Chapter Text
The sun was slowly sinking behind the jagged peaks of the Red Mountains, painting the sky bronze and old gold. It was no longer as scorching and blinding as it had been during the day, but gently warmed the air with its warm evening rays. Amid the massive mountains, a small human figure moved cautiously, slipping away from the Summer Castle. The figure moved alone: unaccompanied, without guards, without the banners befitting an Omega prince of House Martell – Lando. Only a cloak of fine Dornish wool, dyed the color of sand, and a dagger with an ivory hilt, hidden beneath the folds of the fabric, were his faithful companions that evening.
Lando pulled his hood lower, concealing his face, though in this godforsaken gorge there was no one to recognize him. Under the hooves of his sandy-colored stallion, the rock crumbled, tumbling with a dull thud into an abyss invisible in the darkness. The trail leading to the abandoned watchtower from the time of the First Men was narrow, treacherous, and deadly. One false move, and the youngest prince of House Martell would remain at the bottom of the canyon forever, becoming food for vultures.
But there was no fear. There was only an exhausting, ringing tension that twisted his insides into a tight knot.
Lando Norris was an omega. In the political game of Westeros, this made him either a precious prize or a bargaining chip. In Dorne, where the laws of inheritance and freedom differed from the rest of the continent, his nature was treated with respect, but even there, an omega of royal blood remained a political tool. His scent – a sweet yet tart aroma of sun-warmed sand, fresh fruit, and subtle spices – was now muted by special herbs, but his inner turmoil was forcing his pheromones to break through the blockers.
He was heading toward Dorn’s death. Toward the enemy. Toward his alpha.
No one was supposed to know.
This thought beat monotonously in the young omega’s mind, like a pulse, like the clatter of hooves on a rocky trail, even though Lando had already left his horse at the foot of the first pass. From here on, he would have to go on foot. After all, ahead lay only danger and a mystery hidden behind a veil.
Lando had known these trails since childhood. As the youngest omega prince, fourth in line to the throne, he had far more freedom than his older omega sisters and his alpha brother – the crown prince. He was allowed to wander through the markets of Plank City – the main trading port of the land of Dorne – to hunt in the foothills, and to study old maps in the library of the Martell residence. He was allowed far too much, and now that freedom served him differently.
The trail grew steeper. The stones beneath his feet crumbled and tumbled down into the darkness of the gorge, and Lando had to press his back against the rock, feeling the cold of the stone seep through his cloak, through his tunic, all the way to his spine. Somewhere below, an invisible stream murmured – meltwater from the peaks, icy even in the height of summer.
He stopped to catch his breath. His heart was pounding – not so much from the climb as from a secret sense of adventure. After all, what if someone found out, or a patrol spotted him? What if his father…
Adam Martell, Lando’s father and Prince of the Sunspear in the southern region of Dorne, was known as a wise and cautious ruler, while among the common folk he was feared as a sand snake lurking in the sand.
But Lando knew one thing: his father would hardly forgive him. Not for this. Not his ties to the house that had demanded Dorne’s submission for generations. Not his ties to the alpha of the Dragonlords’ lineage.
“You’ve lost your mind,” the omega whispered to himself under his breath, his lips twitching into his usual smirk. “Once and for all.”
At moments like these, the young man’s mind continued to urge him to be prudent, but his heart wanted something else, and his legs kept carrying him upward.
The abandoned watchtower stood on the border – where the mountains of Dorne met the Dornish Sea, and the lands of the Martells ended, giving way to no man’s land. Once, long before the Targaryens arrived, a trade route had passed through here. Now the tower was forgotten by all but the wind, the birds, and two people whose connection could spell disaster.
The darkness was closing in quickly: here in the mountains, night falls rapidly, without a long twilight, swallowing everything around it. Lando lit a small oil lantern strapped to his belt. The faint light revealed fragments of the trail from the darkness: sharp rocks scattered here and there; sparse tufts of dry grass; large and small cracks in the rock. The air around them was growing colder. The wind picked up, howling through the crevices, and the sound resembled voices – whether of the dead or of those who had never been born.
He thought of Oscar. He always thought of Oscar.
It all began nearly two years ago – a chance encounter during negotiations at Storm’s Edge. Dorn sent a delegation to discuss trade tariffs and water rights in the borderlands. Lando was brought along as a symbol of goodwill – a junior omega prince who posed no threat: with a perpetual broad smile, a touch of charm, and a carefree disposition that was by no means a flaw – the young man could be serious when the situation called for it and inspired others with his slightly epicurean approach to life. On that fateful day, the elder prince, Oscar, the chief contender for the Iron Throne, was present as a representative of the crown: the alpha heir, a dragon rider, and the living embodiment of Targaryen power.
They were destined to become enemies.
Instead, Lando remembered how Oscar’s silvery eyelashes fluttered when their eyes met for the first time. He remembered how the alpha looked at him, how his gaze lingered on him for a long time – not judgmentally or arrogantly, but with a strange, almost painful intensity, as if he saw something others didn’t notice.
“Prince Lando,” Oscar said then, and his voice was deeper than expected. Calm, like the water in the deep, dark sea of the Stormlands.
“Prince Oscar,” Lando replied with a smile, though inside he felt a knot of foreboding. “What an honor for a simple Dornian.”
“There are no ordinary Dornishmen,” Oscar remarked, and the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Especially not the Martellas.”
Now, as he made his way along the mountain trail, Lando recalled that moment with painful clarity. Even then, he knew – or rather, sensed – how his inner omega had sensed the approaching storm. This encounter would change everything. Destroy everything. Or create something for which there was no name.
The lantern flickered. Lando shielded it with his palm against the wind and looked up.
Lost in his memories, the omega hadn’t even noticed how the tall, abandoned tower had suddenly loomed before him – a black silhouette against the star-studded sky. Three tiers of stone masonry, a collapsed roof, empty window sockets – it radiated a deathly chill. It stood on a rocky ledge, and on one side, a cliff dropped down toward the sea, which was discernible more by the smell of salt and the distant roar of the waves than by sight.
Lando stopped.
His primal instinct –ancient, animalistic, and never dormant, told him he wasn’t alone. Not just because Oscar was supposed to be waiting somewhere up ahead. There was something else. A presence he could physically sense, like the pressure in the air before a storm.
Valkaris.
Lando exhaled slowly and continued his climb.
The Small Council had been in session for four hours already. The air in the chamber was heavy, saturated with the sour smell of sweat, old wine, and the thick, aggressive pheromones of ambitious alpha lords. Oscar hated that smell. He sat at the head of the table, to his father’s right, perfectly upright, impeccably composed. His face, with its sharp, chiseled cheekbones and cold eyes, seemed carved from Valyrian stone. Not a single muscle twitched as the lords, foaming at the mouth, divided up a world that did not belong to them. Oscar felt a rage slowly building inside him over the topic under discussion – cold, controlled, but no less dangerous for that.
The council chamber was lit by dozens of candles. Their light reflected off the polished surface of the black oak table, dancing across the golden goblets, the lords’ rings, and the blade of the ceremonial dagger lying before the king. Outside the windows, twilight was slowly settling in, and King’s Landing was sinking into its usual evening bustle – the distant murmur of the people’s voices, the creaking of carts, the shouts of fishmongers.
