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As soon as he was well enough to walk, he went to see his father.

It was Daeron who had brought him the news, along with one of the letters Maekar had sent to the high lords of the kingdom to announce his intentions. His brother looked weary, pale and sad, with dark circles under his eyes and trembling hands. Yet what shocked him the most was that Daeron had a new expression on his face, one that Aerion hardly ever saw: pity.

At first, he had laughed, his injured ribs hurting from the strain. Then came disbelief, then rage. Despite being an omega, Aerion Targaryen had always run hot; quick to anger, prickly in his honor, ready to avenge a slight. And this was the most personal slight he had ever received.

Daeron had tried to assuage him. With uncharacteristic patience, he explained the details, speaking of what their father had offered the hedge knight to get him to accept his proposal; land, a petty lordship, some puny castle in the Crownlands. He described Maekar's grief and his despair. When he shifted to praising the knight's virtues, suggesting that the one who married him would live a good life, Aerion had thrown a bowl of uneaten broth at his head and screamed at him to get out.

Daeron had obeyed. When he was at the door, he had turned back one last time. "I'm sorry, Aerion."

The prince had not responded.

He spent the next few days willing himself to recover, impatiently pushing past the pain and weakness until he felt strong enough to face Maekar. In his rage, his whole body felt like it was on fire, the blood of the dragon churning hot and thick within him, granting him strength.

He had always clung to his heritage as an anchor, a guiding light. That was how he had lived his whole life, how he survived being the only living omega of House Targaryen.

His designation was rare, even rarer than an alpha's. It was said that in most regions, only one in twenty babes was born an omega. They were usually allowed some freedom when they were children, but married off quickly after they had their first heat. The common wisdom was that it was dangerous to let flowered omegas wander about; they were weak, vulnerable, and seductive. An omega in heat was a particularly dangerous creature; their scent drove alphas near them crazy, causing them to be unable to resist the urge to breed. Omegas could tempt good, honest alphas away from their mates, cause fights, and derail social order. That had all been hammered into Aerion's head from a young age. His father had insisted on a thorough education on the matter, and the rest, well... He had picked the rest up from the teasing, scorn, and insults of playmates.

Still, Aerion was stubborn. His uncle Baelor, an unlikely ally, had insisted that he be allowed in the tiltyard and in the training grounds, and allowed to wander freely where he would as long as he was well guarded. He argued that Aerion's heritage and position exempted him from the normal rules of commoners. And as the boy had shown promise as a knight, his father had begrudgingly allowed it. Aerion was small, but he was quick and agile and ruthless, and many found themselves surprised when they underestimated him. And he trained long and hard, twice as hard as the big, lazy betas and alphas he faced in the yard. It was almost euphoric, besting his opponents. They always looked down on him; he saw the amused glint in their eyes when they stood across from him, and he delighted in their astonished rage when he unhorsed or disarmed them. Aerion almost never lost.

Until the trial.

At first, he had not thought much of the big hedge knight, Ser Duncan. He was handsome, true, muscular and extremely tall, with sandy hair and beautiful blue eyes. Even for an alpha, he was imposing. But still, he was a commoner, crude and uncouth and naive to a fault. He clung to rosy ideals about chivalry that Aerion had abandoned long ago.

And then the pupeteer show happened, and that business with the common girl whose finger Aerion broke. When the knight dared to lay hands on him, overpowering him, the prince had felt things he didn't want to feel. So he raged, and in his wrath, he came up with a plan to restore his honor. The trial of the seven would be a showy, extravagant affair that brought glory to House Targaryen, restored respect to the symbol of the dragon, and showed those who still whispered behind his back that he was more than just an omega.

Then everything went wrong. Despite his lack of technical skill, Duncan was too strong. He had won, beating him into submission and forcing him to yield, bleeding and humiliated. He knew that two knights had died during the fight, and several others were injured.

And his uncle... his uncle...

Aerion didn't want to think about Baelor.

At first, everything hurt. Aerion slipped in and out of a feverish sleep, filled with visions of screaming horses, the ring of steel, blood and mud and sweat. He heard his father calling out to him, a mace crushing into bone, and a giant shouting at him to yield. At times, he felt a strong hand holding his own, or a cool cloth against his temple. He spoke, babbling, whispering in all tongues he knew about demons, dragons, and blood, but the voice at his bedside had only hushed him. Slowly he came out of his delirium, painfully returning to a reality that seemed just as cruel. 

As soon as Aerion was judged fit enough to travel by litter, Maekar and his sons had moved to King’s Landing, where they'd been briefly staying before the tourney. The prince had been left to recover in a small, shadowed chamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, with the maesters of the Red Keep constantly fussing over him and Daeron as his sole visitor. His father had also shown up, but Aerion hardly counted that; the man had visited only once, and Aerion had been too dazed by the milk of the poppy to even speak to him. Since his head cleared and he began to get stronger, Maekar had disappeared. 

And before he had even managed to fully heal from his injuries, this. His father's bizarre plan, letters signed in his own hand, declaring that Aerion, a dragon prince, was to be wed to Ser Duncan, a common hedge knight and his greatest enemy.

He would not assent. He would never assent. He had refused suitors before, and gotten his way; it was the reason he was an unmarried omega at two-and-twenty. He could do it again. He could.

In the afternoon of the thirty-first day after the trial, after his bandages had been removed for good, Aerion Targaryen rose, dressed himself, and headed straight for his father's chambers.

He passed through the corridors and halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, ignoring the courtiers who saw him and either stared or whispered behind fans, hands, and handkerchiefs. Ever since his defeat, the usual gossip about him had grown into a deluge, and it was likely that news of his proposed wedding had circulated as well. Aerion clenched his teeth and bid himself to forget about them. They were fluttering birds that scattered away once you looked at them, and he was the dragon. The dragon was not cowed.

The sentries at his father’s chambers were reluctant to turn away a prince, especially one as notoriously proud and volatile as Aerion. After a brief look between them, they let him pass, holding open the door as he marched furiously into Maekar's solar.

"You cannot do this," he declared, as way of greeting.

His father raised his eyes from the letter he was writing, frowning at the disruption. Maekar looked thinner than when he last saw him, eyes sunken, face marked by new lines. He ignored a pang of guilt. "Aerion,” Maekar said curtly. “Should you be out of your bed?"

"Don't toy with me. What is this ridiculous new notion of yours regarding that hedge knight?"

Maekar sighed, carefully setting his quill down. "It is no mere notion, Aerion. I assure you, my mind is quite firmly set on the matter. I have asked Ser Duncan, and he has agreed."

"I have not! You cannot marry me off against my will!"

"You will discover that I can." His father's temper was starting to rise; he could see it in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. He rose from the chair. "You are an omega and I am your father, boy. By all the laws of the land, I can wed you to whomever I please."

"He is a hedge knight!"

"Aye, and that chafes your pride, does it not? Good. I care not a lick about your thrice-damned pride. Being shamed is the least that you deserve after what you did."

"Father," he tried to reason, his voice fast and erratic. "Think about this. What advantage does this match serve? You gain no allies, no wealth, nothing! So why?"

"Ser Duncan showed honor and valor. He deserves a reward, and you will have to do. Besides, you have made yourself undesirable to any noble with sense. No one else would have you, and I will not suffer you to prance around and make fools out of our family any longer. Your husband will take you with him to his new home, where you shall remain."

Aerion was losing control, his words tumbling out of him like vomit. "Wait. If you merely want me out of your sight, I-I will go. I will sail to Pentos, to Lys, anywhere!"

Maekar shook his head. "I have indulged and spoiled you to my sorrow. Had I been as firm with you as I should have, you would have been wedded and bedded years ago, and all this would not have happened. Well, I have paid for my carelessness, and it is time for you to pay as well. Since there seems to be no chance for you to become a better man, the least you can do is lay on your back and breed."

"I am your son," he hissed. "Not breeding stock."

"You are the one responsible for my brother's death," Maekar declared, raising his voice. "He was a better man than you. A better man than me. A man who would be king, and he died by my own mace, whilst I was fighting for you. For the rest of my life, I will hear whispers that I am a kinslayer." He turned away, a wince of pain rippling through his face. "I had hope for you, once. I have no hope anymore, nor any use for you. You will wed Ser Duncan after the moon's turn. Elsewise, you will be shipped off to Dragonstone to be locked up and forgotten.” His eyes darkened. “And if I hear that your new husband met with some unfortunate accident, I swear to you, you shall still be bundled off to Dragonstone, but in fetters instead. Remember that, boy.”

He felt tears rising to his eyes, hot and stinging. "Father—"

Maekar waved his hand, wearily, and called for the guards. "Take him away. Lock him in his chamber, he is unlikely to cause trouble there."

He felt strong hands grabbing him from behind, and immediately fought back. "Let me go. Let go, I will have your heads for this!" He was crying, struggling as they pulled him away. "Father!"

"Come, my prince," one guard pleaded. "Don't make this harder than it needs be."

When they managed to drag him outside and shut the door, Aerion crumbled. He slumped in their arms, letting them lead him away, his head hanging low. He was still crying, quietly sobbing as he was led through the twisting corridors.

I have lost, he kept thinking. I have lost, I have lost, I have lost. The face of the knight came back to him, mud-splattered, wrestling his helm off and screaming at him to surrender. I yield, the prince had whispered, his flame extinguished. I yield.

When they pushed him into the bedchamber and bolted the heavy oak door, he sat on the floor by the hearth and simply stared, watching the flames dance and lick at the logs. In a daze, he reached out to touch them, only drawing back once the burning became too unbearable. I am a dragon. A dragon does not despair. Yet every once in a while his vision would blur with tears, and all he could feel, in the empty pit of his heart, was despair.

On a rosy, pale dawn of unexpected loveliness, the date of his wedding finally arrived. Aerion had sat by the window sill throughout the night, looking at the stars and wishing for the sun to never rise. He had spent the past week in confinement, alone with his dread and the fire that still burned within his stomach.

He had tried to convince the servants to help him, pleading, bribing, bullying, and threatening at turns. Once, he begged leave to go to the privy, slammed a bucket over the head of the guard who accompanied him, and tried to flee, though he was quickly accosted. They dragged him back to the cell, kicking and cursing, and from then on brought him a chamber pot for his needs.

There is no use anyway. Maegor’s Holdfast had thick walls and was heavily guarded, and Aerion had nowhere to go.

Nobody had visited him, and nobody had written. Daeron was likely drinking his sorrows away in some horrid brothel, while Valarr blamed him for the loss of his father. His sisters had never been close to him, and Egg had good reason to hate him even before the trial. His prospective husband did not seem interested in speaking to him, either. And why should he? No one cares what their breeding mare has to say.

Maekar had also stayed away. He had not allowed his son in his presence again, nor would the servants agree to deliver a message. Still, the day before, Aerion had half-expected, half-hoped to get a visit from him. Perhaps he would change his mind, see that this course was senseless. And even if he did not... Well, he still had need of him. Aerion didn't require much schooling in the subject of marriage; he had seen animals mating in the streets enough times and heard enough banter to understand the basics of what was involved. Still, it was expected for an omega's guardian to have a thorough talk with them before their wedding, offering advice or encouragement. At the very least, it was meant to help them transition into their new role. Despite everything that had happened, Aerion couldn't help an involuntary shiver at the thought of being given away to Duncan without a word of counsel. Yet the day had come and gone, and he had not heard anything from his father.

He trembled, looking at the dying flames of the hearth. Some Targaryens had been blessed with dreams and portents of the future, but Aerion was not so lucky. Though fire was in his veins, his blood running thick with ancient Valyrian spells, he had neither dragons nor sorcery at his disposal. Magic had died in the world, and left the Targaryens behind to struggle in mortal mud and toil. Even dragon dreamers, like Daeron, had become base and twisted, unable to understand or control their power.

It would be glorious to burn away his weak flesh and emerge from the embers, reborn as a true dragon who could fly freely in the skies and purify the world with his flame. For that, he would have done anything, anything in the world.

Especially this day.

Early in the afternoon the servants came to prepare him, carrying a heavy wooden tub, buckets of water, and towels. Aerion let them do as they willed, barely noticing their fussing as they washed and dressed him. The clothes, at least, were extremely fine; his father evidently wanted his son to wed looking like a prince, not a mere knight's spouse. The hose and tunic were pure crimson silk, while the doublet was velvet studded with black crystals and rubies, with long dagged sleeves. The maiden's cloak they clasped around his neck was resplendent red-and-black samite, depicting the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. As a final touch, a young beta servant spread a hint of red rouge on his lips and cheeks, and perfumed him with a light, flowery scent.

"You look lovely, my prince," the serving man said shyly. "The flower of the royal family."

Aerion grimaced, and said nothing.

Maekar met him outside the royal sept with his retinue, still dressed in mourning, his eyes cool and detached. He nodded his approval. "Good. No one can doubt that you are beautiful, at least. Come."

There was nothing to do as his father grabbed his arm and held it firmly. Without another word, he was led into the crowded sept.

"The royal princes, Maekar and Aerion Targaryen," the herald announced, and all heads turned towards them. It seemed that half the court had turned up for his wedding, though their attire was a confusing mix of mourning blacks and celebratory colors. He ignored the stares, the quiet whispers, and certain not-so-friendly comments, fixing his eyes forward.

The king himself was nowhere to be seen. His brother had told him their grandsire was ailing, confined to his royal chambers with some sort of infirmity. Aerion doubted the truth of that. Perhaps Daeron the Good simply did not wish to witness his grandson being so far disgraced, and had withdrawn from court until Aerion was gone. Though he had assented to the wedding, that did not mean the whole ugly affair pleased him.

His future husband was waiting by the septon. He was as big and oafish as ever, but dressed finely for once, in green and purple velvet edged with silver. Duncan's expression did not betray much; he was certainly not jubilant, but didn't look upset either. Aerion supposed this was to be expected. The alpha had accepted a rich dowry to marry him, and besides, after they were wed, he had the lawful right to treat Aerion as he wished, and the omega would be sworn to obey him. There was no reason for Duncan to be afraid, or numb, or desperate for escape.

The ceremony passed by in a daze. Aerion barely registered most of it. There were the blessings and the vows, with Aerion swearing to serve and obey, while the alpha swore to guard, shield, and care for him. When Duncan fastened the cloak with his colors around Aerion’s neck, his hand shot up, grasping at the silver chain as if it would throttle him. His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away. As he turned to say the binding words, he avoided Duncan's gaze, unwilling to see the triumph or amusement he was sure would be there.

He opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again. The words nearly choked him, burning in his throat like dragonfire. Silence drew on and on. A chuckle was heard in the sept, soon joined by more.

He felt his face flush with color. He would not be openly laughed at. You are Aerion Brightflame, he told himself, clenching his fists. You are a dragon, and the common beasts will not see you crumble. Swallowing hard, he finally spoke. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you as my alpha."

Duncan’s response was calm, clear. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you as my omega." Then he leaned in.

Aerion closed his eyes, bracing for the kiss. When it came, it was soft, gentler than he expected. A curious feeling blossomed in his stomach, fluttering and warm. He suddenly found himself thinking of the last time the knight had been so close to him, down in the mud, straddling him, shaking him, shouting in his face. He remembered the heat in his thighs, his belly, as he had looked up at Duncan's bloodied face and felt fear mixed with something else, something primal. Suddenly he was very aware of the knight kissing him, his sturdy frame towering over Aerion's lithe body. Suddenly he wanted to pull away yet draw closer, and hardly knew which was right and which was wrong.

Thankfully, it was over quickly. Duncan pulled back, the septon declared them wed, and there was general, polite applause. Aerion turned to face the crowd, heartbeat drumming in his ears. I am married. As the knight led him from the sept, holding his hand, he could barely pay attention to the guests coming forward to offer their congratulations. Almost all of them addressed Duncan, not him, for which he was strangely grateful. Only Lyonel Baratheon smiled at him and held him by the shoulders, winking.

The feast, held at the Small Hall, was long and boisterous. It drew on for hours, and by midnight he was weary and sore from sitting. At the high table next to Duncan, he felt like a dragon sprawled over a hoard of wealth and decadence. The smell of the countless elaborate dishes only managed to turn his stomach, and the music of harps and pipes and lutes assaulted his ears to the point that he wanted to scream. Instead of eating, he nursed a goblet of wine, sipping as the guests danced and sang and feasted.

Duncan was sitting stiffly, not offering any conversation. In a way, he looked uncomfortable as well, though his appetite did not seem to be affected. He helped himself freely to meats and cheeses and sugared fruit, washing it all down with wine. With some derision, Aerion wondered if this was the finest meal he had ever had in his life.

Bawdy, uplifting songs were being sung, but the atmosphere at the high table was cold as a gravesite. Daeron was drinking as much as he could possibly get away with while his father was in attendance, gazing vacantly across the hall. At times he turned to Aerion, giving him a sad, pained smile that he must have thought was reassuring. Egg, having doubtlessly been forced to attend, was staring daggers at him. His cousin Matarys was there, as well as his uncle Aerys and his wife Aelinor, though they scarcely spoke. The absenses were more notable; Valarr, his uncle Rhaegel, Aunt Elaena, the Great Bastards... One could clearly see that this marriage had been purposedly avoided by most of his kin. 

After a while, Maekar rose and retired, not bothering to bid anyone good night. Likely he could not stomach any more festivities, not with Baelor's death so fresh in his mind. Still, Aerion couldn't help but stare at his father's back as he walked away, a cold surge of terror rising in his stomach. It was foolish, but it felt as if he had been suddenly left alone, though he was surrounded by people. Trembling, he picked up his goblet.

The music went on and on. Ser Lyonel walked up to the dais, bowing to him. "Shall the beautiful prince grant me a dance?" he asked, eyes glinting.

It was the last thing Aerion wanted. He looked up at the beta with suspicion. Others had asked him to dance earlier in the night, and he had assented, dutifully going through the steps. But this was Lyonel. He remembered how he had stood against him at the trial. Why was he so eager to associate with him, today of all days? Was it mere mockery? He knew he had to respond, offer some excuse at least, but his whole body was suddenly rigid.

It was Duncan who spoke up, for the fitst time in the evening. "I believe my... husband... is tired, Ser Lyonel. The day has been long and exciting for us both. In fact," he raised his voice, standing up from the bench. "You must forgive us, my lords and ladies, but I fear we are ready to retire to our chamber."

Cheers erupted, and Aerion's stomach churned as if he was having pre-heat cramps. It had been clear that everybody knew he was marrying against his will, and most were more than happy to see the proud prince brought low. Aerion could see that in the sheer number of people who chose to attend, in the way they either leered or laughed at him, and in the crude jokes he had heard throughout the evening. The bedding ceremony would make everything worse. He didn't know if he was strong enough to withstand a host of drunk courtiers ripping his clothes off, fondling him, and making bawdy jokes, as he went to the bed of a man who hated him. He would react, he knew, he would fight them and bite and scream, and might go mad for good.

It was, naturally, Ser Lyonel who rushed forward first. "Of course! Of course! Were it me, I would also be eager, ser. What can be sweeter than such a lovely mate between the sheets?"

"You ought to be careful, Ser Duncan," a Fossoway squire shouted. "This one bites, I am sure."

"They all bite at first," grumbled old ser Robyn Rhysling, to general laughter.

Aerion was flushed red, biting his lip to keep from screaming at them. But Duncan was watching him. The knight turned to the unruly crowd. "My good lords," he shouted, "You must forgive me. I am common born, and not used to such displays. I am sorry, but there will be no bedding." His words were awkward, Aerion noticed, almost as if rehearsed.

The guests protested, voicing their disappointment with hoots and calls to reconsider. Duncan lowered his head. "I apologize, again. How about I stay to celebrate with you for another hour, while my mate retires? I am sure I can use all your advice for tonight," he suggested.

There was still some grumbling, but the notion seemed to be accepted. Still, Aerion glimpsed anger in the eyes of some guests, and a few stood up and left.

The knight turned to him and nodded. Aerion rose in a daze. He didn't understand what had just happened. He had never known alphas to refuse a chance to show their virility. In many cases, the guests were even encouraged to stay right outside the bedchamber, to hear the sounds of mating and shout bawdy suggestions through the door. Did Duncan not care about their opinion? Or was he, as he claimed, too lowborn and unused to such things?

Wordless, he allowed himself to be led away by the servants, glad to hear the sounds of the revels fade behind him. Duncan had been provided with a chamber at the top of the tower, to be used exclusively by him and Aerion whenever they stayed at the Red Keep. It was finely furnished, with a large featherbed, a desk, a hearth, and a door that probably led to a privy. Walls hanging on the walls depicted Duncan's sigil, the green star above an elm tree at sunset, and the floor was covered with Myrish rugs. Still, it was not as large or rich as the rooms Aerion had occupied before, and he felt strange among all these greens and oranges and purples. The colors did not suit a Targaryen.

Two serving women undressed him, putting the finery away and throwing a silk, crimson nightgown over his nakedness. The gown was loose, and one of the women tugged the neckline lower, exposing his collarbone and nearly baring one shoulder. The prince stiffened, but she was not deterred. She kept fussing and readjusting the cloth, until Aerion's hand shot up and caught her wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting. "I am no whore," he growled through his teeth, "And do not need to be displayed."

The girl immediately paled, squealing and muttering apologies, and Aerion let go. "Leave me," he commanded, suddenly weary. The women scurried to get away, curtseying in haste as they went.

He slowly walked to the edge of the bed, sitting down. His hand grabbed fistfulls of the rich purple covers. This was it, then. There was no getting out of it, not unless he was brave enough to find a dagger and slit his own throat.

The only man who might have defended him, might have saved him from his fate, was Baelor, and Baelor was dead. Dead because of him.

You deserve this. His father had the right of it. If he had acted wisely, he would not be in this room, sitting on this bed in a thin nightgown, waiting for a man who had a score to settle. He had chased a forlorn hope, a glory that he was sure a Trial of the Seven would grant him. But everything had crumbled in Duncan's fists. And now his life would become what he had always feared; an alpha holding him down and forcing babies into him, until he died in childbed or threw himself out of a tower window.

He wondered if he could pretend to be asleep, but he doubted that would work. No alpha would allow his mate to spend his wedding night unclaimed; an unconsummated marriage could be set aside.

In the end, he simply lay on the bed, and waited.

It was not long until the door swung open. Aerion tried to not flinch at the sound, and failed. He resolutely did not look at the knight as he entered, nor as he slowly undressed, then stoked the fire. There was quiet for a long time; Aerion felt cold sweat gather at his brow and the back of his neck.

Finally, the alpha spoke. "Would you like some wine?"

Slowly, Aerion turned to look at him. Duncan was stripped down to his breeches, his muscular chest shining softly in the low light. Aerion hated it, but he felt a rush of excitement in his belly at the sight of those toned muscles, the strong arms with the huge hands and callused fingers. He had felt more than he wished of Duncan's strength at the Trial, and knowing how much force the knight was capable of was exhilarating to a hidden, traitorous part of his mind.

Duncan was casually leaning against the desk, holding a wine cup. "This is Arbor red, though in truth, I never could tell the difference between fine wines and lesser wines. They all taste the same to me."

Aerion stared for a moment. "I had wine at the feast," he said coolly.

"Aye, I know. I merely thought it good to offer. It has been a taxing day."

A pause, again. Duncan sipped. Aerion watched, waiting for the alpha to approach him. I could scratch out his eyes. Dragons have claws, after all. Or I could bite at his throat and hope to tear it out. But it was idle thinking. If he injured Duncan, there was no telling what the knight would do. Even if he managed to kill him, his father had been very clear on the fact that he would just be sent away to rot in some tower for the rest of his life.

More time passed, more sipping. What is he waiting for? Was he hoping the anticipation would torment Aerion further? Did he want him to remove his nightgown first, or to take off Duncan's breeches? Was he expected to service him in some way? Suddenly, he felt much more self-conscious about his knowledge of what went on in the marriage bed.

Pause. Sip. He decided to end this little game. "You might as well get on with it," he said crudely, hiding his fear behind bravado. "I am well aware of what happens between the sheets. I need no cozening."

Duncan’s eyes widened a bit at his forwardness, and he looked away, suddenly awkward. "Ah. I fear you have misunderstood me, your grace. Do not take it as a slight; you are very fair, and any hot-blooded alpha would desire you. But that will not be happening tonight."

There was a moment where all Aerion could do was stare, uncomprehending. The fire crackled in the hearth. He searched Duncan's eyes for a lie, and found none. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again. "I don't understand."

Duncan sighed and set the cup down. He approached, and Aerion tensed, but the knight merely sat on the edge on the bed, well away from him. "I know what you expect. You are mistaken. I am a knight, and I have some honor. I am not in the habit of raping."

Aerion raised an eyebrow, jaw clenched. "The septons would say it is not rape. We are wed."

"Well, I am not learned like a septon, so I can't speak for them. But I don't think I have the right to force you, husband or no." He spoke firmly, quietly, as if he wanted Aerion to understand something important. "And I know you think I want to get back at you, for... for everything. Oh, I'm still angry, I assure you. And I still think you did some awful things. But I would never dishonor you in that way. So get that idea out of your head, and let us get some sleep. You look exhausted, and we are set to leave King's Landing very soon."

For yet another time since meeting Ser Duncan the Tall, Aerion Targaryen found himself at a complete loss for words.

The knight, on his part, did not wait for a response. He simply pushed the covers aside, tucking himself beneath them, and turned away.

He truly means to go to sleep.

A realization pushed him out of his trance. "Wait." He shook Duncan's shoulder. "The sheets."

"What of them?"

"They will see them, in the morning. They will look for blood, and if there isn't any, I will be shamed. They will say that I was unchaste, that I didn't have my maidenhead."

"Oh." Duncan blushed a little, looking uncomfortable. "Right. Alright, hold on." He jumped up, heading straight for a satchel lying on the desk. He returned with a small knife, and sat cross-legged on the bed. "That ought to do." He cut a thin line on his foot, drawing a few fat drops of blood. Then he pressed on the wound, and the blood dripped onto the white sheets, leaving a dark red stain that shimmered in the light of the hearth. Fire and blood, Aerion thought, unbidden. He swallowed and looked away. "Yes, it is sufficient."

"Good. Now, will you go to sleep?"

Aerion swallowed nervously, daring to speak what was on his mind. "How do I know you won't just wait until I'm asleep, and then..." He trailed off.

"That mistrustful, huh? My word as a knight is not enough? Alright. Would me sleeping on the floor help?"

"The floor?" He was incredulous. "You wish to sleep on the floor on your wedding night?"

"Why not? I'm a hedge knight, remember? I have slept on the ground many a time."

Aerion couldn't speak. He felt disarmed, which always seemed to happen around Duncan.

The knight grabbed a coverlet from the bed. "Here, see?" he laid on the Myrish carpet, close to the hearth, and covered himself. "Good night."

Aerion waited. Then waited some more. After a few minutes, he heard the knight's soft snores, and his body relaxed. Like a wave suddenly crashing onto the shore, his tiredness took over, and his mind, so anxious and racing throughout the day, wanted to do nothing but shut down and sleep. Ignoring his reservations, he laid back on the bed, drawing the covers over him. Tomorrow didn't matter. All he knew was that Duncan, for some bizzare chivalrous reason, had chosen to spare him for tonight, and he could rest easy for the first time in weeks.

Chapter Text

They set out after dawn, on an early spring day that was crisp and cool. The sky stretched high above them in shades of blue and white, swirling clouds marking the horizon as if hastily drawn by a paintbrush. The outskirts of King's Landing had at first been busy and crowded, filled with oxcarts and horses and smallfolk alike, but further up the Rosby road the way had mostly cleared. The fields on each side were vast and green, swaying in the soft morning breeze, and flowers were blooming all around them; daisies and scraggly wild roses and apple blossoms, heavy with scent and the promise of fruit. It was all way too beautiful for Aerion to feel so discontented, yet he did.

Theirs was a small party, only two score knights, men-at-arms, and servants, traveling with a few carts and pack animals. They were headed north, their destination a small castle in the Crownlands called Dawnfort. The hedge knight’s new seat was near Maidenpool, his so-called lordship a sorry bunch of hamlets and hilly, forested land. It had once belonged to a vassal of the Mootons, but the man had died with no heir and his title had reverted to the Crown. Until now.

If he was riding alone, Aerion could have reached Dawnfort in a day or two, but the carts forced them into a leisurely pace that would stretch their journey to nearly five days, if they were lucky. He hated that. Forced to dawdle along when he wanted to gallop, to feel the wind beating his face and hear his mare's hoofbeats thundering against the earth, made him want to scream. Galloping on horseback was the closest Aerion Targaryen would ever experience to riding a dragon, and he had always cherished it.

He had been allowed to visit his old chambers and choose what to pack, but his father had expressly commanded that he take as few belongings as possible. "Your husband is a petty lord," Maekar had declared, "Not a prince." The rest of his possessions would be given away to siblings and cousins. In pure spite, Aerion had offered to burn it all instead, but his father had not risen to the bait, electing to ignore him as he had ignored all his protests. Unbidden, the thought of his mother had come to him, with her olive-skinned face, her gentle hands, her steady smile. She had been sent away from her home too, crossing half the kingdom to wed a Targaryen princeling five years her junior. What would she say if she saw them now? Would you weep, mother, or would you rage at me? Would you disown me as well, or would you curse father for cruelty? He didn’t know, and he dared not ask Maekar.

He had stood in his chambers in a daze, at a loss of what he should choose. Aerion had always donned lavish attire, proudly showing off his status in fine crimson velvets, silks of bold yellow and orange, and heavy, embroidered samites interwoven with cloth-of-gold. He had felt his jaw tighten as he surveyed his clothes, and, in an act of stubbornness, had chosen some of the most vibrant items. Being forced into this marriage did not mean he had to submit to looking like a pauper, and he would not. He took jewels as well, though he was so nervous his father would notice and make him leave it all behind that he didn’t pack even half of what he owned. Still, he managed to get away with carrying off a decent hoard of coronets, jeweled belts, bracelets, and collars. His mother’s favorite ring, a plain silver band set with a large amethyst, had been tucked safely into his boot, so that Maekar would not seize it no matter how closely he inspected the carts.

He had not been permitted to carry weapons — doubtless his father was afraid he would go on a rampage, despite the threat of imprisonment — but he took one set of armor, rationalizing that it would be required in case of sudden peril; from whom, he could not say. That had disturbed the chamberlain who supervised the packing.

"Have you asked your father, my prince?" he asked nervously.

"Yes," Aerion lied, and apparently the servant was not willing to confront Maekar about it, so there the matter stood.

His books would stay behind. He highly doubted Dawnfort had a library, and without one, they were only dead weight, despite how much he would mourn them. The only exception was a collection of poems given to him as a wedding gift by Daeron. It was an old tome in High Valyrian, and though Aerion had rolled his eyes when he saw it was mostly love poetry, he had taken the book with him for reasons he could not quite articulate. He had also taken his dragon egg, packing it carefully himself in a saddlebag, wrapped in a soft bundle of velvet. Other essentials had already been sent ahead by his father, before the wedding even happened.

He was mounted on his favorite palfrey, Onyx, a black mare who was more intelligent than any horse Aerion had ever known. Despite not being allowed to ride her as fast as he wished, he took some comfort in feeling her between his legs, her steady, gentle ambling and familiar nickers grounding him to the present moment. Next to him, Duncan was on his own new palfrey, a beautiful white horse with streaks of gold in her mane, a wedding gift from the king. Aerion did not ask what the giant had named her, nor did he care. A little behind them rode Ser Donnel of Duskendale, resplendent in his white Kingsguard armor, who was to accompany the prince to his husband's new seat.

Neither Aerion nor Duncan attempted to make conversation, which was for the best. Every time he looked at the knight, rage bubbled up within him again. The tentative gratitude that Duncan had not bedded him had mostly given way to apprehension and anger. The alpha had still consented to the marriage, had still chosen to humiliate him by accepting his hand against his will. And he was still bundling him off to nowhere, merrily whistling tunes as he traveled. If he had never met the ridiculous giant, none of this would have happened at all.

It had not been an easy couple of days. As expected, the servants had seen the soiled sheets, and quickly circulated the news of the supposed consummation throughout the court. Therefore, before he set out, Aerion had to content with the various witticisms thrown at him. A couple of squires had asked him whether Duncan had mud underneath his fingernails, while a Dornish alpha had loudly proclaimed that if she had known all it took to tame a dragon was to best him in combat, she would have been a lot more diligent in the training yard. When one northern lordling asked him how he had liked the Flea Bottom mount, Aerion sneered and told him "I didn't know your sire was at court, my lord. If I see him, I will be sure to offer my appraisal." The lording had purpled, his fellow northerners had laughed, and Aerion felt a brief pang of satisfaction.

The worst was when Ser Jon Hardyng accosted him at the serpentine steps the previous evening, grabbing his arm, his breath stinking of wine. He had always been a hard man, but his cousin's death at the trial of the Seven had made him even harder. "I heard you were leaving, your Grace. I'm surprised you are able to ride so soon. I'd assumed you'd be walking stiffly for a while. Ser Duncan is large and lusty, is he not?"

"Unhand me," Aerion hissed.

The knight leaned in, ignoring him. "I was not at your wedding, but the boys said there was no bedding held. So you must tell me yourself. Did you scream, my prince? Was he as rough with you as he was in Ashford, when he pounded you into the dirt? Did you fight back, or did you secretly like it?"

Aerion kneed him in the stomach. Ser Jon groaned, doubled over, and Aerion pushed him backwards onto the steps. He was still struggling and cursing when the prince walked away into the darkness.

Promises or not, he was still doubtful that the knight would keep his word about not consummating the marriage. Despite his ostentatious chivalry, Duncan was still an alpha, driven by base desires, and a mortal enemy. When he realized Aerion would not change his mind and consent, he would doubtless force him into bed.

When that happened, Aerion had decided that he would fight. He was feeling less cowed than he had been on his wedding night, the cold steel of determination arming his hand even if a sword did not. He knew what would happen if he slayed Duncan, but he didn’t have to kill him, not even to seriously injure him. Perhaps if he gave the big oaf enough of a struggle, he would decide it was not worth it, and leave him be. Perhaps he could even be persuaded to put the marriage aside. Perhaps his father would relent, or the king. He was the blood of the dragon; he would not give up.

Hours into the journey, the knight rode up to him. Duncan looked cheerful, his broad face relaxed and open. "Should we stop for dinner, my prince? Are you tired from riding?"

Aerion looked at him coldly. "I would wager I'm more comfortable on the saddle than you on that mare of yours. She's too short in the back." It was not entirely true, but he had no interest in being charitable.

Duncan chuckled. "Her name is Goldberry, and she is a sweetling. I have never known a steadier mount."

"Onyx would outrun her," he said, knowing that he was being childish.

"Perhaps. Your mare looks very strong. One day we must race."

"Why not now?" he demanded recklessly, casting caution to the wind.

The knight laughed. "What, and have you run all the way to Winterfell? Your father would skin me for a pelt if I lost you."

Not quite as stupid as he looks. Aerion pursed his lips into a thin line. It was idle thinking, anyway; escaping was not a prudent course. With his father and the king having publicly withdrawn their favor, he had no friends in the kingdoms, and anyone could recognize his silver hair, his violet eyes, his omega scent. Still, he couldn't help himself from testing the limits of his confinement, like a dragon looking for weak links in a chain.

They stopped for dinner by the road, resting on the soft, cool grass. The knight sat too close to him for comfort, wolfing down mouthfuls of bread and cheese and bacon. Aerion just stared at him, holding a piece of untouched manchet bread.

"Stop that," Duncan said mildly.

"Stop what?"

"You are way too tense. You are looking at me like a baited bear, with those suspicious purple eyes of yours."

His nostrils flared. "You must excuse me for not being at ease with the man who can beat me or starve me at will."

"Beat or starve you?" The knight seemed genuinely perplexed. "Why on earth would I beat or starve you?"

"By law, you have the right to chastise me at your discretion."

He shrugged. "The law says a lot of queer things. I often felt like I ought to give Egg a good smack, but I never did. Why would I do it to you?"

Aerion frowned, distracted by the mention of his brother. “Why did you leave the little wretch, anyhow? I was convinced you would keep him on as a squire. He was glued on to you like a skinny white leech.”

Duncan shifted uncomfortably. “I did want to. So did Egg, at first. But then he found out I was going to marry you.” He sighed. “I fear he has grown quite wroth with me. He even punched me in the belly.”

“Your first instinct was correct,” Aerion remarked mildly, “You ought to have given him a clout in the ear.”

“He was just hurt. His eyes were all teary when I last saw him. He is not fond of you, and I sense he is afraid to be near you. And I told you, I don’t have it in me to do something like that. It is not knightly to abuse those weaker than you.”

Aerion sneered. "You were not so chivalrous at the trial."

"That was different. You were my opponent, armed and armored, and I was going to lose a hand and a foot if I didn't fight you. Teeth as well, as I recall."

"And with the puppeteer girl?"

A wave of anger rippled through Duncan's features. "Her name was Tanselle, and that was also different. You were breaking her fingers. Besides..." He looked away, seeming somewhat abashed. "I didn't know you were an omega, then. How could I, when you were jousting and fighting and wandering about so freely? All I knew of noble omegas was that they were supposed to stay in palaces and dress in silks. I only realized you were one when... when..."

When you got close enough and violent enough to catch my scent. Aerion remembered the exact moment the knight's expression had changed, and how he let him go as if he was holding a hot iron. He remembered the shame when he realized his hormones had reacted to the alpha, and the rage that followed. He remembered going to his pavilion afterwards and undressing, only to find his smallclothes wet with slick.

Duncan cleared his throat. "In any case, you have naught to fear from me. Ser Arlan put it well into my thick skull that I was to always treat omegas with courtesy."

"Even your worst enemy?"

"Yes. And you are not my enemy anymore. That ended when we were wed. I did not stand before a septon and speak vows to enter into a battlefield."

There was not much Aerion could say to that. He looked away, putting the bread down. "We should go on," he mused. "It is a long way ahead."

The rest of the day was uneventful. They rode past Rosby without stopping; Maekar had been adamant that they were not to stay at any holdfasts and castles along the way. Perhaps he feared that Aerion had friends that would aid his escape, or he wished to avoid delays. Aerion did not know, nor care.

When the evening rays caressed the horizon, the knight trotted up to him again. "We're going to set up camp. The sun is setting, and it looks about to rain."

"As you say, Ser Duncan."

The knight hesitated. "You can just call me Dunk, you know. Those close to me do."

"Dunk?" He was incredulous. "What sort of stupid peasant name is that?"

"It's my name. That was what Ser Arlan called me. Duncan is moreso something Egg suggested."

"Of course it is." Dunk did suit the knight, though. It somehow matched his great bulk, his strength, the simplicity of his gaze.

Duncan was smiling. "There is always my lord husband," he teased. "Or just my lord. Or sire..."

"You'd have to beat me into saying any of that," the prince hissed. His hand tightened on the reins. "Fine. Dunk."

The knight smirked. "Thank you, Aerion."

He felt a strange sensation in his stomach when the alpha said his name, as if something had stirred inside him. Wordless, he turned away.

They made camp just as the rain began to pour. Aerion and Dunk's tent was the most spacious, but still a modest construction, easily set up and made up of large oak poles and red canvas. They ate a modest supper of nuts and dried fruit and honeycakes, though Aerion had almost no appetite. Still, he forced himself to eat, to keep up his strength.

They undressed for bed in silence. Aerion stripped down to his breeches and threw a shift over his head, as Duncan was looking pointedly away. As the prince was splashing water on his face over a basin, the knight decided to speak. "I am grateful to you, you know," he said awkwardly. "I know I owe you for all this wealth that I've been granted. One day I hope to repay you."

Aerion turned back to examine his face. "Do you mock me? Is that meant to be a jest about avenging yourself upon me?"

"What?” he looked struck. “No. I don’t plan to avenge myself on anyone. I told you, I put all that aside when I agreed to wed you."

Aerion was tired of the knight's refusals, his protests, his stupid chivalrous honor. "You cannot simply have forgotten everything that happened. Not even you are that straw-headed."

Dunk winced. "I have not forgotten."

"And you claim you have no desire to exact some retribution?"

"It is not my place to exact retribution upon you."

"No?" He snorted. He felt his barely suppressed temper rising. He knew it was unwise, that he ought to steady himself and bide his time, but he had always had a sharp tongue, a tongue his septa insisted would be his undoing. "I hurt your Dornish wench. I was beating you bloody at Ashford before you managed to tackle me. Baelor died in your arms. Do you have no steel in your belly, knight?"

"Stop." Dunk's face hardened, hands clenched into fists.

"You look like a hot headed alpha, but you act like a feeble boy," he mocked, turning up his nose in disdain. "Egg had more nerve than you, even when I beat him."

"Stop!" he commanded, his voice dropping. He took a step towards Aerion, eyes dark with rage.

Aerion felt a thrill in his gut. He willed himself to hold his ground, eyes defiant, nostrils flaring.

There was a long pause. Duncan regarded him, brows furrowed, looking down from his great height. "I think you want me to do it," he muttered at last.

"What?"

"I think you want me to hurt you. That's why you are goading me, trying to wear out my patience. You want to be hit, or something. You feel guilty and you don't know how to handle it, so you turn to me." The knight crossed his arms over his chest. "Or am I not telling it true?"

