point. We rule two fishing villages along the Bay of Crabs, and one village to the southwest up the hill. We've got two mills and a good number of sheep, as well as cattle and goats. We have hunting rights in the forest, and there’s good fishing along the coast, he says.”
Aerion forced himself to stay quiet. A scattering of fisherfolk and a few lousy livestock, and he's jubilant.
Dunk's smile faltered at the prince’s cool disinterest. They ate in silence for a while, Aerion eating some nuts and dried fruit while Duncan was carving up large pieces of roast meat and wolfing them down. The knight always ate like he had been starved for days, and with little semblance of table manners either.
He couldn't stand it any longer.
“The knife should not go in your mouth,” he snapped. “Use your fork. And cut smaller bites, do not stuff yourself like that. Is it your intention to look like an uncouth stableboy?”
Dunk looked up in surprise, mouth still full. He chewed and swallowed. “Well, my chief intention right now is to stop being lectured by my own husband,” he said, a little crossly. Still, he seemed to make an effort to improve his manners. “What's made you so irritable, anyway? Apart from the... being yourself part.”
“This castle makes me irritable. I know not what my grandsire was thinking when he gave it to you.”
Dunk startled. “The castle? What on earth is the matter with the castle?”
He had blurted it out, unthinking, so now he could not take it back. He decided to be honest, and hope for the best. “What's not the matter with it? Crumbling buildings, small rooms, ragged servants... It would need months of repairs, if we can even afford it.”
Dunk stared for a while, in silence. “I didn't realize. I am sorry if you are not comfortable here. I… I’m not sure what we can afford. They told me about our incomes in more detail, but… Well, I was not born to be an administrator, that much is clear.”
Aerion felt a pang of guilt. He tried to push it aside. “You cannot hold the castle against a siege, either. Our provisions are not that meager, but we can still be starved out by a patient foe, and the walls have too many weak points.”
Dunk was puzzled. “Why would there be a bloody siege? The realm is at peace."
“Peace is but a prelude to war. It was not too long ago when the Blackfyres attacked my grandsire. And fortresses are meant to be defensible. Otherwise, what is the point of having a castle?”
“I suppose so.”
There was a long, awkward silence. Absurdly, Aerion found himself wanting to turn the conversation into something more positive, to banish the look of defeat that he had brought to the knight’s eyes. Duncan’s good will was too infectious, even to Aerion, and his anger suddenly seemed childish in comparison. “I’ll ask for detailed accounts of everything, if you want,” he offered quietly. “You can’t read, it’s only fair that I do it. We should try to make the best of this. It would be senseless to not even make an effort.”
Dunk nodded, giving a reluctant smile. “Thank you. I do need your help, you know. Willem was going on about crop yields and fish catches and rents and taxes, and every word the man said seemed to go in one of my ears and right out the other. I was just staring like a complete idiot, and I couldn’t even ask him to explain, because by the time a question had formed in my head he’d moved on to something else!”
Aerion snorted, amused despite himself. “I thought you knew all about the land, Ser Peasant. Didn’t you teach me about all those flowers?”
“Well, yes, wild herbs, perhaps. Not all this… coin counting. And I’m not a peasant at all, I will remind you. I was born at Flea Bottom, and then wandered around Westeros until I stumbled into… into this. I’ve never planted a crop in my life.”
“I know. Neither have I.” He gave the knight a faint smile. “Perhaps the king did all this as a practical joke.”
“Perhaps.” Dunk’s eyes were too warm for Aerion’s comfort. He turned away.
“We should ride out soon, as well,” he mused, after a few moments. “It is all well and good for someone to tell you about your holdings, but you need to see for yourself. If you are going to be a lord, you should make it your business to oversee everything in your land. And the gods only know how much I would like to ride Onyx down to the fields.” Most of the east would be bogs and hills, but he had also seen pastures and heathland nearby, and there was always the forest. Aerion wanted to explore his surroundings. A good hard ride would clear his head, and give him much-needed knowledge as well.
Dunk gave him a queer, sideways look, reserved again. Aerion frowned. The knight almost looked guilty about something—
Realization hit. “You’re not going to let me ride out, are you?” he asked softly.