Oscar did not hear this commotion. He was listening to Lord Tyrell.
“Dorn remains a thorn in the kingdom’s side,” said Lord Highgarden – the alpha, whose plump fingers tapped the table in time with his words. “Generations of Targaryens have sat on the Iron Throne, yet the Martells still call themselves princes, not lords.” “They still don’t pay taxes to the Crown. They still live by their own laws.”
“Dorn has never been conquered,” said Lord Velarion, an old Alpha admiral with a face weathered by sea winds. “Not even Aegon the Conqueror could take their lands.”
“Aegon didn’t use every means at his disposal,” Tyrell countered. “And he didn’t have three dragons at once. We do.”
Oscar shifted his gaze away from his father. A pair of empty chairs – the seats of the King’s Hand and the Master of Coin – stood vacant, allowing Tyrell to fill the room with his voice. The king himself sat at the head of the table – a gray-haired alpha with a face that had once been considered handsome but now resembled a map of barren lands: deep wrinkles, shadows under his eyes, and creases around his mouth. The Valyrian steel crown on his head glinted dimly in the candlelight. He remained silent, letting the council speak, and that silence weighed heavier than words.
“Dorn isn’t just a rebellious province,” said the court maester, a gaunt old man whose chain jingled with every movement. “It’s a symbol. As long as the Martells remain independent, any other house might ask: Why should we submit?”
“Exactly,” Tyrell nodded with a satisfied look. “One decisive blow – and the matter will be settled once and for all.”
“A decisive blow?” The voice of Oscar’s sister, Princess Hattie, rang sharply off the hall’s walls. She sat across from her brother, the only alpha woman on the council, her violet eyes flashing with fury. “Are you proposing a war against lands that have never known conquest? Against poison, sand, and guerrilla tactics? Against a sun that kills faster than a sword?”
“We have dragons,” Tyrell repeated emphatically.
“We have dragons,” Hattie also emphasized emphatically. “So what? Are you proposing to burn Dorne to the ground? To turn it into a scorched desert? And who will we rule over then? Ashes? Scorched earth?”
“Enough.”
The king spoke softly, but everyone fell silent instantly. Silence hung in the hall, thick and deafening.
Oscar shifted his gaze to his hands resting on the table. Long, strong fingers, accustomed to wielding a sword and training in his spare time; pale skin; prominent knuckles. Calloused hands that had held the reins, holding back the onslaught of his dragon. And those same hands that had touched Lando, his omega– stealthily, tenderly, desperately.
“Prince Oscar,” the king turned his head toward his son. “You’ve been silent all evening. That’s unusual even for you.”
Oscar looked up. His face remained calm – a mask honed by years of court life. His silvery-blond hair, inherited from his Valyrian ancestors, was slightly tousled, softening the stern appearance of an alpha and lending him a touch of casual nonchalance. His eyes, as cold as the winter sea of Winterfell, revealed nothing.
“I’m listening, Your Majesty.”
“And I want to hear from you. What do you think about the Dornish matter?”
The hall grew even quieter. Oscar felt eyes on him from all sides – appraising, curious, wary. Tyrell looked at him with the hope of an ally. Hattie – with the anxiety of a sister. Velarion – with the grim interest of an old warrior.
“I think,” Oscar said slowly, weighing each word, “that a war with Dorne will not be quick. It will not be easy. And it will not be victorious in the sense that you imagine victory to be.”
Tyrell’s brow furrowed instantly.
“Do you doubt the power of the dragons?”
“I have no doubt about the power of dragons,” Oscar allowed himself a slight, almost imperceptible smile. “I doubt the wisdom of using them. You can burn castles. You can burn crops. You can burn people. But you cannot burn an idea. And the idea of Dorne’s independence is as old as the Red Mountains themselves.”
“Fine words,” snorted Lord Highgarden. “But politics isn’t made with words, Prince Oscar.”
“Politics is made with consequences, Lord Tyrell,” Oscar replied with his usual calm. “And before starting a war, it’s worth asking ourselves: what consequences are we willing to live with?” – The scent of cold iron, ozone, and an approaching storm – his own alpha scent – grew denser for a second, causing the betas sitting nearby to shrug nervously and the alphas to instinctively look away.
The king raised his hand, cutting short the argument that was about to flare up.
“Enough. The council is adjourned. We will return to this matter in a week. By then, I expect written proposals from each of you – not speeches, not slogans, but concrete plans. On how we will resolve the Dorne issue. You are all dismissed.”
The lords began to rise. Chairs creaked, robes rustled. Oscar remained seated for a few more moments, staring at the map of Westeros carved into the tabletop. Dorne – the southern edge, separated by mountains. Small, proud, unconquered.
The land where Lando lived.
He stood up and walked out of the hall without looking at anyone.
Hattie ran after him and caught up with him in the hallway.
“You were cautious today,” she remarked, walking beside him. Her steps were quick and energetic. “Too cautious. You’re usually more… decisive.”
“I don’t see the point in being decisive when a decision hasn’t been made yet,” Oscar retorted dryly.
“Or do you just not want a decision to be made at all?” Hattie shot him a sharp look. “You’re against war with Dorne. I know that.” “So am I. But Father is wavering, and Tyrell is pushing. And he has supporters.”
“I’m aware of that.”
They stopped at a fork in the hallways. Hattie placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder—a rare gesture for her, as she usually behaved more reservedly.
“What’s wrong with you, Oscar? Lately you’ve been… different. More withdrawn. More distant. Even for you, this is too much.”
He looked at her. For a moment, something flashed in his eyes—a shadow of an emotion, immediately suppressed.
“Pressure from the Crown,” he said. “Nothing new.”
“You’re lying,” Hattie said quietly. “But I won’t press you. Just… be careful whatever you decide to do.”
She left, leaving him standing in the dim light of the hallway. Oscar watched her go, feeling the spring of tension inside him slowly unwind. His sister already knew something – not the details, but enough to guess. Hattie had always been perceptive.
Oscar, not wanting to waste any more of the time he’d already lost, set off resolutely for the Dragon’s Lair.
The pressure of the court, the weight of the dynasty’s expectations, political intrigues – all of it settled on his shoulders like a leaden cloak. He was expected to embody both the cruelty of a conqueror and the wisdom of a peacemaker at the same time. No one knew what it cost him to hold back every word behind his tightly clenched lips.
Oscar made his way to the Dragon’s Lair in complete solitude. Only when he found himself beneath the colossal vaults of the cave – where the air smelled of sulfur, ash, and ancient magic – did he allow himself to exhale deeply. His mask was slowly cracking.
The Dragon’s Lair was located outside the city, on a hill that had once been part of an ancient volcano. It was a vast space, enclosed by walls of black stone, with watchtowers and domed shelters for the dragons. Now, in the darkness, the courtyard was almost empty – only a few dragon guards were standing watch at the gates.