For a moment, they just stared at each other; Aerion bristling in rage, drawn up to his full height, Dunk steadfast, his cheeks red with frustration. The rain was beating down on the canvas of the tent, splashing noisily onto the soft ground of the campsite.

Aerion stepped back abruptly, drawing the flap of the tent. "You can leave now, ser. Sleep elsewhere," he hissed.

Dunk startled. "I cannot, I am your husband."

"And so?"

"And so, I will not endanger your honor by leaving you unguarded in a campsite, in the middle of the wilderness."

"I am not unguarded, you oaf. There are sentries outside."

"None of which is your alpha. And none of which will be held accountable if you do something stupid. Besides, it is unseemly for a wedded omega to bed down alone."

Aerion gave a contemptuous snort. "I do not give a groat about being seemly."

"But I do. Your behavior reflects on me too, you know. And it is my duty to protect you from gossip. I will not have it spread around the kingdom that we are at odds, that we sleep apart."

The prince smiled bitterly. "Afraid they will say you cannot tame me, ser?"

"I'm afraid they will lay the fault on you, you dolt. You already have a besmirched reputation. Do you want folks to say you are being so disagreeable your own alpha wants nothing to do with you?"

He was incredulous. "Did you just call me a dolt? You?"

Dunk took a breath, steadying himself. "I apologize. That was unchivalrous."

Aerion clenched his fists, then tossed his head back and walked to the cot. "Lay down across the tent. You will stay well away from me."

"Naturally." The knight sounded weary. He laid down his cloak and sprawled on the ground. "Good night."

Aerion did not respond. He simply turned his face to the wall of the tent, drawing the blanket over him. He made himself focus on the sound of raindrops, the distant thunder, the whinies of horses. He made himself forget the knight was there.

Yet hours later, he was shaken awake by a strong hand, rousing him from troubled dreams. He went rigid in the dark. Duncan. His heart hammered against his chest, and he shuddered violently.

"Hush," the knight said. "You were thrashing in your sleep. I... I heard you weep."

"The dragon does not weep," Aerion said, ignoring the tears on his cheeks.

"As you say. But that is what I heard. And you were calling for... for..." He paused, struggling for words.

"Leave me be. I need naught from you."

The big knight hesitated. Aerion could almost hear the wheels of that dumb oafish mind turning. Finally, Dunk drew back, retreating to his corner of the tent.

It was only an evening later when the knight spoke of it, after one long, sullen day of riding. "I did hear you weep," he said stubbornly, sitting on a bedroll across from Aerion. "At the Red Keep, too. Every time I woke to use the privy those first two days, you were sobbing into the pillow, though you tried to muffle it. And last night, in your sleep, you were calling for your father."

Aerion flushed red, his mouth tightening. "Even if true, what is it to you?"

"I am your wedded husband," Dunk said with some dignity. "I put my cloak about your shoulders, swearing to guard and shield you. I have no wish to watch you suffer. If there is aught I can do to help–"

He snorted. "Help? You can certainly help, Ser Duncan. You can help by chopping off that cock of yours, so that I stop thinking about... About..." He struggled to finish, but no words came out.

The knight blushed a bit, wincing. "I told you. I will not touch you, on my honor. Not until you want me to."

Aerion looked straight at him, feeling bold. He voiced the most dangerous question. "And what if I do not ever want you to?"

Dunk grimaced. "Well, then your father will have to look elsewhere for those Targaryen heirs. He'll be wroth with us, but so be it."

"Swear it," Aerion spat out. "Swear you will never bed me against my will."

"I gave you my word."

"Swear it by the Seven."

Duncan sighed. "By the Father, may he judge me justly. By the Mother, may her mercy guide my hand. By the Crone, may she light my path. By the Warrior, may he grant us both his strength. By the Smith, the mender of all things. By the Maiden, protector of omegas. By the Stranger, may he take me if I break my oath. I, Ser Duncan, swear to never force myself on you, nor command you to bed me against your will, for as long as we both live." He paused. "Is that good enough?"

He swore, Aerion thought, incredulous. He swallowed, the fire in his belly abating. "I... Yes. It is."

"Good." The knight looked weary. "For I will not repeat it. I know you have a mistrustful nature, which probably stems from the fact that you lack honor yourself. But I am not like that, and if you cannot see it, well, that is your problem."

Aerion clenched his jaw. "This changes nothing, you know. I still hate you."

"I know."

I still hate you. It was not entirely true. Still, Aerion had spat it out, unthinking, trying to mend his wounded pride. He had hoped to insult Duncan, but had received only resignation in return.

I still hate you.

Long into the night, he lay awake thinking of one thing.

The knight had not said it back.

Chapter Text

The fields and orchards north of Duskendale were blooming, the woodland filled with a mix of broadleaf and evergreen trees in all shades of green. Birds were chirping in the morning chill, and berry bushes were crowded with little white flowers. Spring was upon them for good. 

During the past couple of days, he and the knight had formed a tentative truce. Dunk left him to his own devices, and Aerion was content to brood, alone with his thoughts. Often, he found himself looking at the alpha with puzzlement, staring at him like he was a walking riddle that he couldn’t solve. There was a queer fascination growing within him, like a sapling tearing through hard earth. Overall, they spent their time riding, not speaking. 

But today was different. They had been travelling for hardly an hour up the increasingly rutted road when Dunk trotted up to him. With a shy grin, he offered the prince a bundle of bright yellow flowers. 

Aerion arched one silvery eyebrow, quizzical. "Are you attempting to woo me now? It won’t work." 

"It's goldenrod. You use it to make dyes, or boil it for tea, and it is good for planting alongside other flowers to help them grow," the knight explained. "I have ridden all over Westeros, sleeping behind hedges, eating local fare, getting to know all sorts of different folk. It occurred to me that you have not had that chance. But you should know the land, especially as a prince." 

Aerion paused, then reached out tentatively for the bundle. The knight was telling it true; wherever the prince had traveled, it was at the head of a large retinue, sometimes in an enclosed litter. He had bedded down at the best castles and inns, and dined on the best food. He had little knowledge of the countryside. Flowers were just a pretty backdrop to him, not something useful. 

Duncan brought him more throughout the day, explaining the function of each one, until he had a small bag filled with fragrant blooms and the scent wafted up to him as he rode. There was gorse, that could be made into fodder for horses and cattle; liverwort, with its small purple blossoms, for ailments of the belly; tansy, used in moon tea, to prevent or end a pregnancy. 

Before they stopped to have their dinner, the knight fetched one more flower. "Dragon's breath, for a dragon." 

The flower was large and magnificent, a red color as dark and rich as blood. Aerion held it in his hand, careful to not crush the petals. "What's the use of this one?" 

Dunk smiled crookedly. "Well, it is sometimes used to make a balm for cuts, to burn out the infection. But it is also fierce, drowning out other blooms. And resilient. You will find it in the most unlikely places, too dry or too wet or too rocky." His eyes were very warm. 

Aerion tucked the flower into the saddlebag, wordless. He refused to look at the knight throughout dinner, for fear that his face had turned the same color as the petals. 

As they trotted up the road towards Maidenpool, the land around them slowly gave way to steep hills and a thick woodland of green-grey sentinels and soldier pines. Aerion was somewhat familiar with the place, having visited Lord Mooton once before, though he had been very young. Would the old man remember him? He was Duncan’s liege lord, now, and they would surely need his favor. 

The sun was out, the sky clear and blue as duck eggs. This was unusual for the area, Aerion knew; the humidity made it so it was overcast often as not. They turned east before they reached the town, riding through thickets until they came up on a clearing, and Aerion saw his new dwelling for the first time. 

The castle was nestled up a hill, small and pale, looking rather dramatic in the afternoon sun. It overlooked evergreen woods to the east and west, while the Bay of Crabs could be seen at a distance to the north, shimmering in shades of blue and silver beneath a small fishing village that would also be ruled by Duncan now. Further to the east, he knew, the land plunged and twisted into bogs and valleys and limestone hills, until it reached Cracklaw Point and then the Narrow Sea. 

Dunk's blue eyes were wide with awe at the sight of his domain, his mouth hanging half open. Aerion did not want to endure his excitement. He rode a little off to the side, looking up at the hill. A skylark soared up ahead, calling out its clear, bubbling song. 

The castle was too small to house their retinue, so almost all of them would camp down by the little village, then turn back to King's Landing. Then Aerion would be left alone with Duncan and his new household. He made a face, wrestling with a sudden pang of misery in his gut. 

Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard rode up to him. "I must bid you farewell, my prince." 

Aerion nodded stiffly. "Aye, ser. May your journey be safe." 

The knight paused. "Your keep looks a pretty sight," he commented idly. "Though the location is tricky. The Cracklaws in the east have been resisting local rule for thousands of years, and are not like to stop. They are of a troublesome ilk, and they melt into their caves and bogs when challenged in battle." 

"I do not plan to fight a battle." 

"Of course. But I would still be wary, sire. This is the border between the crownlands and the riverlands, and the land has seen a lot of strife." 

Aerion examined him. The knight's face was bright and honest beneath his red beard, as it always had been. He felt sorrow at the notion that he may not see him again for years. 

"I do not think any more trouble is like to find me, Ser Donnel. I have had my fill." 

The knight bowed his head. "As you say, Your Grace. But the gods oft have queer plans for us." 

He laughed bitterly. "Given that I have been disowned and wed to a hedge knight, I shall be surprised if anything even more queer happens." 

"Your Grace..." He hesitated. "May I speak plainly?" 

He suspected it would be too forward for his liking, but Ser Donnel had known him since Aerion was six years old, and the prince had always admired his valor. "You may." 

"You do have cause to complain," the knight said softly. "But I have been watching your Ser Duncan. He is lowborn, aye, but he seems an honorable man, and leal. He may yet prove worthy of his lordship, and of the... of the marriage." 

The words made him feel queer. He looked away, a lump in his throat. 

When the knight turned to leave, Aerion called after him. "Ser Donnel," he said hoarsely. 

"Yes, my prince?" 

"My father should not have made you fight at the trial, nor your sworn brothers. It was an... unwise cause. My defeat brought shame upon you." 

"It is no shame to fight on behalf of the crown, Your Grace. We are knights of the Kingsguard for a reason."  

"Will you give my regards to Ser Willem?" The knight was still in his sickbed, having received a hard blow to the head. The last that Aerion had seen of him, he was being carried from the field. 

"I will. And to your father, if he is still in the capital." 

Small good will that do. Still, he nodded. “Will he be returning to Summerhall?” 

“Aye, with the young princes and princesses. It seemed to me he was in a haste to leave.” 

That was no big wonder. Maekar misliked King’s Landing, with its stink, cramped streets, and boisterous smallfolk. Nor were his sire’s memories of the place good; every time they visited, he had to contend with his unruly children. Egg was constantly sneaking out to explore the wynds and alleys and fish markets, Daeron was oft found in the Street of Silk, and Aerion… was Aerion. Only Aemon and the girls had been well behaved. 

The thought of his father and siblings riding south to the marches, passing through windswept plains until they finally glimpsed Summerhall and the rugged Red Mountains in the distance, was queerly painful. The grasslands would be green now, lush and glistening with dew. Soon, the moors would erupt with color, wildflowers blooming in shades of purple and yellow and gold; he and his siblings used to make wreaths to crown themselves with. The lakes and streams near the palace would ripple in the sunlight, alive with the croaking of frogs, the buzzing of insects, and the twittering calls of linnets. His family would spend the springtime evenings lounging in the terraces and gardens of the palace; Rhae shrieking at Egg to play with her, Daella strumming her high harp and pressing Daeron to sing, perhaps even Aemon, on one of his brief visits, telling stories of the Citadel. Aerion’s hands tightened on the reins until his fingers blanched white. 

As they ascended the hill with a small group of servants and carts, a little snaking path led them towards the castle. There was no moat; Aerion supposed it was not needed, or practical to dig on the steep hilltop. 

Dawnfort was small. Aerion was dismayed at how modest it was, more of a holdfast than a proper castle. It was built out of an unusual rosy stone that reminded him of Maidenpool, and moss was creeping up the walls. They entered through the gatehouse into a large, square courtyard with a well at the center, the ground simple packed earth, the main keep towering above them. 

A stableboy took their horses, and the servants began unloading and carrying their possessions. A small, plump man dressed in a too-tight green tunic came scampering up to greet them, with a younger man in maester's robes trailing close behind. "Lord Duncan," the plump man bowed, "My prince. Welcome to Dawnfort Keep. I am called Willem, and I have the honor to be your steward." He bowed again, even lower this time, his face pink and sweaty. Aerion resisted letting out a scoff of contempt. 

"And I am Maester Gareth, my lords. We are honored to be in your service." The maester couldn't have been much older than Aerion, with long chestnut locks and a kind face. 

Dunk nodded. "We are glad to meet you," he said, awkwardly. He looked around, seemingly unsure what more to say. Aerion stepped forward. "Have you served in Dawnfort long, Willem?" 

"I have, my prince. Since old lord Cedric was still ruling, may the gods grant him peace. But young Gareth here was sent to us when Lord Duncan was granted the title."  

He nodded. "I am sure you will both give us… leal service. Are our rooms prepared?" 

"Of course. And there will be a feast, to celebrate your arrival." He hesitated. "Would my lords like to be shown around the castle?" 

Well, that ought not to take very long, Aerion thought. He turned to Dunk, as he technically should. "Shall we?" 

"I... Yes, of course. Lead the way, Willem." 

It did turn out to be a short tour. The great hall was half the size of the Queen's Ballroom in the Red Keep, with rushes on the floor and the raised dais with the high table at the end of the hall. There were stables and kitchens, as well as storerooms, granaries and a rookery, but no sept or smithy. The guardhouse housed the barracks. Dunk and Aerion's chambers were in the top of the main keep, made up of a solar, bedchamber, and privy. There was one more chamber below them, used for storage. The household was small; a dozen of men-at-arms and about as many servants, including the steward and the maester. Some of the servants had been assembled in a rush when the castle was granted to Dunk, while a few had lived there since the old lord owned it. 

Aerion saw many signs of neglect. The interior walls were improperly plastered, the gatehouse and the curtain walls were partly crumbling, and the storeroom supplies were lacking. Most of the servants were walking about in threadbare clothing, while the guards were ill equipped at best. Fresh rushes had been strewn on the floors, and the cisterns and drains had clearly been recently cleaned, but the effort did little to mask the decay. Either the steward had not been a very diligent keeper, or he had simply lacked the funds to maintain the castle as it should be. 

Dunk did not seem to notice any of that. He looked more and more overwhelmed the more he was shown, gawking like a peasant at a town fair. King Daeron surely meant to cheat him. He was given the meanest, most disagreeable castle in the Seven Kingdoms, but he is like to be grateful anyway. Aerion would have felt insulted on the knight's behalf, but his own bitterness stopped him. 

The so-called feast was spare, with only a few dishes; leek soup and crab stew, roast lamb, honey biscuits and tarts, brown bread. There was some contrived merriment, a few musicians and a singer to entertain them. There was also a lot of gawking. Their household was unaccustomed to having lords in residence, it seemed… Or they were fascinated by the exotic sight of an exiled Targaryen prince. Aerion had a sneaking suspicion he knew which was more likely. 

He nibbled at the tarts, forcing himself to eat, slowly chewing on small bites. But eyes crawled all over him, and an old, insistent voice echoed in his head. Not safe. Not allowed. The tarts suddenly looked repulsive, crumbled and tattered, raspberry curd pooling out of the broken crust like blood. He pushed the plate away. He fidgeted with his mother’s ring on his finger, twisting it back and forth and pressing his palm on the hard amethyst until it nearly cut into the skin.  

The steward was sitting next to Aerion at the high table, the maester next to Dunk, other members of the household occupying the benches in order of importance. The hall was dim but warm, the faces of the servants rosy in the candlelight. Duncan was tongue-tied, awkward, focusing more on eating than talking. By rights he should have made some sort of speech, as the new lord, but he didn’t even attempt it. Maester Gareth did speak, directing polite questions to the alpha, asking him about Ser Arlan of Pennytree, all the places they had seen, the tourneys they had attended. He was pointedly skipping the topic of Ashford, Aerion noted. 

Willem talked more than all the others combined. He was eagerly interested in Aerion, especially concerning his family and his royal grandsire. He was also a flatterer, clumsily praising his valor and skill and fearsome reputation. Aerion was accustomed to flattery; growing up as the only Targaryen omega in half a century, he had had his fill of it. An omega was valuable, septons and maesters alike said. Rare and beautiful, more fertile than a beta, more suited for childrearing. Knights and lordlings and poets had courted him since he first flowered, rambling on and on about the silver of his hair and the redness of his lips and the violet of his eyes — deep enough to drown in, a lovestruck squire once told him before wrapping his hands around his waist. Aerion had punched the boy in the nose and sent him running. He at least appreciated the fact that the steward focused on praising his ability, not his looks, so he didn’t reprimand the man. 

After a few hours of chatter and music, they could finally retire, led away by a servant holding a lamp. The tower steps were dark and steep, and the rooms at the top were certainly lacking. The floors were covered in rushes instead of carpeted, and the walls had plain green-and-purple wall hangings. The solar was small and modest, with a large oak desk, a chair, a table, and several stools. At least the windows are large. In the bedchamber, there was an admittedly spacious bed with a flock mattress over a straw-filled one, and a pile of wool blankets. The only other items in the room were a few chests, a cupboard, and a basin with a jug of water. 

"I'll sleep on the floor," Dunk said awkwardly. "I'd tell them to have a cot brought in, but that might start rumors." 

Aerion nodded. The knight undressed and grabbed a blanket, lying on the thick rushes. It couldn't have been the most comfortable bedding, but Aerion resisted the feeling of pity. I was the one dragged here against my will. The dunce can sleep in the stables for all I care. He lay on the bed and drew the blankets over him, not even bothering to strip beyond taking off his cloak and boots. 

But sleep didn't come. Aerion's mind was racing, as restless as a beast prowling in its cage. 

By rights, it was too soon to feel the longing that he did. He was married for a mere week, and the trial of the Seven that changed his entire life happened less than a moon past. Yet, already, he missed his old life. Perhaps it was because he knew he would never have it back; perhaps the knowledge that he was unlikely to ever escape this marriage was finally setting in. He missed it all, and fiercely; Summerhall and the Red Keep, the tiltyard and the ballrooms, his freedom, his wealth, his family. He had always had a challenging relationship with his kin, but the knowledge that he lost their esteem for good twisted in his gut like a knife. He would never again drink with Daeron deep into the night, clash swords with Valarr and Matarys in the yard, hear Daella and Rhae singing in the sept. His father would never summon him to his solar to talk of old battles and tourneys, he would never again throw an arm around the prince's shoulders and call him his most valiant knight. They would all always look at him with the tainted knowledge of what he had done, and hate him for it. 

Aerion Targaryen was many things; cruel and volatile and heedless, obsessive, restless. But he had always received the grudging respect of those who faced him because of his boldness in a fight. He had been a knight, a tourney champion, a fierce swordsman. 

And now? What am I now? 

He stood up, rubbing his eyes. He walked to the chest by the hearth, carefully lifted the lid, and took the egg in his hands. Its scales shone softly in the light of the flames, rippling in shades of silver and gold. It was heavy; its weight had always helped ground him. When he was small, he slept on the bed with it, holding it close so that it would be warmed by his body, praying it would hatch. 

He remembered Maester Melaquin telling him of King Daeron the First, and how the fearless boy had answered when he was told his Targaryen ancestors had conquered because they had their dragons, and dragons no longer lived. 

You have a dragon. He stands before you. 

He walked over to the side of the bed, and shook Duncan roughly by the shoulder. "Get up," he snapped. 

The knight woke almost instantly; Aerion supposed that someone who spent his life bedding down in the wilderness was used to being alert, even when sleeping. Dunk looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. "Your Grace? Is something amiss?" 

"Why did you do it?" 

The alpha raised himself on one elbow, confused. "Do what?" 

There was no subtle way to ask this, even if Aerion had been feeling courteous. "Why did you marry me?" he asked brazenly. "I have been trying to make sense of it, and I can't. There are few men in this world you had more cause to hate than me. And you knew I hated you back. I could have found a dagger and slit your throat, that first night. You refuse to bed me, you insist you don't want revenge... So why? Was it only for the land? The title?" 

Dunk paused. "Oh," he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I see. Gods, must we discuss this now? It has to be, what, the hour of the wolf?" 

"Yes. Now." 

"As you wish." He sighed. "I will not claim to not appreciate the title or the land, of course. But it was not my reason. After the trial, your father came to me. He made his offer of marriage, and also laid out his intentions pretty clearly. If I didn't consent to wed you, you would be imprisoned in Dragonstone, or some other royal castle, never to emerge. He said..." He hesitated. "He said he didn't think any suitable mate would want you, and he didn't want to see you sully the family honor in public again. He said you deserved a harsh punishment. I confess, at first I did not care. I was so deep in my wrath I thought the kingdom would be well rid of you. But then..." He bowed his head. "I am meant to be a knight. Knights protect the weak. An omega locked in a tower cell and left to languish did not look like chivalry to me." 

He ignored the knot in his stomach. "Is that the reason, then? Just pity?" He spat out the word, cold and contemptuous. 

“Honor and compassion, not pity. And yes, one of the reasons.” He struggled with the rest; he opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again. His eyes were soft, timid. "One day, I shall tell you more. But not yet. Not tonight." 

Aerion swallowed. Unspoken words rose to his lips, then died there. He felt like he was entering dangerous territory, and he didn't want to acknowledge what he was seeing in the knight's gaze. He looked away, his face flushed. 

There was a brief silence, until Aerion jumped to his next question. “So is honor the reason you are always… like that?” 

“Like what?” 

Kind. Frustratingly, foolishly kind. “Civil,” he hissed. “At ease. Conversational. As if, no matter what you say, you have forgotten and forgiven everything.” 

Dunk gave a little sigh. “I have done neither of these things,” he said with some dignity, “not yet, at least. And I don’t think you have either. I doubt you will ever forgive me for marrying you, and that’s fine.” 

“Then why?” 

“Because I have power over you,” he said bluntly. “Because I did choose to marry you, and I knew it was against your will. Because we will be living together for the foreseeable future, unless you do stab me in my sleep. Because it is not in my nature to be vindictive, and I want us to at least come to be friendly, over time. And because—” He stopped abruptly, looking away. 

He understood. “Your secret reason, that you will not speak about.” 

“Yes.” 

Aerion turned away, sighing. 

"Is that sufficient questioning for the night? May I sleep now?" 

"Yes. But not down there." He gestured. "Get up." 

"What?" 

"You can bed down next to me," Aerion said, barely believing the words coming out of his mouth. "It makes no matter." 

"It doesn't?" 

"No. You gave me your word, didn't you? Swore to all the gods? Protested about your great knightly honor? Just don't crush me in my sleep under that big stupid bulk of yours." 

Dunk nodded. "Yes. I mean, no. I will try not to." He lay next to him and turned to his side, his broad back on Aerion. "Sleep… Sleep well, Your Grace." 

Aerion muttered an unenthusiastic reply, and pulled the blankets over himself. Dunk’s breath was steady, and soon he began to snort softly. Aerion lay on his side, facing away from the alpha, intentionally avoiding looking at his broad back, his wide shoulders, his strong muscles. If he did, his mind would go to places he didn’t wish to visit. He focused on the gentle flickering of the bedside candle, and soon he was asleep, refusing to linger on what he had learned. 

He woke as soon as the first rays of dawn slipped through the window. At first he didn’t realize where he was, confused and dazed from sleep, but then the knight’s weight shifted next to him, and he remembered. And, with horror, he realized that he was touching the alpha. His foot had somehow ended up on top of Dunk’s during the night, and Aerion was lying so close to him his face almost touched the knight’s chest, his hand nearly brushing against his forehead. For a moment he just stayed still, disbelieving, his heart racing. The blanket had slipped down to Dunk’s stomach, and Aerion could see him clearly in the morning sunlight, his skin tanned and freckled and strewn with little moles. In his slumber, the knight’s features were smoothed and innocent as a boy’s. Aerion felt an alarming urge to reach out and run a hand through his hair, wondering if the straw-colored strands would feel rough or soft against his fingers. He would only need to move a few inches, and Duncan wouldn’t even have to realize— 

No. Stop it, fool. He pulled back, too sharply. The bed creaked and groaned, and the alpha woke.  

Dunk was the very image of contentment, not seeming to realize anything had been amiss. He stretched, his hair ruffled, and smiled at the prince lazily. "Good day. How fare you? Had a pleasant night?" 

Aerion swallowed, forcing himself to settle down. “I… Yes.” In truth, it had not been good. The bed was lumpy, the sheets rough, and the prince was quite certain that the itchy bumps on his legs came from either bedbugs or fleas. Still, he had managed to sleep with no dreams for once, and he saw no point in complaining when Dunk seemed so satisfied with himself. "And you?" 

"I think I slept as sweet as a babe. I still can't believe I have a home of my own, much less a bloody castle." His smile widened even more. "The hedges have a charm to them, but they don't hold a candle to a soft bed, I assure you." 

Aerion resisted the derisive snort that came unbidden to his lips. 

Dunk stood and opened the chest by the foot of the bed, going through his clothing. He threw a linen shirt over his head, then put on his tunic and hose. He dressed in fine green wool, to match his sigil. It was a good color on him, bringing out his earthy complexion and sandy hair. 

"Willem told me I should break my fast with him and the maester today, to talk business." He seemed unsure about what that business would be. "Would you care to join me?" 

"I have my own business to attend to." 

"Oh?" The alpha stood, putting on his thick leather belt. His hand rested casually on the buckle, and Aerion’s gaze was traitorously drawn to it. "As you will." He slipped into his boots, pulling them up forcefully, then threw a heavy woolen cloak over his shoulders. 

"I'm going to... uh... the privy," he announced out loud, for no reason that Aerion could see. 

He heard the alpha gently step through the next room, to avoid waking Aerion's companions. To his surprise and chagrin, the prince had been given two omega handmaids, bedding down on the floor of the solar. Sam was a shy boy of six-and-ten with fair hair flowing down his back, and Kyra was a spirited red-headed girl a year or so older. Aerion had known them before, although scarcely; they had been wards of his uncle Rhaegel’s wife, the lady Alys Arryn. They were the children of landed knights, both of them, and seemed glad to serve him— though Sam, at least, was afraid of him too. Aerion had never much interacted with other omegas before, barring his formidable septa; his companions had been all betas, fawning and boisterous. Besides, omegas of gentle birth were kept close and married young. Those he did speak to, the handmaids and spouses of courtiers, were insipid to him, servile and witless and frivolous. None burned like Aerion. 

Dunk returned to find him rubbing his teeth with wax soot and a linen cloth over a basin of water, which seemed to puzzle him. "What are you doing?" 

Aerion spat out the soot and rinsed his mouth. "What does it look like? Cleaning myself." His mother had passed the habit onto him, having brought it over from Dorne. It kept his teeth white and his breath fresh, which could not be said for many lords in Westeros. 

"By scrubbing? With... soot?" 

"Yes. You should try it." 

"Doesn't that damage your teeth, or something?" 

"Do they look damaged?" 

"No," he admitted, "They look great." 

"Well, there you go. And you should wash yourself more often, too." 

"Are you telling me I stink?" He looked genuinely wounded. 

Aerion rolled his eyes. "Not particularly. Not for a commoner." Dunk was much cleaner than he had expected from a Flea Bottom native and an alpha, though sometimes the smell of sweat and horse still clung to him like perfume. "But you should wash every day, morn and night, and with soap." 

"I see. Any more demands?" 

"Yes, but not from you. Go about your business, ser, I have duties to see to." 

Dunk raised an eyebrow, but did not argue. 

The moment the knight left their chambers, Aerion woke Sam up, shaking the boy's shoulder. "You. Go fetch me the washerwomen, and be quick about it. Breakfast as well. Hurry." 

It turned out there was only one washerwoman, a big burly matron with cracked hands and a pockmarked face. Aerion commanded her to take out the mattresses, unstuff them, and wash them properly with scalding hot water, along with the sheets, blankets, and pillows. I will not be covered in flea bites till the day I die. He remembered the use of herbs to ward off pests in the Red Keep, so he ordered dried lavender and rosemary bundles to be strewn on the rushes and stuffed into the mattresses. He also had the servants bring up water for him to wash. The castle's garden was small and mostly growing fruit and vegetables, so the water was not scented, nor as hot as he liked; but still, he counted it a victory that it was warm and clean. 

Aerion mused as he broke his fast. The boy had been overzealous and brought too much food, a pile of bread and butter and honey, eggs, bacon, and hard cheese. Still, the prince didn't scold him. He was busy considering his options. 

Dunk's conduct towards him had been queerly irritating, and it hadn't taken long for Aerion to realize why. The knight refused to rise to his challenges, would not grant him the relief of a direct battle, of wits or otherwise. I need something to fight against, but he refuses to be my opponent. 

But perhaps he didn't have to fight against something. Perhaps he could fight for something. Perhaps he could still stay true to himself, even in bondage, in forced wedlock, in exile. At the very least, he could busy himself, making the best of his sorry circumstances. He was certainly not about to sit idly and watch Dunk fumble a lordship he had no idea how to navigate. 

Not that Aerion didn’t anticipate difficulties for himself. If he had been born in a family of lords or landed knights, handling a household would probably have come naturally to him; but as it was, he had been expected to marry so well that he would hardly have to manage anything. For a long time Maekar had even planned to wed him to his cousin Valarr, which would have made him king consort one day. The Red Keep had many stewards and officials, and Aerion would merely be expected to plan court ceremonies and entertain guests. He had been lucky to receive a fine education, for an omega; reading and writing, sums, High Valyrian, history, heraldry. He had also been schooled in more traditional omega skills; music, needlework — which bored him to tears — and courtesy. But he was lacking in practical estate management. Perhaps I could dance my way into setting this place to rights. 

Well. He had always been stubborn, and quick to learn. Septa Orelia and Maester Melaquin both used to praise his wit, though the septa often cautioned him as well. "You are clever, but your tongue is loose and undisciplined. You are an omega; your wit should be a targeted dart, not a warhammer being swung carelessly around." 

Well, septa, let us hope my wit is at its sharpest from now on. It may be sore needed. 

Dunk’s answers to his questions had been alarming as well. Aerion did not deceive himself about what the knight’s second reason for marrying him was. It was the same reason the prince longed to touch him, the reason his gaze lingered on the alpha for a few moments too long, the reason his body betrayed him at Ashford when the knight lay hands on him. 

It doesn’t matter. We are reluctant allies, that’s all. We need never be more than that. The thought was not very convincing, even to himself. 

The omegas dressed him in a red tunic and soft black hose, his boots supple leather, a silver chain around his waist. His black surcoat was emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. They may as well see me for who I truly am. 

“I am going to be occupied for the day,” he proclaimed. “I must oversee the household, for a start. You are both dismissed to go do as you like.” 

The handmaids glanced at each other. “We are meant to accompany you, my lord,” the boy said anxiously. “In case you require some— some service.” 

“We are well trained,” the girl insisted. “Lady Alys taught us all the essentials. She was a very fine lady.” 

He gave an irritated snort. “As you will. Come along, then.” Perhaps they could even help him, if they were so well taught. “Let us see how this sorry little stronghold functions. I have half a mind to tear it down, but my new husband might take offense to that, and my sire would have us all shipped off to the Smoking Sea to feed the wyrms.” Though I would doubtlessly give them indigestion. As they headed down the steps of the keep, his mind wandered back to the red flower Dunk had given him on the road, dragon’s breath. Fierce and resilient, is that right, Ser Duncan? Perhaps I can be like that. Let’s see where this road leads us— and pray to all the gods that we both somehow rise to the challenge. 

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. 

Chapter Text

They didn’t speak about it. 

Not when they woke up the next morning, still close enough to breathe each other’s air. Not when they broke their fast in their solar, Aerion eating more than he usually did, and Duncan, strangely, much less. Not when Dunk announced he was going with Ser Eric to watch the men-at-arms drill, at the captain’s insistence, and Aerion that he would summon the maester and steward to the solar to convene with them as he had promised. 

And not for the next week, which they mostly spent apart, each seeing to his own business. 

Aerion learned as much as he could about their holdings. He grilled Gareth and Willem on dues, taxes, fines, trade, fishing, and crops. He had them write down the lordship’s monthly incomes and expenses, to survey last year’s harvest, and to tally everything they had in their storerooms. He asked for calculations on what repairing the castle would cost. He had all the old account books brought to his solar, and spent every day studying them, trying to make sense of the finances. All in all, he found himself quite busy, struggling with numbers; but slowly, he started to understand the situation they’d been thrust into more clearly. 

He also asked Maester Gareth to teach him the history of the area in detail, so that he better understood Dunk’s territory and the lands surrounding it. The denizens of Crackclaw Point in the east were especially interesting to him; a queer and wild people, they were said to have dozens of petty rulers over the pine barrens, bogs, and valleys of their jutting peninsula. The numerous quarrels and feuds with each other were only surpassed by their mistrust of outsiders. During the Conquest, they joined eagerly with the dragon kings, in order to oust the rule of Maidenpool and Duskendale. Afterwards they swore allegiance directly to the Crown, and were known to be Targaryen loyalists. Aerion wondered how they would perceive him. Will they trust me because of my name, or just see me as the spouse of yet another lord who may try to encroach upon their territory?  

Maidenpool, of course, interested him as well. It was the nearest town and nearest major port to Dawnfort, and the Mootons were Dunk’s immediate liege lords. Aerion remembered Lord Jayce Mooton, a portly man past fifty who had fought with the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. The prince had already made sure to write him a respectful, flattering letter, allegedly coming from both himself and Duncan. He’d offered to read it to the knight before sending it out, but Dunk just shrugged and said he trusted him.  

His husband seemed to have a different approach to the whole matter of ruling. He started riding to the villages, but not to survey the land and oversee his revenues, as Aerion had suggested; he just wanted to know his new smallfolk. He visited taverns and alehouses, browsed the markets and shops, spoke with innkeepers and craftsmen and fisherfolk. He would go to the septs to pray and confess, and to the smithies to browse weapons and armor. 

They spent their days apart, but in the evenings, Dunk would sit on the bed with a cup of mead or ale and relay to him what he’d learned, always gleeful. 

He brought new tales every day. At an inn by the fishing village right beneath the castle — Saltcrest, the village was called — the innkeep told him about Angler’s Cove, a half-hidden fishing ground rich in cod and mackerel and shrimp, where sometimes the smallfolk glimpsed mermaids. In the local fishmarket, the knight claimed he’d found the biggest crabs he’d ever seen in his life. In the hamlet of Greentide, a few leagues away, he saw houses built on stilts, expanding the settlement into the bay itself. A young girl selling cockles gifted him a seashell bracelet, while up on the western hill, in the last village under Dunk’s domain, a huntsman told him local legends of the woods as they dined on freshly-caught hare and rabbit. 

Aerion did not find the knight’s discoveries particularly useful, but Dunk spoke with so much warmth and appreciation for everything that it was impossible to not be carried along. So he listened, and asked questions, sometimes even with a faint grin on his face. 

By the end of the week, the night when Aerion had wept in Dunk’s arms seemed to have been set aside, if not forgotten. It was the knight who finally brought the subject up, on an unusually fine, balmy afternoon. They were in the courtyard after noon, in the castle garden. Duncan had just returned from one of his outings, while Aerion had come outside for a much-needed breath of fresh air, after being cooped up with ledgers and account books for hours. His handmaids sometimes accompanied him, but he’d started dismissing them on most days, bidding them to wait on him only in the morning and evening. He spent so much time over books that it seemed unfair to make the two omegas sit next to him and watch him work. They would be bored out of their wits, surely. 

The small, rectangular garden was surrounded by hawthorn hedges. Two apple trees stood at its entrance, and two pear trees in the far end. Rosebushes, lavender shrubs, and peonies adorned one side, while more practical herbs crowded the other; dill and parsley and mint, sage and rosemary, rue, basil, fennel… It was a cramped place, but it had a quiet and charm to it that often drew them both, especially when they were tired. 

They said nothing for a while, simply enjoying the flowers and the gentle twittering of birds. Dunk was leaning against one of the apple trees, Aerion sitting across from him on the other, resting on a low, thick branch. 

Finally, the alpha broke the silence. “Have you been feeling better, Your Grace?” he asked tentatively. “At— at night, I mean?” 

Aerion knew what he meant at once. He sighed. “Yes, Ser Duncan. I sleep quite adequately.” 

“I’m glad.” Dunk hesitated. “Are they… are they dragon dreams?” he asked, in a hushed voice. 

Aerion raised an eyebrow. “Dragon dreams? How do you know about that?” 

“Daeron told me… he said he could dream of things to come, sometimes. He saw what would happen to your uncle, too. But those visions seemed to be a great burden to him.” 

“They are. He’s been having them since he was four, and they’ve always tormented him.” He sighed. “But no, Ser, mine are not dragon dreams. That one was an old memory, best left forgotten. That’s all.” 

“Oh. That’s good, then. I mean, not good, but, you know. Better than the alternative.” He flushed red. 

There was more silence, for a while. But there was something Aerion knew he needed to say. “I have to thank you,” he muttered, “for helping me that night.” 

Dunk inclined his head. “I’m happy to have managed it. I’ve seen you wake up like that so many times. And you sounded so…” he struggled with the words. “Well. I just had to help. I—”  

A bark interrupted his musings, and a brown blur rushed into the garden and right between the knight’s legs. Dunk gave a surprised laugh. “Oh, there she is! How is my girl?” 

Aerion watched, bemused, as a scrawny old bitch with a light brown coat ran around Dunk, whining and wagging her tail. The knight cooed and bent down to pet her, muttering so many endearments Aerion almost wanted to mock him. 

“I didn’t know you had a pet,” he observed instead. 

Dunk grinned crookedly. “She’s just one of the Dawnfort dogs, for guarding mostly. Though this one was a hunting dog, years ago.” 

“Many, many years ago, no doubt,” Aerion said dryly. 

Dunk rolled his eyes. “She’s very sweet. She’s taken to me a lot, always wanting to be petted. You’d never know how old she is, with her spirit.” 

The dog seemed to finally notice Aerion; she walked over to the branch he was sitting on, wagging her tail. 

“Oh, she’s interested in you! You should greet her,” the knight prompted. 

He looks as excited as if he’s introducing me to his baby sister, not a bloody dog. Still, he didn’t argue. He reached his hand out, and when the bitch sniffed at him, he gave her a reluctant pat on the head. To his chagrin, she responded by licking his fingers. 

Dunk laughed. “See? She’s a good girl. She likes you, even though you’re sneering at her.” 

Aerion gave a little snort. All the dogs wandering about the castle seemed to be skinny and weathered, muddy and missing teeth, but Dunk didn’t seem to mind. “We do need some proper hounds, you know. The ones we have look like they are the age of my aunt Elaena.” 

The knight smiled warmly. “You are so spoiled. Would you like a hawk too? A peregrine falcon?” 

He scoffed. “I will have you know I prefer goshawks to peregrines. It is more fun to hunt with them.” 

“How so?” Dunk asked. The bitch trotted back to him, and he started rubbing between her ears. 

“Peregrines swoop down on their prey from above,” he explained. “With goshaws, they fly after it, twisting and turning through the foliage, and you can chase the hunt on your horse if you are a fair enough rider.” 

“It sounds thrilling,” Dunk said earnestly. “I’ve never gone hunting or hawking or anything like that.” 

“Well, I could take you, if I was allowed out of this castle,” he observed mildly. 

Dunk hesitated. “I… I know this has been hard for you. Have I made it worse, with all my stories?” 

Aerion started picking apple blossoms and placing them gently on his palm, looking away from the knight. “No, Dunk. I have little interest in drinking at inns and listening to fisherfolk’s tales. I wanted to learn the lay of the land, to see our crops and our territory… and mostly, to gallop freely around the countryside.” 

The dog lay down next to Dunk, settling into a curled-up position. “Your father was terrified you’d do something stupid if allowed to ride out,” the knight said somberly. “I would simply ask for your word as a knight that you won’t, but you have not exactly proven to honor your vows.” 

“And have you? How is it knightly to hold an omega hostage in your castle?” 

He gave a soft sigh. “You are right, it’s not. But I swore to the king and your father to guard you. If you were to run away, they would punish me, and they would punish you as well. Do you want to be locked up, like you were in Maegor’s?” He hesitated. “I begged your father to release you, you know. How is it honorable to allow one’s betrothed to be locked in a room for a week? It shamed them, and it shamed me. But the prince would not relent. That’s why I thought it was best to take you here as fast as possible after the wedding. If we stayed at the Red Keep, Maekar could still confine you if he wished, and I would not be able to stop it.” 

Aerion glanced up. “And now you are confining me, just in a larger prison.” 

The comment seemed to hit a nerve; the knight winced. “You are blunt, as ever.” He sighed. “I never intended to mistreat you, my prince. And certainly not to imprison you. So, very well. I give you leave to ride out. You may go where you wish.” 

Aerion was suspicious. “So you trust me now?” 

“I’m choosing to. Trust goes both ways, and for all my promises, I cannot demand that you trust me without extending you the same courtesy. I won’t restrain you in any way... but I’ll ask that you have mercy on me, and on yourself. You know how things will end if your father finds out you fled. His wrath will fall upon both of us.” 