Dunk’s face was flushed, his eyes pleading. “Just for now. Just for a short while, until I can make sure—”
Aerion shook his head, then abruptly pushed his chair back and rose. He descended the dais and rushed out of the hall, without begging leave, ignoring Dunk calling his name. Kyra and Sam rose to follow him, but he waved them away.
It makes sense, he told himself, stopping by the central well in the courtyard. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn't feel betrayed. Duncan had made no promises about freedom, only about not violently mistreating him. If Aerion was in his position, he would have never let the other wander about. If Aerion was in his position, he would be beating the knight, demeaning him at every turn. He knew himself well enough to deduce that. He wanted to believe he would never go too far… but there were a lot of things Aerion had proven himself capable of, when opportunity and motive arose. He still remembered the violent crack of snapping bone, the mixture of revulsion and satisfaction, the taste of vengeance in his mouth, as sharp and rich as blood. And then, the actual taste of blood, when Duncan grabbed hold of him. The two had tasted disturbingly similar, as if enacting retribution and receiving it were one and the same feeling.
He looked down at the well. The moonlight was reflected on the water’s surface. He suddenly felt weary. I can do nothing more today. Sighing, he walked to his rooms.
In the bedchamber, he slipped off his tunic and his breeches, folding the clothing neatly, and immediately sent for warm water to wash. If there is one thing I’ll miss most of all, it’s the bloody bathhouses. After he cleaned himself as best as he could and the wooden tub was taken away, he pulled a plain nightshirt over his head and sat by the window sill, looking outside. He felt fatigue settling on his bones, but something kept him from sleeping.
Duncan took such a long time to join him that Aerion half thought the knight had given up and gone to sleep in a stable stall. When he finally entered, he stopped dead in his tracks, as awkward as a maiden, as if seeing his own husband was a surprise. He swallowed, his face screwed up in guilt. “Aerion—” he started.
The omega raised a hand. “Don’t. You need not explain. It is logical. It makes sense. I don’t want to discuss it.”
Dunk hesitated. “Alright,” he said. “I will not talk about it. You didn’t have the chance to eat much; should we send for something?”
Aerion never ate much. He shrugged his shoulders. “No. It makes no matter, I should just go to sleep.” As if to confirm his words, he moved to the bed and threw the blankets aside, sitting on the firm mattress.
The knight shrugged. “As you will.” He stripped down to his breeches, as was his custom, then went to sit down by the hearth, watching the flames in silence.
Neither of them made an effort to actually sleep. Aerion racked his brains for something to say. When Dunk stretched out his legs and gave a satisfied little hum, the very picture of contentment, he seized his chance. “Everything seems to be delighting you today. You are grinning like a fox in a chicken coop again.”
Duncan gave an abashed chuckle, all too eager to aid him in alleviating the awkwardness. “You will mock me, but I’m thinking of these chambers. I cannot believe my fortune to be sleeping here.”
Aerion raised his eyebrows. “You will have to be more specific.”
“Well, there are so many things. For example…” he hesitated. “Don’t laugh, but I still can’t believe I have rooms with a bloody privy. I’m way too used to taking a dump behind trees.” He flushed red. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
Aerion gave a little snort. “I suppose being lord of this place is preferable to being a hedge knight, at least.”
“It is. It very much is. I am trying to wrap my head around everything, and it’s hard. A warm bed every night, meat at dinner, fine clothes… Though I must admit I am having trouble with how everyone bows to me and calls me lord all the time.”
Aerion was quiet. He remembered Summerhall, where even the children’s apartments had their own roomy solar with an attached gallery, withdrawing room, terrace, and private garden they shared. The rooms were covered with tapestries and Myrish carpets, decorated with images from the history of House Targaryen. Aerion’s bed was laid with three mattresses stuffed with down feathers, the bed curtains were yellow silk embroidered with gold, the sheets of the finest white linen. The privies were entire rooms instead of a wretched little closet, and the bathhouse was near their chambers as well. His mother’s quarters, where he spent a lot of his time, were the grandest in the palace. It seemed impossible to explain to Dunk exactly how different his life had been compared to this place. For the knight, it was all luxury. For Aerion, it was a clear attempt to humble him, and that chafed.
