Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

At the stroke of midnight, marking his eighteenth birthday, Aerion moved through the secret passages of the castle, a cloak over his silk tunic and slippers. He pushed the wall of his older brother’s room open, careful and quiet, and stepped inside. Valarr lay dead asleep in the center of the bed, his hair in disarray and his tunic unlaced at the neck. Smiling to himself, Aerion shed his cloak and climbed into the bed.

As he nestled into Valarr’s side, the alpha shifted in his sleep, mumbling softly. Valarr tensed for a brief moment before his eyes fluttered open, looking blearily at his little brother with a sleepy smile.

"Aerion," He murmured, his voice thick with sleep. That sound alone caused a slight stirring to Aerion’s insides.

"I didn’t want to sleep alone," Aerion confessed, forcing his voice to sound timid. He knew far too well he could get whatever he wanted by a flutter of his pale lashes.

Especially from Valarr.

Valarr shifted onto his side, pulling Aerion’s back flush against his chest and wrapping an arm around the omega’s stomach. The alpha breathed against his neck and nosed against the back of his head, offering the comfort Aerion desperately craved.

Valarr told him quietly that it was alright for the moment, but cautioned Aerion that he would have to leave before the maids arrived in the morning. Their father and muna would be displeased, as Aerion was getting too old to crawl into his brother's bed.

"I know," Aerion whispered, his voice barely audible against the thrum of Valarr’s heartbeat.

He refused to think of the morning, of the rigid expectations of court life or the sharp, judging eyes of their muna. He wanted only the darkness, the silk sheets, and the overwhelming, grounding presence of his brother.

He pressed his cheek deeper into the pillow, savoring the scent of Valarr; smoke, cedar, and a distinct, sharp musk that unraveled every knot of tension in his chest. To the world, Valarr was a formidable prince and an alpha of modest integrity. But here, in the sanctuary of midnight?

He was simply Valarr. He was warm, solid, and most importantly, he was Aerion’s older brother. He was someone who always came back for the omega, no matter how sharp his words could be. No matter the cuts from the blades of from Aerion’s tongue.

"Eighteen," Aerion murmured, the word feeling strange on his tongue.

He pressed his back harder into Valarr’s chest, needing to feel the sheer size of him, the way his brother shielded him from the drafts of the castle stone. Valarr’s hand tightened slightly on his stomach, a protective gesture that made Aerion’s breath hitch.

"You’re an adult now, little brother," Valarr said, his voice raspy, trailing off into a yawn against the sensitive skin behind Aerion’s ear. It sent a shiver down Aerion’s spine, a reaction he knew he couldn't hide. "And yet, you still sneak in like you’re ten years old".

"Force of habit," Aerion lied softly, closing his eyes.

"Or a lack of discipline," Valarr countered, though there was no heat in the words, only the indulgent softness he reserved strictly for Aerion. "Go to sleep. I’ll wake you before the sun crests the keep. If they find you here, I won't be able to protect you from Father’s lecture.”

Aerion didn't answer. He simply let himself go limp, allowing the weight of Valarr’s presence to pull him under. For now, he was exactly where he wanted to be.
______

Aerion pressed himself against the cold, damp stone of the passageway, his breathing shallow and erratic. The secret tunnels of the castle were the only place he felt truly hidden, a sanctuary from the suffocating expectations of the day.

He had been darting through the dark, successfully dodging the stern, searching eyes of his septa and the high pitched chatter of his sisters. He reached the section of the wall bordering the King’s solar, slowing his pace as the sound of voices drifted through the cracks in the masonry. He froze, his hand pressed against the mortar. It was his muña and his kepa.

He leaned in, his pulse hammering against his ribs, only to feel a sudden, violent surge of icy dread pool in his veins.

"–the arrangements are finalized," His father’s voice carried. "The girl arrives by week's end."

"And Valarr?" His mother asked, Maekar’s voice hushed but piercingly clear.

"He will accept his duty. The betrothal is for the good of the bloodline, and the succession. I don’t think we have any concern of him objecting.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. A betrothal. For Valarr.

Aerion pulled back, his knuckles white as he gripped his cloak. He didn’t need to hear the rest; the pieces clicked into place with a horrifying clarity. They were giving Valarr away. They were tearing his brother from the sanctuary they had built together, from the space that belonged only to them.

A wave of nausea washed over him, followed immediately by a sharp, blinding rage. He had grown up as the eldest omega, and in his mind, the hierarchy was absolute. Valarr was his by right. How could they be so blind? Did they not see that he was the only one who truly knew the alpha? Did they truly think so little of him that they would cast him aside for someone of common blood?