At the sight of the prince, they bowed their heads. In the darkness of the cave, a pair of enormous eyes, the color of molten gold, lit up. There was no animal fury in them, only a cold, appraising, almost human intelligence. Valkaris lay curled up like a giant cat, but sensing Oscar’s arrival, he raised his head. Thanks to the vast space and relative freedom, the dragon was of staggering proportions – so much so that many considered him a harbinger of the legendary Balerion, the “Black Dread.” His scales, black as a starless night, shimmered with obsidian and steel. In the light of the sparse torches, it seemed as though silver veins ran across his body, as if liquid metal were pulsing beneath his armor. From a certain angle, Valkaris looked like a living shadow, a mass of darkness shaped into wings and claws. The silver veins on his scales became visible when the dragon moved, creating the illusion of lightning beneath his skin. When the beast shifted from one paw to the other, the ground trembled slightly, and the air in the cave grew thick, pressing down on one’s chest. Valkaris’s presence was physically palpable, like gravity, like the inevitability of fate.
Valkaris’s eyes met his rider’s gaze.
The dragon made not a sound. He never growled for no reason, never breathed fire for fun, never swished his tail in impatience. The dragon guards had often remarked in passing that Valkaris was the calmest of all the Targaryen dragons. But Oscar knew the truth: the dragon’s calmness was a reflection of his own restraint, and just as within Oscar himself, within Valkaris lay a destructive power.
Oscar stepped right up to the beast and pressed his forehead against its warm, armored snout. The dragon let out a low rumble that vibrated at the very base of Oscar’s skull. Valkaris was not merely a mount; he was a reflection of Oscar’s soul, a vessel for his suppressed anger, his longing, and his love. The dragon could feel his rider’s blood boiling from the words spoken at the council.
“We need to fly,” Oscar said in a slightly weary voice.
Oscar climbed into the saddle, a complex structure of leather and steel secured to the lower part of the dragon’s neck. Oscar began his quiet ritual: he checked the straps and the fit of the saddle; he placed his palms on the warm scales, gently stroking them as he gathered his thoughts.
“Sōvēs (Fly),” he commanded quietly in High Valyrian.
Valkaris spread his wings and began to rise. He knew their secret path.
The sound was unmistakable – a muffled thud followed by a low hum of air. The dragon’s wings were massive, like the sails of a warship, and each beat created a pressure that was physically palpable. The guards crouched down and watched, spellbound, as they retreated toward the walls. No matter how many times they’d witnessed this spectacle, watching such a force of nature was always like seeing it for the first time.
Valkaris burst out of his lair into the night sky like an arrow shot from a bow. The flight always began with a sharp climb – a few powerful flaps of his wings, and the ground receded below as the wind turned icy and biting. Oscar crouched against the dragon’s neck, feeling the cold seep through his clothes, his face burning from the oncoming air, his breath catching in his throat.
Royal Harbor spread out below, a scattering of lights. The red castle on the hill, torches on the walls, the dark ribbon of the Blackwater flowing into the sea. The city looked like a toy –tiny houses, narrow streets, little people with their little problems.
Oscar exhaled deeply for the first time all day.
Here, in the sky, there was no Small Council. There were no intrigues and no lords demanding war. There was no father, whose gaze grew heavier with each passing month. There was no need to wear a mask. Here there was only pure, absolute power and freedom. And here was the path south.
Only the wind, his faithful dragon, and the night, concealing the moments of two hearts.
Valkaris set a course south. The dragon knew the way. They had flown this route dozens of times over the past two years, but always at night, and always in secret. Oscar chose an altitude where they could not be spotted from the ground: too high for the human eye, too dark for the glint of scales to give away their presence.
Mountains were visible in the distance, gradually drawing nearer. Oscar closed his eyes, allowing Valkaris’s senses to flow into his consciousness. It was part of their bond – a strangely special, almost mystical connection. The dragon perceived the world differently: the warmth of bodies on the ground, the movement of the air, the electricity of an approaching storm. And also – the emotions of his rider. Valkaris knew where they were flying. He knew who was waiting for them in the abandoned tower. And the dragon was calm – because the omega in the tower posed no threat. On the contrary.
“He’s part of the pack,” Oscar interpreted the dragon’s sensations. “Part of us.”
Oscar opened his eyes. Ahead, the peaks of the Red Mountains loomed – sharp as the teeth of a sleeping monster. The moon hung above them, casting a silvery glow on Valkaris’s monolithic scales. Oscar steered the dragon into a crevice between two peaks, a narrow passage that led straight to the abandoned tower. As they drew closer, the air changed slightly. It became drier, warmer – the breath of Dorn, reaching them even at this altitude. The scent of sand and some spices whose names Oscar didn’t know.
His heart began to beat faster in an instant. He still wasn’t used to being so openly vulnerable. The cold, reserved prince, who rarely showed any emotion in front of others, became a completely different person when it came to Lando. It was as if a door inside him – one he’d kept locked for years – was opening. And behind that door lay something far more alive than he allowed himself to be.
The tower loomed ahead, like a black finger pointing toward the sky. Oscar ordered Valkaris to descend.
Lando heard the dragon’s roar before he saw it. The young man flinched as small pebbles rained down from the tower’s ceiling. The hum of the wind outside changed pitch. It wasn’t a storm. It was the sound of gigantic wings cleaving through the air.
A low rumble, growing louder from the north, neither wind nor thunder, but something in between. The air grew denser, heavier, and the torch in his hand trembled, even though there was almost no wind. The presence he had sensed ever since approaching the tower intensified a hundredfold.
He stepped out onto the ruined balcony. The floor here was covered with cracks, moss grew in the corners, and the railing had long since collapsed into the abyss. But the view was breathtaking: the mountains, the sea, the sky.
A huge, living shadow obscured the night sky above the gorge. Valkaris was descending almost vertically, his wings folded, like a black bolt of lightning falling from the sky. At the last moment, the dragon spread his wings, and a hot wave of air struck the tower, causing the stones to vibrate. Lando had to grab hold of the doorway to stay on his feet. The dragon folded its wings and lowered its massive head, blowing the remaining dust off the landing with a powerful exhalation. Its golden eyes fixed on Lando. The Dornishman instinctively took a step back, swallowing hard. No matter how charming Oscar might seem, his dragon always reminded Lando of who the Targaryens were.
“Yes, I’m glad to see you too,” Lando muttered, catching his breath.
Oscar dismounted the dragon in one fluid motion. Even after a long flight, he looked impeccable, his silvery hair slightly tousled.
Their eyes met. Two years of secret meetings. Two years of stolen nights. And yet this moment, when they saw each other after being apart, always made their hearts beat faster. Lando immediately stepped forward. His lips twitched into that very smile: youthful, open – one that stood in such stark contrast to the alpha’s stern demeanor. As soon as they were within arm’s reach, Oscar leaned forward, imperiously yet incredibly gently wrapping his arms around Lando’s waist and pulling him close.
The scents collided and mingled. Lando exhaled noisily, burying his nose at the base of Oscar’s neck, where the carotid artery pulsed. The scent of a thunderstorm and ozone, infused with dragon ash, enveloped him, instantly calming the omega churning inside. Oscar, in turn, buried his face in Lando’s curls, greedily inhaling his fruity, spicy scent. The alpha’s chest vibrated with a low, barely audible rumble – a primal instinct of possession and protection.
“You’re late, Osk,” Lando muttered, not pulling away, merely smiling faintly into Oscar’s collar. “I was already starting to think that some lady from the Tyrells was more interesting than the Prince of Dorne.”
Oscar pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. The alpha’s gaze was heavy, tormented. Lando’s boyish smile faltered and slowly slipped from his face.
“The Council meeting ran long,” Oscar replied. “We were discussing Dorne.”