The generosity of the offer gave him pause, and he found himself wanting to be honorable in return. “I... I won’t flee. On my honor as a Targaryen, whatever that’s worth. I’ll come back to you.” 

“That’s good. Do you want to tell the groom to saddle Onyx?” 

“What, now?” 

“You’ve been very eager to see the countryside. It’s still early in the day. As good a time as any. I’m not commanding you to do anything, but I do advise that you have an escort. It can be perilous to wander alone, even in this peaceful place." 

He was left speechless for a moment. “I will take Parry, and Wat,” he said finally, naming two of the youngest guards. He jumped down from the branch, rubbing the bark and petals off his hands. 

“Thank you.” 

“And I…” he wanted to do something for the knight, some favor in return. “I can speak to you at supper, tell you what I know about our estates and our finances. You’ve been sharing everything you learn, but I’ve just kept it all to myself.” 

“If you think I’m smart enough to understand,” Dunk said playfully. 

“Of course you will understand.”  

“I hope so. Well, you ought to get going, if you want to be back for supper. I’ll stay here with Elaena for a while.” 

“Elaena?” 

“Yes. You seem to have found the perfect name for her. I’ll just have to make sure to call her something else around your aunt.” 

Aerion chuckled. “She’s not even my aunt, really. She’s my great-grandsire’s first cousin. She’s old, I’m telling you.” He paused to give the hound one last brief pet, then rushed out of the garden. 

The stableboys most certainly did not just trust his word that he was allowed to leave, though both muttered apologies. One had to go running to ask Dunk before they agreed to bring out his palfrey, as well as two sorry-looking stots for Wat and Parry. The clear power imbalance between him and his husband would normally have angered Aerion, but nothing could ruin his mood when he was finally being released. He had spent the past week trying to reconcile himself to the idea that he would stay cooped up in the castle for the foreseeable future; it had taken a greater toll on him than he’d realized. He could scarcely contain his anticipation. 

The mare seemed eager to let loose as well. As the portcullises were being winched open, she pawed at the ground and snorted, stepping impatiently back and forth.

Aerion chuckled. He patted the palfrey on the side of her great black head. “Hush, Onyx. Lykirī.” 

The moment the way was clear, he gave her a slight kick at the sides. “Naejot,” he muttered, and the mare began to gently amble forward. They sped up into a canter as they rode down the hill, the land stretching endlessly ahead. 

Aerion didn’t bother to check on his guards; he was too impatient, and their horses were too slow. The wilderness spread all around him; hills intertwining with heathland and wastes and thick woods, streams snaking through the land. Saltcrest and the waters of the bay shimmered up north, surrounded by farmland, and Greentide was further east, at the border with Cracklaw Point. The smallest settlement, up a small hill, lay in the west, surrounded by woodland. But none of that interested him today. Aerion set out south, riding through the shrubland and thickets. Sometimes he heard the hooves of Wat and Parry’s horses behind him, but he paid them no mind. He heard the song of pipits and the sharp calls of harriers, soaring gracefully above him on great, powerful wings. He saw butterflies and bees and wasps flying through the foliage, buzzing next to flower shrubs and bushes. The countryside was beautiful, the colors of spring bright and cheerful. Soon he lost track of time. 

When he and Onyx stumbled upon an unusually smooth, rolling heath, he smirked. “Sōvēs,” he told the palfrey. 

She hardly needed anything more. She broke into a gallop, her hooves beating against the ground, her muscles firm and strong between his thighs. They rode through purple and pink heather, yellow prickly gorse, and tall green grasses. Occasionally their thundering past alarmed something hiding in the shrubs and sent it flying; warblers and yellowhammers and other birds that he didn’t have time to see properly. Once, he could have sworn he spotted a little red fox rushing away. 

At the edge of the heathland, the shrubs met with the start of a pine-and-broadleaf forest. The woods were crowded with green soldier pines and sentinels and oaks, large and dense. As they approached, he saw that a stream stood between the heathland and the foliage, intimidatingly wide. 

Aerion smiled, not bothering to slow down. “Vezōt, Onyx.” 

The mare jumped, crossing over the water in one elegant leap. He felt the wind, the rush of blood in his veins, his stomach fluttering. When Onyx landed on the opposite bank, she let out an almost triumphant nicker, making him laugh. He stroked her mane. “Gevī! Gevī, Onyx. Good girl.” 

He suddenly realized that they were alone. 

The guards had been left far behind; he could no longer hear their horses’ hooves, nor glimpse them in the distance. There was just him and the horse and the wilderness; rustling leaves and swaying grass, the gentle babbling of the stream, the scent of pine needles. 

The thought arose, inevitably, that he could just go. The road was nearby, somewhere to the west. Onyx was fast enough to outrun any horse in Dunk’s stables, save perhaps his Goldberry. He’d already realized that fleeing somewhere in Westeros would be impossible… but in the Free Cities, perhaps he might be safe. 

I could take a ship from Maidenpool, or even Duskendale. He was wearing a belt of gold around his waist, and two rings in his left hand, including his mother’s. He could buy passage if he sold something. Pentos is closest, but I could go to Tyrosh, or Lys, or even Volantis. He was skilled enough to sell his sword, and some mercenary company was bound to want a Targaryen princeling in their ranks, omega or no. Perhaps he could even go further still, to see the wonders of the far east. Maidenpool was only a day’s ride away, and Dunk was unlikely to chase after him, especially with only a dozen men. The alpha would have to alert Maekar, of course, but until then Aerion would have sailed… 

And then Father will punish him for letting me go. 

He was under no illusions about that. Maekar would be furious that Dunk let him ride out, especially on Onyx, a speedy and strong palfrey. And King Daeron would see the danger as well. A rogue prince was not something that bode well for anyone, especially a vengeful and volatile one. The knight would lose his lordship, or his freedom, or even... No. The king would not hurt Dunk. Neither would Father. Would they? Aerion realized he had no idea anymore. It was not like the alpha had noble kin or connections to defend him. It was not like anyone would care, other than Egg. 

I shouldn’t care either. I shouldn’t. He’s just a hedge knight who humiliated me publicly, who showed the realm I’m just a weak omega after all. If he hadn’t interfered in that tent, none of this would have happened. I’d still be a prince, still unmarried, still… 

But the alpha had been kind to him. He had held to his knightly vows when it was against his best interests; even the prince could see that. He was stubborn, clumsy, infuriating… but he was the one who repeatedly refused to hurt him, even though he had good reason. He was the one who comforted Aerion in the night, soothing his pain. The sycophantic companions the prince had been crowded by in Summerhall had all melted away, his kin had abandoned him to his disgrace. Only his enemy had been steadfast.

Only his enemy could look at him and make him feel like he had walked into a sunlit room, like something in his belly softened and quieted. 

He turned around, and urged Onyx back over the stream. 

When he rode back into the castle, ambling gently through the gatehouse entrance, the sun was setting. He found Dunk waiting for him by the stables, a queer look on his face. 

He knew I would be tempted, he realized at once. Promise or no promise, part of him thought I wouldn’t come back. 

He rode up to him. To his surprise, Dunk approached and raised his arms to help him dismount. 

Aerion almost chided him; it was absurd to give such assistance to an expert rider, though omegas were traditionally supposed to receive it as some old chivalric tradition. But something in Dunk’s eyes made it clear he wasn’t doing it to deride Aerion’s skill. It was meant as an act of service. 

He took his feet from the stirrups and turned to sit sideways on the horse. Then he laid his hands on Dunk’s shoulders, while the knight supported his waist, and he went down on him. But they were too close; the movement caused his body to slide against Dunk’s, giving the prince a good feel of the hardness of his chest and the firmness of his arms. His cheeks heated up. 

They looked at each other for a few moments. “Good evening,” Dunk said softly. “How was your ride?” 

“Good evening. It was… it was… satisfactory.” He was going to tell him about the fields and the stream, and the thickness of the pine forest, but he found himself at a loss for words. 

Dunk smiled gently. “You’ve just missed supper.” 

“Oh. I— I lost track of time.” 

“I’ll sup with you in our rooms, if you want.” 

“You haven’t eaten either?” 

The knight shook his head. “No. Beside, you did promise to talk to me about that whole estate business, right? I can’t let you get away with breaking your word.” 

Aerion nodded; he’d almost forgotten about that. “Of course, as you wish.” 

Back in their solar, they had a plain but pleasant supper of fruit, bread, and crab stew. As the servants were taking the plates away, Aerion rested his arms on the table and sighed. “I suppose I had better start explaining.” 

Dunk took a sip of his ale, nodding. He leaned back in his chair. “Yes. Uh… Plainly, if you can. I don’t have much of a mind for numbers.” He looked very abashed. 

“Yes, yes.” He frowned, trying to think of where best to begin. “Well, things are somewhat uncertain, at the moment. We’re mostly reliant on fishing, obviously, in Saltcrest and Greentide. Then there’s the trade of peat and iron from what bogs happen to lie in our territory, and wood from the forests. But as for crops, well…” He pursed his lips. “The soil around here is not very fertile. We grow rye and barley and oats, mostly, but none at great yields. I think we'll need to buy seeds from somewhere else if we are to improve. And perhaps we could turn some of the heaths and wastes into farmland. That would help feed us better, Gareth says.” He sighed. “And, of course, Willem says there is a good market for wool, so we should invest in more sheep instead. But that would mean destroying farmland, to expand the pastures.” He frowned. “I’m not sure what would be the best option, if it’s any of them. And they all need coin, of course.” 

“Do we have coin?” 

“Almost none. Taxes around here are low, and mostly given in kind, not silver. And we need to pay wages, and start repairing this sorry little keep of yours. I apologize, but every time I look at those walls I feel like punching someone. Call it my omega nesting instinct or something, I don’t bloody know. But I need to fix this place back up, if it kills me.” Which means my jewels will have to go after all. He clenched his teeth. 

Dunk was grinning a little. “I’m glad you’re so passionate about this, at least. I was afraid you were just bored of everything around here.” 

He scoffed. “Well, I am glad you find it amusing. I’m sure your little escapades are far more entertaining than my poring over numbers all day, Ser Loiterer.” 

“They are,” he said, quite unabashed, “which is why you ought to come with me from now on.” 

Aerion grimaced, shifting uncomfortably. “I think not.” 

“Why not? You need a rest from all this, at least—” 

Aerion shook his head. “No.” He had no desire to dine and drink with peasants and fisherfolk, who would whisper curses and jests the moment he turned his back. “You are doing the socializing just fine by yourself. Get back to the matter at hand, ser. We shouldn’t let this discussion go astray, it’s supposed to be important.” 

Dunk faltered at his brusque tone. “Alright. You said we don’t have much food in our stores right now, right? I think that’s important.”  

“Well, there’s enough to keep the castle fed if there’s a short siege or a drought or some such. But certainly not enough for a real crisis, and not enough to aid the smallfolk if they need it.” 

Dunk gave him a hesitant look. “I’m surprised you care about the smallfolk.” 

Aerion shrugged. “It is not a matter of caring. When the lord cannot help his people, they either desert him or take up arms. There are only a dozen men-at-arms in this castle, Dunk. I would prefer to not end up a head on a spike.” 

“Surely your family would not allow that, no matter what happens,” Dunk protested. 

Aerion shrugged. “Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. I would not wager my life on it. I have clearly already flown out of their minds like a bothersome bug driven out of the room.” 

Dunk hesitated. “Has no one written yet?” 

He gave a bitter little laugh. “No. And I don’t expect that to change anytime soon.” 

“Aerion, it’s only been, what, two weeks since the wedding? Three weeks? I’m sure they’ll write soon, or visit. At the very least, your siblings—” 

“My siblings!” Aerion flared up. “Who? Daeron? Oh, I’m sure he misses me, but only because Father’s attention is all on him now. His backside is rather sore, you can count on that.” His older brother had always received the brunt of Maekar’s discipline, and since their father tended to brood like a baited bear, it must be even worse for him now. “My sisters? They will hardly notice I’m gone. And you surely do not expect Egg to write to me, do you?” 

“What of your cousins, or your grandsire? He is said to be very kind, I’m sure he will be thinking of you—” 

“My cousins surely blame me for Baelor’s death. And my grandsire wasn’t even at our wedding, Dunk. More important things to do than watch his embarrassment of a grandson shame the family name yet again, I’m sure.” 

Dunk stared at him for a few moments. “More important things,” he said flatly. “Aerion, do you realize King Daeron is probably grieving? Did you stop to consider that at any point?” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but abruptly stopped. He had the sudden, nasty realization that Dunk was right. He hadn’t given much thought to his grandfather’s pain. 

“He lost a son,” Dunk said patiently. “His firstborn son. His heir. But that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten about you, or that he doesn’t love you. Of course he cares for you, he must.” 

Aerion grimaced, half in guilt and half in irritation. He started fidgeting with Dyanna’s ring on his finger, twisting it back and forth. “And marrying me off was what, a kindness?” he asked bitterly. “He could have stopped my father if he wished.”  

“No, it wasn’t a kindness. But his mind can scarcely be working right at the moment. And he’s an old man, isn’t he? Past sixty?” 

“So that excuses him leaving me at the mercy of someone who hates me? Who could have done whatever he wished to me?” His temper rose. He looked away from Dunk’s pleading face, bristling. “Tell me, Ser Duncan. Had you been a different man, what would have stopped you from raping me that first night, and every night thereafter?” 

There was a little pause, and then Dunk spoke with a strained, hoarse voice. “I’m not excusing anyone. I’m just saying that he is bound to still care for you. And he must have reasoned that I was honorable enough to not do that—” 

“For once in your life, think, Dunk. Honorable men still take vengeance. Honorable men can still be corrupted. No. If I am to remain unforgiven, I will not give any of them the benefit of compassion. If I am unforgivable, so is my grandsire, and my father, and the whole lot of them. They knew who you were. A hedge knight, my sworn enemy, the one I tried to murder or maim. They bound me in marriage to you anyway, when you had all the cause in the world to despise me. I hurt your precious Egg, I hurt Baelor, I hurt your mummer girl—” 

“Tanselle.” Duncan snapped, his voice dropping. 

The prince looked up, startled. “What?” 

The knight’s face was cold, blanched white. He’d bitten his lip, Aerion saw with surprise. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. 

“Tanselle.” The alpha said cooly. “Her name was Tanselle, not mummer girl, and you broke her finger. And never once, even since our wedding, have you apologized for it.” 

Aerion shot up, fists clenched, but Duncan kept going, his voice raised. “And Egg! You hurt Egg so much that he wanted you to die, Aerion. He is nine years of age, and he looked across the field and shouted ‘kill him.’ You have said nothing of that either. You feel guilt, aye, you are in pain. I've said it, I’ve seen it, I’ve held you in the night while you wept. But have you even apologized to anyone, or tried to make amends? You can complain about not being forgiven all you want, but you have not even bestired yourself to ask for it!" 

The big knight sighed, his shoulders slumping. 

“I am sorry that you were forced to wed against your will. I am. I saw how desperate and afraid you were at our wedding, it was written all over your face, it was coming out in your scent. When I entered our bedchamber it smelled like a wild animal being cornered by wolves. When I heard you weeping in our marriage bed something twisted in my gut. I know what they did to you was wrong. I’m not asking you to forgive, I’m not asking you to forget. But you cannot sit there, arguing about not being forgiven yourself, and not even try!” 

There was a long silence. Aerion stood frozen, staring down at the seated Dunk, his eyes burning with angry, unshed tears. Humiliation and affront were churning in his insides like snakes. 

“Get out,” he hissed. “Get out of my sight.” 

The knight nodded stiffly. “As you wish. Your Grace.” 

When he was gone, Aerion fell back down on the chair, heavily. The rage seemed to have been fleeting; it slowly went out of him, replaced by a deep, aching exhaustion, a shame as sharp and cold as a bucket of ice dropped over his head. 

How did I muck everything up again? I was meaning to help him. 

It was the same way he’d fumbled everything else in his life. Maekar had doted on him, until Aerion proved to be unruly and rebellious. Daeron had loved him dearly, until his cruelty began to come forth. Baelor had been gentle and supportive, until Aerion killed him. 

Daeron had told him how their uncle died, unthinking, while Aerion was still recovering. He remembered his brother apologizing afterwards, spouting a stream of comfort and sympathies while Aerion was retching over a basin. “It’s alright, brother, it will pass. When the bile comes out it means there's nothing else in your belly. I would know.” 

He bit his lip. I won’t weep again. I’ve wept more during the past month than in all my previous life, I’m sick of weeping. 

When his handmaids walked in, he fled to the bedchamber, unspeaking. He sat on the bed and pulled the coverlet around his shoulders, staring at the hearth. He didn’t go to sleep. He waited. 

By the hour of the owl, he realized Dunk would not return tonight. He sighed, then rose and threw a cloak over his shoulders, to shield him from the night’s chill. He stepped through the solar carefully, mindful to not wake Kyra and Sam. He took a lantern from the cupboard and lit it, wondering where the knight had found shelter in. The great hall? The stables? But Dunk had been very careful to not stir gossip before, and bedding down like a servant certainly would. He’s not gone to sleep, Aerion realized. He’s going to just wait for dawn, and then pretend he was on an early stroll if someone sees him. He’s spending the night outdoors. And suddenly, he also knew where. 

The garden looked wild and lonely beneath the moonlight, hedges and trees forming harsh shadows. But the sky was full of stars, the moon full and bright. A good sign, surely. 

Duncan was sitting down by an apple tree, but when he saw Aerion approaching, he rose. He didn’t say anything. His expression in the half-light was indiscernible, so Aerion had to move very close to see his face properly. He moved slowly, hesitantly, almost waiting for the alpha to rebuke him, to send him away. But he didn’t. 

Aerion laid the lantern on the ground next to them, and looked up at Dunk’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. 

Dunk just stared at him, eyes piercing and unsure. Aerion bowed his head.

“I’m sorry. For Tanselle. For Egg. For all it. I know what I have done. I knew from the moment I woke up after the trial, wounded and in despair. I didn’t…” He blushed, though he doubted Dunk could see it in the low light. “When you wed me, part of me just believed I deserved whatever fate was in store for me. I woke up every day waiting for you to snap, to take vengeance. You never did. You shame me at every turn, just by choosing to do better than I would. I used to hate that. But now…” He trailed off, unsure. “I am sorry for dragging you into all this. I am sorry for hurting you, again and again, for no better reason than my own shortcomings. Forgive me, Ser Duncan.” 

He dared not raise his head, afraid of what he would see in Dunk's eyes. There was a long, awful silence. And then he felt calloused fingers, brushing against his face. 

Dunk lifted his chin, gently leading him to look up. His expression was unreadable, but suddenly there was a new scent in the room, rising with the alpha’s pheromones; light, airy, and safe. Aerion shuddered, his own scent subtly changing. 

The knight wiped the tears from Aerion's cheeks, tears he hadn't even realized had fallen. “I forgive you,” he said softly. 

Aerion breathed deep. His eyes became sharp and focused, drinking in the lines of Dunk's face. The moonlight gave it a soft, silvery glow, but the small, swaying flame of the lantern made the shadows dance. He knew the alpha's lip was still split from when he’d bitten it. 

Fire and blood, he thought idly. 

He raised himself on his tip toes, and wrapped his arms around Dunk’s neck. The knight understood, as clearly as if their desires were linked. He bent down, and Aerion kissed him on the lips. 

It was a gentle kiss at first. He drank in the smell of green apples, then a deeper, fresh scent of summer breeze and rainfall, then, deepest of all, the pure scent of clean earth. He gasped against Duncan's lips, drawing closer almost without his own volition, opening his mouth wider. The alpha was responding in turn, his mouth warm and rough, his hands wrapping tight around Aerion's waist, pulling him in. 

It could have lasted for a moment, or a year. Aerion only came back to earth gradually, gently, trembling as he pulled back. He didn't know why he had done it. He didn't know what the alpha was thinking. 

Dunk ran his fingers through the prince’s silvergold hair. His hand moved to cup Aerion's cheek, with startling tenderness. 

“Do you forgive me, Aerion?” he asked timidly. “For marrying you, even though you didn’t want it?” 

He gave a little nod. “Yes,” he muttered, “yes.” 

They stood still, gazing into each other's eyes. 

The knight reached out to grasp Aerion’s arms. “You must be cold,” he said softly, “you’re only in a nightgown under this cloak. You should get back to our bedchamber.” 

“Only if you come with me.”  

“I will. I’ll come back to you.” He hesitated. “I will always come back.” 

It felt, Aerion thought as they were walking away, like a promise. 

Chapter Text

Confronting his desires, Aerion had discovered, was not nearly as painful as he’d expected it to be. 

From the moment that he met the hedge knight, he’d been refusing to acknowledge them. He’d stubbornly clung to rage, to pride, to cruelty. Even when the alpha broke through those defences, the prince still refused to face the truth. 

Well, he’d faced it now. The kiss had forced him to admit it, both to himself and to Dunk. It had released something within him that had been caged before. 

It felt liberating, and more than a little exciting. He didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t need to lie. He could face Duncan head on and challenge him honestly, look him in the eye and declare it: “Well, here I am. This is what I want, this is where I stand. So what will you do?”  

The answer, as it turned out, was quite surprising. 

All throughout the few weeks since the wedding, it had been Dunk who came forward, and Aerion who drew back. The knight had been the one to extend a truce, to treat him courteously, to comfort him, to offer advice, solace, understanding. 

Yet now that Aerion had made his own move, Duncan inexplicably, frustratingly, withdrew. 

He still kept at his daily escapades, and let Aerion do as he pleased. He was as kind and considerate as always, and never rude or dissmisive… but he made no attempt to repeat their brief tryst, or even to talk about it. Worst of all, he seemed to avoid spending time alone with Aerion. He would come in late in the evenings, going straight to bed instead of conversing as they used to, and he’d never been back to the garden, not once. 

Aerion was bewildered, frustrated, and more than a little offended. The moment things started to become clear between them, the knight was retreating as if routed in battle. 

A different kind of omega might have accepted that. They might have brooded, or wallowed in melancholy, or tried to subtly seduce the alpha. But, for better or for worse, the prince was not that kind. He was Aerion Brightflame, of House Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, and he knew only one way of dealing with fleeing opponents; charging right after them. 

He cornered Dunk in their bedchamber one afternoon, when the alpha came in to change his clothing after riding down to Saltcrest. Aerion shut the heavy oak door, lowered the iron bar, and stood in front of it, arms crossed. 

“All right,” he said calmly. “That’s more than enough. Time to end this absurd game of yours.” 

Dunk checked, looking at him uncertainly. He was seated on the bed, still halfway into his clean tunic, torso half-naked. “Ah… game?” 

“This stupid cat-and-mouse game you’re playing. Do you think you can just avoid me for the rest of our days? We’re married, I shall remind you. You swore vows before the altar of the Mother and Father. Do you remember the septon’s words? ‘Now and forever?’ You’re not escaping me, ser, so you may as well stop trying.”  

Dunk blinked. “If I did something to distress—” 

“Don’t play the fool with me. You’re acting like a block of ice. Do you think you’re being subtle? You’ve been evading me ever since we… we…” 

“Yes?” 

“Kissed,” he finished breathlessly. “You used to seek me out, but after that night you hardly even look my way. If you’re truly honorable, you’ll tell me why. But I won’t stay quiet and be neglected.” 

The knight hesitated. He finally pulled the tunic all the way on, straightening it. “I see that you’ve misunderstood me, as you’re wont to do.” He rose and walked up to him, taking his hand gently. “My prince, listen to me. I’ve drawn back, yes. I apologize. It was not the… the wisest thing to do. But it was not without cause, and certainly not because I wanted to neglect you.” 

“Then what is it?” he asked, a little distracted by the knight’s touch. “You can tell me. I’m not made out of porcelain, I’ll survive it. I’ve made my intentions rather clear, by kissing you.” 

“Aerion,” Duncan said reluctantly, “you were very distressed at that moment. You wanted my forgiveness, and you were desolate, and you’ve felt alone for a while. I didn’t want… I would not presume… I would never want you to feel obliged to follow up on something that happened in a moment of weakness, of fragility.” 

He was incredulous. Is that what he thinks? That I was just being a vulnerable little maiden? For a groat, he would have emptied a flagon of wine over the knight’s oafish head, or simply kissed him until his lips were sore. But neither seemed likely to help this particular situation. 

“Have I given you the impression,” he said levelly, “that I am the kind of meek omega to initiate something I don’t actually want, just because I was feeling sad for a while? I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you, because that’s what I felt like doing. There was no compulsion involved.” 

Dunk stared down at him, with a slow, dawning understanding. His grip tightened, only a little. “So, you’re earnest? You do want us to become… to be… You’re interested in me in that way, truly?” 

“Of course I am interested in you, you dunce. Didn’t you notice how I’ve been looking at you all this time? By the gods, didn’t you smell me? I almost went into heat when you… when…” He blushed. “Well, you know.” His suspicions arose, and he asked the dreaded question. “Are you not drawn to me? Do I not interest you?” Gods be good, if he tells me now, after embracing me and comforting me and fetching me bloody flowers, after I’ve shown my own hand by kissing him, that he doesn’t want me… that I’ve made myself the biggest fool in all of Westeros… 

The alpha looked at him as if he could read some of his thoughts. He sighed. “Aerion, do you remember when we spoke during that one night, a few weeks back, and you asked me for the reason I wed you?” 

“Yes. You said it was because of my father… and also one other reason, that you refused to discuss.” 

“And have you not yet puzzled out what that reason was?” 

“I… I don’t...” He had puzzled it out; he’d been sure that it was because the knight was as attracted to Aerion as Aerion was to him. But he’d made plenty of assumptions, and right now, he wasn’t sure about any of them. He was not about to make any confident declaration. He drew his hand back, not able to fully think clearly with the knight touching him. “Tell me. Tell me yourself; I’m done guessing. What was the reason? Why did you marry me? 

“Because I wanted you from the moment that I first saw you,” Dunk said frankly. “Even when I thought you were a beta, I was drawn to you. And then, the scent…” He took a deep breath. “I used to lie awake at night wondering how the gods could have made an omega so wicked, so infuriating, yet so tempting. I was ashamed of it, for a while; knights aren’t supposed to be so… wanton. But it was there from the start, and it has not left me. It has only grown stronger, because I’m drawn to more about you now than just the way you look, or the way you smell. I’ve seen your fire up close, your strength, your spirit. They call out to me.” 

Aerion stared up at him for so long that it became rather uncomfortable. His face must have turned the color of the Targaryen sigil by now. He cleared his throat. “Ser Duncan,” he remarked mildly, “I think we have both been dunces.” 

Dunk chuckled. “Yes, perhaps. I do like how fervent you are, I must say. Your vow that I’ll never escape you was rather moving, if a tad alarming.” 

“I must inform you that it was a bluff. If you’d told me you are not interested after all, after everything that happened, I might have gone off to join the silent sisters.” 

Dunk snorted. “Silent? You?” 

The prince narrowed his eyes. “I shall pretend I did not hear that, ser. I wouldn’t want to ruin the moment.” He leaned in, pressing against the knight’s chest. 

Dunk did not pull away, but his eyes grew uncertain. “Aerion…” 

“What now?” 

“Aerion, I think we ought to be careful. To restrain ourselves a bit.” 

“Why? I’m not afraid anymore, I assure you.” He wrapped his arms around Dunk’s neck, raising his head to offer up his mouth in silent provocation. 

Still, the knight held back. “I want to do this right,” he said timidly. “I want to be decent with you. I’m meant to be a knight, yet I… I…” 

“You, what?” 

“I’ve done everything out of order, Aerion. True knights aren’t supposed to just have some arrangement with their mate’s sire. They don’t just wed an omega and bed them. I had little choice at the time, aye, but… It’s not chivalrous.” 

Gods preserve us. Aerion let go of him and stepped back, raising an eyebrow. “And what would be chivalrous in this instance? What are you saying?” 

“Just that we ought to move slow. And that I ought to start treating you proper. Like my mate, not a man I just so happen to live with. And besides… this must be handled with care, I think.” He sighed. “We had a very rough start, Aerion. I don’t know what will grow out of this, but I don’t want to spoil it all by moving too brusquely. You’re a prince, an omega, a maiden. If we are to attempt this, please, let’s do it the proper way.”  

I was supposed to be the one hesitating, and now he’s the blushing bride, he thought irritably. Yet something in the alpha’s gaze, and some small stirring in Aerion’s chest at the thought of whatever treating you proper meant, made him yield. “Fine. We’ll try it your way, since you insist on being so sentimental about it.” 

“Thank you,” Dunk said humbly. “You’re very gracious.” 

Aerion snorted. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called that, ser.” 

“I’m sure there are many things you’ve not been called, yet. I plan to remedy that, in due time.” 

He was smirking in a way that could either be romantic or lewd. Aerion couldn’t tell which, and it thrilled him. “Very well. Do your best.” 

And the knight did. 

It started the very next morning. Aerion woke a little sore, as usual, his back voicing its complaints about the mattress rather vigorously. Yet he was instantly surrounded by a pleasant, lemony scent. He sat up, still a bit dazed, only to discover its source laid by his pillow. 

Treating me proper, is that what this is, ser? He picked up the bundle and sniffed the yellow and purple blossoms. He supposed it made sense; one of the first things Dunk had done in this most unusual marriage was to bring him flowers. Somehow, this gift felt more sincere than the ones he was used to, even from the most ardent of his admirers. As he dressed, he tucked the bundle in his belt. 

Duncan was waiting in the solar with Aerion’s handmaids, dressed elegantly in sky blue velvet that woke all the color in his eyes. They broke their fast on bread and honey and eggs, and a large bowl of berries that Sam gleefully announced they had all gathered themselves. Afterwards, Aerion dismissed the omegas and sent for Gareth and Willem. 

To his astonishment, Dunk declared that he intended to attend the meetings from now on. At first, he said nothing, just listening to them all discuss their options. Gareth wanted to focus on crops, still; that was the most reliable way of feeding everyone, he insisted, and fishing as well. Willem was beguiled by the potential profits trade could bring, and now that Dunk was present, he appealed to them with revived eagerness. “If not wool, then cowhide,” he insisted. “I’m telling you, my lords, if you want ready coin, the markets are where you’ll find it. We can’t make any repairs by growing oats and barley.” 

Gareth shook his head, wearily. “Willem, we’ve danced this dance before. We’d need better pasture to truly make profit out of livestock, even if we were able to buy breeding pairs. Their lordships must improve on what they already have. That will be cheaper, and far more prudent.” He sighed. “Though I will admit, it will still be hard. There’s only so much use you can get out of this scrubland.” 

“We’ve got a few bogs within our territory, by the hamlet,” Aerion mused, “We could drain them to reach the soil beneath, and harvest all the peat and iron to sell. Though that would take a great deal of labor.” 

Dunk finally spoke up then, looking troubled. “The smallfolk here love their bogs well. They wouldn’t want us to destroy them.” 

“Love?” He turned to him, frowning. “They’re bogs. All mud and water and mosses. What is there to love?” Wetlands had always seemed to be dreary places to Aerion, long expanses of sinkholes and stagnant waters. 

“I’ve been speaking to the fisherfolk. You’d be surprised. They use the peat for fuel, of course, but they also bury foodstuffs in it, and they never spoil. And the herbs are very important. Those mosses make dressings for wounds, for one, and in times of hardship they’re even used to make bread. And also…” He hesitated. “Well, they won’t say it where the septons can hear, but the bogs are sacred to some folk. Some remnants of their old faith before the Andals arrived.” 

Gareth was smiling. “I see you’ve been very attentive to the locals, my lord.” 

Dunk shrugged awkwardly. “I have to, don’t I? I’m their liege now, and all that.” 

Aerion was impressed. Those escapades of his are more useful than I thought. Still, it left them right where they’d started… but he did have one notion on how to proceed. 

He sat back on his chair, crossing his legs. “Very well. Our leal advisors have nothing new to say, it seems, so we’ve reached an impasse. We need outside help. Gareth, from what I’ve gathered from our ledgers and from your teachings, this type of land is similar to moors and grasslands. So farming here must be somewhat like farming in the Marches. I’ll write to Maester Melaquin in Summerhall; perhaps he knows what we can do to better our yields.” Writing to anyone else in the palace, he knew, would be a futile endeavor; his father had never deigned to handle such bothersome matters, while his siblings likely thought that food magically appeared on their plates every day. And so did I, to be sure, until I had to start buying it. 

Gareth inclined his head. “That would be wise, my lord.” 

“And you should write to the Citadel, to the Archmaesters. They may well have some advice for us.” He didn’t dare write to Aemon; they had never been close, and with Aerion’s disgrace, he couldn’t guess at what his brother’s reaction would be. 

Willem was frowning. “My lord, begging your pardons, but… advice is all well and good, I shan’t deny it. But it won’t fill our coffers. How are we going to pay for anything, if not through trade?” 

“Leave that to me. I have a way of getting us some coin, and quickly.” 

They looked rather surprised by that. “That’s… that’s splendid, my prince,” Willem stammered. “May I ask—” 

“You may not. You’ll both find out soon enough, anyway.” He waved them away. “Go, tend to your business." 

“As you say, your lordship.” Willem gave one of his deep, exaggerated bows as he left, while Gareth’s bow was more shallow, and accompanied by a faint smile. 

Dunk looked puzzled as the door closed. “What did you mean, about the coin? Where will you find it?” 

Aerion rose and stretched, then gave a languid shrug. “I’m going to have my jewelry appraised. I mean to pawn it.” 

“Pawn it?” Dunk grimaced. “Aerion, I… I don’t want you to have to give away your jewels.” 

“Why not? I can’t even wear most of them anymore. We shan’t be invited to many balls or banquets, shall we?” 

“Still, you’ve been much reduced by marrying me. I don’t want you to lose even more than you already have.” 

“If I don’t give them away, we will both be reduced. And you said that what’s yours is mine, I shall remind you. Well, let me spend my own coin as I see fit.” 

“But, Aerion—” 

“Unless you’re asserting your marriage rights?” he asked playfully, eyes wide and innocent. “Unless you’re giving me an order? Go ahead. I can hardly disobey my own noble lord and master—” 

“Stop.” Dunk rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Fine. Spend it as you like. I… I do appreciate it, you know. I was just thinking of your comfort.” 

“Well, cease thinking of my comfort so much. I know you’re trying to be a gallant alpha, but don’t overdo it. Now, shoo. I’ll see you at dinner; I’ve got letters to write.” 

“To the maester?” 

“Yes. And also…” He hesitated. He stood up straight, taking a deep breath. “Also, to my grandsire.” 

“Oh.” Dunk’s eyes windened. “Truly?” 

“You did make some fine points when you lectured me. I do owe him an apology, at least.” 

Aerion was afraid Duncan would point out that he needed to apologize to a lot more people than just King Daeron, which he was very much not ready to do. But the knight said nothing of the sort. Instead, his gaze grew very warm. “I’m glad you decided to do this, Your Grace.” Before he walked out, he bent to take Aerion’s hand, lightly kissing his fingers. He looked up at him with earnest blue eyes and a crooked smile. “I’ll see you in the great hall, my prince.” 

By the time Aerion had managed to recover himself, Duncan had left the room. Bloody hells. This would be harder than he’d anticipated, if the knight continued with the whole “not moving too fast” business. 

He swallowed hard, then moved to the oak writing desk to start working on the first letter. The blank sheet of parchment he laid out was queerly intimidating, as if daring him to think of anything that would make his grandfather hate him less. What does one even say in such a situation? I’m sorry I shamed our entire family line? I’m sorry I disappointed you? I’m sorry I killed your son? 

His hand shook a little as he scribbled the first lines, leaving blotches on the parchment. He cursed, willing himself to hold the quill steady. He was not about to send a letter marked all over by his weakness. He took out another sheet from the drawer and started over. 

In the end it was a brief letter. He didn’t think the king would want to read his ramblings, and he couldn’t come up with a lot to say. All the grandiloquence in the world seemed dishonest compared to the raw truth of the matter, two plain concepts expressed in a few paragraphs; I loved him too. I’m sorry. 

He struggled with how to sign it too, eventually settling on a simple Aerion, your grandson. It was not the correct, formal way for a prince to sign a letter, but it felt more genuine. He’s not like to reply, anyway. I’m just wasting ink, and making it all worse by reminding him of my existence. Still, he rolled up the parchment carefully, and moved on to the letter for Maester Malequin; a rather more straightforward endeavor. 

The rest of the day was easier. At dinnertime, Dunk was even more gallant than before, making sure that every dish was served to the prince first and pouring wine in his cup himself. At times, he would reach out to rest his hand over Aerion’s. The prince wanted to tease him for it, but he found himself being disarmed by his kindness, as he often was. 

In the afternoon, they went riding, at the knight’s humble request. Dunk insisted on saddling Onyx himself, carefully checking whether he had secured the harness properly. Only then did they mount and ride out, ambling down the hill and through the heathland. Aerion showed him the stream he had found, and Dunk led him to the berry bushes he’d picked their breakfast from. Aerion also discovered, to his great satisfaction, that Onyx was indeed swifter than Goldberry. 

“You’re a centaur,” Dunk whinged, as they were riding back to the castle. “You ride like the wind, you even tired me out. No wonder you like jousting so much.” He was breathless, but his teasing tone took the heat off the complaint. 

Aerion gave him a sideways, self-satisfied grin. “Well, yes, I do love to ride. I’m a Targaryen, aren’t I? I could ride on top of a lot of things, and quite vigorously, I reckon.” 

His implication went so far over Dunk’s head he may as well have not made it at all. The knight just sagely nodded. “Aye, I can see that. It’s a shame that the dragons… well, you know.” 

“Hmph. Yes,” Aerion managed, a little crossly. His lord husband seemed as innocent as the summer sky sometimes. He faintly wondered if the man was a maiden as well. He can’t be. He’s an alpha, they’re always sought after. They’re almost as sought after as omegas. And he’s tall and handsome as well. He’s probably bedded dozens of eager betas, at the least. The thought gave him a strange feeling, part thrill and part jealousy. 

Back at the castle, the knight insisted on helping him dismount again. “You said I’m a bloody centaur,” Aerion complained. “Do centaurs need help riding?” 

Dunk blushed. “No, but it’s only proper for me to help you. What else are alphas for?” 

Aerion let out a surprised laugh. “Don’t ask that question in front of any septons, ser! They’d accuse you of wanting to overturn the natural order of things.” He dismounted in one fluid motion, bracing comfortably on Dunk’s shoulders. “There. I’ve accepted your gallant aid. Shall we go have supper now?” 

“In our solar,” Dunk said emphatically. “I want us to be alone.” 

“Hmm.” That was more than a little stirring. “As you say.” 

Supper was an elegant, if not extravagant, affair. He suspected that Dunk had made some arrangements. There was roast venison with onions, berries, and wine—which he had never seen their cook prepare before—the savory crab stew that seemed to be ubiquitous in the area, a platter of fruit and nuts, fine wheaten bread, and a rather pricey bottle of hippocras. Aerion ate more heartily than he had in a long while. 

“You really should come down to the villages with me, you know,” the knight urged the prince over their meal. “I know you’re not very keen on the idea, but you ought to also meet our people.” 

Aerion snorted. “And what, be pelted with rotting vegetables?” 

“You’d be surprised.” The alpha hesitated. “I don’t think you realize what the Targaryen name means among the smallfolk, but I do. You’re the last dragonlord dynasty in the world, even if the beasts themselves no longer live. You look and act different from common men. Yes, many distrust you for it, but more are in awe of you.” 

Aerion smiled bitterly. “I am hardly Aegon the Conqueror, Dunk. I’m the arrogant prince who got humbled by an urchin from Flea Bottom. I’m the one who attacked one of their own, who is said to be half-mad, the one who—” 

“—fought a man twice his size? Rode in tourneys as an omega, and won? Was unafraid to fight with live steel in a bloody trial by combat? Do you know what they say, Aerion? That only a dragon would have dared to scorn conventions like that. They say you fought like a demon, that you nearly killed me and were only defeated by an alpha’s brute strength. You won’t find many who love you, no; your attack of Tanselle is also remembered. But if you’re expecting ridicule, you’re wrong. You’ll find mostly curiosity, or fear, or admiration.” 

Aerion was silenced by his ardor. He’d never considered that an omega could be seen that way by the commons. His kind were coveted, but never much liked. They were seen as seducers, weak, craven. And surely fighting an alpha could never be seen positively? With scorn, yes; mockery, derision, anger at the upstart’s presumption. When he lost, he’d just pictured every beta and alpha in the kingdoms sneering and mocking him, like he’d seen the courtiers do. But admiration? And fear? He looked down at his plate, frowning. 

“I’m not saying you should be enjoying that reputation,” Dunk said calmly. “Being feared isn’t a good thing, in my mind. That’s why I’m telling you to come with me. When they meet you, they’ll begin to understand you, and look at you with more fondness.” 

“I... I’m not sure.” He took a small sip of hippocras. “Dunk, you couldn’t possibly predict how it will be when they actually meet me. You don’t know how alphas and betas treat omegas, not truly.” 