Duncan saw his expression, and his face fell again. "Is it truly that bad for you?” he asked timidly. “Didn't your sire send us some supplies? I was told..."
He scoffed. "Aye, he sent some second-grade linen and old plate. He seeks to insult me at every turn, and insults you as well, though you are too thick-headed to see it."
"I do not feel insulted. I am grateful." He hesitated. "I know it's not the grandest place in the kingdoms. I've been to the Red Keep, and other castles too. And I know you have not lived as I have, and cannot truly appreciate it right now. But Aerion, I've seen far worse, and this one is ours. Isn’t that what matters?"
"Yours, you mean," Aerion observed mildly. "By law I own nothing, not even the clothes on my back."
Dunk winced. "I know. But to me, it is also yours. More yours than mine, even. It was your dowry, after all." He hesitated. “All my life, my wish was to serve a lord and earn a place above the salt. That was as lofty as my expectations got. This is all beyond my dreams, and you are to thank for that. I don't forget it."
Aerion didn’t know how to respond to that. He just looked away, fidgeting. He lay down on the mattress, then let out an unwilling hiss.
Dunk noticed. He walked to the bed and sat down, tracing the sheets with his fingers. “Is the linen really second-grade?” His tone made it clear he was trying to make light of it.
Aerion sighed, rolling his eyes. “It’s not just that. This bedding is hard. And uncomfortable as well. It’s a wonder how you slept so soundly on it, snoring the night away while I tossed and turned.”
“Perhaps you ought to have slept on the ground more often. You would think the mattress soft as a featherbed, then.” His smile was teasing.
He winced. “If my grandsire had not made you a lord, I would be on the ground right beside you.”
“That might not be so bad. Egg wanted to come with me, I will remind you. He didn’t mind sleeping on the ground and eating salt beef and the like.”
Aerion scoffed. “Egg is half a peasant. I used to tell him he was left on our doorstep by a group of ratcatchers as a babe.”
Dunk gave a surprised bark of laughter. “That is very unfilial of you. Why do you hate him so much, anyway? He is only a boy.”
He tried to respond, but found himself to be at a loss. He didn’t hate Egg, not exactly. He had grown up with mostly Daeron and Daella, and Aemon before he left; Egg and Rhae had been much too young to be his playmates. The boy had rarely attracted his attention... but as he grew, he developed a character that was too headstrong for Aerion’s liking.
“He is… imprudent,” he managed at last.
“So are you.”
“He has no healthy fear of anyone. He always talks back, and disobeys.”
Dunk raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, fine, I do the same. But I… I’m an omega. I was going to get married off eventually, and then I would have to obey, willingly or not.” His face twisted into a bitter grimace. “He won’t have to do that.”
“Oh. I see.” Dunk’s eyes were sympathetic. “Still, he is a little boy. And it’s not his fault he is a beta. You shouldn’t take it out on him.”
He gave a little shrug. “Targaryens are meant to be vicious, aren’t we? The blood of the dragon. How can I be anything else?”
"I think you can learn to see things differently," he said calmly. "For example, have you considered that most of our household sleep on the floor of the great hall?"
He frowned, distracted. "And so? That is how it is done in most castles."
"My point is, they have to lie on much humbler bedding than you do, inferior linen or no. The rushes can be warm, but often splinter and fray, and are hardly a featherbed."
He struggled for a retort. "They are servants,” he managed at last. “I'm a prince. The septons say the gods made the smallfolk different than we are."
"The septons also say the gods made omegas lesser," he said, not unkindly. "And you clearly are not fond of that notion."
Aerion winced. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
Dunk’s brow furrowed. “What?”
He gave a shrug, artificially nonchallant. “Omegas. I am not convinced we aren’t lesser. I have been fighting my nature all my life. I’m weaker and smaller because I’m an omega. Once a month, I have to spend days locked in my chambers like a dying dog. And most omegas aren’t even like me, wretched enough that I am. They simper and fawn over alphas like children. All they want is to open their legs and bear pups. Even I—” He cut himself off. He thought of his intense lust for Dunk, the wrath it had woken in him at Ashford, the decision to demand a trial of the seven. I wanted to prove something to the world, and to banish my own base desires. “So no, Ser Duncan. I am not convinced the septons are wrong about this one either.”