“Oh,” the free-spirited spark in Lando’s eyes gave way to anxiety. “And how did it go? Have they already decided which side to set ablaze?”
Oscar ran his hand over Lando’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw with his thumb.
“The Council wants war, Lando. Some lords are insisting on a full-scale invasion and demanding that we use the dragons.”
“Let them try,” Lando said with a nervous smile, though his voice trembled slightly. “My father won’t give in. Dorne has never bowed the knee.”
“I know,” Oscar closed his eyes, feeling his head begin to split from the hopelessness of the situation. “And that’s why they want me to lead the Valkaris. To burn your home to the ground.”
The silence that had settled over the ruins of the tower was more terrifying than a dragon’s roar. Lando took a step back. His chest heaved heavily. He looked at Oscar, then shifted his gaze to Valkaris, who was dozing on the edge of the cliff, looking like a dormant volcano.
“And you’ll do it?” Lando whispered. There was no accusation in his words, only a painful realization of how this world worked.
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to harm you,” Oscar ground out, his voice breaking into a growl that gave him away as an alpha. His eyes darkened. “I’ll burn the entire Small Council along with the Red Castle before I let them lay a finger on you. But if Dorne raises its banners, my father will send an army. And then I’ll have to choose between my family and you.”
Lando turned away, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. The usual ease with which he’d always faced difficulties crumbled to dust in the face of the looming catastrophe. He was a man, yet a gentle omega who had fallen in love with a dragon. A predator destined to destroy his homeland.
Oscar stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around Lando’s back and covering his hands with his own palms. He buried his nose in the nape of Lando’s neck, trying to use his scent to suppress the fear emanating from the omega.
“We’ll figure something out,” Oscar whispered, though he didn’t really believe it himself.
Lando gave a bitter smile. “What are we going to figure out, Osk? I can’t betray my family or Dorne. You can’t betray the throne. We’re prisoners of our own blood.” Our love... maybe it’s just a mistake in political calculations.
The word “mistake” cut Oscar to the quick. He spun Lando around to face him.
“It’s not a mistake,” he said harshly. “It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”
Oscar could see Lando suffocating under the weight of their situation. The Dornian was made for the sun, for laughter, for freedom. But Oscar brought him only shadow and the scent of impending death. The Alpha inside Oscar howled at the impossibility of simply taking his Omega and hiding him at the edge of the world.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” Lando said, stepping back into the doorway. “I’ve got a fire going. And I brought some food. Well, and some wine to boot. Since we’re going to be talking politics, I’m going to need a drink.”
Inside the tower, it was almost cozy – as far as that word can be applied to an abandoned watchtower on the edge of a precipice. Lando got everything ready: he cleared the floor of stones, laid out the Dornian rugs he’d managed to gather during their visits, and lit several oil lamps. In the center of the makeshift room, a small fire burned in an old hearth, and smoke drifted up through a crack in the ceiling where a chimney had once been.
Oscar sank down onto the rug, crossing his legs. Lando sat down beside him and handed him a goblet of Dornish red: tart, thick, and fragrant with pomegranate and spices.
“You know what’s funny?” he said suddenly, in a low voice. “I actually understand the logic.” Politically and strategically, I understand why the Targaryens want Dorne. The Empire can’t tolerate an independent thorn in its side forever. Sooner or later, this was bound to happen. I get it.”
Oscar listened to the omega expectantly, waiting for him to continue.
“But this is my land, Oscar. My people. My family. And they won’t agree to submit. Never. You can burn every castle in Dorne – my people will retreat to the desert and fight from there. The children of Dorne drink stubbornness with their mother’s milk.”
“I know,” said Oscar. “That’s exactly why I oppose the war at every council meeting. Because it won’t be a conquest. It’ll be a bloodbath. And it won’t end until not a single Dornian is left alive.”
Lando gave him a long look.
“You’re putting everything at risk. For what? For me?”
“First and foremost, for myself,” Oscar replied instantly. “I don’t want to be the king who started a senseless war. And, of course, for you: I don’t want to be the alpha who destroyed his omega’s home.”
The word “omega” hung in the air, spoken aloud. Usually they avoided it – avoided terms that defined them biologically and politically. But now Oscar had said it on purpose. He’d acknowledged that what existed between them was not just a romantic connection, but also a physical, almost animalistic reality.
Lando shuddered.
“Your omega,” he repeated slowly, savoring the words. “I can’t even be your true omega. I can’t bear your mark. I can’t stand by your side at court. I can’t bear you heirs who will be recognized as legitimate.” All we have is this godforsaken tower and a few hours of darkness.
Lando sprang to his feet, driven by helplessness and anger, and walked over to the window – the very opening where shutters had once been, and now there was only emptiness and a view of the mountains. The silhouette of Valkaris loomed darkly outside: the dragon lay curled up on a rocky ledge, and its presence could still be felt physically, like pressure in his ears.
“My father doesn’t know,” Lando continued quietly. “Maybe he suspects something after all, I don’t know that either.” Sometimes I feel like I’m betraying them all because of my love. Just by daring to love you at all.
Oscar stood up, following the omega. In the moon’s ephemeral glow, the omega’s figure seemed even more fragile and vulnerable. Approaching cautiously from behind, he stopped a step away, giving him the necessary space but close enough for Lando to feel the warmth of his body.
“And sometimes I feel like I’m betraying my own blood,” Oscar said quietly. “The Targaryens have always taken what they wanted. With fire and blood.” And I can’t even take your hand in public.”
“Because I’m not something you can just take,” Lando spun around abruptly. His eyes glistened – not with tears, but with anger and pain. “I’m the Prince of Dorne. I’m not a trophy.”
“I know that,” Oscar finally touched him, placing his hand on Lando’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you as a trophy to be won. That’s exactly why you’re here. That’s exactly why I’m here. You’re the only person in my life I’ve let get close to me. The person who looks at me and sees not the crown, but me.”
Lando took a deep breath.
“I hate it when you say things like that.”
“Because it’s true?”
“Because it makes it harder to pretend there’s nothing between us.”
Oscar smiled slightly and pulled the omega closer. Lando didn’t resist; on the contrary, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the alpha’s shoulder. The fabric of the doublet smelled of dragon, wind, and something metallic. And beneath it all – the scent of Oscar himself, which Lando would recognize among a thousand.
The alpha and the omega. Their scents mingled in the tower’s confined space: ripe fruit and sun-warmed sand from Lando; thunder, ozone, and cold iron from Oscar. An ancient chemistry over which neither politics nor dynasties hold sway.
“I’m tired,” Lando admitted softly into the alpha’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid. Tired of waiting for news about the war. Tired of pretending that I’m okay… That we’re okay…”
“Me too,” Oscar said, soothingly stroking the omega’s back, gently, as if touching something fragile. “But for now, we can’t change the situation. We can only…”
“Only steal the nights,” Lando finished. “Like thieves.”
“Like thieves,” Oscar agreed.
Lando lifted his head. Their faces were too close for a casual conversation.
“Then let’s steal this night, too,” he whispered. “But first…”
“First?”
“You promised me a flight. Remember? Last time you said, ‘Next time I’ll show you what the world looks like from above.’”
Oscar blinked. Then the corners of his lips twitched into a half-smile.
“You want to fly on the Valkaris.”