“No,” he admitted, “I don’t. But I know how the smallfolk think. And I’ve listened, Aerion, very carefully, and had our men-at-arms listening as well, for any truly alarming talk. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be urging you to come. It’s worth a try, at least, I’m telling you.” Dunk’s eyes grew softer, shyer. “And, of course, I don’t think anyone can fail to be charmed by this face, my prince. You’re far too pretty to be hated.” 

Aerion smirked. “I suppose I’m lucky that the Great Bastards shunned our wedding. If you’d caught a glimpse of my great-aunt Shiera, you wouldn’t be saying this nonsense. She’s like a painting. Uncle Brynden calls her the Maiden in the flesh.” 

“Well, I haven’t seen her, but I’ve seen you. The first thing I thought when we met was that you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever laid eyes on. And even if some are fairer, that’s not all that matters. You chose your alias well, Aerion, you have a flame inside you that’s always burning bright. It’s a glow from within. Anyone would see it.” 

“A glow? Why, you’re turning into a poet, ser. Were you really born at Flea Bottom? If you saw any glow in my eyes, it was the leer of that Targaryen madness threatening to spill out.” 

Dunk shrugged. “I have yet to see any actual madness from your family, only some pride and vices. Maybe it’s all legend.” 

“Most certainly not. My uncle Rhaegel is the gentlest man I’ve ever met, but stark raving mad, I assure you. He dances naked through the halls, and often speaks to the dragon skulls.” 

Dunk’s brows knitted together in a frown. “That sounds queer, true. But also strangely, uh, endearing.” 

“Oh, it is.” Rhaegel would sometimes spend entire nights at the Great Hall, conversing with the bones hanging from the walls like they were living beings. His favorites, queerly, were the smaller ones, the ones born in later times, stunted and misshapen. He might have even taken one of them down to keep in his own bedchamber if he was allowed; Aerion had heard him musing about that. Everyone loved Rhaegel; the old king would speak with him for hours every day, and Baelor would bring him gifts so often he had to be chided. Even the gruff Maekar doted on his brother. 

Aerion sat back on the chair, sighing. “I will… consider what you’ve said. About coming with you.” 

“Truly?” 

“Well, you’re quite seductive, with all that talk of what the smallfolk supposedly say about me. I’m still not convinced I believe you, though.” 

“If you ride down with me, you’ll know. Besides, not everything I told you is good, so I’m clearly not just trying to flatter you. Didn’t you hear that they’re afraid of you?” 

“Yes, though I’m not sure I understand why. Is it just my royal name, and those oh-so-great fighting skills you insist I have?” 

Dunk smiled mischeviously. “Well, they also say you practice sorcery. Do you?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Sorcery is scarcely a reliable craft.” 

“That’s a remarkably vague answer. Should I be worried?” 

“Alright! I’ve dabbled. There are many books about it. But I seem to have no knack for it; my efforts didn’t bear any fruit. Magic faded after the Doom, some maesters say, and even more so when the last dragon died. Uncle Brynden and Aunt Shiera were always interested in things like that, though, and they sometimes… Well, let’s just say, they’re far more talented than I am. But I have read a lot of old spells.” 

“Well, what were you trying to do with spells?” 

He sighed. “Dragons,” he said simply. When he was six, after talking with his mother about the dragonlords of old, he had placed his egg in a brazier for nearly an hour, then burned his hands trying to retrieve it. His father had berated him as Maester Melaquin bandaged his burned palms, while Aerion wept and protested that he had just wanted to have a dragon of his own. “I would train it and feed it, I promise,” he had said, sniffling, “and I’d let it sleep in my bed every night.” Maekar had shaken his head and sighed. “The dragons are all gone, boy. They’re not coming back. Get that into your head.” 

Still, Aerion’s fixation had persisted. He read books all about the legendary beasts, and each time a singer entertained them at dinner, he would beg for songs about Aegon and his sisters, and Valyria of Old. Soon, he graduated to tomes of spellcasting and pyromancy, and asked maesters and septons alike questions about magic and wonder. Maekar grumbled that this was what came out of letting the boy read too much, but Dyanna only laughed and praised Aerion for his zeal. And of course, when the prince visited King’s Landing, he would beg Lord Brynden and Lady Shiera to teach him about sorcery, and sometimes they would even indulge him, amused by his eagerness. 

“I see,” Dunk said gently. “I suppose it’s more than natural to miss the dragons, as a Targaryen. Though I think I’d find them quite frightful.” 

“Well, as I said, my spells were markedly ineffective. It was a futile endeavor.” 

“Hmm.” Dunk pretended to ponder deeply. “So you’re not a witch at all, my princeling? All the rumors are false? Or are you trying to trick me with some sorcerous guile?” 

Aerion picked up a fig and threw it at him, playfully. “If I was a bloody witch, would I have let you beat me black and blue and drag me through the mud like a sack of flour? I’d have cast a spell on you and be done with it.” 

It was meant as a jest, but it made Duncan frown. “I shouldn’t have dragged you like that,” he said mournfully. “I should have been more courteous.” 

He arched an eyebrow. “Dunk, it was a trial by combat. We were fighting with live steel. No one would have expected you to be courteous.” 

“You’d already yielded. You’re an omega, and half my size. I didn’t need to drag you across the field by your bloody ankle. I heard you groan in pain, more than once. I ought to have helped you up, or carried you.” 

That was so absurdly chivalrous that the prince didn’t know quite what to say. “Well, next time, you’ll know.” 

Dunk’s eyes shot up, widening. “Don’t jape. I’d rather cut off me own foot than hurt you again—” 

“What if we were to spar?” Aerion interrupted him. 

The knight paused. “Spar?” 

“Yes. It’s been nearly two turns of the moon since I last held a weapon, I’m rusty as an old nail. You could teach me some of those vicious wrestling skills of yours. And you need training as well. No offence, ser, but your swordsmanship is mediocre.” 

Duncan stared at him, silent. 

Aerion sighed. “Unless you don’t want me to touch weapons. Unless you think it too risky.” 

“It’s not that. I told you I was going to trust you, and I will. It’s just… if we were to fight, it would wake too many memories. It might be too hard, I don’t…” He looked away, mournful. 

Some instinct kept him from pressing further. “You’re not ready for that. I understand.” He sighed. “We should go to bed. It’s getting late.” 

Yet in bed, Aerion was restless, keeping an uncomplaining Duncan awake with his squirming. He wondered faintly if the candles he kept lit had started to bother him; he’d always preferred sleeping with some light, but maybe his preferences were changing. But no, he thought, it couldn’t be that. Targaryens loved fire. He spent some time tossing and turning, until he finally knew what he wanted. He turned to his side to face Dunk, propping himself up on one elbow. “I’ll come with you,” he declared. “To the villages. But you’ll have to promise something to me first.” 

Dunk shifted to face him. “Promise what?” 

“You’ll learn how to read and write. We have a maester, he can teach you. There are lords around the kingdoms that make do without, true… but it makes you too reliant on your advisors. It’s not good for anyone.” 

“Oh.” The alpha looked very reticent. “You think I could? Is it not too late for that?” 

“Of course not, don’t be absurd. You can learn whatever you want. And you should.” He set his jaw stubbornly. “I am willing to try your way of ruling, Dunk. Be willing to try mine.” 

Dunk knew when he was beaten, it seemed. He sighed, and took Aerion’s hand to kiss his palm gently. “As you wish. I’ll be a diligent student, though I fear Gareth will quickly despair of me.” 

“How could anyone despair of you? You’re so… ridiculously patient, and kind. It’s like you’ve fallen out of some song about Aemon the Dragonknight.” He sneered. “Except you’re also chaste, like Baelor the bloody Blessed.” 

Dunk gave a little snort of surprise. “I’ve told you, I’m not. Aerion, I can barely… I’ve been struggling to keep my hands off you, especially after we kissed.” 

“Hmm. Truly? Well, you don’t seem to be struggling at all. You even told me to keep my hands off you.” 

“I didn’t say that. I just said… I just wanted to caution you, so that we don’t move too fast. That’s all.” 

Aerion perked up, blood quickening. “So I can? Touch you?” 

“Yes. Of course you can, just—” 

He didn’t waste any time. He nearly pounced on the knight, kissing him. 

Dunk chuckled. “—take care,” he muttered against Aerion’s lips. 

“More care than I’ve ever taken in my life.” Aerion moved closer, pressing himself against the alpha, feeling the heat of his large, firm body. His mouth felt hot, his lips divine, especially after Aerion had been forced to resist them for days. 

He straddled Dunk, pinning him down with his thighs, not breaking the kiss as he moved. The position was so reminiscent of the meadow in Ashford that he thought the knight might stop him, but he didn’t. He gave a little groan and pushed his hips upwards, thrusting deliciously against Aerion’s pelvis. His alpha scent was everywhere, summer breeze and virgin earth. 

He could suddenly feel the knight’s hardness through his breeches, and now it was Aerion’s turn to cry out, moaning with lust. His privy parts were already wet with slick. If we’d done this from the moment that we met, there wouldn’t have been a thrice-damned trial of the seven. I should have taken him to my pavilion and stayed there till the bloody tourney was done. 

He moved lower to kiss Dunk’s neck, sucking and biting gently. The knight’s hands wandered to his waist and up his back, and, to his surprise, they even trailed down to his buttocks, clutching. His entire body felt alive, awakened. The minutes blurred together, long moments of pure hunger and exhilaration. 

Finally, the alpha placed a gentle hand on Aerion’s chest. “Bloody hells,” he panted. “I… I think that’s enough. If we keep at it, I don’t… I don’t know if I can restrain…” 

Aerion understood. He climbed off of him and fell back on the mattress, breathless. He felt oddly sated, despite the lack of physical release, and queerly, he realized that this was enough for now. All this fondling and kissing was delicious; attempting the full act still somewhat scared him. But he found that he still wanted intimacy. He inched close to Duncan and threw a careless arm over him, resting his head on the knight's chest. 

Dunk chuckled, and stroked Aerion’s hair. “Very possessive,” he remarked. “Very tender. Almost sentimental of you, Brightflame.”

“Quiet. I’m trying to sleep. We’ve got to rise early tomorrow, don’t we? Stay still and rest, ser.” 

His alpha indulged him, as he so often did.

And the next morning, right after the sun rose in the sky, they rode down to Saltcrest. 

Chapter Text

Saltcrest lived up to its name. It was a small village, sprawled along the banks of the Bay of Crabs, silver waves lapping gently at its shores. Beneath the morning sun, children ran through the meandering, unpaved pathways, while fishermen unmoored their vessels from the piers and seabirds soared high above them. It was a noisy place, like all villages; livestock squawking and clucking and bleating, men and women chattering, pups crying and whining at their parents. 

There were a few odors that made Aerion wrinkle up his nose; a pile of rotting fish dumped in a ditch, a couple of spotted dirty dogs, some muddy places on the path. But overall, the village smelled surprisingly clean. There was just the sharp, salty scent of the sea, the gentle spring breeze, scents that he had always loved. 

As he had predicted, their arrival caused a stir, drawing attention everywhere they rode… but as Dunk had promised, the attention was surprisingly benign. Ragged children followed at their horses’ hooves, waving and calling out greetings. Fisherfolk hailed Dunk from piers and boats, while others stepped out of wattle-and-daub huts to speak to him. A woman mending a net rose up to bow, while a young boy setting up an eel trap stopped his work to kneel. 

They dismounted in front of the modest inn Dunk had told Aerion about, a two-story construction that seemed to be the largest building in the whole of Saltcrest. As two boys took the reins of their horses, a half-dressed girl that couldn’t be more than three or four approached them with tiny steps. “Duck!” she called up at them, confusing Aerion so much that his expression made Dunk guffaw. “That’s me,” he explained. “‘Duck’ is easier to say than ‘Dunk’, it seems.” 

Aerion was rather scandalized. “She should be calling you ‘my lord’.” 

Dunk rolled his eyes. “She’s just a pup, Aerion.” He approached the girl, who held her hands tight behind her back. “Ah, you’ve got something for me today as well, don’t you, little lass?” 

The girl nodded, then proudly presented the alpha with one of the largest seashells Aerion had ever seen. Dunk let out a pleased chuckle, and, to Aerion’s amazement, knelt down to take the girl’s gift, then thanked her and patted her head affectionately. 

“Meera, get away from there,” a sharp voice hissed. 

Aerion raised his head. A plump woman was standing by the doorway, arms crossed, face wrinkled up into a scowl. She made no move to restrain the girl, but her glare was more than enough to make the pup pull away from Dunk and stare uncertainly up at the menacing figure, biting at her fingers. 

“How many times have I told you to not bother his lordship, you foolish girl?” the woman chided, still glaring. 

“And how many times have I told you it’s not a bother, Wylla?” Dunk asked playfully. 

The woman’s scowl somehow managed to deepen. “Mayhaps,” she conceded, “but she ought to learn some manners, especially with her betters.” Only then did she seem to notice Aerion. Her frown vanished at once, her eyes widening. “Your… Is that… Your Grace?” 

Dunk stood up and took Aerion’s arm. “My husband,” he said simply, “Prince Aerion. Aerion, this is Wylla, our only innkeep, and a rather fine one at that.” 

She bent low into a clumsy curtsy. “An honor, my prince, and a thousand pardons! Had I known you’d be coming…” Amazingly, she turned to chide Dunk. “A fine trick you played on me, m’lord!” she exclaimed, scowling again. “Bringing a princeling here with no warning! Whoever could think up such a thing?” 

Before Aerion even had the time to be scandalized all over again, Dunk was apologizing and the woman was ushering them inside, so eagerly that the alpha banged his head on the doorframe in his haste. She sat them down in the common room and started bellowing commands at her serving staff… that turned out to be a big gaggle of children. Aerion watched, amused, as a dozen boys and girls aged anywhere from five to five-and-ten began scampering around, some rushing outside to tend to their horses, some vanishing in the kitchens to help cook, some laying the table and fetching beer and ale. The innkeep herself reappeared to pour their beer, urging Aerion to try it with plenty of enthusiasm. 

The drink tasted different than what he was used to. “What kind of beer is this?” 

She grinned. “Why, Saltcrest beer, my prince. Flavored with heather and bog myrtle and mugwort, and I brew it just the same as my mother, and my mother’s mother before her. Best kind in the Bay, it is.” 

Aerion hadn’t tried any other beer in the Bay, but he had to concede that it was very fine indeed. She also brought them bread and honey, a bowl of colorful berries, and nuts. The honey had a very strong flavor, which he learned was because it came from the local heather flowers. It all tasted quite fresh, and flavorful. 

Later, they were brought a full dinner; thick stew with mussels and cockles and clams, black bread, and eel pie. As he ate, Aerion couldn’t stop watching the children, quite perplexed. If the woman was their dam, it was an impressive feat; omegas were known to birth babes year after year, but that was much rarer with betas. To bear a dozen children as a beta woman seemed incredulous, if not downright hazardous. 

He needn’t have worried. Wylla, it turned out, had not borne any children at all; the cacophony that flooded the common room were all nieces and nephews and wards. A few of them had seemingly spouted out of nowhere, she claimed, chattering over a tray of tarts and a jug of more Saltcrest beer. “This one my coz found while taking her catch to Maidenpool, just by the side of the coast road,” she declared, pointing at a small boy with a rat’s nest for hair, “and Petyr here was selling cockles to my patrons as they entered the yard. He wouldn’t leave when shooed, so I kept ‘im. Lad’s got a fine head for numbers, to tell it true, so I’m all the better for it.”                                                

“And that’s why you’ll leave the inn to me, ma,” Petyr piped up pleasantly, setting down a bowl of dried plums. 

Wylla gave him a smack upside the head, messing up his ginger hair. “Quiet, you. I ain’t dead yet, and you’re getting nothing if you don’t learn to shut yer trap for once.” She glanced back at them, frowning. “Begging your noble pardons, m’lord, my prince. These little imps are driving me up the wall.” 

“Perhaps you ought to send some of them up to the castle, Wylla,” Dunk suggested. “We’d gladly hire Petyr, for one, since he’s so bright.” 

She laughed. “Hear that, lad? Be at your best behavior, now, his lordship wants you for a serving man. Soon you’ll be wearing livery.” 

If we could afford livery, that is. Aerion sipped at his beer. The queer little gathering had turned out far more amusing than he would have expected from a bunch of ragged pups and a grumpy innkeep. Dunk seemed curiously fond of the children, and they were clearly fond of him as well; they slowly gathered to sit on the benches and on the floor around the table, as if drawn by him. The girl with the seashell even climbed on the alpha’s lap at some point, and the innkeep was forced to allow it after Dunk’s insistence that the children did not bother him at all. 

Soon, Aerion found himself talking to the scamps, when the woman disappeared back into the kitchen. He even entertained their questions; and questions they certainly did have. They wanted to know everything about the Targaryens, of course; the palaces and tourneys and dragons, all the things that would fascinate a pup from a muddy little settlement in the crownlands. It was clear they wanted to ask about Ashford as well, but were too afraid to. They skirted around the topic timidly, vaguely asking about horses and jousting and armor, and where he and Duncan had been married at. 

One of them finally proved bolder than the rest, a scrawny, dark-haired girl of about two-and-ten. “Pardon me, m’lord,” she said, very timidly, “but… in the village, they all say you fought Lord Duncan yourself. And that you were going to win if he wasn’t so strong and big. But you’re an omega, like me. How did you learn to fight so well? Did your father teach you?” 

If she’d been a beta, he might have responded evasively, or made a jest. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that, not with another omega, not with this question. “No,” he said mildly, “my sire was… uncertain, about it all. It was my uncle who insisted that I be allowed to train with my siblings.” 

“Prince Baelor!” a blond little boy exclaimed, all wonderment. “Tell us about him, m’lord. Was he as great as they say? Was he truly the best fighter in all the lands, and knightly, and—” 

“Devan,” Dunk said, with surprising firmness, “my mate does not want to speak of that. The Prince of Dragonstone was his kin, and the loss is still fresh.” 

“Sorry, m’lord,” the boy said, abashed. “I forgot.” 

“Best remember, next time,” Dunk said, more kindly. “And now I think your mother will be looking for you all, to help clean up. She’s like to give you a good clout if you don’t hurry.” 

That was their cue to leave them alone, it seemed. They scampered off, going to tend to their business, though some seemed to do so unwillingly and had to be pulled away by older children. 

Dunk had looked awfully satisfied with himself throughout the meal, and Aerion could see why. “You already predicted that I would like this dismal little village,” he said accusingly. “How on earth did you know?” 

The alpha shrugged. “Well, I didn’t know anything. But I figured that Saltcrest, of all our lands, might please you.” 

“Oh? Why this one in particular?” 

“Well, it’s got the best fishing grounds. Daeron told me you like fishing.” 

Aerion was surprised. “He remembers that? I used to, when I was small. And later I taught Egg a little.” The memories of them casting fishing lines in the streams and lakes of the Dornish Marches were some of the only positive ones he had with his youngest brother. Aegon had only been six or seven, and amusing in his own way. 

Dunk’s eyes widened. “Egg never told me.” 

“Why should he? I have done him far more harm than good, as you well know. Once I held him by the scruff of the neck and threatened to throw him in the water, and that was the end of it.” 

Dunk was horrified. “Why would you want to do that?” 

“He caught more trout than I did, and would not stop boasting about it.” 

The knight stared at him for a moment, then snorted. “You are ridiculous.” 

“Am I? Even you must admit that he can drive you quite mad when he really wants to.”  

“That still doesn’t excuse— Gods, never mind.” 

Aerion paid little attention to his exasperation; he was suddenly troubled. “There’s too few folk actually fishing, to tell you true,” he mused. “Most seem to be out in the fields.” They’d seen the farmers as they rode in, plowing and weeding, their children running around to scare away birds. A good deal of farming always went on, even in fishing villages, but the number of folk he’d seen toiling at the soil instead of going out to the sea had seemed excessively big to him. “We ought to go to the docks again,” he decided. “The day’s catch must be coming in by now. I need to take a good look at it.” 

Dunk arched an eyebrow. “See? You are a fisherman. Just don’t threaten to throw any of our smallfolk into the sea, please.” 

“I make no promises,” Aerion declared, rising from his stool, “other than that we are not leaving until I figure out what the bloody problem is. Even if it takes all day.” 

Fortunately, it didn’t take long at all. By the time they were riding away from the village, only a couple of hours later, Aerion had a very good picture of what the problem was. Up close, it had been glaringly obvious. The boats that went out to sea did indeed prowl through rich fishing grounds; almost all of them came back with full nets. He’d seen cod and herring, haddock and mackerel, shrimp and prawn and crab. 

It was not enough. The boats the villagers were using were small and modest; skiffs, narrow dugboats, little leather coracles. All lacked a sail or mast, propelled by paddles, oars, or poles. They were humble and puny and insufficient; Aerion knew enough about fishing to know that. Such vessels could neither carry a big cargo nor sail into the deeper waters to find the bigger, more valuable fish. They’re not taking proper advantage of the bay, not even slightly. It was no wonder so many of them had turned to struggling over barren soil rather than fishing. He thought of the vessels he’d seen in large ports; fifty-foot trawlers and drifters with two or three masts, Braavosi ships with furling purple-hued sails, and the fat, sturdy whalers of the Ibbenese, larger and stronger than all fishing vessels, their hulls black with tar. 

“We need more boats,” he declared to Dunk. “Large boats, ones that can sail deep into the bay. And strong, large nets.” 

The knight didn’t even bother arguing. “You’re becoming quite the open-handed lord. How many boats?” 

“I don’t know yet. But we’ll have to hire laborers from elsewhere. The villagers would hardly leave their daily work to start chopping down trees and putting planks together.” 

“As you say. And you are certain this is something doable for us?” 

“It is,” he declared haughtily. “It will be.” 

He resolved to make it true. As the days went by, he had Gareth and Willem inquire about shipwrighting in Maidenpool and Duskendale, trying to puzzle out what was needed. Materials they had aplenty; the woods were thick with oak and pine for timber and tar, the bogs rich in iron for nails and anchors. They had flax for the sails and hemp for the ropes. But the workers, especially specialist shipwrights and carpenters, would cost good coin. So Aerion tasked the steward with finding someone to appraise his jewels. 

The man Willem found to do the job seemed qualified enough, a master jewelsmith who had declared he would be more than happy to travel a few days north of King’s Landing in service of such a noble and illustrious customer as a Targaryen prince… for a modest fee, of course. Aerion didn’t begrudge him the silver. He needed an appraisal from an expert, and all who could be found in Maidenpool and Duskendale were petty merchants and silversmiths. This man, on the other hand, was quite wealthy, and had a stellar reputation. 

The craftsman was called Master Larys, and he was pompous and extravagant. He was dressed in vair and satin and cloth-of-gold, and bowed to Aerion lower than would be necessary even if he’d been a king. But when he started his inspection, he grew serious. He studied every piece of jewelry, looking at them with a Myrish magnifying glass, weighing them with his scales, and asking so many questions that Aerion soon lost count. When the prince was beginning to wonder if the smith was going to start sniffing at the jewels as well, the man put the final item back in its case and turned to face him. “I believe I am quite finished, Your Grace. Thank you for indulging me for so long, but my craft, you see, must be done with care.” 

“And what do you think, then?” Aerion asked impatiently. “Is it enough, for our needs?” According to their painstaking calculations, the overall cost of repairing the castle would be three hundred dragons, while the construction of twenty moderately sized fishing vessels would cost about fifty, for the wages of all the carpenters and workers. Anything done to improve the soil would have to come later; they’d had no response to their ravens as of yet. The amount hadn’t seemed like a lot to Aerion… until Dunk gently informed him that a commoner could live on three dragons for a whole year. That had filled the prince’s mind with doubts. Is it possible that my jewelry is worth so much it could feed a peasant family for decades? 

The jewelsmith was chuckling, queerly enough. “Oh, I apologize, Your Grace, to laugh so brazenly. But you are asking a question only a prince could ask, begging your royal pardon. Is it enough? How much coin did you say you needed, again?” 

“At least three hundred and fifty dragons.” 

Larys gently picked up Aerion’s heaviest coronet, bright yellow gold encrusted with rubies and black diamonds. He laid it on the table and added another item, a necklace with three rows of black pearls that had once been gifted to Aerion by an admirer. Then, the man spread his arms in a wide, sweeping gesture. “Here, my lord. Your three hundred and fifty dragons.” 

For a moment he didn’t understand. When it dawned on him, he frowned, looking down at the jewels. “These two? Just them? Nothing else?” 

“Indeed.” 

Aerion didn’t quite know what to say. He had taken a good two dozen jewels with him, and a mere two of them were enough to improve the entire countryside. I’m not even high up in the line of succession. I’m not even important. How much are the Crown Jewels worth, the ones locked up in Maegor’s Holdfast? How many towns could they build, how many castles, how many ships? 

“Well,” he finally managed to say, “I thank you for your service, Master Larys. You have been most helpful.” He paused to consider. “I think I shall start by brokering these two to you, since you’ve been so good as to assist me. The others will be going elsewhere.” 

Larys bowed again. “I would be most honored, Your Grace. But if I may ask, where will you give the rest?” 

Aerion grinned. “To whomever pays the most, of course. If you would be so kind, write down for me an estimate of each item's worth, and a list of your most prosperous colleagues, in King’s Landing or elsewhere. I shall be needing it.” 

The jewelsmith laughed, all understanding. 

After the man had taken his leave, leaving Aerion three hundred and fifty dragons richer, the prince got to work. The more people knew about the jewels, the higher the price he was like to get, he reasoned. But he didn’t want to send ravens as far as Oldtown or Lannisport; they were simply too far away for the business to be swiftly concluded. He decided to target those closest, and most amenable. And to stay well away from my kin, he thought stubbornly. They’ve already divided what I left behind between them, they won’t be getting anything more from me. 

In the end, he wrote two dozen letters. To the cities first, King’s Landing and Gulltown, to the jewelsmiths and goldsmiths and merchants the appraiser had suggested. Then, to every noble House that was wealthy enough and close enough to Dawnfort to be worth it; the Mootons and the Velaryons, the Darklyns and the Celtigars, and half a dozen others. By the time when Dunk walked in the solar, Aerion’s hand was cramping up to the elbow, and his mind was numb from all the flatteries and formal, honeyed nonsense he’d had to scribble down. 

Dunk stared at the pile of parchment. “Busy day?” he asked tentatively. 

Aerion shook his head, unwilling to even talk about it. “Take me away from here,” he demanded. “I don’t want to see this room again for a fortnight.” 

Dunk chuckled. “My prince, I don’t think we should abandon our lands for an entire fortnight.” 

“An evening will do, then. I’ll go anywhere, Duncan. If I have to look at another sheet of parchment, or think about gold and silver and numbers again, I’ll start screaming.” 

“We would hate for that to happen,” Dunk said mildly. “Very well. I have a notion. We’ll have to ride on stots, though, not our palfreys, because we’ll be leaving them hobbled by the side of the road. We don’t want folks to steal them.” 

Aerion was past caring. “Yes, yes. Whatever you wish.” 

The horse he chose was an old bow-legged nag, with small eyes and a ragged grey coat. She looked as if she wanted to kick someone. If there was a horse in their stables no one was like to steal, it was this one. Dunk’s horse was not much better, a brown, short stot with reddish streaks. The knight had also packed a small bag, its contents unknown to Aerion. 

“You shan’t be riding far, I hope, m’lords?” Nym, their master-of-horse, asked worriedly. “These ones are in a bad state. They’ll tire easy.” She was a young Dornishwoman, dark and lean and agile, and loved the dogs and horses like they were her own children. 

“Just near Greentide, Nym, have no fear,” Dunk said. 

“Greentide?” Aerion asked mildly, as they rode down the hillside. They’d taken no guards, Dunk insisting that no one would trouble two able fighters… though markedly, he hadn’t offered Aerion any weapons. The prince decided to let that go, not complaining about being unarmed. 

“You’ll see,” Dunk said, smirking. “Just follow me.” 

The hamlet of Greentide was even smaller than Saltcrest, full of reed huts and houses built right on the water, raised up on stilts. But they didn’t stop there. Instead, Duncan led them further along the coast, along a snaking road that went through a jutting, white cliffside that rose up high above them. 

The cave was small and remote, nestled at the base of the cliffs. The waters reached almost up to its mouth, shimmering in ripples of silvery green. They hobbled their horses and left them by the roadside before approaching, then Dunk turned to explain. “A fishwife showed me this place. It’s meant to be lucky, especially for the newly wedded.” 

Aerion arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Did you bring me to some magic cave?” 

“Of shorts.” Dunk led him along, offering his hand so that Aerion wouldn’t stumble along the rocky path. They entered the cave through the narrow entrance, then moved through a passage lined with jagged salagmites. Curiously, it wasn’t dark; the fading sunlight from behind them met with a queer bluish light coming from up ahead. 

“This is all very suspicious, you know,” Aerion remarked. “You didn’t bring me here to murder me and feed me to the crabs, I hope.” 

Dunk rolled his eyes. “We’re almost there. It’s just up ahead.” 

It was. They turned a corner, and abruptly the passage opened up, revealing a wide, tall chamber with a soft, earthen floor. And Aerion instantly understood why this place was said to be magic. 

It sparkled. Small points of blue-green light were scattered all over the cave ceiling, like a magnificent starlit sky. He had never seen anything like this before. He found himself gawking in an undignified manner, gazing up like a child. 

“They’re called glowworms,” Dunk hummed quietly. “And the villagers say they’re sacred to the old sea gods. They bring good fortune to mated couples, a blessing from the merlings.” 

“What are they? Actual worms?” Aerion’s voice echoed strangely on the walls; it made him instinctively lower it, speaking in a hushed tone. 

“I don’t think so. They’re some type of fungus, I’ve been told.” The knight took a bedroll out of his bag and laid it on the ground, then gestured. “Do you want to sit by me?” 

Aerion nodded. They lay on the bedroll, side by side, looking up like a couple of stargazers. 

“Tell me something about your life, before all this,” Dunk muttered. “We’re alone, no one around for miles. We should at least talk, so I can learn more about you. I know so little.” 

Aerion considered. “I know even less about you, Duncan. And I’ve been too self-centered to ask, it seems. So you ought to start.” 

Dunk squirmed a little. “Not much to say. I’m just an orphan from Flea Bottom, and this you already knew.”  

“Well, what was it like, growing up there?” 

The alpha chuckled. “Oh, is that the tale you want? I fear you’ll be scandalized, Your Grace.” 

Aerion turned on his side to face him. “Scandalize me, then,” he said stubbornly. “I love a good shocking tale.” 

“Ha! As you wish.” Dunk raised himself up on one elbow, looking down at the prince. “The first thing you ought to know is, I was quite the little monster.” 

“A monster?” He snorted. “You, Ser Righteous?” 

He nodded. “Very much so. We were a gaggle of orphans and street rats, me the worst. We did everything you would expect a bunch of urchins to do; begging and stealing and the like.” 

“That’s not so shocking.” 

“No?” Dunk gave a lopsided grin. “Well, once, we stole a head from a spike up on the city walls.” 

He started. “Why on earth would you steal a head?” 

“To chase other children around with it, mostly,” Dunk said sheepishly. 

Aerion gave a surprised laugh. “That is rather awful. I hope you got rid of it fast, at least.” 

“Eventually. We found a… good use for it.” 

Something in his tone made Aerion feverishly curious. “What kind of use?” 

“Well. Let’s just say, if you ever have the very bad sense to visit the slums… don’t eat in any of the pot shops.” 

Aerion’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging open. It took him a good minute to find his voice. “You win,” he said incredulously, “I am scandalized. Such an innocent-looking knight with such a mischievous past. Whoever knew I’d married such a rascal?” 

“See, I shouldn’t have told you. It’s hardly fitting for such a whimsical place, the merlings are like to chide us.” 

“Not if they have a sense of humor.” 

Dunk’s laugh burst forth, as pure and clear as a babbling stream. “Your turn, now. Tell me something about yourself.” 

Aerion shrugged. “What do you want to know? Ask me a question.” 

Dunk sobered at that. He considered for a long time, face solemn under the blue-green light. “Egg told me something, once,” he muttered. 

Aerion hadn’t expected that; any line of conversation that started with the name Egg was not bound to end well for him. He shifted, grimacing. “Yes?” 

“He said you think yourself a dragon, in human form. And Daeron agreed too.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you?” 

Aerion gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Do you want the honest truth, or a lie that makes me seem more sane?” 

“The truth, please.” 

He sat up. “Well, the truth is, it’s— it’s complicated. Targaryens…” he struggled with how to phrase it. “Dunk, we are not strictly speaking… human. This isn’t just my arrogance talking. The Valyrians of old were sorcerers, bloodmages and diviners and pyromancers—” 

“What’s that? A pyromancer?” 

“Firemages. My point is, they could bend and twist the world around them to their will, and would always experiment with new types of magic. Dragonbinding was just one of those. Even my royal ancestors didn’t have mastery over dragons the way the old Valyrians did. They would tame them with sorcery, not mere words and saddles. And they used that sorcery on themselves, as well. Calling Targaryens the blood of the dragon is not meant to be a metaphor. Some scholars believe the Valyrians mated dragons with humans.” 

Dunk frowned. “How is that possible?” 

“With sorcery, I told you. With witchcraft and sacrifice, spells perhaps so dark and powerful they led to the Doom itself. No one truly knows. But if you’d read Septon Barth, or Galendro… There are many signs. Wedding siblings to each other, why do you think we do that? It’s about blood purity. When the dragon blood thinned, our bond with the beasts weakened. The Valyrians linked dragons to fertility as well. Those who give birth, beta women and omegas, could cause egg clutches to hatch or fail, the old dragonlords claimed. It’s all about our blood.” He hesitated. “And sometimes, our babes are born… different. With scales, or wings, or tails. Queen Rhaenyra gave birth to one such, a stillborn girl.” 

Dunk was silent, listening intently. His face was so still that Aerion was gripped by sudden fear. Why did I tell him all this? He’ll just think I’m mad, or a monster. He tried to think of something to salvage the conversation, but came up short. 

Dunk seemed to be pondering. “I see. I understand better now, Aerion, thank you.” 

“You’re not… revolted?” 

“It would take a lot of nerve for me to be revolted by you, after I told you the story about the head,” Dunk said, smiling gently. “Besides, why should I be? I do believe sorcery exists. Or existed once, at least.” He gestured at the ceiling. “Look at this. We’re underground, yet the stars are shining down on us. How could one not believe in magic? There’s no reason to assume what you’ve told me is untrue. And as for your non-human blood… You know, I’ve always thought I’m part giant?” 

“Don’t jest.” 

“I’m not. Giants existed as well, right? There’s records of them. And I’ve always been much too tall, though I never had a lot to eat. Ser Arlan called me a little freak, said it was unnatural. Maybe it is. Have you ever met anyone else that’s nearly seven feet tall?” 

Aerion chuckled. “No. But they’re out there, I’m sure. Aunt Elaena once told me about some great outlaw in the kingswood, back when she was a girl. He was eight feet tall, to hear her tell it.” 

“Ah, could have been my sire. A shame we never met.” Dunk was smirking. 

Aerion rolled his eyes. “He lived over fifty years ago.” 

“My grandsire, then. Why not? What was his name, do you recall? Perhaps I’ll call my firstborn after him.” 

The prince fell silent. It took the knight a few moments to realize what he’d just said. “Gods, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t implying…” 

“I know. I know.” He laid a hand on Dunk’s arm, soothing. 

Dunk sighed, reaching out to stroke Aerion’s cheek. “You look even more beautiful under this glow than you did in the moonlight, you know,” he murmured. “How is that even possible?” 

Aerion gave a little groan. "And how is it possible that you’re such a flirt? You haven’t ceased flattering me since we were wed. What are you even thinking about, being so poetic?” 

“This.” Dunk kissed him. 

It was as sweet and delicious as ever, and Aerion found himself drawing closer, his hands wrapping around Duncan, body pressing against him. Gods be good. Is it always going to be like this, like dry thatch catching on fire every time he touches me? He almost hoped that desire would cool down with time, at least to reasonable levels. In a state like this, he could scarcely think, his body just wanting to mount the alpha and ride him until they were both spent. I can’t. Not now; this is hardly the place for that. He lay a hand on the knight’s chest and lightly pushed him away, catching his breath. 

“Is that why you brought me here?” he asked accusingly. “To ravish me at last? Because, shiny worms or not, if you really think I’m about to lose my maidenhead in a damp little cave—” 

“I don’t.” The alpha blushed. “I didn’t. I wasn’t planning anything, I just… I wanted to kiss you, that’s all.” 

“Hmm.” He stroked Dunk’s cheek, to show that he wasn’t truly angry with him. “You do kiss rather well. Lots and lots of practice, I’d wager.” 

Dunk frowned. “Uh… not really. Before you, I’ve only kissed two betas, to tell it true. I scarcely know what I’m doing.” 

Aerion’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you telling me you didn’t even kiss your paramours when you bedded them? That’s rather uncouth of you, ser.” 

“Bedded?” Dunk’s face was the very image of confusion. “I never… Why would you think I’ve bedded anyone?” 

He blinked. “Duncan,” he said, very slowly, “help me understand this correctly, because I’m beginning to think all the copper counting has dulled my wits. Are you telling me that you are a maiden?” 

“Well, I… Yes. What did you think?” 

“But… you’re an alpha. A tall, handsome alpha. How on earth did you manage to evade pursuers?” 

“I don’t think I had any pursuers. I am… was… just the squire of a hedge knight, Aerion. Scarcely above a common vagrant. Folks don’t want their sons and daughters meddling around with such.” 

Aerion started laughing. 

“What?” Dunk asked, sounding slightly offended. “What is it?” 

The prince struggled to recover himself, holding a fist over his mouth. “And to think that I was picturing something so… As fiercely as you fight, I thought…” 

“What?” 

Well, that you fuck as savagely as you wrestle. He was suddenly too shy to say that, however, and the alpha already looked embarrassed enough. “Never mind what I thought. I’ve made so many assumptions about you, ser, most of them incorrect. So never you mind.” 

Dunk seemed about to say something anyway, but wisely decided against it. He just lay next to Aerion, silent. 

Aerion took his hand. “We should stay awhile longer. Just a little, just until the sun starts setting. It’s so quiet here. I want to look… I just want to spend a little time…” 

Dunk understood. 

The lights of the cave ceiling looked as bright as the stars had the night he and Dunk first kissed, he realized. If he traced their patterns, he could even make up new constellations. He discovered a tower; then a longsword as bright as Dawn, the Dayne ancestral blade; then even a great dragon, its eyes bright sapphires. And as they shone down upon him, Aerion could almost feel the blessing of the merlings. 

Chapter Text

Willem raised the letter above his head, shaking it triumphantly. "I have it," he declared. "We have it. We have the solution." 

Dunk froze at the other side of the table, fork halfway to his mouth. Aerion just arched an eyebrow. "The solution for…?" 

The steward had marched into the solar whilst they were dining, dragging the maester along with a little too much enthusiasm. Gareth did not seem upset, however, smoothing down his robes with a grin. 

"My apologies, my lords," Willem stammered, "I am overly hasty." He walked over to Aerion, handing out the parchment. The prince rolled it open, his puzzled frown clearing as he read. "This is from Summerhall," he exclaimed, pleased. 

Gareth nodded. "Your maester has delivered us, it seems." 

It was simple. Ridiculously simple, if the letter was to be believed. Maester Melaquin wrote about the process in detail, but it was fairly straightforward, even with their limited means. 

"So we've literally been staring at the solution, all along," Aerion mused. 

"Standing on top of it," Gareth said pleasantly. "Though I wouldn't dig into this hill, if I were you. The castle might topple over." 

"What is it?" Dunk demanded. "What's the solution?" 

Aerion smirked. "Well, you should be able to see for yourself, if you've been diligent enough in your studies," he challenged, offering the letter. 

Dunk made no move to take it. He crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornly. "I have been studying, Aerion. It's hard. You ought to be more understanding, not chide me all the time." 

"His lordship is learning rather quickly, my prince," Gareth commented. "It's early days yet, but his progress is very satisfactory. I have high hopes." 

"See? Gareth knows best, and he’s defending me."

Aerion chuckled. "Very well. The message is about our soil, Duncan, how to make it more fertile." He read the letter out loud to him. By the time he was finished, Dunk’s eyes were lit up with hope. “Aerion, that’s… That’s wonderful. We can do so many things, with a good harvest.” He hesitated. “Is that all? Simply liming the earth? Is there nothing else?” 

Aerion turned to Gareth. "Do you have anything from the Citadel, as well? You wrote to them like I told you, I hope." 

"Oh, indeed. I had their letter a few days past. You must forgive me for not telling you at once, but their suggestion seemed unlikely to work. Not anymore, though. After we've corrected the soil with the lime, planting other crops should be simple enough, according to your Maester Melaquin." 

"What crops are they suggesting?" 

"Legumes, they said. Peas, vetch, lentils, beans. Some farmers have started planting them alternatively with grains, and that enriches the soil. Each year, they leave one third of the fields to rest, and use the other two thirds for crops." 

Aerion knew a little about that; almost everywhere in the kingdoms, peasants would leave half their fields fallow at every growing cycle. He'd never heard of planting crops alternatively like that, though. "Will it work?" 

"It already does, the archmaesters claim. Half the Westerlands are doing it that way, and many places in the Reach as well." 