Dunk was silent for a long time. His eyes were thoughtful, perplexed. “Do you truly hate yourself that badly?” he asked quietly.
Aerion felt a lump in his throat. “I…” His throat was dry.
“To hate your nature… It is to hate you. People are more than just their status as an alpha or a beta or an omega, yes, but it is still part of you. Why do you run from it so much?”
“I just…”
He looked away, his face flushed with shame. Who was Duncan to chide him like this? What did he know about anything? And why did it sound so true? Aerion’s hands shook. He was angry. He was afraid. He was— He was—
Suddenly he could almost hear the voices of the betas in Summerhall again. The first time he understood how much they all scorned him, Aerion had been all but seven years old. He had been sneaking into the stables to climb on top of Father’s destrier, a very bold plan, but he hadn’t even managed to reach him when he heard them talking. Finn and Gared, boys both older and stronger than him, squires that he had trained with and thought were his friends.
"—Ridiculous. Did you see him with that sword yesterday? It looked larger than he was!"
"Ser Balan said his uncle insisted. That he's a Targaryen, so his designation doesn't count."
"It's obscene. Are they really expecting us to fight alongside an omega?"
"Well, he seems fierce."
"Fierce?” A snort. “He may seem so now, but nature soon tells, my pa says. Before we know it, the little cunt will grow up and spread his legs for a good knotting."
“Stop! That’s gross!”
“That’s what I’m saying. What is he going to do, go jousting and fight battles while an alpha knots him every night? Will we have to smell him when he goes into heat as well? It’s disgusting—”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to distress you.”
Aerion raised his head, dazed. “What?”
Duncan looked ashamed of himself. “You… You look like I made you upset. I wasn’t trying to. I shouldn’t have been so… blunt.”
Aerion blinked. The room was quiet, the fire crackling in the hearth. I’m fine. I’m in Dawnfort, in my own chamber, it is safe. No one else is here, only Dunk. Sometimes, when he lost himself in a memory, it brought everything back, and he felt the same way he did back then.
He swallowed, willing himself to calm down. “It is no matter. You were trying to make a point, I understand.”
“I was not trying to shame you, either. All I’m saying is, you should pay more heed to what others have to suffer, as well. And with Egg…” the knight hesitated. “Well, you could try to see things from his point of view. He is a child, and though he is not an omega, your father’s expectations are heavy on him too. He just wanted to be a squire, like you doubtlessly did at his age. So he came with me. And then he saw you hurt someone, so he ran to get help. He’s a good boy, Aerion.”
He turned away, weary. “Perhaps,” was all he could concede. He gave the knight a pointed look. “You are a little too concerned with what I believe and what I do, aren’t you? One might think you are trying to tutor me.”
“No. I’m trying to show you the consideration you are due as my mate. Part of that is offering advice.” He shrugged. “Take it into account or not, as you think best.”
Consideration. “How dutiful of you,” he observed dryly. Suddenly he was sad again. “Well, this conversation has wearied me, ser. Good night.” He turned around and lay on his side, drawing the covers. The knight muttered a little response, but Aerion was no longer paying attention.
The day had been more tiring than he’d realized. His eyes grew heavy quickly, and then he was drifting off to sleep. He slipped into unconsciousness, and soon into the grasp of a cold, familiar dream.
He was four-and-ten again, and it was the worst night of his life.
He was in his mother's bedchamber, so that he would be away from Daeron for the duration of his heat. It should have been a great cause for celebration; his first flowering, albeit late. Normally, there were some customs; Septa Orelia had told him about them. He would have been given gifts, traditionally bolts of cloth and pastries and small flower bundles. After he had recovered, he would have been expected to visit the sept and light a candle by the Maiden’s altar. Even Aerion, with all his cynicism, had been somewhat charmed by the prospect. Everything was supposed to be very calm, and the omega was meant to be congratulated and honored.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
It was at the funeral that he felt the pains. "She bore Targaryen children," Maekar had declared, "so she was of our House too. She must be burned." Right after his father lit the pyre, the smoke rising up and up into the sky, Aerion's belly cramped with a deep, unfamiliar surge of pain. He ignored it at first, fixing his eyes on the horizon, not looking at the slight, still body in the flames. Daeron and Daella were crying unashamedly, but he wouldn't. He was almost a man grown, and a dragon.