“I want to see what you see. I want to understand why you always look… free when you come back from a flight.”
“But you’re afraid of dragons,” Oscar reminded him.
“I’m afraid of many things,” Lando replied. “But I’m a Dorian. We face our fears head-on.”
Oscar looked at him for a few seconds and nodded.
“All right. I’ll show you the sky.”
The dragon opened one golden eye as it sensed the pair approaching, then the other. The golden eyes flashed appraisingly in the moonlight. Lando froze. He had seen Valkaris many times, but had never come this close. Up close, the beast seemed like the embodiment of a living element –scales the size of a shield shimmered with a steely gleam, and the heat radiating from it was as if Lando were standing next to a red-hot furnace. Over the past two years, the dragon had grown accustomed to the omega, to his scent, to his presence beside his rider. It had grown accustomed to the fact that this omega was part of their pack, even though he wasn’t a dragon. But it was one thing to tolerate his presence, and quite another to let him climb onto its back.
“He won’t hurt you. He knows you’re mine,” Oscar said quietly, climbing up the spikes on the dragon’s back first. He held out his hand to Lando.
Omega swallowed hard but placed his hand in Oscar’s. Once Lando was in the saddle, Oscar seated him in front of him, pressing him tightly against his chest, and fastened the safety chains around their waists. Oscar’s hands rested on top of Lando’s, which were holding the front stirrups.
“Hold on,” Oscar whispered in his ear. “And don’t look down if you get scared. Look straight at the horizon.”
“That doesn’t sound very reassuring,” Lando muttered nervously.
“It’s practical advice. Ready?” Oscar asked, wrapping his arms tightly around the omega’s waist.
“No,” the young man admitted honestly. “Let’s go.”
Valkaris spread his wings and prepared for flight. The air trembled again and filled with a low hum. Lando cried out involuntarily, pressing his back against Oscar’s chest. G-forces pressed them into the saddle. They rose vertically, cutting through streams of cold mountain air. Rocks, gorges, the ruins of a tower – all of it turned into pitiful specks of sand far below. Lando felt the dragon’s living, hot, and incredibly powerful muscles tense beneath him. His heart was pounding in his throat. The sensations were so overwhelming that Lando immediately grabbed Oscar’s hands to calm himself down and ground himself, even just a little.
The dragon soared into the night sky and began to gain altitude. The first moment was pure terror. After a while, Lando felt the fall with every fiber of his being; the world plummeted rapidly downward, his stomach seemed to have stayed behind at the level of the tower, and the wind struck his face with such force that it took his breath away. He closed his eyes tightly and braced for the worst, clinging tighter to the saddle and to Oscar. And then Valkaris caught a current and leveled off. The fall turned into a smooth, powerful ascent, as if the earth itself had let them go, having changed its mind about taking them back. The dragon’s wings cut through the air in a steady rhythm, and Lando finally opened his eyes. They were flying. Truly flying.
“Look,” Oscar’s voice rang out right by his ear, drowning out the sound of the wind. “Look ahead.”
And Lando looked. He watched as the Red Mountains spread out below, like a giant relief map, as moonlight bathed them in silver, turning the red rock into a burgundy-black sheen. From such a height, the canyons looked like cracks in the skin of the world. And beyond the mountains, to the south, he could make out the desert with its endless sea of sand stretching toward the horizon. Could it be that Oscar beheld this view of their cruel world every single time?
“Oh gods…” he breathed, and though the wind carried his voice away, Oscar heard him.
The fear hadn’t gone anywhere; it was still there, twisting his insides into a tight knot. But now something else had mingled with it. There was a thrill from new sensations, a sense of awe before the dragon’s power, a realization of the boundless grandeur of these incredible creatures, and freedom in their true form. For Lando, this flight was a revelation. How could one take the schemers crawling on the ground seriously when you knew this? Here, in the sky, they were gods. At this realization, the omega’s chest filled with a ringing, heartfelt laugh – barely audible above the roar of the wind – as he rested his head on Oscar’s shoulder. And Prince Targaryen, the cold and reserved heir to the Seven Kingdoms, buried his face in his omega’s wind-tossed hair and allowed himself a faint but utterly blissful smile.
The Valkaris glided through the air currents with uncanny grace. They rose even higher. The mountains remained below, and the vast, boundless, star-studded sky opened up in every direction. The stars here, at this altitude, seemed closer and brighter. Lando could make out all the different colors: the bluish hue of some, the yellowish tint of others, and the rare red dots of the rest.
Valkaris flew smoothly, without any sudden movements. Oscar guided him with light touches – the dragon sensed his rider’s desires without words.
“I…” Lando began, struggling to find the right words. “I… think I understand. Now I understand. There’s… nothing here.” No advice, no intrigues, no obligations. Just the wind and the stars.
“And you,” Oscar added.
Lando leaned back, pressing his back against the alpha’s chest. Oscar’s arms wrapped around him, holding him in the saddle. The warmth of the dragon’s body below, Oscar’s warmth behind him, and the icy wind all around: a strange combination that, for some reason, felt like the safest place in the world, a place where he wanted to settle down forever.
“I’d like to stay here forever,” Lando whispered his thoughts aloud. “To fly over the mountains and never come back.”
“Even dragons get tired eventually.”
“Then we’d fall together. That’s not the worst way to die.”
Oscar said nothing, but his hands tightened slightly around the omega’s waist, and Lando felt the alpha bury his face in his hair.
They flew serenely over the mountains, over the desert, over the sea: three beings bound by something greater than politics. The dragon, the alpha and the omega. Strength, power, and freedom. Below, lands for which people had fought and died rushed by, but up here, high in the sky, it all seemed unimportant. Small. Fleeting and passing.
After a while, Valkaris turned around and flew back toward the tower, a reminder that not everything lasts forever.
However, Lando did not want to return. But he knew he had to.
They returned to the tower as the moon began to sink toward the west. The flight had drained all his strength – not so much physical as emotional. Lando was now shivering from both the cold and the shock of what he had experienced.
Oscar sat him down by the fire and wrapped him in the cloak he’d brought with him – black, with a red three-headed dragon on the back, the recognizable symbol of House Targaryen. The symbol of everything that threatened Dorne. Lando sat with his back resting against Oscar’s chest. The alpha held him, intertwining his fingers with Lando’s. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the crackling of the coals and their quiet breathing. The pheromones in the air had settled, blending into a thick, intimate scent of trust and warmth. Oscar slowly and rhythmically stroked Lando’s knuckles, occasionally planting light, weightless kisses on his temple and neck.
“Wearing the enemy’s cloak,” Lando chuckled, wrapping himself more tightly in the cloak. “My father would have ordered me to be flogged.”
“Your father won’t find out.”
“My father finds out everything. He’s Sun Spear – have you forgotten? A snake in the sand, as we like to say.”
“Then why hasn’t he found out about us yet?”
Lando fell silent.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe it’s easier for him to turn a blind eye, because if he finds out officially, he’ll have to take action.”
Oscar held his hands out toward the fire. The flames reflected in his eyes, making them seem almost warm.
“My father doesn’t know either,” he said. “But Hattie suspects something.”
“Your sister?” the omega asked, lifting his head curiously.
“She asked me today, ‘What’s wrong with you? You’ve been different lately.’ I didn’t answer, but she’s not stupid either.”