Aerion allowed himself a satisfied grin. “Well, then. We ought to begin." 

Willem spoke up. "Should we not wait for the rest of the jewelry to be pawned, my lord?" 

Aerion shrugged. "We already have plenty of coin from my coronet and my black pearls, at least for the nonce. We’ll start immediately, working on farmland and ships alike; no sense in wasting time, my septa always said."

"And the castle repairs?" the steward asked.  

"The estate must come first. We have plenty of gold for the castle, and after we've improved our finances, we’ll have even more," the prince reasoned. "It can wait for now; we'll need the labor for the other projects." He was loath to postpone it, in truth, but he wanted to wait until he had enough coin and leisure time to focus on the improvements fully.

"Of course, Your Grace." Gareth smiled, then turned to Dunk. "Are we in agreement, then, my lord? Is this how we should proceed?" 

With how much he'd been involved in managing everything, Aerion had almost forgotten that he was supposed to be subordinate to Dunk. He gritted his teeth and turned to the knight, waiting for his permission. 

Dunk, on his part, seemed to be very uncomfortable with them all staring at him so expectantly. “Ah… yes? I mean, of course. Working on the land first makes sense, and on the fishing. You have my, uh, assent.” 

"Very well," said Gareth softly. "So, we can begin." 

After that, it was a hustle of frenzied activity, days flying by one after another. They hired shipwrights from Maidenpool and Duskendale, and laborers from wherever they could find them; there were not many smallfolk in the villages willing to work for wages, but they turned out to be sufficient for what was needed. Half the workers were set to building boats, half to quarrying the exposed limestone from the surface of the hills and buring it in lime kilns. Aerion was simply planning and supervising, but even he was exhausted, riding around and looking at calculations all day. But the work moved swiftly under his and Dunk's watch, everyone seemingly wanting to please their liege lords as much as possible. 

And soon, the ravens started arriving, with offers from potential brokers. And Aerion was stunned. 

What surprised him was not the fact that those he'd written to responded. That was to be expected, even simply out of courtesy. The surprise was all the rest of them. Somehow, the news seemed to have spread that some princely jewels were on the market to be pawned, and most great lords and jewelsmiths east of the Sunset Sea seemed to suddenly be in possession of some spare coin. Even a magister of Pentos had heard the news, a wealthy merchant of spices and silk who had expressed a strong interest in Aerion's Valyrian steel items in particular. 

The Lannisters had also heard, half a realm away; Lord Damon's heir Tybolt sent a polite letter, wishing him all the best and congratulating him on his wedding. Apparently, the man had conveniently forgotten the fact that he'd been publicly cold towards the prince ever since Aerion rejected his brother's marriage proposal. The lordling's offer was unique; he would be more than happy to take jewels as collateral, he assured, listing some very attractive prices… but if Aerion was so inclined, Tybolt would be very much interested in buying them outright instead, for even larger sums. The amount of gold he promised was tempting, but Aerion couldn't find it in him to accept. He needed to hold on to the hope that he’d be able to take everything back one day, even if it turned out to be forlorn. He still had some princely pride, after all. 

So he ended up with a lot of options; too many of them, in fact. He needed to decide, and swiftly… but he didn't have to make the decisions alone, he realized. He was well within his right to demand help.

In the end, they made an occasion out of it. They chose one rainy afternoon and sat together, Dunk and Aerion and his handmaids, to choose which jewels to give away to whom. It was surprisingly entertaining; Aerion jumped at the opportunity to show off his collection, and made Dunk and the omegas try everything on as well. They sipped on Arbor red and debated about the highest offers, all the while bedecking themselves with more and more jewels. Sam's flowing golden hair looked beautiful when paired up with various adornments that matched its color, while Kyra's olive tones were much complimented by Aerion's pearls and rubies. Even Dunk had been cozened into wearing a few rings, as well as a circlet of white gold set with emeralds that suited him quite well. 

Halfway through the afternoon, Aerion decided to put on an even more dramatic show for his small audience, since this was like to be the last time he had the chance. The oldest of his jewelry were hundreds of years old, allegedly brought from Valyria itself when Aenar Targaryen fled the peninsula. He rarely had occasion to wear them, with how old-fashioned they were, so he seized the chance now, retreating to the bedchamber to garb himself in some appropriate clothing as well. The garments themselves were not from Valyria, of course, but they had been designed in the old fashions. It almost felt like a costume, and he half-expected them to crack some jokes when he walked back into the solar; but a hush fell over the room instead, and Sam took in a sharp breath. 

Aerion stopped in his tracks, his smile wavering. "Oh, what is it? Do I look that ridiculous?" 

They stared, seemingly at a loss. Kyra was the one to finally speak. "It's not that, my lord. It's just— You look—" 

"You look like some dark sorcerer," Dunk finished for her, almost accusingly. Sam nodded emphatically at his words, eyes wide as saucers. 

Aerion started, then let out a sharp laugh. "I suppose that is to be expected; they were sorcerers." He looked down at his clothing. "All this black and crimson doesn't help, I imagine." 

"No, it doesn't. But it… it suits you, Aerion. You look very… princely." Dunk frowned. "I've never seen a crown like this." 

Aerion walked closer, fine robes rustling. He reached up to touch his headpiece, a heavy monstrosity of Valyrian steel and blood-red rubies. The metal was wrought into concentric circles and thin black spikes extending outwards, radiating around his head like the rays of some dark sun. "Would you like to try it on?" he asked, teasingly. 

Surprisingly, Dunk reached out, almost seeming to give in… only to draw his hand back at the last moment. "Best not," he said weakly. "I'm sensing it would be disrespectful." 

Aerion snorted. "To whom? My very dead ancestors?" 

Dunk was not deterred. He nodded. "Yes. Ancestors are important. And… you shouldn't give these ones away, Aerion. It would be a shame. They're, what, centuries old?" 

Kyra spoke up as well. "He's right, my prince. They're too precious. You'll regret it if you pawn them." 

He laughed. "Oh, very well. I hardly expected such a strong reaction from you all. A certain Pentosi spicemonger will be rather crestfallen to not receive the Valyrian steel she asked for, but I am certain she shall recover. I do have to take these off now; it's all too cumbersome." The neck piece in particular was stifling, a heavy cape necklace of black beads that reached down to his chest. Only the elaborate ruby ear cuff was not restrictive, so he kept that on; but the rest returned to their chest. 

His removal of the Valyrian artefacts seemed to lift the mood back up, the omegas' relief being especially palpable. They cheerfully continued allocating the jewels, until they'd taken care of everything Aerion was planning to give away. Even Sam found his voice, suggesting quite passionately that the emerald circlet should go to the Lannisters, not so much because of the price they offered but because "it would match their eyes so well, my lord!" 

Aerion had no choice but to laugh, agreeing. Casterly Rock was far away, it was true; but if Tybolt and Lord Damon were willing to pay so well for a few ornaments, who was he to disoblige them? Besides, most of his possessions would travel nearby; to the Velaryons and the Mootons, and a few jewelsmiths in the capital. 

He was keeping some things for himself, as well; a belt of linked golden suns that was a gift from Baelor, the Valyrian relics, and his mother's ring. He would also keep the cheapest items, a few trinkets of unadorned gold and silver. Those ones wouldn't have fetched a high price, anyway. 

After he'd noted everything down in detail, filling a large sheet of paper, he rose, stretching. "I'm taking the list to Gareth. He can tend to the rest; I've grown tired of writing letters." He looked around at the three of them, still laden with gold and silver and gemstones. "I fear you must take it all off, unless you wish to be included in the exchange. I'll have to raise the prices by a lot if I pawn two grown omegas, though, and an overgrown alpha as well." 

They got moving, placing everything back in their chests and cases; though Dunk let out a disrespectful snort before rising. The prince stayed a while to supervise, watching like a hawk to make sure they put everything away in their proper place, and not simply where Dunk thought they should go. The alpha could be rather messy and scatter-brained at times. 

Aerion changed out of the layered Valyrian robes before walking outside; he hardly wanted to give his servants even more reason to gossip about their eccentric Targaryen princeling. He went to the rookery tower dressed in a plain red tunic and black surcoat, with tall boots for the muddy ground and a woolen cloak for the heavy rain. Dunk had puzzled at his going to Gareth immediately, instead of waiting for the downpour to abate; but in truth, it wasn’t just the list that had brought him here. There was another reason. A problem he’d been wrestling with for days, but still wasn’t sure how to communicate to Gareth, not without exposing himself more than would be wise. I have to ask him, somehow. This is important. 

He found the maester high up in the tower, holding a sack of corn and surrounded by more ravens than Aerion had seen in his life. One was sitting on the man's head, another perched on his shoulder. "My apologies for all this ruckus, my prince," Gareth said, laughing amidst flapping wings and demanding cawing. "I've been trying to feed them, but they're too unruly. And I've had to send for more and more corn every day." 

"That was everyone's plan, I'd wager,” Aerion remarked dryly. "'Send the prince so many ravens that he goes bankrupt trying to feed them, so that he gives everything away for cheap'. Brilliant, really." 

Gareth chuckled. "We've even had some smaller birds sent to us, crows and doves. Some still use them instead of ravens." 

The prince looked around the room. "Are you sure one of them wasn’t a golden pheasant? Maybe the Emperor of Yi Ti is also interested in my jewels." He wouldn't be very surprised, at this point. 

One large raven flew next to Aerion and tried to peck at his cloak. He cursed, shooing the wretched thing away. "Let's go down to your chambers, please. All these ravens remind me of my uncle Brynden." 

But when they sat down in the maester's study, Aerion hesitated. He gave Gareth the list, asking him to handle the rest; the maester assured him that he would be glad to do so. But when his excuse for visiting had been exhausted, Aerion found himself staring, wordless. 

The maester arched a dark eyebrow. “Is there something else, my lord?” 

“I… yes.” He stopped then, at a loss. His nails dug into the inside of his palm. 

“An issue of a delicate nature, I presume?” 

Aerion nodded. “It’s just… I require your… counsel. As a healer.” 

"I see." Gareth spread his hands. "My prince, please, be at ease. I am here to serve, and service comes in many different forms." 

Aerion cocked his head, curious. "What do you mean?" 

The maester gave a faint grin. "Well, maesters are for more than tending to birds and teaching heraldry. I consider myself to be a fair scholar, but I also take pride in my discretion." 

He hesitated. "Discretion?" 

"Indeed. Let me show you." Gareth rose, walking over to the shelves lined up against the wall. He surveyed his supplies with a casual air. The jars and bottles and jugs were cramped, but carefully labeled. 

"Do you know anything about herblore, Your Grace?" he asked calmly. "A fascinating field of study." He took a little jar from the shelf. "This is tansy and wormwood and mint, ground together. If brewed and mixed with a spoonful of honey and a drop of pennyroyal, it dislodges a babe from the womb before it quickens." 

Aerion fidgeted with the hem of his tunic. "Moon tea," he said. 

"Just so." Calmly, the maester moved on to another jar. "Chasteberry. Mixed with moonbloom and licorice, it can delay heat, or even prevent it altogether. It also suppresses an omega's scent." He opened a little box, filled with green glass vials. "And mugwort oil, of course. When added to a bath, it changes one's scent to bitter and unattractive for a few days... or so I am told. Betas do not have as strong a sense of smell as you omegas and alphas do." 

Aerion swallowed, his mind racing. "I... I think I understand you." 

Gareth nodded. "Good. I cannot claim I fully know what it is like to be in your position, but I have two omega siblings who have both been wed, and I cherish them more than anything in this world."

The prince fought back a lump in his throat. "I thank you. For your consideration. But I do not need that kind of assistance. Dunk is not... I mean, my lord is, he... he is kind." 

Gareth smiled at him, almost boyishly. "It is good to know that Lord Duncan is the same man in private as he is in public, then. So, what is the nature of the assistance that you require of me?" 

He took a deep breath, and finally confessed. "My heat. It's late." 

"How late, my lord?" 

"Over two months," Aerion said miserably. His last heat had been right before Ashford; he remembered worrying about missing the tourney, and letting Maekar down. But nothing since. He’d been so busy and overwhelmed that he didn’t even think about it; if it wasn’t for Kyra complaining about how her own heat had forced her to stay cramped up in the solar for three days, he might still not have noticed. “But… But it shouldn't be late. I'm not... It's impossible for me to be…" 

"Yes?" Gareth asked patiently. 

He swallowed. "It's not possible for me to be with child. I'm still a maiden." 

Gareth did not seem to be perturbed by that revelation; or, at least, if he was, he hid it well. "I see. Has this kind of lateness happened before?" 

"No. Well, I flowered late, but otherwise, no. The heats came each moon." 

"Well, sometimes it can happen, with emotional or physical strain. And you've suffered through both, haven't you?" 

"I suppose so." He hesitated. "Do you think something might be… wrong?" 

"Not likely. You are young and healthy. But I will also examine you, if you wish, to make certain." 

The examination was brief, and less embarrassing than he had expected; Gareth was quick and light-handed. Afterwards, he assured Aerion that everything appeared to be normal. 

"Thank you, Gareth," the prince said while lacing up his trousers. "And for your discretion, as well." 

Gareth bowed. "I am glad to be of service. Come back if you need anything else, my lord of Dawnfort." 

My lord of Dawnfort. He reflected on that, as he walked outside. He had made himself a lord, he realized. He'd resolved to manage the estate as if it was his birthright. For his own profit, for the most part; because he refused to remain idle and aimless all his life, surrendering to the whims of fate. Because if there was any chance to improve his circumstances, he was more than stubborn enough to grasp it. 

But also, because something had planted itself firmly inside him when he met Duncan, some strange seedling. His actions had watered it, the heat he always carried within him nourishing the ground on which it grew. He was not the same boy he’d been only a few months prior; he'd changed that, by his own hand, and through Dunk's influence. And it had never been more apparent than it was now. 

He'd been much too worried, he realized, about something being wrong. Almost as if he would be wounded to find out he was not fertile. Almost as it, for the first time in his life, he wanted to be able to bear children. Do I? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that the possibility of being unable to do so had disturbed him. 

What does it say about me, that I’m thinking of potential children? What does that say about what I feel for Dunk? He wasn't sure that he knew that, either. Standing in the rain, he wasn't sure if he would ever discover the answer, if he could ever solve the twisting, tangled riddle that was his own heart. 

He was wrong about that, as he had been about so much else. He solved the riddle the very next day. 

Gareth came to him after supper, silent and foreboding, as Aerion was reading one of the only three books the old lord had left in the castle. It was trite, in truth, one of those chivalric stories the nobility seemed to love, but in the absence of anything else, he had to make do. His handmaids were working on some needlework by the hearth, talking quietly to each other, while Dunk was off to Greentide, having insisted on visiting despite the day’s chill.

The maester’s face was somber and hesitant, marked with doubt. Aerion frowned at his expression, but didn’t think much of it; they were all very tired these days, overworked and drained. “What? What is it, maester?” He put the book aside. 

Silently, Gareth held out a rolled up letter of fine vellum.

Yet another offer, no doubt, Aerion thought wearily… but then he saw the seal, and his heart nearly stopped. 

"It came with a messenger, not a raven,” Gareth said softly. "The man was carrying a package as well, told me to give it only to you." He took out a small, red leather pouch from his sleeve. 

Aerion kept his hand steady enough as he took the parchment, along with the pouch. "Thank you, Gareth. That shall be all." 

That was the maester’s cue to leave, and he took it readily enough. Kyra raised her head from her work curiously, but the prince ignored her, fleeing to the bedchamber instead of meeting her quizzical gaze. 

He shut the heavy oak door and stood with his back pressed against it, as if someone might barge in at any moment. He took slow breaths, steadying himself. He responded. That’s a good sign, even by itself. Still, it took him several minutes before he gathered enough courage to break the wax seal and unroll the parchment, heart pounding. 

His grandsire had always written with neat, smooth strokes of the quill, plainly and succinctly. This letter was no different in that, but still, emotions bled out of the words. 

Ñuhus trēssanus, it opened, and Aerion already felt his heart stir at still being claimed as grandson, after everything. The letter continued in a mosaic of the Common Tongue mixed in with Valyrian, as if one language was not enough for what the king was trying to convey. Some sentences were more poignant than the rest, sticking out like knives that pierced through Aerion’s chest. 

…I am an old man with a heavy heart, but I should have still bid you farewell before you left. I hope you can also forgive… 

…kepa aōha avy jorrāeltas, Aerios… 

…valar morghūlis, sizi zaldrīzo ānogar… 

…sīr sōves, dāerī… 

…we shall all meet again soon, child, when the grief is less fresh and your sire’s anger has cooled. Then we shall speak about everything. I promise. 

And most of all— 

nyke avy imandūljan, rūs ñuhus 

When he laid the letter down, his hand was shaking, and his eyes were stinging with tears. He wiped them away. 

He picked up the pouch and opened it. Inside was a gold signet ring, engraved with the Martell sun and the Targaryen dragon. It was simple and unadorned, but instantly recognizable. He'd seen it on his uncle's hand often enough. 

He held it tight, so tight it left an imprint on his palm. He went to the cupboard and found a small case, rolling the letter back up and placing it carefully inside. The ring he slipped on his finger, next to his mother's amethyst. 

If even the king can forgive me, if he still cares for me, then there’s hope for everything. It might even mean that I could… that I and Duncan could… 

He sat down on the bed, waiting. 

When the knight entered, clothes dusty from riding, he instantly stilled, alert. They seemed to be in tune with one another's emotions by now, as if they had known each other for years. "What? What is it, Aerion, you look—" 

"He forgives me," he breathed, voice calm. 

The alpha's eyes widened, his face lighting up. He understood at once. "My prince, I am so glad for you." 

Aerion rose. "I know you are. I knew you would be. But I want… I realized something, Dunk." 

Duncan regarded him. “What did you realize?” 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I need to ask you something. I need… I need to say something… I need to make something clear." 

"Of course. Ask away." 

Aerion drew back, standing to his full height. "When you first met me," he started, "it was just a fancy." 

The knight considered for a bit, then nodded. "Yes," he said, “I think so." 

"For me, as well. I couldn't stop thinking of your stupid strong arms, your wide shoulders, your earnest handsome face, your scent. It was like that, for a while. Then, slowly, things changed. And now... Now…" 

"What is it now?" 

His heart was hammering in his chest. "You tell me," he challenged. "You're the alpha who insisted on courting me and cozening me like a knight errant. You tell me. What is it now, for you? Is it a mere fancy still? Lust? A passing infatuation?" 

Dunk's eyes softened then, his face filling with such gentleness that it made Aerion's heart lurch in his chest. "You know that already." 

"Say it," the prince whispered. "Please." 

Duncan was straightforward, as ever. "I love you. I think I will love you till the day I die, no matter what happens next. I am a simple man, and my love is simple too. You have my sword. You have my honor. You have my life." 

Aerion stumbled forward unsteadily and fell against Dunk's chest, his legs almost giving out. The knight opened his arms to hold him, pulling him closer. 

"I love you too," Aerion whispered, trembling. "Oh, gods, I love you too." 

Speaking the words seemed to set him free, as if some spell had been broken. What he wanted was clear to him now. A heady need rose up within him, sharp and strong. 

"I want to do it," he proclaimed, pulling back to look up at the alpha. "I want to do it now, tonight. Do you want to? Are you ready?" 

Duncan lifted Aerion's hand to his lips, gently kissing the inside of his palm. "Yes." 

It was the sweetest word Aerion had ever heard. He drew the knight to the bed, then pushed him backwards on the mattress, straddling him. He muffled Dunk’s surprised laugh with his lips, kissing him deeply, and fumbled with their clothing. He felt clumsier than he’d ever been in his life, his efforts hurried and unpracticed, but somehow he managed to pull the alpha's tunic over his head and throw it aside, followed by his own. He pressed himself down against the hard, warm chest, unbuckling Dunk's belt and pulling it free. 

He found himself hesitating, then. They'd never gotten this far, and just pulling the alpha’s trousers down and taking his member inside him seemed too intimidating. "Dunk, I don't… I'm not sure how to…"

The knight understood. He reached up to stroke his cheek. "I have some ideas. Do you want me to try?" 

Aerion nodded timidly. He climbed off and lay on his back instead, waiting. 

Dunk rose to stand in front of him, then pulled his boots off and unlaced his trousers, surprisingly calm. Aerion couldn't help but voice his sudden suspicion. “You didn't lie to me about being a maid, did you?"

Dunk gave a little embarrassed chuckle. "No, I didn't," he said shyly, "I just… Don’t think less of me, but, right before we wed… Well, I didn't want to come to the marriage bed completely unprepared. I didn't know what you were thinking, so I thought you might insist on, uh, consummating. So I got some advice." 

Aerion sat up a bit. "Advice? From whom?" 

"A certain pleasure house, in the Street of Silk. I didn’t touch anyone; it didn't feel right. But I paid them to give me some coaching."  

"Ah," Aerion smirked. "Alright, Ser Lecher. What kind of coaching did those wise whores give you?" 

"You’ll see." Dunk leaned in to kiss him, cupping his face. He pulled the rest of their clothing off, leaving them naked beneath the light of the hearth and the swaying candle flames. Despite himself, Aerion was abashed, suddenly all too aware that the knight had never seen him so exposed. 

"You're beautiful," Dunk whispered, as if reading his thoughts. 

Aerion’s eyes dipped down to examine the alpha’s body in turn. His gaze lingered on the area between his legs. "And you are big all over," he said, almost accusingly. 

Dunk chuckled. "Alphas are, generally. I'll be careful, don't worry. We'll start slow. Just be calm, Aerion. Lie back and be calm for me." 

Aerion lay back on the bed, belly fluttering with anticipation. And Duncan began to touch him. His face, at first, his neck, his collabone. His fingers lightly circled a nipple, making Aerion shudder. He reached under him to grasp his buttocks; he bent to kiss his chest and stomach, his lips tracing the skin, lower, down to the inside of his thighs. Then he bent his head between Aerion's legs, his mouth moving to the omega's private parts. 

Aerion gasped, abashed and aroused at the same time. Is that what the whores taught him? It was almost obscene, but he felt too good to protest, his whole body shuddering and heated. He clutched the sheets tightly, moaning. 

Dunk used his mouth to pleasure him for a long, delicious time, kissing and licking until the omega was so wet he was sure he would drip onto the sheets. When moans started escaping Aerion’s lips, Dunk pulled back, then reached out to slip a finger in, making the prince’s back arch in pleasure. Soon it was two fingers, slowly thrusting and massaging. It didn't hurt. Aerion only felt some pressure, and the steady rise of desire. His pheromones rose with it, hot and thick, mingling with Dunk’s breezy scent notes of earth and water and air. 

When the omega was near mad with lust, Dunk withdrew. "How does it feel so far, sweetling?" 

Aerion opened his eyes, breathing heavily. "Good. Fuck, it’s good, Dunk." 

"Good boy," the alpha purred softly, the praise making Aerion’s privates unexpectantly throb. Oh, he thought, that’s something new. 

Duncan looked into his eyes, searching, and finally rose to position himself over the omega, lining his cock against his entrance. 

Suddenly, the prince was afraid. He didn't want to stop, but he had lived an entire life with constant warnings about being despoiled. And that old, half-buried fear, the fear of vengeance, still made him shiver, despite knowing it wouldn’t happen. 

"Please," he begged. 

The knight understood. "I'll be gentle. I'll be as gentle as I can. I love you." 

That shattered Aerion’s doubts like they’d been made of porcelain. He nodded. 

Dunk entered him, carefully, keeping his weight off of him. Aerion gasped. There was some pain, and pressure, the sensation of being filled. His slit stretched around the alpha's cock, resisting it and yielding, all at the same time. 

The alpha leaned in to kiss him, driving his manhood deeper, inch by inch, deliciously slowly. Aerion breathed against the hot mouth, shaking. The pain was abating, replaced by more warm throbbing. He gave a soft whine. 

"Well done," Dunk whispered. "Well done, just feel me. Good boy." 

He started moving, thrusting gently. Aerion let out soft moans, squirming, pain mixing with pleasure and soon being overcome by it. He grabbed the alpha's neck and back, pulling him down further. 

It didn't take long for the knight to growl, cock twitching. "Fuck. I'm already close, sweetling. You've unmade me, your hole is so tight around me. Do you want my knot?" 

Aerion nodded. 

Dunk pulled out and gently guided Aerion to go on his hands and knees, then to lift his hips up. It was a common mating position, even the prince knew that; supposedly, it helped the knot take better. He felt obscene, his buttocks thrust up like this, privy parts exposed, and the thought made him even wetter with slick. Dunk pushed himself back inside with a groan, and started thrusting, in earnest this time. 

Aerion couldn't help but cry out. He tried to silence himself, muffling the sounds on the pillow, but Duncan scolded him. "No, my prince. Let me hear you. Let everyone hear you, your handmaids and the guards outside the door. I want them to know you belong to me, and I belong to you. Don't you want to? Don't you want the world to hear?" 

He did, queerly enough. He felt a primal instinct to own it, to declare publicly that he had been claimed. Why should he care if they judged him? He was a dragon, and dragons did as they liked. 

He moaned. His silver hair was damp with sweat, his mouth hanging open, his legs spread and shaking. His sounds of pleasure rose and rose, until he felt a tightening inside him. "Dunk, I think... I think I will…" 

"Yes," Dunk growled. "Do it, Aerion. My sweet dragon prince. Let yourself go." 

He did, his cunt pulsating, his pleasure reaching its peak. Dunk followed close behind, coming with a groan, his cock swelling into a thick knot, his warm seed filling Aerion until he was sure it had to be spilling out. As the spasms in his womb slowly faded, Aerion cried out Dunk's name, over and over again. 

He panted against the bed as they waited for the knot to go down. A few minutes later, the knight gently pulled out, then turned Aerion to lie on his back again. The omega knew he looked a mess, hair mussled, a sheen of sweat on his face, eyes still dazed. Dunk didn't seem to care. "My prince," he muttered, petting his face. 

He smiled up at him. "My knight," he responded faintly. 

Dunk lay down on the bed next to him. They stayed silent for a long time, Aerion’s hand resting on the alpha's chest. 

"Is there blood?" the prince wondered, after a while. 

"I saw a little, I think." 

He felt absurdly proud of himself. It was done. They were truly mated now, by all customs and laws. He felt their bond deepen, smelled their scents mingling harmoniously as they lay next to each other. 

"I can hardly believe this," said Dunk, in wonderment, "I can't believe I’m happy like this. You've completely ambushed me, my prince, I would have never guessed this could happen."

Aerion raised his head to look at him. "I love you," he said, trying out the words again. "I’m in love with you." He chuckled. "And I love saying it, too. It feels so unfamiliar, I’ve never said it to anyone before." 

"Neither have I," muttered Duncan. "We’ll have to make up for that, you know. We’ll have to keep at it; we'll have to make a vow. We'll have to promise to keep saying it, for the rest of our lives, as often as we can." 

And by morning, they had both already said it half a hundred times. 

Chapter Text

It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. 

He woke up every morning with a sense of elation mixed with anticipation. It was as if he'd spent his whole life as a coiled up hatchling that was finally spreading its wings under the morning sun, basking in its warmth. 

His own sun was his knight, of course. It was Dunk's gaze that drew Aerion towards him like he was seeking to bathe in it, Dunk's smile that made him feel like he was being illuminated by a pure, radiant light. It was Dunk's touch that made his skin come alive and blossom with desire. 

But if the alpha was a sun, he was a gentle one. He was not the hot sun of Dorne, beating down mercilessly on white sandy dunes. He was not a sweltering Volantene day, with thick air and moisture clinging to the skin. His light did not try to burn, nor to dominate. That was Aerion's way; the dragon way, the way of fire and blood. But Dunk was the sun of Lys, of Summerhall; soft rays shining on blue waters, a spring afternoon graced with gentle breezes. 

If their first night together was a sweaty jumble of passion, the ones that followed were even more fervent. It was only two days later that Aerion woke Dunk up in the crack of dawn, laughing, and informed him that his heat had finally arrived. "You seem to have brought it on," he declared, "with all your wiles." Then he announced that he had to get back at the alpha, and declared boldly that he would have him in rut within the day. 

He won that wager. 

Their shared desire was exhilarating. Duncan in rut was delightfully passionate, all reticence forgotten. Nearly every time they fell asleep, the alpha would soon wake him, pressing up against his body, hissing that the omega's scent was driving him mad with lust again. Aerion felt like a wild dragon in his cave, caring only about his mate and their love. 

"What is my scent like, to you?" he asked the alpha one night, curious. "I mean, I've smelled myself, of course, but they say it's not the same." 

Dunk answered immediately. "Exotic," he said solemnly. 

Aerion laughed. "Exotic? Is that good or bad?" 

"Very good. You smell wonderful, Aerion. There are some southron smells, at first; lemon and orange blossom and jasmine, fresh and clean and flowery. But also something wild and darker underneath, like smoke and salt. It's enchanting. The way a true dragon prince ought to smell." 

He's telling me I smell like Dorne and Dragonstone, Aerion realized. He was so flattered by that description that he grabbed the alpha's neck and pulled him down on him, ending their brief conversation. 

By the time his heat was over, the prince had almost forgotten that a world existed outside their rooms. Boats were still being built, he knew, and limestone was being spread in the fields. But anything beyond that was irrelevant to him, until he finally woke one morning to find that his hormones had, at last, cooled down. The alpha was still fast asleep, his face peaceful; Aerion softly kissed his brow before rising to dress, without waking him. Dunk's rut had also abated, just the previous evening, and they'd both slept heavily through the night. 

His handmaids had figured out what was going on quick enough, and kept discreetly out of the way. When Aerion sat down for breakfast, his scent neutral again, they looked at each other knowingly. Sam merely blushed and stammered a greeting; but Kyra was, as always, braver. 

"My lord, you had a lively week," she pointed out, when Aerion announced that he would go riding. "Shall you not be needing some rest, for a while?" 

Aerion rolled his eyes. "I feel quite alright, Kyra. I could bloody well joust, not just ride." 

Surprisingly, they perked up at the mention of jousting. "I've been meaning to ask you, my lord," said the girl, hesitantly. "Do you think we could attend a tourney sometime, or a melee? Or even have one here, now that we have more coin? I've never been to anything like that, and neither has Sam." The boy nodded in agreement, vigorously. 

Aerion arched an eyebrow. "You two want to attend a tourney?" he asked, bemused. "Why?" 

Kyra seemed to take some offence to that. She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. "Well, why not?" she challenged. "Your lordship likes them, so why shouldn't we? What's so different about us?"  

Aerion felt strangely abashed. "Well, most omegas don't care about any of that," he said reluctantly. "You all seem to prefer needlework to swordplay." 

"I don't think there is anything wrong with preferring either of those things," Kyra said with some passion. "But I think many omegas would like to learn how to fight, if we were permitted. I used to sneak down to the barracks in my sire's keep to wield the spears and swords, sometimes." 

Aerion was intrigued. "Truly? You must be a rare breed, then, like myself." 

But she was shaking her head. "My pardons, my lord, but that is not true. There are many who would be eager to learn, but betas and alphas don't let them choose. My parents taught me to think for myself, but most omegas are punished even for that." 

He stared at her for a while, considering. Her words had given him an idea. "Kyra," he said calmly, "you should ride out with me today. You as well, Sam. You'll want comfortable clothing. I think it is past time that we all did a little experiment together." 

It was a long and vigorous morning. By the time they returned to the castle, it was past noon, and they were all sweaty and flushed, his handmaids still giddy with excitement. Sam was chattering more than he ever had since Aerion first met him, and Kyra was asking how soon they could practice again. Aerion laughed, telling her he would have to think about it. He sent them to the great hall in case they hadn't completely missed dinner, and went looking for Dunk. 

He found him at the far end of the garden, seated on a bench with Elaena by his side. Aerion stood for a moment to gaze at the sight; his alpha was framed by the flowering canopy of the largest pear tree, surrounded by branches full of beautiful white blossoms. The sunlight streaming through the foliage made Duncan look enchanting, bringing out the color of his tan skin and sandy hair. Aerion would have stayed unobserved for much longer, but Elaena spotted him and barked, making Dunk look up. The old hound ran straight to the prince, wagging her tail and boldly licking his hand. Aerion huffed. "You are getting rather presumptuous, for a mutt," he commented, looking down into her earnest brown eyes. 

"She knows she's named for a Targaryen princess now," Dunk retorted. "She's very proud of her royal House, you see." 

"Hmm. Never tell my father that, please. If he finds out you made a ragged old bitch into an honorary dragon, he may never speak to you again. He's as prickly as a bloody porcupine, when it comes to his lineage." He reached out to pet the dog's tawny head. 

"I shall try to not be pricked," said Dunk, grinning. "How are you, my prince? You left in haste this morning, I was loath to wake without you by my side." 

"Poor knight. Well, I am here now." He sat down across from Dunk, Elaena plopping down at his feet. The benches were Aerion's idea; he refused to sit on branches like a squirrel every time he wanted to visit his own garden. "I have a proposition to make." 

"I'm listening." 

He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. "Do you think you might be ready to drill with me?" he asked. "I won't get angry if you're not, but I was thinking… it would be useful to stay in good form, for us both." 

Dunk pondered on it. "Alright," he said softly. "We can try. I do need some training, that's quite plain. And it may even help me forget about the trial, if we fight in more pleasant circumstances." 

Aerion beamed at him. "Thank you." 

"Don't thank me. In truth, I was restless before, just riding around all day. Lovemaking fixed that, but we can hardly stay in bed forever. I cannot be so idle. Even today, I grew restless again, without you."  

"Did you do nothing all day?" 

"I did. I practiced my reading. Gareth says I'm doing great." 

"Good. You should start working on sums, as well." 

"I know how to count, Aerion," Dunk protested, piqued. 

"Arithmetic is not just about counting," Aerion retorted. "You'll see when you start learning. So you ought to practice again after dinner. The sooner you're done with reading, the sooner we can move on to other things." 

"You'd be a formidable schoolmaster. As you say. What will you do after dinner?" 

Aerion gave him a little provocative grin. "Well, what do you order me to do, alpha?" 

Dunk raised one sandy eyebrow. "You may do as you like." 

The prince scoffed. "You are a curious beast. Do you not want an obedient omega?" 

Dunk frowned a bit. "Sweetling, I'm an orphan from the streets of King's Landing. I never thought I would have any omega, much less one so highborn and lovely. And I don't think you owe me obedience and all that silly stuff some folk say, I've told you. Besides, I like your spirit. I only wish it hadn't turned to cruelty so often." 

"Well, that's been taken care of, hasn't it? I haven't been this well-behaved since… Well, actually, I was never this well-behaved. Why," he said teasingly, "if some pesky peasant insults me now, I think I may even let him keep his tongue." 

Dunk smiled in a crooked, roguish way. "Aerion, anyone who dares insult you will have to face me first. And remember, I'm part giant." 

"Indeed. But not nearly as savage as a giant, it would seem. You refuse to even take charge of me, and I'm just a puny omega." 

The knight huffed, exasperated. "Gods be good, Aerion, I've told you, I don't—" Then he paused, examining the prince's face for what seemed like a full minute. 

"Aerion," he said, very carefully, "are you saying that you want me to take charge of you? Is it your wish to be more... obedient?" 

Aerion snorted. "Well," he said solemnly, "it took you long enough, didn't it? I've been hinting at it for a while." 

Duncan's eyes widened, and then he gave a surprised laugh. He relaxed, squaring an ankle over one knee. "'Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall,' Ser Arlan used to say. You should be glad I figured it out at all. But why didn't you just tell me?" 

Aerion threw his hands up, sighing. "Because I didn't know exactly what I wanted. I'm not sure I know now, either. I don't actually want to be forced to do anything, clearly. I just... I think I would like it if you... If... If we played at it. My brother used to say that some people like that, in their lovemaking." Daeron would say many things when he was well and truly drunk, only to apologize once he sobered, mortified to have discussed such subjects with an omega. But the younger prince had merely found it amusing, and now it turned out that it had been educational, too. 

Dunk cocked his head. "What exactly do you have in mind?" 

"Well, mostly you commanding, and me obeying. But only when we both want it. Does that even make sense?" 

"I think so. I can try." He hesitated. "I must confess, this is not something I have a lot of knowledge about." 

"Perhaps we could start simple. Give me an order, anything that comes to mind. And if I truly don't want to do it, I shall tell you so." 

"What, here and now, in front of poor Elaena?" 

"Not anything lewd. Just give a simple command, to see how it feels." 

"Hmm. Like this?" Dunk cleared his throat, fixing a stern gaze on him. "Come here, and tell me how you spent your time today." 

Aerion's chest fluttered, warmth spreading in his belly. He licked his lips. "Oh." 

Dunk waited, then cracked a tiny smile. "You are supposed to do it, I believe, not just stare at me." 

"Oh." He flushed. "Right." He rose, moving to sit next to Dunk. "We rode to the stream down south by the woods, just I and Kyra and Sam. The daffodils are out by the waterside, and a pair of ducks have made their nest in the grass. We brought some eggs back to the castle." 

"Mhm. Go on." Dunk put a hand at the small of his back, softly stroking. 

"It was quite peaceful. We saw larks, beavers, and dragonflies, and broke our fast among the trees. There were many of the flowers you've shown me." 

"That's a good way to spend a morning. And then? You were gone for quite a while."  

"We did some swordplay," Aerion confessed. "With tourney swords, not sharp steel. I bought them from the smith down in Saltcrest." 

"Swordplay? With your omegas?" 

"They should know how to defend themselves," Aerion protested. "I am not the only omega in Westeros who can fight, you know." 

"I am aware. Isn't one of those she-wolf Stark girls an omega?" 

"Yes, and she supposedly hunts bears and fights in every melee held in the North." 

The knight's hand was still stroking his back. Aerion leaned against his shoulder, rubbing his face on his sleeve. Dunk chuckled, holding him close. "Are you feeling alright, my princeling?" 

"Mhm." He breathed in Dunk's scent, as if even a few hours apart had been too long. The aroma soothed him, clearing his head, bringing new inspiration. "I know something else we can try," he muttered. "I've thought about it sometimes. It's certainly not appropriate for the outdoors, however." 

"And what might it be?" 

Aerion sat up on the bench, trying to puzzle out a good way to phrase it. "Daeron told me about this, as well. It's a rather popular activity; apparently he, in particular, loves it. But it's something a bit more... intense." 

Dunk took a deep breath. "What do you mean?" His voice was level, almost artificially so. Clearly, he had some idea of what his mate was implying. 

Aerion swallowed, trying to find the words. His own reluctance annoyed him. You are a dragon, not a bleating sheep. Be blunt. "I am talking about chastisement." 

"Chastisement. You mean, physical?" 

"You cannot tell me you haven't at least considered it," Aerion said defensively. "I was trying to ruin your life, and you were attracted to me as well. Surely all that rage and lust mixed into some interesting fantasies." 

Dunk blushed. "I confess, there were times where I pictured taking you across my knee. It was... a titillating thought." 

"So you would enjoy it as well as I." 

"Yes," he admitted. "But... it would not be right to strike you." 

"But I want you to. It makes all the difference, don't you see? It is different the way us bedding each other is different to you taking me by force. It would be pretend, not the real thing." 

Duncan paused at his insistence, his face set in thought. "If we're pretending that way, I suppose you'll be acting unwilling. So we'd have to think up something to make sure you can still stop me, if you wish." 

"How about I say something special? Something that is not 'stop' or 'no.' Something unique." 

The knight perked up at the idea. "A Valyrian word, perhaps?" 

"Hmm. I cannot think of a particularly fitting one..." 

"It has to be something you wouldn't say otherwise, something unrelated to wooing. Unsavory, even." 

"Ashford," the prince blurted out. 

Dunk laughed. "Of course. What else would you think up?" 

"So will we try it?" 

Dunk smirked. "My prince, I think that we should move this conversation to our chambers, now." 

It was all Aerion needed to hear. He rose and took the alpha's arm, practically dragging him along. Elaena looked at them with a puzzled expression as she lay sprawled on the grass, seemingly too lazy to follow at their heels this time. When they reached the main keep, Aerion hurried up the steps so quickly that Dunk stumbled a bit, laughing. In their bedchamber, the prince locked the door, lowering the bar as well. He turned to the alpha, smirking. 

"You should take the lead now," he challenged. "So, what's next?" 

Dunk gave a boyish smile. "Well, I suppose we must needs find a cause. It is hardly believable for me to punish you for no reason." 

Aerion snorted, amused despite his trepidation. "Dunk, I think you have plenty of reasons." 

He rolled his eyes. "Maybe, but I wouldn't want us to use something too serious. That might... confuse things." 

The omega considered. "I am imprudent," he blurted out. 

Dunk chuckled. "Towards me?" 

Aerion shook his head. "No. Well, yes, but that is not what I meant. I keep snapping at people, and yesterday I called Wat a straw-headed dolt. Again." 

Dunk's eyebrows rose. "And you see that as an issue?" 

"I am... ashamed of it. Don't look so surprised, Ser Gallant, you're rubbing off on me. And it is frustrating to not be able to control yourself. My tongue has a will of its bloody own." 

"Hmm. Very well. It's more than good enough for me; I do get angry when you talk down to people, you know." 

"Good. Summon that anger, then." 