They don’t want Aerion to be queen? The thought burned like acid. His own parents, conspiring to remove him from the very future he had envisioned at his brother’s side.

He didn't wait to hear another word. He turned and fled the narrow confines of the wall, his feet pounding against the stone floors of the corridors as he abandoned his stealth. He needed air, and he needed the sting of steel. He burst from the interior tunnels and made a beeline for the training yard, his chest heaving not from exertion, but from the raw, simmering fury of being betrayed by his own kin.

The heat of the training yard did little to cool the fire in Aerion’s blood. He snatched a practice blade from the rack, the weight of the steel satisfying. With his own guard successfully ditched, he had no one to report his indiscretions to the King. He stalked into the open yard, ignoring the squires and men at arms. His gaze locked firmly on the opposite end of the grounds where his great uncle, Daemon, stood.

Daemon observed the chaos with the detached amusement of a predator. As Aerion approached, the man tracked his movement, a daring spark in his eyes as he raised a single, arched brow.

Aerion didn't bother looking toward the far corner, where he knew the others were. He didn't want to see them, not Valarr, not Matarys, and certainly not that oaf, Ser Duncan the Tall, who was busy drilling Egg. He kept his eyes on Daemon, ignoring the resentment tightening in his chest.

"Little Prince," Daemon said, tilting his head with curious eyes. Aerion didn't offer a greeting, simply giving his sword a sharp, impatient shake, the steel whistling through the air. It was a question that demanded an answer.

Daemon pursed his lips, letting out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter. "The King would be quite upset if I took the liberty of training his omega son, wouldn’t he?"

Aerion didn't blink, his resolve hardening as he stared at his uncle. "They are my own liberties to give," Aerion retorted, his voice clipped.

Daemon’s smirk didn't falter. Instead, it deepened into something more predatory, his eyes glinting with a dangerous sort of humor. He stepped closer, invading Aerion’s space until the younger prince could smell the scent of his uncle. He carried the distinct sharp tang of a steel.

"Are they, little prince?" Daemon drawled, his voice low. "Your muña, rules with a hand that makes even the King’s look soft. You think he would let you simply decide your own fate?"

The words landed like a physical blow. It hit too close to home. Aerion tightened his grip on his sword, refusing to look away. For a moment, there was only the suffocating pressure of Daemon’s gaze and the cold reality of his own position.

The omega tilted his head, the movement deliberate, exposing the skin of his throat to the alpha's view. It was a subtle, dangerous invitation. It was a way that he knew would rattle the man before him. He watched, satisfied, as the light in Daemon’s eyes shifted, darkening with the heavy instinct of an alpha observing a submissive.

A vibrating groan rumbled in Daemon’s chest, a sound of frustration warring with buried desire. "Your mother would have my head, and your kepa would have me sent to the Wall for this," Daemon muttered, his voice rough.

Aerion smirked, the expression sharp and unyielding. "Then perhaps we should make it worth your while," He replied, his voice teasing. "I hear it is awfully cold on the Wall, Uncle. You’d be miserable."

Daemon let out a harsh laugh, the sound snapping the tension like a dry branch. He grabbed his own blade from the rack, his expression falling into a smirk as he rolled his eyes at the omega’s vanity. "You are a terror, little prince."

"I am the son of the King," Aerion said, his chin lifting with a haughty grace. "And I have ordered you to train me. You cannot say no to the crown."

Daemon didn't answer with words. He merely snapped his blade into position, the steel catching the midday sun.

They began with a sudden, kinetic violence. Aerion moved not like a student, but like a storm, his feet light and his mind ruthlessly focused. Daemon was a master, his defensive counters precise and efficient, but Aerion was unpredictable. He was a blur of silk and steel, dangerously fast.

He dove under a sweeping arc of Daemon’s sword, the blade ruffling his hair. As he skirted past, he allowed his hand to drift. His fingertips skimmed Daemon’s tunic, tracing the line of his hip with a mocking, teasing lightness.

Daemon startled, a flash of genuine surprise crossing his features. In that split second of distraction, Aerion pivoted, his boot snapping out to deliver a kick to Daemon’s knee.

Daemon stumbled, but he caught himself, rolling over his shoulder and springing back to his feet in a fluid motion. They collided, swords clashing with a ring that echoed across the yard. They fell into a rhythm, a deadly dance that flowed like water. They were never more than an inch apart, blades darting and weaving, missing skin by a hair's breath.

Every strike was a challenge, every move a rebuke. For all the world, it looked like a spar. But to the two of them, it was a battle with the heavy, unspoken scent of sweat, ozone, and rage filling the air between them.