“Do you think she’ll tell the king?”
“No. Hattie would rather cut out her own tongue than betray me. But she’ll keep asking questions.” And one day, I’ll have to answer.
Lando leaned back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. Stone blocks covered in soot. Cracks through which the wind whistled. This tower was their refuge, but with each passing month, it seemed like an increasingly fragile place.
“What’s going to happen to us?” he asked quietly, as if speaking into the void.
“I don’t know,” Oscar admitted honestly. “I’m no fortune-teller.”
“You never say ‘I don’t know.’ You always have everything figured out.”
“This is the only thing I can’t figure out. Us.”
Lando turned his head toward the alpha. Oscar sat beside him, completely upright, tense, his back perfectly straight. Even here, even now, he didn’t allow himself to fully relax. Always on guard. Always ready to strike.
“You can take off your mask,” Lando said. “We’re alone.”
“I know.”
“But you’re not taking it off.”
In response, Oscar exhaled slowly. His shoulders slumped – barely noticeably, but enough for Lando to realize that the mask had wavered.
“I’m afraid that if I take it off completely, I won’t be able to put it back on,” he admitted. “And tomorrow I’ll have to go back and play the part. Pretend that I’m the perfect prince, the future king, the alpha with no weaknesses. If I allow myself to be real for even one night, it’ll be too painful in the morning.”
“Then let me see you for at least an hour,” Lando reached out, rising slightly, and touched his face. His fingers glided over his cheekbone, his jawline, his lips. “Let me see you. The real you. The one hiding behind all these titles. After all, if not me, then who?”
Oscar closed his eyes. His breathing grew deeper, slower.
“You’re the only one who sees,” he whispered. “The only one.”
Lando leaned forward and kissed him.
The kiss began gently, almost timidly, as if they were still two strangers meeting for the first time, but it quickly deepened. Lando felt Oscar’s hand rest on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He could still taste the lingering wine on his lips. He could feel the alpha trembling –barely perceptibly, but enough for his omega senses to pick up on it.
“You’re trembling,” Lando whispered against his lips.
“It’s not from the cold.”
Oscar kissed him again, this time with intensity and heat, demonstrating his restrained passion to his omega. Their clothes came off slowly, almost ceremoniously, layer by layer. Without breaking the kiss, Oscar unbuttoned his doublet and pulled off his shirt; his movements were precise, but his fingers trembled with desire. Lando, in turn, helped him, and then let him undress him as well. The cloak bearing the Targaryen dragon fell onto the carpet – a symbol of enmity that had become their bed that night. And then everything else followed.
The light from the campfire cast shadows on their naked bodies. Oscar was pale, like all Valyrians, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles, and a fine web of barely visible scars across his strong, massive frame – traces of his sword training. Lando, on the other hand, was dark-skinned, with golden skin that smelled of the hot Dornish sand: unlike most Omegas, he had strong, slightly angular shoulders; slender curves, yet he was not frail; a distinctive feature of his was his large hands, comparable to those of an alpha, which stood out against his small frame. And although the omega was slightly self-conscious about this part of his body, Oscar had taught him to accept everything about himself. After all, all these contrasts between their bodies drove the alpha wild. His hands, trembling slightly, traced the omega’s entire body, caressing his delicate sides and waist, moving higher and higher toward his slightly plump breasts and gently squeezing them. In response, Lando let out a soft moan, biting his lower lip lightly in pleasure. Oscar, without removing his hands from Lando’s chest, immediately pulled the omega back toward him for another kiss, swallowing the moans that followed from his lips. The alpha deepened the kiss, wrapping one hand around the back of the omega’s neck and gently tugging on his hair, tilting his head back. The man’s other hand slid down to his waist, squeezing gently but firmly, leaving barely noticeable fingerprints. Lando immediately grabbed the broad shoulders in front of him, trying not to give in to his partner’s pressure.
Breaking their sensual passion first, Oscar pulled the omega down onto their makeshift bed. They lay side by side, and Oscar drew Lando close so that the omega’s ear was right against his heart. Oscar ran his hand slowly and intently down Lando’s back, as if he wanted to memorize every curve. His fingers found a protruding vertebra and lingered there. Lando felt the alpha leave a trail of kisses on his shoulder – no longer passionately, but almost reverently.
“I’m thinking about what’s going to happen,” Oscar whispered between kisses. “I think about it every day.”
“Don’t think about it now,” Lando asked. “Just be here. With me.”
Lando turned, finding himself face to face with Oscar. Their bodies touched along their entire length – hot skin against hot skin. He could feel every line of the alpha’s muscles, every tension that gradually faded, giving way to something else.
“You’re incredible,” Oscar whispered. His hand slid down Lando’s side and rested on his bare thigh. “You have no idea just how much.”
“I do,” Lando said with his charming smile, though his eyes were serious. “I’m a Dorian. We know everything about ourselves.”
Oscar laughed softly – it was a sound Lando had heard only a dozen times in two years. That laugh was like the sun on a cloudy day, like water in the desert, like something precious that needed to be cherished.
“I love you,” Oscar said so simply and without fanfare, as if stating a fact.
Lando’s heart skipped a beat.
“You’ve never said that before… like that.”
“I have. Just not with words.”
Lando realized that it was true. For the past two years, Oscar had been saying “I love you” with every action he took. With every secret meeting. With every risk he took. With every touch. It was just that now he’d put it into words, and those words made reality even more acute. Even more painful.
“I love you, too,” Lando replied. “And that’s the worst thing that could have happened to us.”
They fell silent. Their closeness ran deeper than any physical passion. It was a desperate clinging to one another on the edge of an abyss. Lando closed his eyes, savoring the weight of Oscar’s hands, his scent, and the soothing beat of his heart.
“You know,” Lando said softly, breaking the silence; his voice was gentle, stripped of his usual bravado. “When I was little, my Meister used to tell me stories about dragons. He said they were the embodiment of pure fire and destruction. Monsters that knew no mercy.”
Oscar squeezed his hand a little tighter, listening intently.
“But today…” Lando turned his head, looking at Oscar’s profile. “Today I realized they were wrong. Valkaris isn’t a destroyer. He is you. All your pain, your strength, your desire to protect.”
Oscar looked at the Dornian. The flames of the campfire were reflected in his cold eyes.
“He feels the same way I do,” Oscar replied quietly. “If I lose you, Lando… Valkaris will burn this world to the ground – not on the king’s orders. He’ll do it because there will be nothing left inside me but ashes.”
Lando sighed convulsively. He turned in Oscar’s embrace, facing him and cupping his cheeks with his palms. The omega’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“You won’t lose me,” Lando said in a whisper, but firmly. He pressed his forehead against Oscar’s, closing his eyes. “No matter what happens. Even if our houses clash on the battlefield. Even if all of Westeros stands between us. I’m yours, Oscar. My soul, my very being… they’ve accepted you.”
Oscar didn't answer. Instead, he kissed Lando again, more deeply and more insistently. His hands grew more confident, and his movements bolder. Lando responded with equal intensity, with the same desperate tenderness that bordered on pain. The kiss ceased to be a desperate prayer, transforming into an act of absolute, undivided absorption.