Dunk grinned, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh, not so fast. First, you will ask for what you want, directly." His face sobered, only a little. "Do you need me to punish you, little dragon?" he asked, in a very smooth, even tone. 

Aerion nodded, his heart pounding, still hardly believing his luck. He would never have guessed that Dunk would agree to this so comfortably. He felt his scent rise, thickened with lust. 

"Use your words," Dunk ordered. His voice was sharper, lower. A quick and easy change, slipping from gentle to commanding smoothly. His scent was rising in response to Aerion's, heavy with desire. 

Aerion shivered a bit, eagerness mixing with trepidation. "Yes," he said softly. "Please, punish me." 

"And do you remember that you can say the word 'Ashford', and I will stop at any time?" 

"Yes." 

"Good. Come here." His voice was a low growl, sending a shock down Aerion's spine. He obeyed, walking to Dunk in small, unsteady steps. 

"Sit on my legs." 

Aerion sat, straddling him. Their faces were very close together, and the alpha's eyes were dark with an intensity he had rarely seen in him. Aerion felt his cheeks color, but he didn't look away. He could hardly understand his own emotions; he was afraid, but it was somehow pleasurable, a wonderful thrill that had his blood pumping fast in his veins. 

Dunk was clearly excited as well; Aerion could feel his elevated heartbeat, and smell the sharpness in his scent. The knight was trying to be stern, however. "Do you understand that the smallfolk here spend their days working hard to serve us?" he asked solemnly. 

"I... Yes." 

"And do you understand that I was born as much a commoner as they are, an orphan from the slums? Your own husband?" 

"Yes, my lord." 

Dunk's eyes widened a bit at the honorific, but he kept going. "Good. I am glad your wit is as quick as ever. It will help you understand the rest." He took a deep breath. "Now, pull down your breeches, and bend over my lap." 

Aerion's heart was drumming in his ears. He rose and carefully arranged himself over the alpha's thighs, breeches unlaced and discarded. It was not the most comfortable position, but the alpha was large enough that Aerion felt secure. Dunk did not move for a while, simply letting him settle. 

Then Aerion felt the knight's palm gently resting against his bottom. A shiver went up his spine.  

"Now, tell me," Duncan asked levelly. "Have you ever been chastised like this?" 

"No." 

There was a pause. "Truly? Well, you're only a soft princeling, so I will temper my strength. But we still need the punishment to stick. Don't we?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Very well. Now, I will explain it to you plainly. Our household members are to be respected. Yes, they're here to serve, and they should be obedient to you as their lord. But that doesn't mean you've got the right to snap at them, or to raise your voice, or to demean them with vile names. If you do, I will correct that behavior." 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Good." Dunk pulled his hand back, and Aerion had but a moment to prepare before the palm came down hard on his arse. He gasped, but the first few slaps were more stimulating than outright painful. Duncan was being methodical, covering both cheeks, and leaving enough time between each smack for Aerion to recover himself. 

"I know you were raised in a royal household," the alpha lectured, between slaps, "but that does not exempt you from common decency. If anything, you ought to be held to a higher standard. If you want to be called a prince, you must learn princely courtesy." 

Aerion hissed as one smack landed on his sit spot, the first truly painful moment. "Yes, alpha." 

"Good boy." Dunk quickened the pace, hitting harder and faster. Aerion began to squirm, little whimpers escaping his lips. His whole bottom felt warm. When the knight landed a few swats on his upper thighs, he moaned and twisted in his lap. 

"None of that, now," the alpha chided. Aerion tried to stay still, but as the spanking continued to rise in intensity, his willpower was abandoning him. After one sharp swat to his left cheek, his hand shot up automatically, trying to cover the spot. 

Dunk simply grabbed Aerion's wrist and held his arm firmly behind his back, undeterred. Soon the omega's feet were twitching, and he was curling and uncurling his toes. Slick flowed from his entrance, arousal forming a hot, tight feeling in his belly. He moaned again, rubbing against Dunk's leg. 

"Settle down, omega. We are almost done." Yet he swatted harder, reaching a fast and brutal rhythm. Aerion couldn't help moving now, and crying out with every slap. Soon, he felt tears rising in his eyes, and let them flow. He hung his head, his bottom smarting as he was held firmly in his alpha's lap, his head empty of anything other than remorse and submission and bliss. 

When the first soft sobs began, Dunk finally relented. He stopped the spanking, resting his hand on Aerion's buttocks and rubbing gentle, slow circles on the inflamed skin. 

"Now," he said firmly, "tell me what you have learned." 

Aerion sniffled. "I-I must treat our household with courtesy." 

"Good. And why is that?" 

"Because they d-deserve respect, like you and I do." 

"That's right. And what are you not allowed to do?" 

"Yell. Call names. Insult them." He sniffled again. "I am sorry, alpha." 

Dunk gently pulled him up, sitting him on his lap to look at his face. "You are forgiven, my prince. You were a good boy. Took it very well." He wiped his tears away. 

Aerion melted at the praise. He settled against the knight's chest, closing his eyes. He did not remember the last time he had felt so calm, so at peace. His heart was beating in a steady rhythm, and the fire he always carried within him seemed to have transformed into a gentle, sweet warmth. 

They lay down on the bed, and Dunk covered them both with a blanket. Aerion stayed still for a while, his hand resting on the knight's chest. 

"Seven hells," he said finally, drawing a bark of laughter from Duncan. 

"That good?" 

"My arse is sore and my thighs are wet with slick, but yes." 

"Poor lad. I'll clean you up later, myself. Or do you want your handmaids to help? I can send for them, they can bring some dinner as well. You must be hungry—" 

"Don't you dare get up," Aerion snapped, "Just stay here and let me hold you, you ridiculous giant." 

Dunk snorted. "Your wish is my command, as always." 

Aerion smoothed his cheek against the knight's chest, while Dunk petted his hair. "I can't believe you had never been spanked before." 

He shrugged. "My father always threatened to do it, swearing that I needed the rod to set me straight. But somehow he never did. Daeron was often being whipped, but I was the one being yelled at, mostly. Oh, and he did threaten to send me to the silent sisters, but only once." Aerion had very calmly asked Maekar if he remembered what had happened to Saera Targaryen when she was bundled off to the silent sisters, and, like magic, his father never mentioned it again. 

"Mhm. I should put you over my knee more often, then, to make up for lost time."  

"You should. Especially when I tell you to." 

The prince would have lain back down, but Dunk looked like he wanted to say something else, his brows knitting together in thought. Aerion held his tongue, waiting. 

"I do have to ask for one thing," the alpha said at last, "regarding our household." 

"Oh? You are not about to make me go around apologizing to everyone, are you?" 

Dunk laughed. "No. Just this: get to know them better." 

Aerion frowned. "I do know them, Dunk. I've been living with them for months. Sam and Kyra sleep in the next room, in case you haven't noticed." 

"We have thirty people living in the castle with us, my love," Dunk said, patiently. "Are you telling me you know them all?" 

"Well, I should think so. I've supervised their work, several times." 

"Alright. What is the laundress' name, then?" 

The prince opened his mouth to respond, indignant, then discovered that nothing at all came to mind. He bit his lip. He knew the laundress well enough, he thought; she was a burly, no-nonsense woman who spoke little but worked a lot. But her name? "I… I don't…" 

"And the cook? He makes our food every day, surely you ought to know him. What's his name? What village is he from?" 

"I'm not sure, I…" 

"The boy who tends the hounds? He has a way with them, you know. What about our stablehands? The maidservants who clean our rooms? The scullions in the kitchens?" 

Aerion stared at the knight. "Well," he said, abashed, "you're making me feel like I should be back over your knee, Duncan." 

The alpha leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I'm sorry; I'm not trying to do that. I just wanted to make a point. You ought to know everyone, and not just because it's courteous. They'll love you better if you show an interest, and if the need should arise, you've got to be familiar with every tool in your hands. You're the one who told me to be vigilant, that the Blackfyres invaded not too long ago. Well, follow your own counsel. Not everyone can wield a sword, but even the meanest serving boy can prove useful, in his own way." 

Those words stayed in Aerion's head, for days afterwards. He did as Dunk advised, gathering some interesting information along the way. The laundress — whose name, he made sure to note, was Gunna — had served the old lord too, about whom she had many choice tales. A guard called Myrtle had grown up near Dyre Den, and knew the Cracklaw bogs like the back of her hand. One of the stablehands, a wisp of a girl who couldn't have been more than ten, proudly declared that her name was Scout, "and I live up to it, too. I gots good eyes and better ears, milord, I'd see the foe from miles." She made Aerion promise, to his great amusement, that he would come to her first, should he be in any need of scouting. Other names were less droll; one of the scullions introduced himself as Rat, which had Aerion so scandalized that he almost told the lad to just pick a new name. "A rat?" he asked Dunk that night, still incredulous. "In the kitchens?" That made the knight laugh so hard that Aerion smacked him with a pillow. 

They began drilling as well, and it was surprisingly easy. Aerion was rusty, but it all came back to him rather quickly, and Duncan, to his relief, found it pleasurable as well. The first time they sparred, the two of them were evenly matched; a week later, Aerion was disarming Dunk twice a session. He couldn't disguise his triumph, even though he suspected the alpha was holding back. "You are dead, again." he declared one morning, the tip of his tourney sword against Dunk's throat. 

The alpha narrowed his eyes, then brushed the blade aside and swept Aerion off his feet, dragging him down on the verdant field they had chosen as the day's training ground. He straddled the prince, drawing a surprised laugh. "Is that honorable conduct, my lord? Seems like dirty tactics to me. Have you turned back into a rogue?" 

Dunk's eyes twinkled. "A rogue? Is that sufficient respect for your lord husband?" 

"Sufficient respect for an oaf," Aerion said, greatly daring. 

"Hmm. I see what the issue is. It's been too long since you were chastened." He flipped the prince on his stomach, holding his arm behind his back and pushing just firmly enough to hold him down without hurting him. He laid a lazy smack on Aerion's backside. "Tell me again how I'm an oaf," he said pleasantly. 

"Well, now you're just shameless," the prince whined. "We're outdoors." 

"Worried some peasant will pass by? Maybe the smallfolk will enjoy knowing that your busy tongue gets you in trouble sometimes." 

"From what I recall from the night we consummated our marriage," Aerion said mildly, "it is your busy tongue that got us in trouble. We barely left that room for a week." 

"Well, now you've done it. I hope you're happy with yourself, because we're not leaving here until you get your just rewards." 

In the end, Aerion got much more than that. They left hours later, smiling, their clothes in disarray. 

Not all of their sessions were this exciting, of course; most of the time, Aerion took his omegas along, or practiced with the men-at-arms in the castle. Soon he had all of them drilling every morning, the yard coming alive with the ringing of steel. He discovered a lot of pleasant surprises. Their captain-of-the-guard, Eric, was barely more than twenty, but not nearly as inexperienced as he looked. He was deft and strong, and as calm and collected when fighting as he was awkward when doing anything else. Myrtle was rather agile with a spear, while old Harwyn had so many tricks up his sleeve that the prince highly doubted his claim that he'd only fought in one battle before, and "on the side of yer noble grandsire, of course, m'lord". 

Even Sam proved to have potential. The boy might be meek and shy, but his instincts were good, and he read his opponents easily. He even disarmed the ferocious Kyra a few times, though he would follow each victory with a string of stammering apologies, to everyone's amusement. 

Aerion was happier than he'd ever been in his life. Everything was falling into place. He spent mornings riding or drilling, afternoons looking through accounts, evenings in passionate bliss. He could easily keep going like this forever, he thought, as untiring and unceasing as the flame of a Valyrian glass candle. 

Yet, a few weeks later, he made a discovery that could change everything, in a heartbeat. And despite his initial daring, he didn't quite know how to feel about it. 

He didn't immediately go to Dunk. He waited until they were undressing for bed, torn between fear and hope. Then he stood in front of the knight, half-naked, shivering. "Duncan," he said softly, "I need to speak to you." 

Dunk looked up, smiling, but his face fell when he saw Aerion's expression. He rose, concerned. "What's wrong, my prince? You look half a ghost. Did something happen with the estate, or your family, or—" 

"No," Aerion muttered. "Everything is fine. I've heard nothing new from my kin. The last of the shipments left yesterday, and we have the deposits. And most of the boats are nearly finished; I rode down to Saltcrest two days past. We're doing great, they all tell me." 

"Then why do you look so upset? What is it, sweetling?" 

Suddenly he was fighting back tears. "Why do you love me, Dunk?" he asked in a small, timid voice. 

"What? What do you mean?" 

"I can't understand it, sometimes. Attraction or not, apologies or not, most alphas in your position… Anyone in your position… Why do you love me? What have I ever done, to be worthy of it?" 

Dunk was silent for a long time, regarding him with thoughtful, tender eyes. Then he approached. He placed one hand on Aerion's shoulder, and used the other to gently lift the omega's chin. "Because I see you," he said at last. "You've worn cruelty like a suit of armor, perhaps all your life. But I can see beneath. You're half-divine, my prince. Flame unquenched. And you've changed. You're being selfless, you're helping people, it's astounding to me how much you're helping. You make me the happiest I've ever been in my life. Every morning I wake up beside you, I can scarcely believe my good fortune. So of course I love you, Aerion. And of course you're worthy of it." 

The knight's ardor shook him out of his desolate mood. He no longer felt like weeping; he just stared up at Dunk, uncertain. "I'm afraid," he said shakingly.

"Why are you afraid?" 

He took a deep breath. "Because I am with child," he confessed, barely above a whisper. 

Dunk reacted with the shock of all sires, since time immemorial. He stared in pure, dumbfounded bewilderment, unspeaking, as the realization settled. Then, his face lit up, like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

"Are you certain?" he managed to ask, voice hushed and reverent. 

Aerion nodded. "I wasn't, at first; I missed two heats before, so I thought this might be similar. But I saw Gareth today, and he says it's very likely. And also… I can feel it, Duncan. I don't even know how, but I can. There is a child. There will be a child." 

Dunk reached down to touch the omega's abdomen, then hesitated. "Aerion, you should only do this if you want to. Don't concern yourself with me; if you're not ready—" 

But his doubts were clearing up again; his alpha had managed to banish them. "I do want to. I just needed… I just had to be sure… I needed you, Dunk." 

The alpha did touch him then, laying a gentle palm over his stomach. "You have me, my prince. I'll always be yours. Never doubt that." 

Aerion looked up at him calmly, his courage returning. "I won't. I promise, I will never doubt you again. I am yours and you are mine, husband. For the rest of our days." He drew the knight down into a long, lingering kiss, sighing, muttering endearments. 

When he finally pulled back, he was smirking. "I have the perfect way to celebrate this, as it happens." 

Duncan smiled. "And what would that be?" 

"Why," he said pleasantly, "writing the perfect letter to Summerhall, of course. But it has to be delivered by a messenger, not a raven. I need someone to be able to describe the look on my father's face, when he reads all about how potent his new son-in-law is. This is what he asked for, after all; Targaryen heirs. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know all the wonderful details about how his first grandchild came to be. Now, I'll go fetch some ink and parchment. Please, do try and remember, so that I don't write anything inaccurate; did your rut last six days overall, or seven?" 

Chapter Text

Brother, 

That was doubtless your intention, but I must inform you that you nearly killed our father. If your letter was an assassionation attempt, it was a good one, because his face turned a color I've never seen before. He also spouted some obscenities even I don't know, and I've spent half my life in brothels. At some point, I could have sworn I heard some Tyroshi in there. Have you ever heard him speak that dialect before? When did he even learn it? I was too terrified to ask. 

I did glance at the letter myself. Have you no shame? But I suppose I'm partly to blame, with all my raunchy stories. I was never a very responsible older brother. 

Your messenger will be returned to you unharmed, but rather shaken, I fear. Father was convinced this was all some ill-intentioned joke, so he summoned the man back to bellow at him. I shall spare you the details. But eventually, he was persuaded you were telling the truth. Now he's oscillating between rage and puzzlement, and, though he won't admit it, joy. This will be his first grandchild, after all, though conceived in such unusual circumstances. 

You'll get some formal letter of congratulations from Maester Malequin, I'm sure, but I had to write to you first. I must wish you happiness and good health, for both you and your child. We'll probably all be summoned to court after your babe is weaned; King Daeron is anxious to reconcile the family. That ought to be amusing to watch. I'll be needing a lot of wine. 

I'm as well as I can be. Father has been rather focused on me since you left, which is most disagreeable. But I'll survive. Take care and stay calm, or whatever it is that a pregnant omega is supposed to do. We'll see each other soon, valonqus. Give my regards to Ser Lord Duncan. 

With fondness, 

Daeron 

"We shouldn't have been so bawdy," Dunk muttered when Aerion was done reading. "We could have given your sire a fit of apoplexy or something." He was standing in the middle of the solar, abashed, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak. 

"It'll take more than a vulgar letter to kill the Anvil of the Redgrass field, I assure you," Aerion declared, leaning back against the wall. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, and in the horizon, down by the village, silvery waters rippled in the breeze. The day was as bright and merry as Aerion's mood, and the letter had only amused him further. "It's hardly a challenge to anger my father, anyway; he was born prickly, that man." 

Dunk moved to sit across from the prince on the window sill, grinning. "You used to be quite the prickly princeling as well. And you're still fretful, as it happens." 

Aerion arched an eyebrow. "Come now, Dunk. I'm practically dancing of late; you're going to end up making me as merry as some maid from a song, Jonquil or Ellyn Eversweet." 

"Aye, but you still worry too much. Calm yourself. Everything's gone just as we wanted, hasn't it?" 

So it had. The fields were ready to be sown with seed, and the ships were all finished, from smaller skiffs to their largest trawlers; the last vessel, a rather impressive forty-footer, had been completed the day before. Some were already casting their nets, bringing in a rich bounty of fish. The lordship would start buying the smallfolk's catch as well, to resell in King's Landing and Gulltown and White Harbor; wealthier ports the fisherfolk didn't have the means to regularly travel to. It was the way they'd devised to keep the prices up, so that no one would have to worry about competing with the new, larger boats. 

Still, Aerion couldn't allow himself to be fully at ease. It felt like some part of him needed to remain cautious, especially after he found out he was with child. He shrugged. "It's in my nature, you know. That's what my name means, in Valyrian; it comes from aeritta, restless." 

"I see. It might be better if you did get some rest for once, though." Dunk's smile was boyish, as pretty as spring flowers. "But in any case, I'm glad you're so content; it wouldn't be good for you to be surly all the time." 

Aerion chuckled. "For the babe, you mean?" 

"For you," Dunk insisted. "For your own wellbeing. I'll never neglect you, not even for our pup. You'll never be put in second place." 

"I know. You are caring by nature. Our children will be more lucky than they'll know, to have such a sire." 

"Children?" The alpha teased. "Are you thinking of others already, with the first one a mere flutter inside you? Are you sure you'll want more than one screeching little terror? You know how pups can be." 

Aerion cupped the soft swell of his stomach. It was only the third month, true, but it felt like his hatchling had scarcely troubled him; he'd only had a few bouts of nausea, milder than he'd expected, and mostly gone by now. "This one will be easy, I think. As mild-mannered as you." 

"Hmm. Thought of any names yet?" 

He grinned. "Maegor?" 

Dunk's face crumbled into so much fear and distress that it was almost comical. "Please, no," he said weakly. 

Aerion laughed. "Alright. Not Maegor. But I warn you, I've always had a queer sense of humor, and I've been woefully bereft of discipline lately." As expected, Dunk refused to lay a hand on him while he was with child, and was frustratingly gentle in bed, as well. "Might start misbehaving if this continues; you never know with capricious princes like me." 

Dunk leaned back and threw an ankle over one knee. "There are more ways to chasten you than a spanking. Maybe I'm disciplining you by making you wait." 

"How creative," Aerion remarked mildly. "I don't feel very disciplined, I must say. You ought to up the effort. I'm not some frail maiden, I shall remind you. I can still ride Onyx as well as ever." 

That made the knight frown. "Aye, you're still as fast as the bloody wind. But you ought to stop riding so vigorously, Aerion. Maester Gareth—" 

"—said I can do as I please, so long as I'm careful. Riding Onyx means I'm being careful, even if we gallop. She has never failed me, nor will she." 

Dunk rolled his eyes. "I swear, you're as headstrong as your sire. All you dragonlings must've been born to torment me in particular. Somewhere, some god is laughing—" 

Aerion grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him forward, stopping the whingeing with a kiss. After that, the alpha proved remarkably more agreeable. 

They had somewhat of a feast, that evening, celebrating the completion of what the villagers had amusingly taken to calling the Saltcrest dragon fleet. There was roast goat and game birds, fish stew and nuts and hearty black bread, served with mead and beer. As the musicians played, Dunk insisted on drinking to Aerion; so the prince had to retaliate, raising his goblet in honor of Dawnfort's most noble lord. 

The hounds were wandering about the hall and begging for scraps, as was their wont. Aerion had discovered that he didn't have the heart to evict them, as skinny as most of them were. Besides, their presence offered some advantages. When Elaena wandered up to him, wagging her tail, Aerion took the opportunity to dispose of the meat still on his plate, holding out chunks for the grateful hound to gobble down. 

Dunk noticed, his smile faltering. "Aren't you eating that?" he asked hesitantly. "There's so much on the plate still." 

"Why, do you want it? There's plenty more in the serving trays, you hardly need to eye my leftovers." 

The alpha frowned. Strangely, as the evening progressed, he seemed to grow troubled. He would occasionally look at Aerion thoughtfully, then away again. The prince glanced sideways at him, but said nothing. He waited until the celebration was done and they were in their bedchamber, undressing. 

He lay on his side on the new featherbed Dunk had invested in the moment they acquired more wealth, sighing. "Alright. What is it, Duncan? Are you still thinking about the letter? It's really not that serious, I promise. My sire—" 

"It's not that," the knight interrupted, hastily. He stripped off his shirt and laid it aside. "It's just... I— I've been thinking about something. I might just be misunderstanding things, but..." he paused. 

"But what? Come now, Dunk. I don't want to see my mate surly any more than you do." 

Dunk took a deep breath, then sat down on the bed. "I've been thinking," he said meekly, "that you're not eating enough." 

Aerion raised his eyebrows, taken aback. "Is that all? I was never fond of goat flesh. Too... chewy."  

"I meant in general. I thought it was just nerves from everything that's happened, so I said nothing. But it's been months, and now you're with child, yet I've hardly ever seen you clear a plate. The only time you didn't pick at your food was with those damned nuts at Ashford, and I suspect that was just to vex everyone. Do all omegas eat so little?" 

He shifted in discomfort. "I don't know about other omegas, but I don't enjoy eating that much. Haven't for some time now, at least." 

The alpha didn't seem to fully comprehend what Aerion had just said. "How can somebody not enjoy eating?" 

He gave a languid shrug, feigning an air of indifference. "Not everyone is an insatiable aurochs like you. I eat what I require, no more." 

But Dunk was considering. "You said 'for some time now.' Was there a time when you ate more?" 

Seven hells. "Must we discuss this? It really doesn't matter." 

"It matters to me, Aerion. I want to know that you're well." 

He would have argued, but Dunk's eyes were so steadfast and genuine in their concern that he faltered. "Oh, damn it. You are insufferable." He sighed. "Fine. If you must know, I shall tell you." He looked away, queerly uncomfortable about confessing this, struggling with how to begin. "I didn't used to be this way. It's… It's because of— of my mother," he stammered.  

"Your mother?" Dunk was puzzled. "What of her?" 

"Well, she… You already know that she was a Dayne of Starfall, I suppose?" 

"Yes, of course. And how she… um… died. That's all I know of her, though." 

"Well," Aerion started, sitting up on the bed, "she remained Dornish through and through, even after living in Westeros for years. Not that she ever complained about the Marches; Summerhall is the most beautiful palace in the Kingdoms, she would always admit." The prince's childhood home had been built for pleasure, an elegant palace of pale arcades, slender columns, and imposing domes. It sprawled indulgently on lush fields by the foothills of the Red Mountains, surrounded by verdant gardens and marble pools. They'd been happy there, even his father.  

"But she still loved her homeland," he said softly, "and she never forgot it. So when she came north, she brought her own cooks, insisting she couldn't live without her childhood foods. My father could hardly object to that, and soon he even began sharing her table himself." He shrugged. "In truth, I think he did it just to please her, at first, but Dornish cooking grew on him. So we were raised eating like we lived in Sunspear or Starfall, rather than the Stormlands." 

He faltered. Sorrow had crept into his tone, words getting harder and harder to force out. You're a dragon, he told himself stubbornly. You can tell a simple story without choking on your sentences. Get on with it. 

"It was more than just— just about food. We spent the day apart, at our lessons and duties and training, so we sat together only at meals. So it was a precious time; we cherished it. We would sit on her terrace every single morning, and eat sherbet or drink lemonsweet while we chattered. My mother could make everyone laugh, so it wasn't uncommon for the drink to accidentally spill on someone's clothes. Then, at dinnertime, she'd want to know everything about our day, and was always urging us to try each dish served. It was all rich and colorful and strongly spiced, and served with Dornish wines, sweet or sour or mulled. I remember all the flavors, as if they were still in my mouth. And after sunset, I and my siblings would gather in her parlor, and drink mint and lemon tea as she wove tales for us, of heroes and monsters and villains of old." 

Aerion could vividly recall everything; Daeron always sitting right by Dyanna's feet, the younger children's wide eyes, and how his mother's rings glimmered in the lamplight as she gestured, breathing life into legends with skillful, theatrical storytelling. "To tell you the truth," he muttered, "she could have been a mummer, if she hadn't been born a noblewoman. She had all the talent for it." The thought made him feel queer, reminding him painfully of Tanselle. 

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was only one ending to this tale, and he had to get to it as painlessly as possible. "And then, she died," he said simply. "And from that moment on, everything changed. Anything related to Dorne became unbearable to my sire, so Mother's staff were dismissed, and Dornish food disappeared. We still dined together, but the mood was so sour that no one dared to speak, not with Father's jaw clenching at the slightest provocation. It took months for his grief to cool, and he still carries it inside him years later." He shrugged. "So, food lost its savor for me. I eat enough to keep my strength up, as a knight should, but it's often an ordeal. And dining around my kin, or with many people watching, is the worst. I feel… cornered. Irritable, like a wild animal. Sometimes I lash out at everyone around." He grimaced. "You saw a demonstration of that at Lord Ashford's table, though I was also trying to act unbothered, at the time." 

Duncan had stayed quiet throughout the story, and Aerion didn't dare look up to see his expression. He waited, fidgeting with the signet ring the king had sent, which he'd slipped from his finger somewhere along the telling. He pressed the seal against his palm until it hurt, leaving a temporary stamp of Baelor's sigil on his skin. 

Dunk laid a gentle hand over Aerion's. "I understand. I'm sorry about what happened to your mother, and that it still pains you so. But also… It's a blessing that she was a good woman. That she made you so happy. Daeron said you used to be a glad little boy, and I can see why." 

Aerion's eyes shot up. "He said that? 'A glad little boy?'" 

Dunk nodded. "He cares for you a lot, that's plain to see." 

"I know." He sighed. "Daeron has always been kind, like our mother, though he lacks her fire. She was good; the only one who could soften my father, other than Baelor and Rhaegel. But also strong, brave enough to withstand anything. In truth, my sire was always a little in awe of her. Rather… subservient." 

Dunk was incredulous. "Maekar, subservient?" 

Aerion smiled faintly. "You shouldn't be so surprised; he wasn't always so fearsome. When my grandparents arranged his marriage, he was just a lad of six-and-ten, pox-marked and awkward, always overshadowed by his brothers. He had few friends, and was known only as the youngest, most sullen pup of the family. When my mother arrived, beautiful and noble and refined, he was quite terrified, to hear my kin tell it. But they grew to love each other fiercely over time. She was kind, and very patient with him. Even when he ran off sulking because of some offense one of us had given, she would laugh and tell us not to worry, that he was like a bear who just needed to hide in his cave and brood awhile. It was a good match, in the end." 

Dunk smiled crookedly. "Like ours." 

"Yes. Like ours. Who could have foreseen it? Certainly not my sire. He tried several matches for me, but his greatest dream was that I wed Valarr. He pictured his son as royal consort, bearing children who would be kings." 

"A splendid match, to be sure. How on earth did you manage to evade it?" 

He sighed. "I didn't need to. At first, Baelor and my grandsire were amenable, but as the years went by, it became evident it would be a bad idea. Valarr was always courteous, but he never showed any interest in men, omegas or otherwise. Baelor would never have forced his son to marry against his own proclivities. And also…" He hesitated. "Well, you are already well aware of how cruel and volatile I grew up to be. Baelor was too kind to say it outright, but he didn't want his son wedded to an unstable omega." 

"That must have hurt you." 

He started a bit, blinking in surprise. "I… I didn't want to be married." 

"Still, it must have hurt. Baelor was your favorite uncle, wasn't he? Being rejected by him had to have been difficult." 

He didn't quite know what to say to that. Baelor had been more than a favorite uncle, in truth; he and Dyanna had been the ones who encouraged Aerion to do whatever he wished with his life, even against convention. Baelor had even knighted him when no one else would, not for an omega. He dubbed his shoulders and bade him be brave and just and true in front of his father and half the court, with Maekar's face torn between concern and pride. 

When his uncle stepped up to fight against Aerion at the trial, betrayal and shame overwhelmed him. He'd been angry with Baelor, he remembered, already musing about confronting him after the fight. 

When they told him he was dead, he tried to rise from his sickbed in an animal panic. "I must see him. Please, they will burn him, I have to see him." It had taken three men to hold him down, and his dressings were wet with blood by the time the maester managed to force milk of the poppy down his throat. 

When he woke again, the funeral pyre had already burned Baelor's remains away. A strange fever took hold of him then, leaving him cold and shivering and babbling nonsense. It only passed when Maekar came to see him, pale and heavy with grief. Aerion had been so drugged with the poppy he barely remembered anything, other than the heat of tears on his cheeks. But, somehow, the fever broke. The prince had been torn about that, afterwards. He did not truly wish to see me, not whilst I was awake and coherent, he would think, bitterly. But also... He saved me. I don't know how, but his presence was enough. If he hadn't come, I might have died. 

He swallowed, fighting against a lump in his throat. "Yes," he mumbled, "I suppose it was... challenging." 

Dunk reached out and took his hand, as if he read some of his thoughts. "I think of him too," he said softly. "I have oft wondered whether it can possibly be worth it, for a great prince to die to save a mere hedge knight's hand." 

He bowed his head. "You were never a mere hedge knight," he muttered. "Not to Baelor. Not to the smallfolk. Not to me." 

The alpha gently touched his chin, stroking his face. "Aerion, Baelor would have forgiven you. I didn't know him well, but even I know that." 

"Maybe," Aerion said, softly. "But Father won't."  

"Don't say that. Don't. Remember King Daeron? He forgave you, and Baelor was his own son." He embraced him, pulling him down on the bed, kissing the sorrow away as only he could. 

But still, the conversation lingered in Aerion's mind, even while they were contently lying in each other's arms. An idea was taking shape, as reckless as it was necessary. In truth, he'd been considering it for a while, but only tentatively, not daring to actually suggest it. But now a plan seemed to solidify. I must at least ask him. I'll regret it forever if I don't. 

He pulled away from Dunk's embrace and sat up on his knees, determined. "Duncan," he said measuredly, "if my father hadn't arranged this marriage, what would you have done after the trial?" 

The knight looked up and frowned, puzzled. "Why do you ask?" 

"Just tell me, please." 

"I was hoping… Egg wanted to be my squire. Maekar did not look very like to accept, but still, I thought… if we'd been allowed to travel together, it would have been a fine adventure." 

"And where would you travel to? Did you have somewhere in mind?" 

"Well," he said reluctantly, "I and Ser used to ride to all sorts of places, taking up service with one lord or the other. I thought maybe Winterfell or Lannisport, the lords are always looking for swords to defend the coast against raiders. But first… Well, I thought we might go to Dorne, first." 

Aerion nodded; it was what he'd expected. "To find Tanselle." 

"Yes. It wasn't… It's not… I just felt like it was a shame, how we parted. And that she probably thinks I'm dead, killed because I defended her. Aerion, if you're worried about my feelings for Tanselle, you needn't. I barely knew her, I only spoke to her a few times. And all others left my heart when I fell for you, I'm practically besotted—" 

"I'm not worried." Aerion smiled faintly. "And you don't have to justify yourself, Dunk. I hardly expect you to have stayed a maid all your life, pining for the man who almost killed you. I mention it because I have a proposition, if you would hear it." 

"Of course." 

He took a deep breath. "What if you could still do it? What if you could see her again, just as you intended?" 

"See her? How would I see her?" 

"If you were to go to Dorne. If you were to find her, and deliver an apology from me, and gold, as... as compensation. You could stop at Summerhall as well, see my kin. You could give them my well wishes, and tell me how they fare. Daeron especially; I'm worried about him, to be frank." 

Dunk had gone very still. "Aerion—" 

He raised a hand. "Wait," he demanded. "Listen first, before you dismiss this outright. I'm not asking on a whim; I've thought about it before. Will you hear my reasons?" 

The alpha nodded slowly. 

"Thank you. Now, reason one: you want to see her again. You feel that the matter has not been settled, just as I thought. Two: she deserves recompense. Not just for her finger, for being forced to flee as well. And she deserves to see you, to know you're alright. And three… well, three is just my own guilt, of course. I want to try and make amends, as much as I can. I know it's a lot to ask; If I'd thought of it earlier, I'd go myself. But as it is… I'd have to wait for months, and then I'd have to leave our pup behind, to travel so far." 

Dunk was silent for so long that Aerion spoke up again. "It will be fine, Dunk, truly. We can handle Dawnfort, I and Gareth and Willem." 

"What if you need me? Our babe—" 

"—is but a flutter inside me, you said so yourself. You've got months and months ahead of you. And I already need you, for this. It's more important than you fetching me pillows and rubbing my back, I assure you." 

Dunk grimaced. "I don't want to miss half your pregnancy. And what if we can't even find Tanselle? Her troupe is always wandering."  

Aerion pondered on it for awhile, making calculations in his mind. "If you take a galley from Maidenpool to King's Landing, ride down the Kingsroad and the Boneway to Dorne, and then sail back from the northern coast, the journey should only take weeks. The only slow part will be the Boneway. And as for finding her... You're not a lone hedge knight anymore, Dunk. You're married to a prince. My aunt Daenerys rules Dorne beside Prince Maron, and the Daynes rule in Starfall. I'll just send some ravens ahead. My kin can make inquiries, and even give you guides. And you should take Nym with you as well; she was born and raised in the shadow city by Sunspear." 

Dunk let out a little snort. "You've already predicted everything I'd have to say about this, it seems." 

"Everything, but your decision. You've heard my reasoning; what do you think? If you refuse, I'll never mention it again, you have my word. But I had to suggest it. I had to try." 

Dunk's voice, when he spoke, was measured and hesitant. "This is very important to you, I know. And your reasons are noble." He considered, his blue eyes searching, like he was seeking something deep inside Aerion. The prince looked back, hoping he would find it. 

"I have two conditions," Dunk said calmly, after a long time. 

"Anything," Aerion said at once. "You can have anything." 

Dunk grinned. "Hear them, before you decide. First, if I don't find her, or she doesn't forgive you, you won't grieve for it. I don't want to see you heartbroken again, Aerion; you must be prepared. And second..." His voice grew very gentle. "You'll start eating more. I know it's hard, but please, just try. We'll talk about it again when I return, but make a good beginning." 

He swallowed. "Yes. Yes, to both. I accept."  

"Then I'll do it. I'll go on this quest of yours, gladly."  

Aerion rushed forward to wrap his arms around the alpha, holding him tight. "Thank you, Dunk. Thank you." 

When he pulled back, he was flushed with excitement. "It will have to be a fat purse, with plenty of gold. And also..." He suddenly had another idea. He rose, rushing to the cupboard to fetch a small metal case. He sat cross-legged on the bed and opened it, showing Duncan the pendant within. "Give her this as well. It's worth a plump sum, of course, if she wants to sell it. But she can throw it away or bury it or keep it, as she chooses." 

Dunk reached out and took out the pendant, tentatively. "Is that..." 

He nodded. "The tooth belonged to Tyrsys, the last of her kind. Tell her it's a... a trophy. For facing up against a dragon." 

"Aerion, are you sure?" 

"Yes. I know you're the one making the sacrifices here, Dunk. You'll be the one tiring, facing risks. I'll just have to sit here and wait. I ought to give up something with meaning, not just a purse of gold." 

"Alright. As you wish. And you really promise you'll honor my conditions?" 

"I promise." 

"Then," his knight said fondly, "I believe you." 

They set out a few days later, four riders overall. Dunk would be mounted on Goldberry, Nym on Onyx, Eric and Myrtle on the next best horses in their stables. Aerion had left nothing to chance. The purse was tucked in Dunk's belt, hidden beneath his cloak along with the pendant, but it only had half the gold in it; the rest was with Nym, in case one of them was robbed along the way. Two more dragons were stuffed in Dunk's boots, and one in Nym's, so that they weren't stranded with no coin even if something went really awry. They had plenty of silver and copper in their saddlebags too, for inns, and for the passage south. 

And all of them were armed. The prince had insisted on that. Dunk would carry his sword, the others bows and shortspears. They had daggers as well, and wore mail and boiled leather under cloaks and surcoats, tactfully concealed. 

Even while bidding the alpha farewell by the gatehouse, Aerion couldn't stop fidgeting. Dunk kissed him, understanding his trepidation well enough. "Don't fret, my love. Surely I have the Warrior by my side, and the Maiden too. You're an omega prince sending me on a knightly quest, aren't you? And to find a girl, not to slay some monster. I'll be safe. And I'll even write to you, now that I've learned a little. I'll end up needing help with the letter, most likely, but I'll try my best anyway. I promise." 

Aerion nodded. When the alpha mounted Goldberry, he placed a hand on his leg. "Return to me quickly."  

"I'll be back before you know it." Dunk assured him. "I will always come back to you." 

"You had better, because I'll come fetch you if you don't, even if I'm nine months pregnant with triplets," Aerion said, only half-joking. 

"On dragonback, no doubt." The knight smiled at him. "Just take care of yourself, Aerion. Keep yourself safe for me." 

The prince nodded. He drew himself up to his full height, pulling away. "I will," he said, voice steady. "Safe travels, my lord." 

Dunk gave him one more fond smile, and spurred Goldberry onward. 

Aerion watched the little group as they rode away, filled with doubt. But he'd made his decision; it was too late to back out now. 

He turned to his handmaids. Sam looked nearly as worried as Aerion felt, whilst Kyra was very obviously trying to act nonchallant, and failing.

Aerion crossed his arms over his chest, feigning confidence. "Well, don't just stand there, you two. We have work to do. I've a mind to start hiring masons for the castle, now that the rest is taken care of. I'll need you to fetch Gareth and Willem for me. And don't look so sour, Sam, your face will get stuck that way. My septa used to say that, and she was surely right, because her face was always stuck in a frown. Do you want Lord Duncan to see you looking like a lemon? He'll be back soon enough." 

He prayed that he was right. Keep him safe, he demanded, to anyone who might be listening; the Seven, the northern gods, even the ancient gods of Valyria. He’s one of your own, honorable and noble. So you’d better guard him. It will be callous of you to let him come to harm; it would prove that you are no true gods at all. 

It was not a very reverent prayer, but then again, Aerion had never learned to be reverent. What he knew was to demand his rights, to scorch, to command. And he had to hope it would be enough. 

Dear Aerion, 

You aght ought to be proud of me, for I've done it. I completed my quest; I found her; and even better, she forgives you. 

I wanted to say that first, because I know you've been waiting. Someone is helping me write this, so I can't say too much, but I'll tell you all the details when I return. 

Your aunt's guides were a great help, and so was Nym. If I'd been alone, I'd still be wonderin wandering from town to town like a fool, but they knew exactly who to ask and where to look. Dorne is larger than it looks, turns out. 

Tanselle was shocked to see me. She couldn't stop hugging me and lathing laghing laughing, and she made me tell the whole story three times before she believed it. When I told her what you'd said, she grew very thoughtful, and asked if I believe you've truly changed. I said yes, and she said she accepts your apology. She's a little in awe of your pendant; she says she's never seen a dragon tooth before. She doesn't know whether she'll sell it or keep it yet, but she's grateful. She also wanted me to tell you she wishes you to have an easy birth. 

Her uncle is still angry, but they all accepted the coin readily enu enough. Tanselle is excited— she says they can buy some fine horses now, and more costumes and puppets. 

We're at a village by the Tor, and we'll soon set sail. I hired a ship to meet us at the port— it's a swift one, so we ought be back soon. 

Take care of yourself and our pup, 

Dunk 

In the end, the gods were kind. Aerion didn't even have to wait very long, and certainly not as long as he'd expected. He spent the weeks busying himself, tending to the castle walls that had been neglected for years. Though the masons' work had caused quite a ruckus, it was bearing fruit; the gatehouse was almost finished, and the curtain wall was well on its way to being a legitimate defence again. 

A mere week after he received Dunk's letter, Kyra burst into the solar, grinning. "My lord, you ought to come down. It's riders." 

He jumped up, his book discarded so hastily it fell to the floor. "Dunk?" 