It got worse. The pain kept coming, waning and waxing in short bursts. By the time the body had burned away and they descended the hill, he was grimacing and clutching at his belly. Aemon even asked him if he was alright. He wasn't. A queer feeling was rising in his insides, a sharp, steady desire, a warmth, an aching need.
The heat was induced by the emotional strain, the maesters said. He was nearing his flowering anyway, so a powerful event like this easily triggered it. His father had said nothing, only hastily ordered that he be moved to Dyanna's chamber to spend some days until he returned to normal. Normally a special room would be prepared for such a thing, but guests would soon flock to Summerhall to offer their sympathies, so this was a more convenient solution. Besides, at the moment there were far more important things to worry about than Aerion’s heat, so no one seemed to give it much thought.
Aerion wondered if being in her room was also meant to be a comfort. In some ways, it was. It still smelled like her, his sensitive omega nose easily picking up her lemony, flowery perfume laid over her mild, natural beta scent. He had immediately curled up on the bed, piling the covers over him, rubbing his face against the sheets and the silk pillowcases. The pain had passed, as they told him it would; cramps only happened during pre-heat. But he was cold, shivering, as if he had a fever. His privy parts were almost hurting, tingling and convulsing with lust, slick running freely from his entrance. He yearned to put his hand down there and give himself some relief, but his septa was in the room, ostensibly to guard and help him. She wasn't doing much of either, other than making Aerion feel even more uncomfortable — after a while, she fell asleep in her chair.
I could make a nest. It is supposed to help, isn't it? He wasn't sure how, though. Was he supposed to just wrap himself in the coverlets? His septa might know, but he didn't want to wake her. He ended up taking clothes from the wardrobe, velvet mantles and soft sandsilks and cool linens, spreading some on the bed, then lying underneath the rest, making sure he was covered by fabric from all sides.
It did help, but not for long. Tears streamed down his face, wetting the sheets. He kept seeing her, her slight body and unblemished olive-toned skin framed by the towering flames. Her stomach still had a curve to it, though it was mostly concealed under the folds of her rich gown. Somewhere in the palace, the tiny, silver-haired girl she’d brought forth was sleeping in her crib.
His flowering meant one certain thing; he was now also ready to bring forth squalling, silver-haired Valyrians, just like Dyanna. Perhaps one would end up killing him as well, and he’d be lying in a pyre soon enough, his mate lighting the kindling.
Suddenly he couldn’t lie there any longer.
Father, he thought miserably. I need Father.
He rose, disentangling himself from the makeshift nest and throwing off the covers. He tip-toed to the door, watching Septa Orelia snore softly, and pushed the heavy oak frame open, gently.
This was unlike him. He had not felt such a need for comfort in a long time, and he was nearly a man grown. Baelor had even promised to knight him soon, right after his next name day, despite his father’s misgivings.
He didn't care. His legs felt like water, his brow sweaty with fever, waves of perverse, shameful desire gripping his belly and mixing with his raw grief. It didn't matter how childish it was; he wanted someone to hold him, to pet his hair and soothe him and tell him all would be well. Maekar sometimes did that when he was small, comforting him when he skinned his knee or got hurt at swordplay. They had not embraced for years, but now Mother was gone, and Aerion needed him. Father would surely let him stay in his room. I could sleep on the floor, to not be a bother. He knew he would toss and turn a lot, if he slept at all, and Maekar would be so tired after the funeral.
He was wondering whether Maekar would be asleep. If I wake him, he will be even more tired tomorrow. The thought brought guilt, but not enough to make him turn back. He crossed the gallery and entered Dyanna’s solar, making for the door that led out of the apartments, when he saw a figure in the room with him. He froze.
It was Father. He was sitting in Dyanna’s armchair, his back to Aerion, looking out the window and clutching a long, pale piece of fabric in his hands.