The Alpha within Oscar, held in check by cold reason for so long, burst forth. His scent, of ozone and steel before a storm – grew heavier, thick and searing, seeping under Lando’s skin and stifling any will to resist. In response, the Dornian’s pheromones flared with blinding intensity: the scent of sun-warmed sand and fruit took on a viscous, honeyed, spicy sweetness, unmistakably betraying the omega’s deep, primal arousal.
Oscar’s tongue forcefully invaded Lando’s half-open mouth, crushing his lips, exploring his palate, intertwining with his tongue in a wet, greedy rhythm. Lando whimpered softly right into his alpha’s mouth. That sound – high-pitched, vibrating with surrender – had the effect on the Targaryen of a spark thrown into a wildfire. Oscar lifted him by the hips with an ease that betrayed hidden physical strength and laid him on his back on his spread-out cloak, looming over him.
The alpha’s gaze, which usually resembled a frozen lake, was now dark, almost black, with a narrow golden ring around the pupil – the gaze of a predator who had taken possession of his precious prey. He pinned Lando’s wrists to the floor, causing no pain but demonstrating absolute power. And Lando, the proud Dornish prince who answered to no one in this world, obediently parted his thighs, offering himself, opening up, and surrendering control.
“Mine,” Oscar growled, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling vibrato.
He leaned toward the crook of Lando’s neck, where a vein pulsed wildly and where the omega’s main scent gland was located. The alpha’s hot lips pressed against that sensitive spot, his tongue licked away the beading sweat, and his teeth gently nipped the tender skin. It wasn’t a real mating bite, but the mere imitation of it made Lando arch his back. The omega’s lower back lifted off the rocks, his stomach drew in convulsively, and a long, wet moan escaped his throat.
Lando’s body responded to the alpha’s overwhelming dominance with physiological inevitability. Natural lubrication, thick and hot, was already seeping out, preparing him to receive his partner. Oscar released the Dornian’s wrists, allowing Lando’s hands to slide down his broad back and dig his nails into his shoulders, while he himself moved his hand lower, tracing the flat stomach, squeezing the thigh, and finally touching the pulsing, wet ring of muscles.
Lando gasped sharply at the new sensations, throwing his head back. The touch of Oscar’s long, cool fingers against his heated, moisture-drenched entrance was jarring and intoxicating. The alpha slowly, with sadistic tenderness, slid a single finger inside. The omega’s tender walls instantly closed around it, hot as boiling silk, pulsing greedily and incredibly yielding.
“You’re so sweet,” Oscar whispered, his breath scorching Lando’s collarbones. “And you want me so desperately.”
He added a second finger, then a third, pushing apart the tight folds, stretching him, searching for that most sensitive spot inside. When his fingertips brushed against it, Lando gasped, his hips thrusting involuntarily toward the alpha’s hand, begging for more. Wet, slurping sounds mingled with the heavy, raspy breathing of both of them. Pheromones filled the tower to such an extent that the air became thick and palpable: the scent of a storm front rolling in over the blooming southern garden.
Oscar pulled out his fingers, glistening with Lando’s juices, and shifted his weight forward, spreading Lando’s knees even wider. The alpha was ready. Large and hard, pulsing with surging blood, the crimson shaft slid along the Dornian’s wet crotch, smearing the lubricant, teasing him, making Lando squirm in agonizing impatience.
“Please, Osk…” Lando breathed, his eyes clouded by a veil of primal lust and boundless trust. “Take me. Fill me.”
Oscar didn’t need to be asked twice. Holding Lando’s hips with his strong hands, he leaned forward, pressing his broad head against the narrow entrance. Lando exhaled convulsively, the muscles in his stomach tensing as the alpha’s thick shaft began to stretch him relentlessly. It was on the verge of painful distension and mind-numbing pleasure. Oscar entered slowly, inch by inch, clenching his jaw so tightly that the muscles in his cheeks bulged. It took a colossal effort not to burst into that searing heat, squeezing him from all sides, with one rough thrust.
When the alpha was buried to the hilt, they both froze. Oscar’s chest heaved heavily, pressing against Lando’s. The Dornian felt the heavy, pulsing presence of his prince inside him – he was filled to the brim, strung upon him, stretched so tightly that sparks danced before his eyes.
And then Oscar began to move. At first, smoothly, setting a slow, deep rhythm. He would pull out almost completely, making the omega sob in disappointment, and then, with a wet slap of skin against skin, drive himself back in as far as he could go. With each thrust, the pace quickened. The Targaryen’s restraint melted away in the Dornish fire. His movements became rough, aggressive, and primal.
Lando screamed, no longer holding back. This night belonged to the two of them, and Lando intended to enjoy it to the fullest.
Each thrust from the alpha struck precisely against his prostate, sending electric shocks through his nerve endings. He clung to Oscar’s back, leaving red crescent marks from his fingernails on the pale skin, and wrapped his legs around the alpha’s waist, crossing his ankles to let him go even deeper. In response, Oscar growled hoarsely, grabbed Lando’s hips, pressing them against his chest, and began to thrust into him mercilessly from a new angle.
Their body language screamed of their connection: the absolute dominance of the alpha’s strong, powerful body, subjugating him, and the supple, receptive grace of the omega, who found his own power over the dragon rider in this surrender.
The sounds of their union – wet slurps, the smacking of damp bodies, Oscar’s stifled growl, and Lando’s gushing, ragged moans – echoed off the stone walls.
“Mine… only mine…” Oscar whispered like a mantra, delivering a devastating thrust with every word that knocked the breath out of the Dornian.
Lando was on the verge. He shook his head; his cock, trapped between their pressed-together stomachs, dripped clear drops, ready to spill. “Oscar! Yes… gods, yes, deeper! Don’t stop!” he sobbed in ecstasy.
On the final, deepest thrust, biology took its course. At the base of Oscar’s cock, a heavy knot began to fill with blood, swelling rapidly. When it grew large, locking itself firmly inside Lando, the omega’s eyes flew wide open. The sensation of the alpha sealing him in, cementing their union, snapped the last threads of his self-control. Lando let out a final, agonized scream; his inner walls spasmodically and violently clenched around Oscar’s knot, squeezing every last drop out of the alpha, and he himself came, splattering their stomachs with thick, white streams.
The omega’s reaction was the trigger. Oscar threw his head back, a hoarse, triumphant roar bursting from his throat, and he began to forcefully pour his seed deep inside Lando. The alpha’s hot, heavy stream washed over the Dornian’s insides, filling him, staking a claim on him, blending their scents into a single, inseparable aroma of a post-storm, rain-washed orchard.
They lay there in silence for a long time, unable to break apart, while the knot slowly loosened. Oscar leaned his full weight against Lando, burying his face in the curve of his neck, breathing heavily. His hands, so ruthless just moments ago, now caressed the omega’s sweat-dampened shoulders and sides with endless, trembling tenderness. Lando lay with his eyes closed, feeling a pleasant, lingering ache inside and a sense of absolute, total security. In that brief moment before dawn, entwined on the stone floor, they belonged only to each other, having outwitted duty, death, and all of Westeros.
The fire in the hearth was dying down, but they were not cold. The heat of their bodies warmed them, and their scents mingled – alpha and omega, dragon and sand, night and flame. An ancient dance, older than any dynasty, any war, any border drawn on a map.