"They think so. It was Parry who saw first, watching from the gatehouse. Seven riders, he said, and he knew his lordship by his size, and by Goldberry." 

Aerion didn't bother asking any more questions. He hurried down the stairs as quickly as possible without tumbling down, then rushed across the yard. "Open the gates," he commanded the two men-at-arms who had the watch for the day. "We'll go out to meet them." 

Seven riders, Kyra had said. Four had set out, but maybe some of his sire's retinue had been sent along. It was strange, but Aerion couldn't think of many other possibilities. He wouldn't have brought Tanselle, would he? Forgiveness or not, the girl could hardly have agreed to that. 

Maybe it's Daeron. That seemed unlikely as well, but perhaps his brother had decided to come visiting. That would be pleasant, though he'd certainly have to keep him well away from the local beer and mead. 

What truly matters is that Dunk is back, not who he has with him. Aerion walked across the drawbridge and stood at the hilltop, guards and handmaids following close behind. 

And he saw them. 

His mate was more than distinctive enough, a tall knight riding on a pure white horse, his hair the color of straw. Aerion let out a breath, his hand moving to rest over his stomach. He could have wept with relief. 

The rest were less obvious, but he puzzled them out quickly enough. Myrtle and Eric were a bit further behind, Nym next to Dunk. Three more riders were in the midst of the party, partly concealed by those in front of them. Then Dunk ambled forward a bit faster, and Aerion recognized Ser Cole of Maekar's household guard, short and lean, his hair black as a crow's feathers. He was in Targaryen livery, on a fine grey horse, looking very much at ease... 

...and a young boy was riding on the mare beside him. 

Seven bloody wretched hells. 

Chapter Text

It was all Aerion could do not to bolt. 

He'd spent the past few months struggling to come to terms with everything; his guilt, his pain, his anger. He'd tried to move on from the past, to grow strong enough to not be affected by it anymore. And partly, he'd succeeded… but now none of that progress seemed to matter. He was feeling ill, faint, like a deck was swaying beneath his feet. 

It's my own fault, he thought sullenly. I'm the one who sent him to Summerhall. I'm the one who rambled on and on about forgiveness and making amends. I practically asked him to bring the boy here. 

Egg didn't seem to have changed much in the months since he'd last seen him, he observed as the riders made their way up the hill. His hair had grown out a bit, a fuzz of pale silvergold. But he was still small, and skinny as an ill-fed puppy. And his eyes had scarcely changed either; big and dark and sullen, filled with suspicion. 

Aerion winced, then walked up to Dunk, tall and splendid on Goldberry. The knight's coloring was complimented beautifully by his forest green tunic and scarlet surcoat, and his face was beaming. He dismounted and immediately rushed to Aerion, taking him in his arms. "My little dragon," he breathed, kissing him. 

Aerion wanted to be angry, but he'd missed him so much he just leaned into his touch. "Dunk," he muttered, breathing in his scent, pressing himself against his solid warmth. "My knight." The alpha was tanned from the Dornish sun, but otherwise he felt and looked and smelled exactly how Aerion remembered, exactly what he'd fantasized about during many long, frustrating nights alone. 

But when he pulled back, he saw his little brother, face flushed at the sight of them embracing, hands clutching the reins of his mare tightly. Bloody hells. Aerion gently pushed the knight away. "I think I should greet our noble guest, now," he muttered. 

Dunk blushed. "Uh, yes. Yes, of course." He led Aerion forward, a gentle hand on his back. "Your father was kind enough to allow your brother to join our— our quest," he said awkwardly. 

Aerion felt more like he was walking to the gallows rather than towards a skinny stripling. Still, he somehow managed to feign a calm, indifferent air… even as his little brother looked down at him with a face as sour as lemons. Why did he even come here, if he hates the sight of me so much? Aerion wondered, inwardly groaning. Did he ride all this way just to torment me? Is this some sort of absurdly time-consuming revenge? If so, it was working. 

Servants and guards had poured out of the castle after him, eager to welcome their lord. Counting Dunk's retinue, there must have been a score of people around. If I don't take care, we shall become a laughingstock everywhere in the Bay. Egg was not above publicly lashing out at him, given half a chance. 

So he considered how to approach this, thinking through possible tactics. Familiarity would clearly be unreciprocated. A jest would be a very bad idea. An attempt at an apology felt wrong for a first meeting, even if they'd been alone. And questions, which he had aplenty, were unlikely to be answered. 

"Prince Aegon," he said finally, bowing quite primly; exactly the correct feet position, exactly the right depth for minor royalty. "Welcome to Dawnfort, Your Grace." 

His brother was visibly confused by the formality. He looked at him for a long time, but didn't speak, or move. 

"Egg," prompted Dunk, "please." 

The boy pursed his lips, holding back his anger. "Good afternoon," he said sullenly. Then he stopped; that was clearly all they would get out of him for the nonce. Aerion turned to the two household knights his brother had brought with him. "Ser Cole," he said civilly, "Dame Alys. A most welcome surprise. I trust that your journey went well?" 

"Aye, my prince," Cole said, inclining his head. "A tad too uneventful, I must say. I'd have welcomed a bit of action. Justin was with us as well, but we had to leave him behind at Maidenpool, he was… uh… delayed." He glanced over at Dunk, uncertain. "Just some business he had to tend to, I mean." Aerion raised an eyebrow at that cryptic statement, but let it go for the present. 

Alys, always gallant, chose to gracefully dismount, going down on one knee. "Your Grace, I'm honored to be in your presence again, after so long. I offer you my well wishes, and my congratulations on your marriage." 

Aerion saw Egg roll his eyes, but he ignored him for now, focusing his attention on Alys. "And on my fecundity?" he asked in a teasing tone. "I am with child as well." 

"Yes, Your Grace. We all rejoiced to hear about your happiness." 

Oh, I am sure of it. My baby brother looks especially thrilled. He forced himself to keep ignoring him. "Thank you, dame. I appreciate your kind words." He gestured, beckoning the riders forward. "You must all be tired and hungry. Let's not stand by the gate; come along. We'll see you all properly fed, then provide our guests with suitable accommodations." 

The riders halted by the stables, dismounting. Dunk was immediately accosted by members of their household wanting to greet and congratulate him, Sam and Kyra more ardently than all of them. The castle residents had not been told exactly why Dunk had gone on his journey; what they knew was that he'd been looking to find and reward some lowborn maiden that had done him a kindness, when he was but a mere hedge knight. They seemed to love that story, and it had made them even more devoted to their lord. 

Aerion sent servants running to arrange for an early supper, then walked up to Nym and Onyx. The palfrey nickered at his approach, as happy to greet him as she'd always been in their years together. Aerion stroked her soft mane. "Syrēs riñus; good girl, Onyx," he cooed, leaning in to rest his forehead against the filly's large black head. Onyx gave a low, soothing rumble. 

Nym grinned at him crookedly. "Don't worry, m'lord. I took good care of her, like she'd been my very own." The young master-of-horse was dusty from the road, her hair tangled. Her face was sunkissed like Dunk's, though she was swarthy enough that it didn't show as much. 

Aerion returned her smile. "I know. I thank you, Nym. And I'm glad to see you back again so soon." He hesitated. "You needed a much shorter time to return than I'd thought. Did you take—" 

"—the swiftest galley I've ever seen in my life?" she finished for him, still grinning. "Aye. Lord Duncan insisted. In fact, he wanted to hire us a bloody swan ship, at first, but I talked 'im out of it, told him they're only fast when wind's favorable. If we'd been becalmed, your leal lord might've tried swimming just to get to you faster. And don't think the ride was much better either. His lordship hurried us all the way. Even the little princeling, though the lad seemed to not mind." 

Aerion sighed. "I'm sorry, Nym. You'll all be well rewarded, I swear. Anything you want." 

"I just want the horses to rest, m'lord. They handled the pace well enough, but sailing home made them anxious. They were kicking at their stalls, down in the hold." She frowned. "Well, other than the palfreys. Goldberry's the calmest horse I've ever seen, and your Onyx seems to be afraid of nothing. But anyhow, the rounceys are still uneasy, and so is the lad's filly. They need to be left alone awhile." 

"Of course. Tell the guards they're not to take any of the horses you had with you out, at least for a few days." 

"Aye, m'lord. As you say." 

Dunk had managed to escape the crowd by then, it seemed. He walked up to them, though there was hesitation in his step. He feels guilty, Aerion realized, and small wonder. As Nym bowed and discreetly made herself scarce, he looked up at the knight, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"We have plenty of chicken coops in the villages, you know," he observed mildly. "You didn't need to fetch eggs all the way from the Marches." 

Dunk immediately looked abashed, a blush rising to his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said meekly. "I know it'll be hard. But when we stopped at the palace, he stole into my room and said he wanted to come with me. Demanded to, in fact. Said I owed him for running off and marrying you. He seems to have forgiven me, though, mostly." 

But not me. Aerion had not been naive enough to expect that, but it was one thing to think about it and another thing to have to face his brother up close. "Will he squire for you?" he asked, dreading the answer. 

"No. At least not for long. He's working well with his master-at-arms, and I didn't want to make it too painful, for either of you. But he wanted to spend time with me, maybe a few weeks or months. And... and I do too, Aerion. I didn't leave him in the best of circumstances." He hesitated. "If it's not bearable to you, if you think it too upsetting—" 

Aerion snorted. "What, you'll send him back? That ship has sailed, Duncan. You'd only make everything worse. I'll have a room in the keep prepared for him; the second floor is nearly empty." He paused. "I suppose I should be grateful that you asked my father before you took him, this time, instead of just stealing the boy and running." 

The knight sighed. "I had good intentions, Aerion, truly. Please, don't be wroth with me. I just thought it may be good for him, and for me, and— and for you too. You and Egg are brothers. Perhaps you could reconcile, after some time." 

Aerion very much doubted that, but he just sighed, taking Dunk's arms in his own. "I know. You are always frustratingly good-intentioned. I love you for it." He paused. "Thank the gods you’re back, Dunk." 

"I am." The alpha's voice was tender, soothing. "And I'm not leaving again anytime soon, you have my word." 

"That's good, for you would doubtlessly come back with Valarr or Matarys. You seem to have a knack for collecting Targaryen princelings." 

Dunk leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I promise, Egg is the last one. But never mind that, my love. How are you? How is our babe?" He reached out and touched the omega's stomach. "You're gotten bigger." 

"Is that a compliment or an insult? Are you saying I'm fat?" 

Dunk laughed. "Never. I'm only saying I'm glad you look healthy." 

"I'm as well as you left me. Your whelp is rather quiet, barely bothering me at all, though Gareth says it ought to quicken soon. Then we'll see." 

"Perhaps you won't be bothered throughout," said Dunk hopefully. 

"Perhaps," Aerion said, letting himself believe it. "Do you want to go in and eat? I can hear your stomach rumbling." 

Dunk nodded. "I was in such a hurry that we mostly ate cheese and bread and bacon by the roadside. I hardly wanted to stop for anything. I need a proper meal, and so do the others." He hesitated. "Do you want to seat your brother separately at the hall? It might make it easier, and the lad won't mind not being at the high table. He'll have plenty of chances to spend time with me, anyway." 

Aerion scoffed. "Don't be absurd. That would look bizarre to everyone, and they'd start gossiping. He's a royal prince; of course I'll seat him properly." 

It wasn't entirely a truthful statement; according to the tiresome rules of formal Westerosi dining, Aegon should most properly be placed next to Aerion, being his kinsman and a fellow prince. But the prospect of his little brother sullenly glaring at him throughout the meal didn't seem pleasant for anyone. So, of course, Egg was seated next to Dunk instead. 

Aerion was careful. He made sure to pass the boy the finest dishes, while sending the next best down to the two knights. He spoke to him a few times, asking superficial questions about Summerhall and the court that the boy answered in monosyllables. But otherwise, he left him and Dunk to their own devices. 

Courtesy was both a sword and shield, Septa Orelia had always told him. He realized it was true. Sticking to strict etiquette created a distance and predictability in their interactions that seemed to help them both. Egg relaxed, chattering to Dunk more and more animatedly throughout the evening. The atmosphere in the great hall was pleasant; they had some hastily-acquired musicians and plenty of good wine, and the finest dishes that could be prepared on such short notice. And the hall was bustling, everyone wanting to welcome Duncan and to see the visiting princeling. 

At some point, Willem rose to raise his cup in Dunk's honor, congratulating him on his success. Egg lifted his goblet, eager… only to put it down again when Willem began praising Aerion as well. The steward had always been a bit too clumsy in his flattery, though the prince had grown to appreciate that he wasn't a mere lickspittle; a lot of what he said was genuine, or at least spoken with good intentions. Still, Aerion couldn't help but look at his brother and wince as Willem went on and on about his generosity and cunning and good sense. By the end, Egg was pouting, eyebrows knit together, an expression somewhere between anger and bewilderment. 

Luckily, the boy was worn from the journey and from all the excitement, so he was soon spent, almost needing to be carried up to his bedchamber. When he left, Aerion let himself breathe more easily. He turned to Dunk, smiling. "And now, ser, you shall tell me everything." 

Dunk did, or at least tried to. Aerion was constantly interrupting him with questions, unable to contain himself. Did you run into trouble at all? Were there outlaws near the kingsroad? Did you see my aunt Daenerys? What did she say? What did Tanselle say? Has her hand truly healed so well? 

"Are you saying my sire was alarmed to see you?" he asked in disbelief, when the knight broached the topic of Summerhall. 

Dunk nodded. "Very much so. I think he assumed something bad had happened, so bad that I had to ride down there to tell him in person. But after I explained, his color returned, and then he was back to his usual self. He interrogated me quite thoroughly, asking all sorts of questions. Especially about why on earth you'd ever sell your jewels, and why you wanted me to go to Dorne. I left him very puzzled, I think." 

"And Daeron?" Aerion muttered, almost afraid to ask. "How is he faring?" 

Dunk frowned a bit. "Fine, I suppose. Your father is rather… short with him. With all your siblings, but Daeron especially. I don't think he has forgiven him for his part in the— in the Ashford mess. But Daeron is not drinking as much, he says, because Maekar is watching him too closely." 

That was not all bad, Aerion supposed. He toyed with his mother's ring, pressing his thumb against the hard stone until he felt the sharp, familiar pain that was almost comforting for him. 

Dunk placed a hand over his. "Easy, my love. I know you're worried about him, but don't distress yourself further." 

Aerion sighed, stopping his fidgeting. "Tell me something pleasant," he demanded. "What did you think of Summerhall, and of Dorne?" 

The knight took a swig of hippocras. "Summerhall is just as beautiful as you said. Looks to be the size of Saltcrest and Foxgrove combined too. No wonder you were whingeing about everything here, from the bedding to the battlements. I did notice the gatehouse, by the way. Making repairs?" 

Aerion nodded. "I hope you are not offended by my presumption, my lord," he said, half in jest. "I ought to have asked before spending your gold. But I thought it was time to begin, since we took care of everything else." 

"Of course I'm not offended. And it's your gold, Aerion, not mine. It all came from your jewels." He paused then, suddenly looking a little guilty. "Though I did spend much more of it than I had to, when we were in Sunspear. I wanted to fetch back a gift for you." 

"A gift?" Aerion was amused. "What did you bring me?" 

"Well," Dunk said bashfully, "after our talk about your mother and all, I was thinking… I wanted to find a way to help you eat more. So I thought, since I was in Dorne…" 

Aerion raised his eyebrows. "You didn't get me a Dornish cook, I devoutly hope. That's needless, Dunk, I don't require—" 

"I didn't. I knew you'd smack me upside the head if I did that, and that if you were to hire someone, you'd want to choose them yourself. I only asked the cooks in Sunspear to write down as much advice and recipes as they could, and then I went to the markets with Nym. We bought a whole cart of foodstuffs, but I knew the pace of the mules would be too slow for my liking. So two hirelings and Ser Justin from your sire's household stayed back to fetch it from Maidenpool's port, whilst the rest of us rode on. They'll be here on the morrow, most like." 

Aerion smirked; that solved the mystery of Justin's mysterious delay, as well. "I see. And what exactly did you buy?" 

"Anything I could find that won't spoil anytime soon; jars of olive oil and casks of strongwine, and a chest full of spices. Mostly mustard seeds and dried peppers, I never knew there were so many kinds of those. But also turmeric and ginger and cumin and… oh, many others. Nym will know, but I lost count, to be plain with you." 

"Thank you, Dunk. You went through too much trouble for me. I won't forget it. I—" 

The music had gotten louder, the players performing more vigorously as the evening went on. Now they seemed to be especially excited, strumming some irritatingly merry tune. Their household apparently knew it well, enthusiastically singing a bawdy song in accompaniment. 

Aerion frowned, distracted. "I hate this bloody ruckus. I ought to throw some crab stew at their heads." Local music was one thing he didn't expect to ever get used to, all strange instruments and sounds that seemed to be more fitting for some peasant fair than a lord's hall. 

Dunk merely rose, offering a hand. "Well, I do believe it's past time we went up to our chambers, anyway." 

The prince tilted his head. "Oh, are you tired, my lord?" he asked innocently. "Do you wish to go to sleep?" 

"No," the knight said plainly. "I most certainly do not." 

Aerion could have danced. Instead he took the offered hand, following along. 

At the top of the stairs, the knight dropped all pretence. He bent down to place one hand under Aerion's thighs and another beneath his underarms, lifting him as easily as if he were Egg's size. The prince bit his lip, hiding a triumphant grin. 

When Dunk finally laid him down on their bed, he did it far too carefully for Aerion's liking… but it was still worth it. The knight pinned the prince's hands to the mattress, leaning in to loom over him. "I've been thinking of this moment all the way back, you know." he growled, close enough that Aerion could feel his breath. "Claiming you on our bed, after so long. Don't you agree, omega? What do you want?" 

"To get fucked," Aerion said smugly. "And be quick about it. I need your cock inside me." 

Dunk grabbed hold of Aerion's trousers and yanked, ripping the soft fabric, then made short work of his breeches as well. He discarded the remnants and slid a hand between Aerion's legs, thrusting two fingers inside him. "Just as I thought. You're dripping." His fingers started moving back and forth, slowly, skillfully. "Is that what you've been doing while I was away? Pleasuring yourself while thinking of me mounting you?" 

Aerion nodded, moaning. 

"Words, omega, or I'm taking my fingers out and leaving you wet and needy. What were you doing at night, while I wasn't here to fuck you?" 

"T-touching," the prince answered, shuddering. "Pleasuring myself, thinking of you. Dunk, please." 

The knight's laces were undone so quickly it was as if by sorcery, and then the fingers were replaced by his manhood, prodding Aerion's entrance. "Shall I go in with one thrust? Is that what you wish, Your Grace? Will that satiate you?" 

Aerion nodded vigorously, "I need you— I need you now," he moaned, already so wet with slick it would make no difference. 

"As you command," Dunk said, and unceremoniously pushed his cock in, like a sword slipping into its sheath. Aerion's head shot back, his eyes closed, fists clutching the sheets. A strangled cry escaped his throat. "Yes— Yes—" 

"Yes, what?" 

"Yes, alpha, fuck me, take me, please—" 

"Gladly, my sweet princeling." The knight set a punishing pace, his hips bucking sharply back and forth. Aerion cried out with every thrust, the alpha fucking him for so long that his throat grew hoarse. Finally the prince hissed and dug his nails into Dunk's muscular buttocks, pulling him even deeper. The alpha chuckled. "You're so eager. Do you want my knot, Your Grace?" 

"Gods be good— yes, please, breed me—" 

"I believe I already have," Dunk growled, with a devious jerk forward that made Aerion shout in pure bliss. "You are in pup, are you not? But if you wish, I'm more than willing to demonstrate again." 

"Fuck," Aerion moaned, as Dunk buried himself to the hilt and reached the peak of his pleasure. The omega followed right after, nearly convulsing with elation and relief, nails scratching the knight's back. 

Afterwards they lay together, panting, legs intertwined. When the knot went down, Dunk carefully slid out of him, then kissed him tenderly, whispering endearments. 

"I missed you so much," Aerion muttered. 

"So did I. I'm sure you could tell," Dunk said, smirking. "I'm surprised you were so lusty, though, with Egg one floor below us." 

Aerion cursed. "I didn't even think about that. Do you think he heard?" 

The knight chuckled. "No. He was exhausted, he's sleeping soundly. And the walls are too thick, even our door is a solid foot of oak. I was just jesting." 

He reached out and stroked Aerion's hair. "Aerion, what do you think you'll do, now that he's here?" he asked softly. "Will you speak to him about… about everything? You don't have to, you know, not if you don't feel ready. But it might be good to try." 

Aerion winced. "I don't know," he muttered. "I… This isn't like Tanselle or my grandsire, Dunk. Egg has hated me for years. At the tournament, he even… He…" He wanted me to be killed, he thought, but he couldn't finish the sentence. "I need to think about it. I need more time, I need—" 

A queer stirring stopped him abruptly. His hand flew to his belly, his eyes widening. "Dunk," he gasped, voice urgent. 

The alpha sat up, instantly alert. "Is something amiss? Are you in pain? I'll fetch Maester Gareth—" 

Aerion grabbed his wrist before he could bolt. "No," he said, laughing, "nothing is amiss. I'm sorry I scared you, I just… wait." 

Dunk waited, bewildered. Aerion kept his palm steady, hardly daring to breathe. Then he felt it again. 

"It's moving," he whispered, in wonderment. "The child. It moved." 

The alpha's eyes grew large and shocked. He reached out and tentatively laid his own hand on Aerion's stomach. 

"It's a flutter," he said, voice hushed and full of wonderment, "like the beat of wings. A dragon." 

Aerion smirked. "A butterfly, most like. It's quite faint." 

"Even dragons start out little, don't they? This one… She will be strong, I feel it." 

"'She?' You think it's a girl?" 

"Well, I can't keep calling our babe 'it'. Especially now that she's quickened." 

"Hmm. Well, I think it's a boy. And a beta as well." 

"We'll wager on it. And we'll both be winning, no matter what the pup turns out to be." He frowned a little, brow set in thought. "I'll have to become more… more fatherly now, I think." 

"Fatherly?" The prince laughed. "Will you grow a beard?" 

"Responsible, is all I meant. I need to grow up fast, our babe will be here soon. We can't have a childish dolt raising our pup." 

"You're not a dolt, no matter how often I call you that when I'm angry." The knight did have a point, though. They would both have to grow up, Aerion as well. He realized he wanted to, for his child. 

And he also realized that he wanted to shield the babe from his mistakes. It wasn't fair for anyone to be raised by a dam who was at open war with his own kin. If Aerion could salvage anything of his relationship with his brother, it would be worth the effort. 

"I think," he said with a deep sigh, "that I need to have that discussion with Egg, after all." 

It turned out to be difficult, even more difficult than he'd anticipated. Egg insisted on being Dunk's squire for as long as he was staying in Dawnfort, including caring for Goldberry and handling the knight's sword and armor. He'd also taken to following him around; wherever his husband was, the boy was not far behind. It made things complicated, since Aerion could almost never find Egg alone. But the omega was determined to achieve some sort of truce between them, and when Aerion Brightflame set his mind to something, he rarely strayed.

He tried to do it subtly. He was as courteous as he possibly could, and took care to give the boy time to stop being so wary. He even encouraged Dunk to take him down to Saltcrest and Greentide and up to Foxgrove in the hills, since he was tailing him all day anyway. The more fun the boy was having, he reasoned, the more comfortable he would be. 

But the first real breakthrough came one afternoon in the solar, when Aerion asked the cook to serve them a Dornish dish for the first time. Simple and uncouth as he was, Martyn had turned out to be good at his job; but that didn't mean he wasn't bewildered by the unfamiliar recipe. "It's not right, m'lord, I'm telling ye, it can't be right," he'd said multiple times. "Someone in the kitchens must 'ave measured wrong. That much black pepper, and mustard seeds as well, and all those hot peppers… It'll just make the stew taste like dragonsbreath. Been cooking near two score years, I have, and I wouldn't dare eat that meself. I wouldn't, m'lord." 

It took a while for Aerion to convince him that no, the ingredient list was not wrong; yes, Dornishmen really did eat like this; and no, they wouldn't put the blame on him if someone was poisoned. In the end, Martyn did manage to make a decent Dornish stew, though they had to swap out the snake meat for some rather less exciting chicken. 

It didn't matter; Aerion loved it. Surprisingly, Sam did as well, though Kyra tried a little and declared that this much heat was not for her. Then Dunk came in with Egg, and things got interesting. 

His little brother had been very young when Dyanna died, but Queen Myriah had been a Martell of Sunspear, so he'd had plenty of opportunities to eat Dornish food at court. Dunk was a completely different matter. The knight sat next to Aerion and tried a few spoonfuls, eager as always. Then he suddenly paused and frowned, spoon halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Aerion, eyes widening, and the prince understood what was happening. 

"Oh no," he said, half amused and half concerned. "Oh no. Are you feeling alright, Duncan? We should have started with something milder, I think, I—" 

Dunk grabbed the jug of water and drank, downing the whole thing in a few seconds. Then he coughed, again and again, his face red. "Gods be good," he managed at last, barely able to get the words out. "Gods be good." 

Aerion was expecting Egg to get angry. Instead the boy started laughing, so hard that tears ran down his cheeks. "Ser," he exclaimed, wiping them away, "ser, your face—" 

Dunk was clearly upset at being made fun of, but he could scarcely speak, so he couldn't do anything other than cough and glare. That made Egg laugh even harder. "You're married into our family now, ser. You ought to get used to dragonfire, I think." Aerion glanced at him, shocked by the strangely positive comment, but didn't dare speak. 

When the alpha finally recovered, Aerion fanning at him with a sheet of paper and Kyra having fetched some cold milk, he turned to Aerion in shocked disbelief. "That," he said, voice thick with incredulity, "was your childhood comfort food?" 

Aerion couldn't hold back his own laughter, then.

After that day, the boy stopped looking at him like they were in a duel and he was waiting to see who would make the first move. And by the end of the week, Aerion was finally ready to face his little brother head on.

He found him where he thought he would, at the stables, brushing Goldberry. Egg stopped and stared when he noticed his brother, eyes uncertain. They hadn't been alone together since the boy arrived; Aerion didn't want to scare him again, but this conversation had to be private. "Aegon," he said carefully. "I wanted to talk to you about something important, if you have the time. But only if you let me; I'll leave if you want."

Egg put the brush down, chewing at his lip. "This is your castle," he said sullenly. "I'm just a guest."

"True enough, but I'll still leave you alone if you tell me to."

Egg considered, then shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you're already here. Might as well say what you came to say."

Aerion nodded. He moved to sit on a pile of hay stacked up by the stalls, eye level with Egg, trying to summon the courage to begin. 

This will only be harder if I prolong it. And he's only a boy; I must be plain, succinct. 

He sighed, then looked up at his brother. "Egg," he started, voice measured and level, "I wanted to tell you that I am sorry. For everything. For what I did to you, to Tanselle, to Dunk, to… to Baelor. Quite frankly, I was a wretched older brother, and I know you hate me for it. You've got good reason to do so. But I hope you can manage to not hate me as much, one day. I hope you can manage to forgive me." 

The boy stared at him, eyes filled with suspicion. "Did Ser Duncan tell you to say this?" 

"No. I've wanted to say it for months, to all of you, but could never find the courage to send a raven." 

Egg hesitated, worrying his lip between his teeth. "That's what Ser said. That you sent him to Dorne to help Tanselle, because you were sorry. Nobody believed it at first, only Daeron. Father thinks it's a lie Ser Duncan told, or some strange trick of yours." 

Aerion nodded. "I suppose it does sound hard to believe. But that was the reason." 

"And when I went down to that village by the seaside with Ser, everyone was telling me how you helped them." Egg frowned. "All the peasants and fishermen, the kinds of folks you were always treating badly before. I thought they were making fun of me at first, but they kept going. So I guess you really are sorry." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, why couldn't you be sorry earlier?" he asked bitterly. "Everything would be fine if you'd just kept your stupid hands to yourself. She'd done nothing to you, she just set up a puppet show. If you'd realized before that dumb tournament that you were hurting people, none of this would have happened. Nobody would have died." 

"I know. If I could go back and change everything, I would." He sighed. "I don't demand forgiveness, brother; I hardly even expect it. But I thought you deserved to know that I'll never hurt you again, nor anyone else. You have nothing to fear from me." 

"I'm not afraid of you. You can't bully me anymore, anyway. I'm ten now, almost a man grown, and if you try to hit me, I'll punch you in the face!" 

Aerion couldn't hold back a faint grin. "I'm sure you would. You've always been as fierce as a dragonling, even I would admit that." 

There was a long silence where they just regarded each other. Egg turned away first, kicking at the straw. "I shall think about it. What you said. I can't answer you now." 

Aerion let out a small breath of relief. "Thank you. I'm grateful." If he's already willing to consider it, there may be hope for more than just a truce, or even forgiveness. There may be hope for an actual reconciliation. And then even Father himself might… he might… 

"But you had better prove it," Egg demanded. "If you really want me to ever forgive you, if you want me to even try, you had better show me you're treating folk well. I'll watch you, I'll be vigilant. You'd better not have one of your tantrums and you'd better not hurt anyone, and… and… and to start keeping your promises, and not lying all the time like before. Then, I'll consider it. Maybe." 

Yes, Aerion decided, there was hope for more. 

Chapter Text

Sails of white canvas crowded the little port, unfurling from tall masts. Some of the boats were moored at the berths, while others were setting out for the day, manned by their hired crews. The largest trawler was far out to sea, a two-masted vessel with a long, sleek hull, gaff-rigged on the main mast for additional speed. Aerion found them all beautiful. Only a few months prior, he would never have guessed he'd be feeling proud of a few fishing boats; yet he was. 

"Do any of them have names?" Egg asked, ambling up to him. It was a fine day, only a few clouds drifting through the pale blue sky, the breeze carrying the sharp scent of saltwater. And the docks were bustling. Of late, fishing had increased dramatically, more and more of their smallfolk setting sail again due to the elevated prices Dunk and Aerion were offering. Their scheme to resell the bounty to other ports had borne fruit; the citizenry of Gulltown and King's Landing were far more affluent than the Bay locals. 

Aerion smirked. "We didn't think to name them, no. Why, do you have any suggestions?" 

The boy shrugged. "Well, you could name that one after some dragon. It's so large, and besides, it was a Targaryen who built it." 

Aerion snorted, pulling on Onyx's reins. "It would be more accurate to name it after some gemstone, Egg. My jewels built it, not I, I've told you." 

"Name it after me, then, since you want to be modest all of a sudden." 

Aerion gave a languid shrug. "Alright." 

Egg's eyes shot up at him. "What? I was jesting." 

"Well, I wasn't. So there is your new namesake: Aegon. And you can have it too, when you come of age." 

Egg blinked. "You're giving me a boat?" 

"I am being charitable, to spare you from becoming some wandering hedge knight," Aerion teased haughtily. "You're a fifth child, aren't you? You're not inheriting anything, so you'll need an income of sorts. Besides, I'm giving it to you in six years, not now. Who knows? It may sink by that time. Then all you'll get are some rotting planks of wood." 

Egg didn't laugh, or tease him back. He stared, looking strangely reluctant. "I've never owned a boat before," he muttered, chewing on his lip. 

"Neither had I. It's not exactly difficult, when you're not the one sailing it. With a good enough crew, this one should fetch you a decent amount of silver every month." He spurred Onyx onward along the quay. "Come. There is a quieter spot further to the east." 

Egg followed, speechless. 

When a gaggle of barefoot children ran past them, Goldberry nickered at them in greeting. Dunk's mare was as friendly as he was, and she seemed to be fond of pups especially. Egg loved riding her whenever he got the chance, especially since Dunk was loath to refuse him anything. 

This was all the alpha's idea, in truth. He had suggested that the brothers do something, anything, together, and tentatively mentioned that there was one thing they both would surely enjoy. So Aerion, against his better judgment, asked Egg if he wanted to go fishing with him sometime. Surprisingly, the boy accepted, but only after making him swear a solemn oath that he wouldn't try to toss him in the water again. 

Aerion led them to a pier at the far side of the port, jutting out a good twenty feet into the bay, far away from all the bustle. He dismounted—with a lot more difficulty than he would have a mere month ago, he noted—and tied Onyx to a pillar, giving her a pat. Then he took out their equipment from the saddlebags. "Come," he told his brother, "be quick about it. The fish are not like to wait for us." 

The boy looked at the remote spot warily, and hesitated. "Are you sure you're not tossing me in?" 

Aerion sighed. "I won't, Egg. Didn't you make me swear on the bloody Seven?" 

"Alright. Because I'll still catch more fish than you, you know. I've gotten even better. You'll see." He fidgeted with the reins. "And I won't push you in either, since you're… uh… with child. It wouldn't be gallant." 

The older prince rolled his eyes. "After the babe is born, you can push me in if you like. I'll survive, I'm a good enough swimmer." 

"I'll hold you to that." Egg dismounted and tied Goldberry, then followed along the planks of the pier. He sat down on the edge, his feet dangling over the shimmering water. Aerion set everything up and sat next to him, making sure to leave plenty of space between them. 

He'd prepared a few inoffensive conversation topics, just to avoid causing some disaster on accident. But to his surprise, after he cast his fishing line, the boy spoke first. "We ought to keep the bigger ones for your smallfolk. If we even catch any big ones, I mean. We have plenty of food, they need it more."

"Sounds like a fine plan to me," Aerion responded in a mild tone. "We'll take them to the inn, Wylla will be grateful." 

Egg looked at him sideways. "If I had said that seven months ago, you'd have called me a peasant and a churl." 

Was he testing me? Aerion winced. "I did have a lot of choice names for you, I admit." 

"You did. Like 'rat.' And 'wretch.' And 'scurvy straw-headed little louse—'" 

"Alright, alright. I remember it all well enough." He sighed. "You're lucky you at least have Aemon and Daella for older siblings; I proved completely unsuited for the task, and Daeron is not exactly a good influence either." 

Egg shrugged. "Daeron's not so bad, though I wish he wasn't always running off and disappearing. Especially when we are at court. You do that too, you know. Or did, I guess, since you're living here now." 

"Me?" He was bemused. "Where was I disappearing to?" 

"Well, you were always with Lady Shiera, and Lord Bloodraven." The boy's mouth dropped into a sullen pout. 

Aerion arched an eyebrow. "You could have come too if you wanted, you know. Brynden and Shiera weren't like to turn you away." 

"They wanted you," Egg said sourly. "They've hardly ever noticed my existence. It was always just you three, cooped up in their chambers, doing only the gods know what." 

Aerion laughed. "Well, there was Aerys too sometimes. And it's not some big secret, Egg. I was pestering them with questions about sorcery, or browsing Shiera's library. We weren't chanting curses or communing with the Lord of the Seventh Hell, I assure you." 

Egg suddenly shifted from sullen to grinning. "You didn't commune with your own father?" he chirped pleasantly. "That's very disloyal of you." 

Aerion narrowed his eyes. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, and not tell our sire that you implied he is a demon from the seven hells." 

"I didn't say that. I said your sire is. Clearly the demons left you at our doorstep as a babe, and father had your horns sawed off afterwards." 

"Very droll," Aerion remarked dryly. "Retribution for me telling you your true parents were ratcatchers so many times, surely." 

Surprisingly, Egg shook his head. "I didn't mind that so much. That's what brothers are supposed to do. No one would hate you if you'd just stuck to insulting us from time to time instead of being so... so... well, you know. Anyhow, teasing is normal. You should make sure you have more than one babe, so that they have siblings to do it to." 

Aerion was rather amused by that counsel. "So now you want multiple nieces and nephews by your errant brother? Eager to be an uncle, are you?" 

"Well, Daeron is happy about it," Egg said hesitantly. "And Rhae keeps asking everyone to call her 'auntie', so she can get used to it." He snorted. "I told her that was stupid, but she never listens." 

"No one in our family does. Inherited from our father, no doubt." 

Egg frowned at that. "Father has been even surlier since you left, you know. He's always scowling, and he keeps snapping at Daeron. And he's been shutting himself up in his chambers, he… he rarely even speaks to us." 

Aerion turned his gaze to the rippling, silvery waves, suddenly unwilling to look at his brother. "It's because of our uncle, Egg," he muttered. "Father loved him, and it was by his own mace that— that he was felled. It's hard on him." 

"Still, he shouldn't be so angry. And he shouldn't have… He shouldn't have…" 

"Yes?" 

"He shouldn't have made you marry," Egg exclaimed, exasperation thick in his voice. "You didn't want to, everyone knew. It's stupid. Ser Duncan… He's honorable, but what if he wasn't? It could have been like with Ser Lyam, who used to command the goldcloaks. Daella says he beat his mate so bad the High Septon had to dissolve the marriage." 

"I'd have thought you'd be glad, if that happened to me," Aerion said, surprised. 

Egg shifted uncomfortably on the pier. "For a while, I— I was wishing that it would happen. But then I mentioned it to Daeron, and he got all sad, and I was ashamed. I'm going to be a knight. Ser Balan says knights protect the smallfolk, and children, and omegas." He sat up straight, having that same determined set of jaw Aerion had often seen in their father. "No one should hit anyone else, unless it's some battle or tourney. Not even their pups." 

"You think so? Father would be surprised. He's thrashed Daeron plenty a time, and you as well." 

"Well, Father is wrong. True knights don't hurt people. Baelor never beat his pups, Matarys says, and he was an alpha." 

Aerion knew the boy was right... though, of course, Valarr and Matarys were innocent little lambs compared to Maekar's children. 

"You will be a great knight indeed, if you can be as noble as Baelor." He hesitated. "I do think you have it in you, Aegon. You're as fierce as I was at your age, but you are also kind. I was a fool to not see it for so long. I will remember. If you need something from me from now on, you need only ask, and I shall help if I can." 

"What if I don't ever manage to forgive you?" the boy asked warily. "Will you still want to help me?" 

"Even if you never forgive me, I will remember how kind and brave you are." 

His brother nodded timidly. "I... will hold you to that as well, then." 

They kept silent for a while, Egg swinging his feet back and forth while staring thoughtfully at the sea. The awkwardness was only broken when the boy suddenly jerked, leaning forward, eyes lit up. "I think I got something. It's pulling." 

Something turned out to be a wriggling cod of reasonable size, which made Egg whistle triumphantly. "I told you I'd catch more fish than you. Just you wait, I'll get even more." 

He was right, to Aerion's chagrin. By the time the sun was high up in the sky, his brother had two codfish and two herring, while Aerion only had a codfish and a mackerel. He was forced to admit defeat… while demanding a rematch. 

He did get it. They fished together several times during the following weeks, though Aerion lost their little contest as often as he won. The boy had gotten good, or at least lucky. But it didn't matter much; they were making progress, more progress than Aerion would have ever expected. Egg hadn't said he forgives him yet, but the prince felt that it was coming soon. 

Yet as the moon turned and both the new season and the new year approached, Aerion found himself growing increasingly tired and ungainly, and their excursions had to halt. Worse, all the hopes he and Dunk had about the pregnancy being an easy one proved forlorn, vanishing as the babe grew larger, fiercer, and more active. Aerion was soon spending more time awake at night than sleeping, whilst the days were uncomfortable and hot, even when he was dressed in loose, soft silks. And he also started having the urge to smack Dunk upside the head every time he saw him, for no better reason than the alpha being the one who impregnated him. 

One night, he couldn't stand it. He'd been tossing and turning for hours, cursing his ill fortune… whilst the cause of his discomfort was sleeping soundly. Dunk even had the enormity to snore, completely peaceful. Aerion was not about to let that stand. He shook the alpha awake. "Get up," he said rudely. "You've had more than enough rest." 

Duncan rolled over to look at him, eyes dazed and heavy with sleep. "Aerion?" he muttered. "Are you alright?" 

"I am very much not," the prince said crankily. "And you have the audacity to be lying there like a sleeping babe, as if you didn't cause this. You ought to be up, suffering with me." 

Dunk sat up, blinking. "Is it the babe? Are you not comfortable?" 

"Of course I'm not comfortable. I am only in my sixth month, and your whelp seems to be the size of a newborn already. Kicks like a stallion, too. I can't believe I called the little brute a butterfly." 

"I am sorry," Dunk said sheepishly. "Can I help you with anything?" 

"You can rub my feet. These cramps are killing me. And then you can stay awake with me in penance." 

Dunk obeyed, very much cowed. He sat at the foot of the bed and gently massaged Aerion's feet and calves. "Is the— the size an issue? What does Gareth say?" 

"That I'm carrying heavy, but it should not prove a hurdle. Big pups don't necessarily make labor more dangerous, he claims." He sneered. "Easy for him to say. He doesn't have to do it. And who knows what might happen, with your whelp? It may well be a proper giant, grow up to be fifteen feet tall. That would surely be hazardous for anyone to give birth to." 

Dunk rose and placed his hands over his mate's stomach, gently. "I'm sorry. I wish I could do it for you." 

Aerion snorted. "Bold words indeed, from one who will never have to." Still, he mellowed a little, resting his hand over the alpha's. 

"Fair enough." Dunk hesitated. "Do you want some distraction? You could come along tomorrow when Egg and I go to the clearing just south of the castle, to train a little. You've always liked supervising, you'd be a formidable master-at-arms. Can you still ride?" 