Aerion let out an unwilling gasp. Maekar turned at the sound, looking at him as if in a daze. “Aerion?” He frowned. “What are you doing out of bed? Gods, it must be the hour of the wolf.”
Aerion lost his courage, then. A queer, animalistic instinct held him back. He stared at his father, hands still shaking.
“Are you hurt, boy? What is it?”
“N-no. I just… I…”
Maekar pushed his lips into a thin line. “You should not be out of the bedchamber, then. Where is your septa?”
It took him almost a full minute to find his voice. “She... She is asleep.”
“Soundly, I have no doubt.” Maekar’s voice was weary. “You shouldn’t be sneaking out and wandering about at a time like this. Where were you even going, you heedless child? Your smell alone… Go back to your room.”
Aerion just stared at his father, wordless.
“Aerion. Please. I’m not… I can’t deal with your antics right now. And I have so much to do tomorrow, I…” He looked away, his gaze haunted. “This damn palace doesn’t run itself, the gods know, and now I have to contend with a gaggle of well-wishers and grieving relations. I have to write to Dorne as well, to Starfall and Sunspear, and to King’s Landing and Dragonstone… And I have to care for the babe, of course. She’ll need more than a wet-nurse, now that—” His face twisted, and he stopped abruptly, voice shaking. He turned away again, bowing his head.
His father was so desolate that Aerion suddenly felt awful for bothering him. Besides, an omega’s heat was meant to be private, unmentionable. He wasn’t supposed to be burdening his beta father with things like that. Shame pooled in his belly. He looked down at the fabric in Maekar’s hands, finally recognizing it as his mother’s finest veil, made of semi-translucent silk and adorned with pearls and golden thread and Myrish lace. She was supposed to be burned with it, but clearly his father had been unable to let go. Aerion hadn’t even registered its absence during the funeral pyre, but now he remembered.
I miss her too, papa. I miss her so much. But he couldn’t say it. Not when Maekar was so deep in his own grief. He stepped back. “I… I am sorry.”
Maekar didn’t turn around. “Go back to your room, Aerion.” He sounded exhausted, which was the worst.
He slinkered away, defeated. As he slipped back into his chamber and on the bed, tears rose hot in his eyes. He soon found himself sobbing, crying like an abandoned child, his chest shaking, shaking…
“Aerion? Aerion, wake up.”
His eyes flew open, hands clutching the sheets, body covered in cold sweat. By the light of the hearth, he saw Duncan leaning over him, frowning.
A dream. It was just a dream.
He sat up, trembling. His face was streaked with tears. He could still see it all in his mind, his mother’s body in the flames, her bed piled up with clothes, Maekar’s empty eyes. He put his head in his hands and began to weep.
Dunk was rigid beside him. “What? My prince, what is it? What happened? Is it about your father again?”
He just sobbed, his body wracked with convulsions. He hadn’t had that dream in a long time; hadn’t relieved those memories in years. The waves of shame, loss, and loneliness threatened to bury him alive like an avalanche.
The knight was silent for a while. Then, to Aerion’s surprise, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch was deceptively soft; no one would think this man capable of the brute, overwhelming strength Aerion had seen from him.
“Hush,” Dunk said awkwardly. “Hush. Whatever it is, I’ll— I’ll help.”
Somehow, the clumsy effort did help, and something broke within him.
He didn’t allow himself to think. He didn’t want to think. He moved closer to the knight, leaning in to smell his earthly alpha scent. He rested his forehead against Dunk’s chest and just breathed in, closing his eyes.
The knight stilled, his turn now to be shocked. Then he slowly, calmly, wrapped his hands around the omega’s waist, his chin coming down to rest on his head. Aerion could hear his heartbeat, his steady, regular breathing.
They stayed like that until Aerion’s sobs receded and his tears dried, the pain and loneliness being replaced by a deep exhaustion and a queer sense of relief. They stayed like that until their limbs went soft and the tension left their muscles, until they were both so tired they had to gently let go and lie down on the bed, still close but not touching, as if it would be too much. And Aerion went back to sleep with the scent of virgin earth in his nostrils and the lulling sound of another’s breath in his ears.