Time stood still. At some point, Lando lost track of where his body ended and Oscar’s began. Nothing else existed in the world but this tower, this fire, this man beside him. Pampered after their passionate lovemaking, the omega purred softly, resting his head on Oscar’s chest, and listened as his heartbeat gradually slowed. Lando never let anyone see his vulnerable, omega side, but with Oscar, everything was different. Only to him did Lando give all his tenderness. He felt good and safe with him. He was loved, and he knew it.
The alpha silently and rhythmically, as if counting down the remaining moments, stroked the omega’s slightly damp curls. He could afford a couple of hours of rest in the arms of his omega, who was already snoring softly against his chest.
A cold early-morning breeze crept into the tower, making Lando shiver. He opened his eyes. Oscar was already awake. He was lying on his back, staring at the half-ruined vaulted ceiling, his hand mechanically stroking Lando’s hair. That icy look returned to his eyes – the crown prince’s mask was slipping back into place.
Lando sat up, wincing slightly as he quietly pulled his shirt over his shoulders. The air between them grew heavy once more. The magic of the night had dissipated, leaving only a harsh, painful reality. They dressed in silence. Their movements were slow, for every action brought the moment of parting closer.
Oscar fastened the straps of his black leather jacket bearing the crest of the three-headed dragon and helped Lando get dressed, draping a cloak over him to conceal his affiliation with Dorne.
Stepping out onto the landing, they stopped at the edge. Valkaris had already awakened, stretching like a giant cat and flexing his wings. His golden gaze watched his rider and his omega intently.
Oscar turned to Lando. No words were enough to describe what was tearing them apart from the inside. Politics, duty, honor – all these words, invented by old men in safe castles, were now destroying two young lives.
Lando looked up at him.
“When will we see each other again?” Lando asked.
“In two weeks. Unless something unexpected happens.”
“And if it does?”
“Then I’ll send word. I have a contact in Planket City – a spice merchant named Marcus. If you get an apple from him, it means I won’t be able to fly in. If it’s a pomegranate, wait for me here.”
Lando gave a nervous smile.
Dawn bathed the mountains in shades of pink and gold. The Red Peaks lived up to their name –right now they were truly red, like fresh blood. Valkaris waited on his rocky ledge, his black scales glistening in the first rays of the sun. The dragon looked like a statue carved from obsidian, not a living creature.
Lando stepped to the edge of the ledge. Below lay Dorne – his homeland, stretching out toward the sea. Sand, rocks, and sparse oases of greenery. A small, proud country that had never bowed to anyone.
Lando turned to Oscar. In the morning light, he looked younger – just a boy, despite being twenty. Free-spirited, witty, emotional. Everything Oscar had suppressed within himself for years.
“I want you to know,” Lando said clearly, “that no matter what happens, I have no regrets. Not a single minute. Not a single risk. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me in this life, even if it destroys us both.”
Oscar stepped toward him, hugged him tightly, breathing in the scent of fresh fruit and sand one last time, trying to remember it until the next time. Lando closed his eyes, digging his fingers into the black leather of Oscar’s jacket. Oscar took his hand. The alpha’s palm was warm and dry.
–Geros ilas, Lando (Farewell), – Oscar whispered in High Valyrian.
–See you later, Osk, – Lando replied in the stubborn common tongue, refusing to say goodbye forever.
One last kiss – quick, almost desperate. Oscar tore himself away from him, turned, and quickly walked over to the dragon. He climbed into the saddle without looking back – if he had looked at Lando one more time, he wouldn’t have been able to fly away.
Lando stood at the edge of the ledge and watched as the dragon spread its wings. He watched as Oscar settled into the saddle. Valkaris pushed off from the cliff, sending a wave of hot air over Lando, and plummeted like a stone down into the gorge, only to spread its wings a second later and soar toward the clouds, heading north toward Royal Harbor. Finally, the dragon circled the tower once, slowly, as if saying goodbye.
Lando watched him go until the black dot dissolved into the sky. And only then did he allow himself to cry.
The love between the dragon and the sun had existed; it was real, passionate, and absolute. But the sun cannot live in the shadow of a dragon’s wings forever.
The trail crumbled beneath his feet, and Lando had to be careful not to tumble into the gorge. Lando made his way down to his horse, leaped into the saddle, and guided the stallion down the treacherous path, back to Dorne. He had to return to Summerhall. Smile at breakfast. Pretend he’d spent the night in his own bed. To play the part of the carefree younger prince. And in the evening – to listen to conversations about politics. About the Targaryens. About a possible war. He knew that one day this choice would loom large before them. He knew that the tower could not protect them forever. He knew that love was no shield against reality.
But for now, they had those stolen nights. As long as Oscar kept flying in. As long as Valkaris waited on the rocky ledge, and the fire burned in the abandoned tower.
As long as the world still allowed them to be together – albeit in secret, albeit dangerously, albeit on the brink of war.
War lay ahead of them, and he didn’t know if they would be able to weather its storm. There was no choice. The Game of Thrones shows no mercy to those who dare to love.
Oscar landed in Dragon Court just as the sun was rising above the horizon. The guards bowed their heads, accustomed to the prince’s nighttime flights. No one asked any questions – the dragon prince had the right to fly whenever he wished.
Valkaris settled into his spot at the far end of the courtyard. The dragon looked tired but content – as far as one can judge a dragon’s mood. His golden eyes followed Oscar all the way to the gates.
Daily life was already beginning in the castle. Servants scurried through the corridors, lords were gathering for the morning audience, and somewhere a blacksmith’s hammer clanged.
Oscar walked without looking around. The mask was back in place – the cold, calm face of the crown prince.
He thought of Lando.
About how the omega had laughed in the sky. About how he’d trembled with cold and delight. About how he’d lain beside him that night – warm, real, his.
That they would meet again in two weeks. If the world allowed it.
His sister, Hattie, was waiting at the door to his chambers.
“You’ve been flying all night,” she stated, folding her arms across her chest.
“Yes,” Oscar didn’t deny it.
“To the south?” she persisted.
“Yes.”
Hattie looked at him for a long time. Her brother’s scent had a special quality to it today, with a hint of barely ripe fruit. Could it be that he had someone he needed to hide? Someone he was constantly running to under the cover of night, seeking solace from all these royal intrigues? Was this person an omega of low birth? Or, even more scandalous, an alpha? The flood of thoughts made her head spin. Hattie sighed wearily.
“When are you going to tell me the truth?”
Oscar met her gaze. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t look away.
“When the time comes,” he replied. “Not before.”
Hattie shook her head, but there was no anger in her eyes, only concern.
“Be careful, brother. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know it’s dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“I know,” Oscar said. “I’ve always known that.”
Without waiting for a reply, Oscar walked away from yet another round of questioning. He wasn’t in the mood for arguments right now, and his aura of an approaching storm made that abundantly clear. Hattie didn’t press the issue; she knew her brother: sooner or later, he’d tell her everything himself. All she could do was wait and support him, in her own way.
Oscar entered his chambers and closed the door.
On the table lay a map of Westeros, the very one he studied every night. Dorne to the south. The Mountains on the border. And a tiny dot marking an abandoned watchtower, unmarked on any official map.
Oscar touched that dot with his finger.
“See you then,” he whispered. “In two weeks.”
If the world allows it.
If war doesn’t break out sooner.
If love is still something worth defending.