"Of course I can bloody ride," Aerion said. "And if it's the place I think you mean, it's hardly ten minutes away. I'd be able to ride there even if my leg was cut off." 

"So, you'll come?" 

"Most certainly. In fact, I mean to follow you two around like a noisome fly from now on. If I must be pestered by your unruly get, so will you." 

Dunk laughed, leaning in to kiss him, assuring him that he was more than happy to be pestered. 

Aerion kept his promise. When he rode out with them the next morning, he made sure to whinge about his back in an exaggerated manner all the way to the clearing. Then he sat down on the grass beneath a great tree, with the hearty breakfast he had packed. His appetite had grown in the past few weeks, to Dunk's great pleasure—and to his own very mixed feelings. 

His alpha was right about one thing; Aerion enjoyed watching others spar, even if he wasn't able to join in. And Dunk and Egg were an especially entertaining sight. 

"Egg, bend your knees more," he advised his brother after a while, holding in laughter. "Stop trying to strike upwards, he's way too tall. Go low and aim at his legs, and he'll falter." 

"I can't get to him," Egg whined, panting as Dunk parried his sidethrust. Though the alpha was going easy on him, the boy was still struggling, his short reach and weak arms making it difficult for him to land blows. 

"Hmm. Let's see. Urnēbās, Āegos; skorī ao arlī idakos, geptot jās, pār qubirī hīlās." 

Egg always huffed and puffed when Aerion told him to do something… but this time he listened, and it soon bore fruit. A sharp dodge to the side as Dunk parried gave the boy time to viciously slash at the alpha's shins, making him groan and drop his sword. Egg roared in triumph, happy to have disarmed him at last. 

"That wasn't fair," Dunk protested, when they stopped to rest near noontime. He was ruddy from all the exercise, a fine sheen of sweat covering his brow. The rich green of his surcoat brought out the color of his hair and the rosy flush of his cheeks. He looked beautiful, so beautiful Aerion forgot that he was determined to be angry with him. 

"Well, battles aren't won with fairness," the prince pointed out. "One cannot rise from the grave and complain that the foe cheated them." 

"True enough, I suppose. What did you even tell him?" 

"Just that when you counterattack again, he ought to dive left, then strike low. You always try the same riposte after parrying. It's not hard to outmaneuver it." 

"Hmm. My own omega is conspiring against me. I wonder what your dear old septa would say, to see you so—" 

"A raven!" Egg shouted, interrupting them. Aerion glanced towards the castle; a black bird was flying to the rookery tower, faint in the horizon. "May I go see what it is, Ser?" the boy asked excitedly, jumping to his feet. "Could be news from Summerhall, or our grandsire." 

Dunk laughed. "As you will. It's nearly dinnertime anyway. Ride back to the castle, we'll follow soon." 

Egg ran to his rouncey and mounted with a great leap, urging her forward. They barely had time to blink before he was riding off, the mare's hooves thumping hard against the earth. 

Dunk chuckled, leaning back on his hands. "Your little brother has been quite giddy lately." 

"He's happy to be with you. He was willing to be your squire and wander around the Seven Kingdoms like a vagrant, Duncan, the boy worships you." 

Dunk shrugged. "He's just a little lad. He'd worship anyone who's good to him, and he desperately wants to be a knight. I was the same, at his age." 

"I know. So was I." He laughed. "Except I never wanted to be in the Kingsguard, as Egg does. A life of service, and all that white… Targaryen red-and-black suits me much better." 

"Well, I can hardly blame you. You have a very fierce coat of arms. Quite inspiring." 

"Yours is not half bad either." He ran his fingers over Dunk's discarded shield. "How did you come up with these arms, anyway? I never asked you. They weren't Ser Arlan's, were they?" 

"No," Duncan admitted, growing more somber. "Your uncle told me I had to bear different ones, since I wasn't the old man's son. I— I wanted the colors of the sunset, Ser used to love sunsets. And your brother suggested an elm tree, because we'd camped under one. And the star... I saw a falling star, that night. I thought maybe it was a good omen." 

"Hmm. You know, my mother's coat of arms is a sword and a falling star, crossed over a lilac field. The first Dayne followed the star to Dorne, and built Starfall where it landed. He forged Dawn from its heart." 

Dunk nodded. "I know. I've always thought it such a wondrous tale; perhaps I even took some inspiration from it, without even realizing." He hesitated. "Have you seen it?" he asked in a hushed voice. "Dawn?" 

The prince smirked. "Oh, I've even wielded it. My uncle put it in my hand and let me spar with him. Only once, though." 

He perked up. "Truly? What did it feel like?" 

He found that he had to stop and reflect on it. "Light. Deceptively light, and so well balanced that swinging it makes you feel like a dancer. And deadly. You could easily overswing, thinking it's far less sharp and strong than it actually is." He chuckled. "If you were to wield it, you'd be able to cut through a bloody tree trunk." 

"I'm not sure I could do such a weapon any justice. I'm not near skilled enough, and better with a mace, to be frank with you." 

Aerion shrugged. "Well, use a mace, then. But you ought to practice with other weapons as well. And enter some tourneys, Dunk. You're as strong as an aurochs, and quicker than a man your size has any right to be. You shouldn't waste that potential. With time you could be a second Baelor." 

"I doubt that very much." He hesitated. "You should compete, after our babe is born and all the fuss about Ashford dies down. You are too good a sword and lance to never pick them up again. Far better than me." 

Aerion laughed bitterly. "Dunk, last time I jousted, I ran a horse through with my lance. And that was before the trial. My reputation is hardly knightly. I don't think the fuss will ever die down." 

The knight frowned, momentarily diverted. He sat up straight. "Why did you kill the horse, anyway? It was too reckless, you had to know Lord Ashford was like to declare the tilt forfeit." 

"Because Hardyng was the best jouster there," Aerion said bluntly. "By the time I got to him, he'd defeated fourteen knights. He was the one most like to distinguish himself. The only way to remove him from the field was trickery." 

"But why were you so eager to remove him? Was the tourney that important?" 

"Yes," he said softly, "because I'm an omega, and I had to prove myself every time I stepped on a tourney field. And because the only reason my father commanded Daeron to compete was to show that his son was just as good as Baelor's. My sire has been overshadowed all his life, Dunk. He's chafing with it." 

Dunk seemed surprised by that answer. He was silent for a while. "Why didn't you challenge Valarr, instead?" 

"I would have. But I had to get rid of Hardyng first. He was the best. I had to defeat the best." 

"It still seems a rather foolish plan," he muttered. "Even if you were declared the winner... forgive me, my love, but it made you look bad, not able."

"I know. I panicked, to be blunt with you. Daeron was nowhere to be found, I knew he was passed out drunk somewhere. I knew Father would be burning with rage, and that I had a brief chance to show him I could be the son he wanted, omega-born or not. He wasn't at the stands either, he wouldn't see me do it. So I grasped at the opportunity." 

"I... understand," Dunk said, solemly. 

Aerion smiled fondly. "You are being kind, as always, but how could you understand? You're far too noble." 

"I understand more than you know. I know what desperation feels like, Aerion. And I know what it's like to sacrifice your honor because of it." 

Aerion frowned. "What do you mean?" 

The alpha grimaced, looking away. "I suppose it's time," he muttered. "So much has happened, and… and you deserve to know the truth, anyway. I should have confessed much earlier, but I was a coward." 

Aerion frowned. "What is it, Dunk? You're scaring me. Whatever it is, just say it. We're wedded, I'm carrying your child, I love you. There's nothing you can't tell me." 

The alpha kept his gaze away for a long time. When he faced the prince again, his beautiful blue eyes were dark with a deep shame. "Aerion, I cannot fight in any tourney. I shouldn't have been at Ashford either. I shouldn't have taken Egg on as my squire." He pointed at the shield. "I don't even have a right to these arms." His voice shook. "My prince, I'm not... I was never... Ser Arlan never knighted me." 

The world seemed to stand still. "What?" 

Dunk's mouth trembled. "I am not a knight. I was never a knight. He wouldn't dub me. Gods forgive me, but it was a lie, a big, monstrous lie, told just to get near something I'd desperately wanted my whole life." 

Around them, the countryside grew quiet, like nothing mattered but the revelation. I am not a knight, the words echoed in Aerion's head. I was never a knight. 

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to lash out, to curse, to rage about being deceived for so long. But all his anger was extinguished before it even had the time to flare up. What came instead was bewilderment. Dunk, not a knight. The man who stepped in to protect a girl he scarcely knew, surrendering his life for her sake. The man who refused to harm his own worst enemy, even when given power over him. The man who bled on their wedding night, just so Aerion wouldn't have to. 

It was absurd. A man who was as knightly as can be had never been dubbed, while those who lacked chivalry had. How was that even possible? Had the gods played some trick, some cruel jest? 

How can I be a knight, when he is not? 

He rose to his feet. "Dunk," he said levelly, "give me your sword." 

Duncan frowned, confusion blooming in his face. He offered up the longsword hilt first. "What… what do you want with the sword?" 

Aerion took it, then glared. "What do you think, you dunce? You're not assuming I mean to run you through with it, I devoutly hope?" 

"Well, no. Though I do deserve it," Dunk said miserably. "I caused all this mess with my lie. I should have never... I should have stayed away from Ashford, looked for some other knight to serve, gone back to Flea Bottom. If I'd done any of that, Baelor—" 

"If you finish that sentence, I'm going to start screaming. Baelor himself would have told you it was no fault of yours. You didn't ask for a bloody trial of seven, I did. So don't you dare think that, Dunk, ever. I forbid it." He let out a breath, composing himself. "I merely intend to correct your old master's mistake. Get on your knees." 

Dunk's eyes grew wider. "You want to— to knight me? Here and now?" 

"Yes. If you will allow it." He hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. "By rights, of course, this should be done by some noble hero," he muttered. "Ryam Redwyne. Aemon the Dragonknight. My uncle, the Sword of the Morning. Someone worthy of you; someone who kept their vows. But all I have to offer is myself, if we are to protect your secret. My only merit as a knight is that I was dubbed by Baelor; perhaps that will be enough." He took a deep breath. "So what say you, Lord Duncan? Will you allow me the honor of knighting you?" 

Dunk stared. It took him a long while to make the decision, but finally he stood, timid and awkward, and knelt in the grass front of Aerion. The prince raised the sword. To his relief, the words came to him easily, like a poem he'd memorized not too long ago. He could almost hear Baelor speaking, clear and loud. 

"Dunk of Flea Bottom," he started, voice as steady as he could make it. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." He rested the tip of the blade on the alpha's right shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." He moved the sword to the left shoulder, tapping lightly. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect those weaker than yourself. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be prudent. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be steadfast. In the name of the Stranger, I bid you to remember that all men must die." He paused. "Do you swear to uphold these oaths, now and forever?" 

"I do," Dunk whispered, lips barely moving. 

"Then arise, Ser Duncan, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms." 

The knight rose. There was a potent silence between them, filled with emotion. 

"Thank you," Dunk whispered, fervently. "Thank you." 

And then he kissed him, fierce and hot, and Aerion tasted the salt of his tears. 

The ride back to Dawnfort was strangely quiet, Dunk looking like he was still trying to process what had happened. Aerion finally had to snap at him. "Say something. You're acting like I gave you a thrashing, not dubbed you." 

Dunk started a little, as if he'd been woken from some deep slumber. Then he smiled at his mate, all warmth and tenderness. "I'm sorry. It's just that the moment I think you can't possibly make me happier, you somehow manage it. I must find a way to properly reward you. And also…" His expression turned more mischievous. 

"Also?" the prince asked warily. 

"Well," Dunk said, voice mild, "I was just thinking that now you've done it, and you've got no one to blame but yourself. Knighthood truly has fallen on sad days." 

Aerion rolled his eyes, groaning so loud they must have heard him all the way to the castle. 

When they arrived, Gareth was waiting for them by the stables, a rolled-up sheet of parchment in his hands. Aerion frowned to see him; the maester's face was etched with worry, forehead set in a deep frown. And Egg was next to him, scowling, arms crossed. 

"He won't tell me anything!" the boy complained the moment Dunk and Aerion approached. "Not even what it's about. I asked so many times." 

"Maester?" Aerion asked, a little befuddled. "Is something wrong?" 

Gareth swallowed. His eyes darted nervously to Egg, then Dunk, then back to Aerion. "I apologize, my lords. But we need to speak privately. The message was… the message…" He stopped, struggling, clearly unwilling to speak in front of Egg. 

"I'll tell you after," Dunk assured the boy. "Go to the hall for dinner. I'll come and tell you." 

"You'd better come right away," Egg said stubbornly. "And tell me everything. If it's about our family, at least. I'm a Targaryen as much as Aerion is, I deserve to know." 

The knight nodded. "I promise," he said solemnly. 

They followed Gareth, both puzzled. When they reached the entrance of the rookery, Aerion stopped the maester, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Wait. Tell us what it's about first, at least. Give us the short version, and then we'll discuss it in detail inside. What’s happened? Are my kin well?" 

Gareth nodded. "They are in fine health, Your Grace. The raven came from King's Landing, concerning…" He faltered, trailing off. "It could be nothing to worry about. But it was wise to warn us; you are the king's grandson, after all." 

"Warn us about what?" 

Dunk just watched the maester, as expectant as Aerion. 

"Sickness," Gareth said, finally. "Sickness in the Capital, my lords. Confined to Flea Bottom for now, the Grand Maester says, but it concerns me. It's spreading fast, and the symptoms… A maester should be skilled in all areas, but I confess, healing has always been my truest calling. I've studied all the Citadel texts and treated as many patients as I could, and there's something about this outbreak that I don't like at all. We really ought to prepare. We should plan ahead, even if it turns out that we're being overly cautious. And we should pray that it doesn't spread beyond the slums. If it does, I fear for what might happen. I fear for the people of King's Landing… and for the rest of the kingdom as well."  

Chapter Text

Dunk had tried to dismiss it all. "Flea Bottom's filthy and overcrowded," he insisted, too many times. "Disease is common there. It doesn't mean anything." 

Gareth would just nod, sceptical. "I pray you are right, my lord." 

He was not right. Within a few days, the scourge had spread throughout King's Landing, and outbreaks had been reported in other major cities. Oldtown had been struck, as well as Lannisport. 

The Great Spring Sickness, they called it. A cruel name, drawing attention to the fact that the deaths were happening during the most beautiful season, as the flowers were in full bloom and the fields were verdant and lush. 

The affliction started out with chills and muscle cramps, then quickly progressed to heavy sweating and fever, which progressed to a deep sleep and eventually death. The whole process lasted only one or two days, and one out of three men who caught it died. Aerion was reminded of the Shivers, the plague that had killed thousands over a hundred and fifty years prior, but the maester could not be sure whether the two were related. 

Aerion knew Targaryens were not supposed to sicken. It was an oft-repeated doctrine that they were not like other men, their dragon blood purifying the various ailments that plagued commoners and nobles alike. He himself had never been sick, other than that strange fever when he was recovering from the trial. And yet, during the Shivers, the young princess Daenerys had died, and she was fully Targaryen on both sides. Aerion had Dornish blood, and the babe he carried was even less Valyrian. If this disease was similar... 

He was in a quiet terror. The face he saw in the looking glass grew paler as his belly swelled, his hands trembling at random. Duncan was also shaken, walking around the castle grounds with tight lips and his hand on the pommel of his sword, as if the disease was something he could best in a fight. 

Ill news came to them one after the other. Lord Damon Lannister, the Grey Lion, died from the sickness. So too did the High Septon, and silent sisters were being felled mercilessly, more than half of them dead by the first moon's turn. The Arryns had closed off the Vale, and Prince Maron had done the same in Dorne, so they seemed to be unaffected; but in King's Landing and Oldtown and Lannisport, the pestilence was spreading like wildfire.  

And soon enough, the illness reached the Bay. 

Aerion tried to busy himself. He sent word to the septons to pray and give people heart, asked the maester to prepare potions and tissanes that they could give out, and ordered the guards to march down to the villages and make sure order was maintained, and that the dead were properly disposed of. He commanded that all trade be halted, though for the most part it already had. 

Dunk would mount his horse and ride to the villages alongside his soldiers, to offer comfort. Aerion had begged him not to go, but only once. He knew the knight wouldn't be able to stand not being among his people as they suffered. But he had forbidden him from touching anyone, and every time he returned, he forced him to burn his clothes and wash thoroughly. Dunk had jested about it, once, saying his husband would soon leave him walking about naked. Aerion did not laugh. 

There was one person he did refuse to allow to go anywhere, and that was Egg. The boy whined, of course, but Aerion was adamant, and Dunk agreed. His brother was not allowed beyond the castle walls, and Aerion was even reluctant to let him out of the main keep. The servants were allowed to leave, to be with their kin or nurse the sick; but only if they were prepared to stay in their villages until the plague had passed. A good third of them chose to do so. And some of them died. 

Gunna was the last to leave, gathering her scant possessions in a sack thrown over one shoulder. "I needs to be with my children, m'lord. And with the grandkids as well. They'll need me, no matter what happens." 

Aerion just nodded grimly, trying to show a brave face. He'd come to like the washerwoman, who was always fond of telling stories of what the castle used to be like many years past. "May the gods guard and keep you, Gunna." 

"Seven bless you, my prince, and yer good lord as well. I pray yer babe's born hale and healthy as can be." 

One week later, they learned that she was dead. 

Everyone in the castle was tense with fear, with various ways of showing it. Kyra was tight-lipped and pale, determined to show no emotion, but Sam barely bothered to disguise his distress. He would often burst into tears, completely unprovoked, and he wouldn't leave the main keep at all. Once, Aerion sent him to deliver some message to the kitchens, only to find the boy crouched by the keep's entrance an hour later, weeping. "Please, my lord," he'd cried, "please let me stay in here. I'm scared, I'm so scared, what if I die, what if—" 

Aerion simply knelt and hugged him, tight. Sam sobbed against his shoulder like a desolate child. "My lord, I-I'm afraid." 

"Hush, Sam. I know. It's alright. Everything will be fine, I promise you." 

"B-ut… But what if… What if my mother…" His voice shook, hands clutching Aerion. "Lord Aerion," he whimpered, "what if my mama dies?" 

Aerion leaned back and held the omega's face in his hands. "Look at me. Your family lives in the countryside, right? Far away from any cities?" Sam and Kyra were both gentry, he knew; the boy's mother owned a keep in the Vale. 

Sam nodded, sniffling. 

"Then it's unlikely that they'll even encounter the sickness. It hits cities the hardest, towns and villages less so, and remote keeps and hamlets not at all. Be at ease, Sam. Your kin will be well." 

Fortunately, he was telling the truth. Such pestilences struck places where the population was densest, Gareth had explained, since the smallfolk there lived and ate and worked practically on top of one another. The lack of an adequate sewer system in King's Landing made everything worse, so that the capital was struck the hardest. The countryside, on the other hand, was mostly spared. In Dawnfort and its surroundings, only a small part of the denizens caught the affliction, the weak and the unlucky. Nym was one of them, and spent a week in the barracks, lying in a cot with chills and a high fever. She came out of it alive, albeit much thinner and paler. Others had not been so fortunate. 

"How many?" Dunk asked tensely one morning, during the first moon of the new year. Aerion was poring over reports, his hand resting on his stomach. He was in his eighth month, though the anxiety of the Spring Sickness had made him almost forget the discomfort of his own condition. 

"One sixth in Saltcrest, one seventh in Greentide, one tenth in Foxgrove," he said levelly. "One hundred and ten, overall. We've been lucky." 

"I don't feel very lucky." 

"Well, you are. If we were in a city, it might have been a good fourth or third. Look at what's happening in King's Landing. They're burning bodies where they lie, especially in the slums." 

Dunk sat up in his chair. "Any word from the Red Keep?" 

"None whatsoever. Thank the gods my father and siblings are in Summerhall." The palace was away from any major settlements; its closest city was King's Landing, a fortnight's ride away. Daeron had also written to him a week past, asking for news and informing him that so far the sickness had not touched them. In truth, after two hard months, the plague seemed to be retreating in most places. Only the capital was still in its throes, with little improvement to be seen. 

The silence from the court unsettled him. Dunk had declared confidently that the king and his heirs would shut themselves in the Red Keep, and the plague wouldn't reach them. Aerion knew better. The court was one of the most crowded places one could be in, and even if his grandsire wanted to, it was impossible to isolate within it. Chambermaids entered the royal apartments every morning, pages and valets helped the king dress, and servers from the kitchens brought his meals. Kingsguard knights guarded his door day and night, and council members always wanted to have a word about some matter or the other. The only way to truly minimize exposure was to hole up in his apartments and neglect his duties, and Aerion knew his grandsire would never do that. Neither would Valarr, who was the Hand now. They were both too dutiful, too diligent. 

So Aerion had prepared himself for ill news. But that didn't mean it was easy to receive, when it came. 

The maester entered their chambers one misty afternoon as they were dining, solemn and quiet, holding the letter in a tight fist. Aerion stood awkwardly, bracing on the back of the chair, but Dunk was faster. He walked up to Gareth and reached for the parchment. "Give it to me," he said tensely. "I can read it, I've been learning long enough." 

As he unrolled it and started reading, mouthing the words, brows knit together in concentration, Aerion braced himself. He clenched his teeth and made himself wait quietly, patiently. Kyra and Sam stared at each other with wide eyes across the table, unspeaking. 

Dunk didn't take long. He looked up almost immediately, face rippling with a wave of pain that the prince knew was on his behalf. 

"Tell me," he managed to say, "just tell me." 

"The king is dead," Dunk said, voice filled with shock. "King Daeron. He died days ago, and the princes too." 

Aerion felt ill. He tightened his grip on the backrest to keep from fainting. "Which princes? How many?" 

"Not your brothers," Dunk said swiftly, flushing red at his blunder. "Not your father." 

"Which princes?" 

"Valarr," Dunk said, "Matarys. And Aerys." His blue eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. "Who will be king now? The letter doesn't say." 

His grandsire. His cousins. His uncle. Aerion could not truly say that he was close to any of them… but it was still a loss, and more so a loss of what could have been. He wanted to summon us all at court, he remembered. He wanted the family to reconcile, and now he'll never get to see it happen. He swallowed, then looked back at Dunk. "Rhaegel is next in line, then his twins, Aelor and Aelora," he said numbly. But Rhaegel was feebleminded and meek, everybody knew that. The lords of Westeros would eat such a king alive. And if he was to be crowned, surely that should have been included in the message. Something was not right. "Let me see the letter." 

It was as brief as Dunk had implied, written in a maester's tidy hand. Aerion didn't recognize the handwriting. Grand Maester Malleon must have died too, he realized. He'd been a kind man, albeit prone to rambling and dwelling on useless details. 

So many dead. So many of my kin, so many that I knew, spoke to, jested with… fought with. Hurt. Disappointed. Betrayed. 

He thought of his grandfather, of the letter he had written him, full of soothing words that were too generous, too forgiving. 

We shall all meet again soon, child, when the grief is less fresh and your sire's anger has cooled. Then we shall speak about everything. I promise. 

I promise. 

Aerion's belly heaved. 

He let out a gasp and doubled over, clutching at his stomach, his other hand gripping the chair. 

"Aerion?" Dunk hurried to his side, his voice strained with fear, as both Sam and Kyra stood in alarm. "Are you well?" 

"It's nothing," he declared, breathlessly. Gather yourself, you fool. This is not the time. 

But the cramping was insistent, only strengthening. Aerion's knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. It was a strange pain, almost like pre-heat cramps yet different, more powerful, like a hand gripping his insides. No, he thought. No. I am only eight months along. This can't happen now. Yet the pain kept coming, hot and fierce, tight as a vice. 

Dunk turned to his handmaids. "Call Maester Gareth," he shouted. "I'll take him to the bed." He bent to take Aerion by the hips and beneath the arms, lifting him. 

The pain was subsiding, but by now Aerion knew more would come. "Dunk, help me, it is too early, gods, it is nearly a month too early, please, please..." 

"Hush. Hush, my little prince. All shall be well. I promise." 

I promise, Aerion thought, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to weep. King Daeron had said the same thing, only for fate to prove him wrong. The prince leaned against Dunk and groaned, trying to believe that this time, the promise would be fulfilled. 

Aerion Targaryen had learned to bear blisters and bruises from training in the yard. He had sprained and broken bones in melees. He had burned himself, too many times, he had felt Dunk's fierce strength, he'd been cut, he had bled. But he had never, ever been in more pain in his life. 

His hands clutched at the sheets until his knuckles went white, his whole body was doused in sweat, and he cried out every time the contractions came, over and over again. All the while, his stomach was heaving with fear for his child, his little dragon who kicked so fiercely, the babe who had been inside him only eight moons. 

Dunk was by his side, pale and sick with worry. He stroked Aerion's hair, cooled his brow with a wet cloth, muttered to him that he was brave and strong. Aerion didn't feel brave, nor strong, nor like a prince. He felt like a butchered calf being carved open for the dinner table. 

Maester Gareth was quietly composed. He worked fast, fetching balms and potions, snapping orders at Aerion's frightened handmaids. With deft hands, he massaged oil onto Aerion's stomach, felt for the position of the babe, and gave the omega a drink of sugar and vinegar. 

Yet hours later, Aerion had made little progress. The pains had barely changed, and his hips had gone numb from laying on his back with the weight of his belly crushing him. He suddenly felt too hot, too restless, like a beast that had been chained down in the Dragonpit. He longed to stretch out his wings, to dig his claws into the cool earth. 

"Dunk, help me up," he demanded. 

The knight was cautious. "Are you sure? Are you not too fatigued to—" 

He shook his head. "I must walk," he proclaimed. He pushed himself up, holding on to the bed frame as Dunk gently helped him. When another contraction wracked his body, he pressed his forehead against the wooden post, panting. 

"Shouldn't he stay on his back?" Sam asked tentatively. "My maester always used to say—" 

Kyra chided him. "Are you a maester, you ninny? Hush."  

Sam closed his mouth, abashed. 

"If you have an urge to move, Your Grace, you should," Gareth said calmly, ignoring the handmaids. "The babe must descend, and you know best how to achieve that." 

The concept that an omega knew best about such matters was so foreign to what Aerion had been told all his life that he found himself hesitating… but the urge was too strong. "Yes," he said, "Yes, I must move." 

"Good," Gareth said. "Now, let's get you walking." 

It took another hour before the pains grew closer together. Aerion leaned against Dunk and paced around the chamber, pausing only when a contraction hit him. It was easier, standing upright; somehow, he fell into a steady routine, letting each great wave of pain wash over his head, then focusing on walking. 

Finally, something changed. He stopped walking and grasped Dunk. "I feel... I feel... A— a pressure, as if I need to void myself." It was an obscene thought, but it was the best comparison he could think of. 

"Good." The maester nodded. "That means you are ready to push. The babe is coming, my prince." 

He was suddenly afraid. "How— How do I—" 

"You know how. Your body is telling you. Just be calm, and bear down when you feel the need, just as if you were voiding. Then breathe." 

The maester guided him to kneel on the mattress, Dunk helping him stay upright. And the prince pushed. 

He bore down for several seconds, his body taking over. It was a queer sensation. He stopped, took a few breaths, continued. The maester had gone to his knees by the bed, to better see what was taking place. 

Gareth gently soothed him through the process, while Dunk was a firm support, his hand holding Aerion's tightly, his scent earthy and steadfast. Time passed; a minute or an hour, he could scarcely tell. Finally there was an intense stretching in his privates, a powerful burning, a pain as sharp and shearing as a knife. He threw his head back and screamed, roaring like some wounded beast. Balerion, lord of the earth, he thought, or cried out; it was hard to tell. God of the fertile fields, master of the Fourteen Flames. Meraxes. Vhagar, you of the bloodied spear. Aid me, help me— 

There was a wetness, a slithering sensation, and the pain was suddenly, blessedly, gone. 

Dunk gave a gasp, and then was joined by a shrill little cry, loud and piercing and demanding. 

Aerion looked down at the mess of blood and sweat between his legs. The maester was cradling the babe, the infant's cries as clear and strong as the ringing of a sept's bells. "A girl, Your Grace. A healthy beta girl." 

She had a little tuft of sandy hair, and when she was placed in his arms, she opened her eyes to look at him. They were large and violet, as deep and rich a color as his own. 

"Hello," he muttered. "Rytsās, little one." 

Dunk was crying. Unashamedly, he let tears run down his face as he reached out with a trembling hand, stroking the babe's head. 

The maester cut the cord and the afterbirth came out soon enough, but Aerion scarcely felt it. Gareth and the handmaids cleaned everything up as well as possible, then discreetly left the two of them alone. And the prince and his knight lay together in bed, admiring their pup. 

Dunk still had tears streaking his cheeks. "My love. My prince." He said it over and over, his voice lowered in quiet reverence. 

"I'm sorry," he muttered, after a while. "It was my fault this happened early. I shouldn't have told you about your kinsmen so brusquely, I—" 

Aerion's eyes shot up. "Stop. Don't even follow that train of thought. I asked you to tell me. And there was no gentle way to do it, Dunk, not really. Besides, our daughter is here, and she is well. That's all that matters right now." 

Dunk hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. You are right, my prince." 

"I feel like it was his blessing, you know," Aerion mused. "My grandsire's. It sounds strange, but… I feel that it matters, that she came today. Perhaps it wasn’t just the shock. Perhaps he was helping us." 

"It doesn't sound strange," Dunk muttered, stroking his hair gently. "It sounds like something he would do. If he's a spirit now, in the Father's halls, he would certainly want to help. Or if he's in some Valyrian afterlife. What did they believe?" 

"Well," Aerion said, "it really depends on what you mean by—" 

"Let me in," a shrill, loud voice demanded from the solar. 

"My prince, please," Gareth sounded weary, but still firm. "This is not a good time, their lordships—" 

"I'm her uncle, and Ser Duncan's squire, and Aerion's brother. I've got a right to see them, and you shan't stop me!" 

Aerion snorted. "I believe you should let the little scamp in before he beats up our maester," he told Dunk dryly. 

The knight hurried to the door, and threw it open to find the two of them locked in a stalemate of sorts; Egg flushed and angry, Gareth pale but resolute. The boy looked up at Dunk, suddenly abashed. "Ser, I was just—" 

"I know what you were just, Aegon," Dunk chided sternly, "and you were being rude. Apologize to Gareth." 

Egg pouted. "I'm sorry, maester," he said sheepishly, "I just wanted to meet the babe. And to see Ser, and— and Aerion. I heard that everything happened very fast, and…" He trailed off. 

"We know," Dunk said, more gently, "come on in. But don't be discourteous again, do you hear me?" 

Egg nodded, then rushed into the room, the alpha following close behind him. 

Aerion sat up. "Egg," he started, "our grandsire—" 

"I know. Our cousins too, and Uncle Aerys." Egg chewed on his lip. "I… I don't know how to feel about it. I suppose I should be mourning them more, but in truth, I didn't really know them that well. But they— they were good men. I know that much." 

"They were. And you shouldn't feel guilty, Egg, no matter how much you grieve, or how you grieve. Our grandsire, Valarr, Matarys, Aerys... They were all kind. Compassionate. They wouldn't want you to suffer for their sake." 

Egg nodded. "I... I suppose. Are you feeling very… are you…" 

"I'm fine." He gestured. "Come see her." 

Egg walked closer and knelt by the bed, resting his chin in his palms, looking at the babe with eyes big as saucers. "She's all red and purple. Is she alright?" 

Aerion snorted. "That's what newborns look like, Egg. You were the same, I promise you. You looked like a little grumpkin, though you bellowed like you had the lungs of a giant." 

"The lungs of a dragon," Egg corrected, quite unabashed. He got up and sat on the edge of the mattress to see better. "She looks like a dragon too. She has your pouty lips, and your eyes." 

"Indeed," Aerion said, smiling softly. 

"Have you decided on a name? The omega chooses, right?"  

Aerion gave a little laugh. "You know, with everything that's happened, I haven't. Any suggestions?" 

"Oh, no! Last time I gave a suggestion for naming something, you actually took it. I don't want her to grow up blaming me if she hates her name." 

Aerion gave a languid shrug. "As you wish. I think I shall have to think about it for a few days. It's an important matter, after all." 

In the end, it took him two weeks to make up his mind. It was not entirely due to indecision; he found himself busy, possibly busier than he'd ever been in his life. Pups, it turned out, had a lot of demands. As he woke every other hour to feed his daughter, lull her to sleep, or change her, he felt like he was serving some tiny, demanding emperor. 

He was as militant with his daughter's care as his sire had ever been with troop formations. She was bathed and had the linens of her cradle changed twice a day, and her swaddling clothes were to be checked immediately when she cried. In daytime, Kyra and Sam were supposed to attend to those tasks—though, amusingly, Dunk insisted on performing most of them himself—but at nights, it was only Aerion and the alpha. 

He didn't mind. It was a strange state that he was in; some part of him was grieving for everyone lost, making him tear up if he thought about his grandsire and cousins too much. But most of his soul was occupied with just being happy; a steady, gentle, unyielding happiness. 

He woke up one rosy morning to a lovely sight. Dunk was up, cradling the babe by the window, the rays of dawn bathing the two of them in light. Aerion didn't think he had ever seen anything more beautiful. It's like they've been blessed by Syrax, the sun goddess, he thought… and then, finally, he knew his daughter's name. 

"Rhaenyra," he said calmly. 

Dunk looked up at him, a little confused. Then his face cleared, and his smile was as lovely as the sunrise. He nodded. "Rhaenyra. Wasn't she..." 

"Queen in her own right, and an omega too. The first one after Aenys. She was fierce and beautiful. They called her Maegor with teats." 

Dunk gave a soft chuckle. He walked over to the bed and sat down, carefully, so as to not disturb the babe lying content in his arms. "You did find a way to sneak in Maegor after all, I see. So be it." He looked down at the babe, letting out a soft sigh. "I keep staring at her for hours, you know," he muttered. "She's so beautiful. And so tiny, with such small hands and feet. Are all pups supposed to be this small?" 

"She is big, for a newborn." He glared at Dunk. "Way too big, according to Gareth. A month early yet as large and strong as can be. Takes after a certain giant, as I predicted. No wonder she nearly tore me apart." 

Dunk's face twisted in guilt. "I'm so sorry, my prince. Ser Arlan always said I was too large for my own good. Are you still bleeding?" 

"Aye, and sore with it." The maester had wrapped his privates in a bundle of soft rags, that quickly seeped with blood and needed changing every few hours. He felt like a swaddled pup himself. The faded cramps in his belly sharpened when he was feeding the babe, and the first time he visited the privy after the birth was agony, but the sight of his daughter helped him brace through all of it. He felt a fierce pride in her plump little limps, her straw-colored hair, her purple eyes, her small rosy mouth that looked so much like his own. My own flesh and blood, born from genuine love. 

Dunk leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Are you certain you need to keep suckling her yourself? We can find a good wet-nurse, it would help you rest better at night." 

"Of course I'll feed her from my own breast. She's mine," he said fiercely. He'd quickly developed a queer possessiveness for the pup. Watching a stranger nurse his daughter would drive him up the wall. 

Dunk chuckled. "Of course, of course. I won't suggest it again, don't glower at me like a dragon in its lair. You've been very strict lately, like some battle commander. Some of your rules are quite perplexing, too. Does she really need to be bathed with rosewater? Every time?" 

"Yes. Even this is a concession, I will have you know; my mother used to bathe us with orange blossom water. That would be my first choice, if there were any orange trees around." 

"You are too fastidious," Dunk said, his eyes gentle, "though I suppose I should thank you for it. If it weren't for you making me wash like I was trying to strip my skin off every time I rode out, I might have caught the Spring Sickness." 

Aerion shifted uncomfortably. "What is happening with the Sickness? I'd practically forgotten, cooped up in here with our pup. Is it still on the wane?" 

"Aye, seems so. Even in King's Landing, they say, though we've had no more ravens from the court." 

"Any other news?" 

"No. Well, Wylla came up to the castle yesterday, to fetch us some things. I told the men-at-arms to give her some silver and take what she brought." He looked a little guilty at that. "Perhaps I shouldn't have, but there has been no sickness in Saltcrest for three weeks, so I thought—" 

"It's fine. It's been long enough." Aerion frowned a little. "What did she bring?" 

"Eggs, cheese, milk, and some fresh fish. She said the villagers wanted to make sure you and the babe are eating well. They know no fresh foodstuffs have been coming in the castle during the past couple of months." 

Aerion was speechless. The smallfolk were grieving, had lost family, kin, friends. Yet they had remembered Aerion and his daughter. And Wylla… 

"Two of her fosterlings dead," Aerion muttered, "and she came all the way up to the castle, to fetch me eggs." 

Dunk nodded, his eyes gentle. "They've grown to love you, Aerion, as I said they would. They remember how you helped them." 

I don't deserve their love, he thought automatically… Yet, a part of him wanted to believe that he did, so he didn't say it. He just nodded, fighting back absurd, emotional tears. "Give her to me," he asked, partly to just distract himself. "She needs to eat. And then we can go to the solar and play some dice, or I could teach you one of those board games from the Free Cities. I can't keep playing only with Egg, you know how annoying we both get when we win." 

Dunk smiled and, as always, obliged him.  

Right before noon, Kyra came to the door of their chambers with a message. Aerion and Dunk were playing a strange Myrish game made up of a board set with various dice and pawns and cards, while Sam was in the bedchamber, lulling Rhaenyra to sleep. 

"My lords, I'm sorry to bother you, but there's visitors," Kyra said, hesitantly. "Ten of them, just arrived." 

Aerion frowned, putting a pair of dice back down on the table. "Visitors? Where from?" Who would come visiting, right after a plague?  

"King's Landing, Your Grace. Knights, one of the Kingsguard at their head. Ser Donnel, not the Lord Commander." 

Dunk and Aerion looked at each other, at a loss. "I— I'll go down to meet them," Dunk said quizzically. 

Kyra grimaced. "Pardons, my lord, but… Ser Donnel says he has a letter for Prince Aerion. And that he's been commanded to give it directly to him." 

That was even more queer. "Tell him to come upstairs," Aerion decided. "We'll meet him here, together." 

When the knight entered, clad in his Kingsguard whites, he bowed far deeper than was strictly necessary, both to Dunk and the prince. That made Aerion concerned, though he couldn't tell exactly why. He rose from his chair, somewhat unsteadily, and forced himself to smile. "You are welcome to Dawnfort, Ser Donnel. A surprising visit, but a happy one." 

"Thank you, Your Grace. Lord Duncan. I will sound absurd, but I must give you both condolences and congratulations, at the same time. You have had multiple losses, but one great joy." 

"We thank you for your courtesy," Aerion said. "I am sure the loss of King Daeron and the princes is felt throughout the realm." He hesitated. "But what brings you here, ser? My handmaid said you have a message for me?" 

Donnel smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I came on behalf of the Small Council, Your Grace. My men and I are to be your… your honor guard." His voice was awkward, stilted. 

Aerion felt his stomach drop. The smile withered in his lips. "Honor guard?" he asked weakly. Next to him, Dunk stiffened, but didn't speak. 

Ser Donnel held out the letter. "A message from the Hand. It explains everything, my prince." 

The Hand, he thought numbly. Who even was the Hand? It had been Valarr, before, but Valarr was dead. He took the parchment, slowly rolling it open. 

He knew the handwriting at once. He'd seen entire pages of it, notes in the margins of books and in sheets of paper, filling row after row with neat, sharp letters. Brynden, he realized. He supposed that made some sense; the spymaster was cunning and learned. If Prince Baelor hadn't been such a paragon, Brynden might have been Daeron's Hand too. The old king had been wary of his bastard siblings, but he was also careful to reward leal service, and Rivers had been nothing but steadfast from the start. 

As the prince read on, his mouth grew dry, his hands cold. He made sure to keep his face still, not showing any emotion, positive or negative. In truth, he didn't even know what he was feeling, or what he ought to feel, about this news. 

He finished and raised calm, cool eyes. "Speak to my steward about your chambers, Ser Donnel. He'll put you and your companions in the gatehouse, most likely. I'll see you on the morrow." He spoke curtly, making it plain that he was dismissing him. 

After the knight hastened away, Aerion turned to Dunk, silent, still holding the parchment tightly in his hand. The alpha was frowning, both alarmed and perplexed. "What is it? What does it say, Aerion? You're as pale as paper. What did he mean, an honor guard?" 

The prince laid the letter on the table. "The council is summoning us to court, for the coronation," he said numbly. "All of us. Me, you, Aegon, Rhaenyra. They want us to swear fealty, and the babe to be presented to the king. The retinue they've sent is to escort us." 

Dunk looked even more confused. "What? But... but why would they ask for us? You've just given birth, two weeks past. And our babe, why would they... And whose coronation? Do you know who the new king is? Is it to be Rhaegel, or Aelor, or—" 

"My father," Aerion muttered. 

There was silence for a few moments. 

"Who?" Dunk finally whispered. 

"My father," the prince repeated, in a hollow voice. "King Maekar, the First of His Name,"

Go back to your room, Aerion. 

"King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men,"  

the least you can do is lie on your back and breed 

"Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," 

Aerion! My boy! My boy! 

"and Protector of the Realm."