The nature of the spar had shifted. Where before there was only the sharp ring of steel against steel, there was now a fluidness to it. The training yard, previously filled with the clamor of a dozen different drills, had fallen into a breathless silence. Squires dropped their water skins, guards leaned on, and eyes tracked the dance.

They were no longer merely training. They were performing. Aerion dipped low, his spine arching, his movements slow and deliberate. Daemon met him with a lazy, predatory pivot, his own blade tracking Aerion. As they circled, the air between them grew thick.

"You move like you're trying to seduce the blade, Aerion," Daemon muttered, his voice a low rasp that traveled the short distance. He caught Aerion’s strike by guiding the steel away, his palm brushing Aerion’s forearm. "Is that what they teach omegas?"

Aerion smirked, breathless, his chest heaving under his tunic. He lunged, a flash of silver, forcing Daemon to step back.

"They teach us to lead, Uncle. You’re only following."

Daemon huffed a laugh. He stepped into Aerion’s space, crowding him, their faces inches apart. "Leading is dangerous when you’re within reach of a dragon."

"Then try to catch me," Aerion challenged, his voice dripping with a playful heat.

They blurred again, blades singing, their movements so tight they seemed less like enemies and more like partners in a tangle. They were teasing, whispering barbs that no one else in the yard could hear, eyes locked.

In one motion, Daemon surged forward, closing the distance completely. His hand shot out, clamping firmly around Aerion’s waist. It was an alpha’s grip, possessive and firm. At the exact same moment, Aerion brought his sword up, the tip resting perfectly against the hollow of Daemon’s throat, right where his pulse was.

They froze, locked in a state of closeness that threatened on scandal. They were both gasping for air, the scent of sweat and heated skin rising between them.

Daemon looked down, a smirk on his lips, his thumb brushing Aerion’s side as he held him. "Got you, little prince."

"Did you?" Aerion breathed, his eyes glittering, his blade steady against the alpha's skin. "I believe the point is made."

The tension was so taut it felt as though it might snap, but before either could move, a heavy, familiar figure shoved through the ring of spectators. The crowd parted as if burned.

"Enough."

The voice was cold, sharp as ice. Valarr stood at the edge of the circle, his face a mask of thunderous, unchecked fury. His eyes flicked from Daemon’s hand on Aerion’s waist to the sword at his uncle’s throat. The air in the yard seemed to grow impossibly heavy.

"Step away from him, Uncle," Valarr commanded, his presence radiating a suffocating wave of dominance. "Now."

Daemon’s hand slipped from Aerion’s waist, the withdrawal slow and deliberate. There was no trace of shame on his face, only the composure of a man who understood the hierarchy. He was of the blood, but he knew when the tide demanded he yield. He offered a shallow bow to Valarr.

It was a gesture of respect for the heir to the throne. Daemon’s expression smoothed into one of courtly grace. He spared Aerion a single nod, his eyes conveying a silent message before he retreated.

Aerion remained in the center of the yard, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. He shook his head, blowing a loose lock of silver hair from his forehead, and looked at his uncle.

"Thank you for the lesson, Uncle," Aerion said, his voice clipped. "I truly appreciate you using your... experience to show me exactly how a battle is won. It’s comforting to know that when the politics of the court turn cold, there are still other ways to keep one’s blood warm."

Daemon’s mouth twitched, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that he quickly buried behind a mask of indifference. "A necessary education, nephew," He drawled.

He didn't offer another word or look, simply turning on his heel and sauntering away with the casual gait of a man who successfully stirred a hornet's nest.

It left Aerion alone in the center of the yard, the practice sword still heavy in his hand. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of the wind rattling the armor racks.

Valarr’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, the grip firm and possessive, steering Aerion toward the shadowed stone, away from the prying eyes of the squires and guards.

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?" Valarr’s voice was low, vibrating with a mix of alpha authority and genuine, simmering alarm. He stopped, spinning Aerion around to face him, forcing the prince to meet his eyes. "You know the rules, Aerion. You are not to train with alphas. Certainly not with Uncle Daemon. Do you have any idea how that looked?"

Aerion felt his hackles rise. The adrenaline from the spar still burned in his blood, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating knowledge he’d carried with him since the King’s Solar. He shrugged Valarr’s hand off his shoulder with a dismissive jerk, his face twisting into a scowl that he didn't bother to hide.

"It is hardly a concern for you, is it?" Aerion retorted, his voice dripping with loathing.

Valarr blinked, his frustration momentarily replaced by genuine confusion. "What? Of course it's a concern. You're my– you’re my brother, Aerion."

"Are you sure?" Aerion spat, his eyes flashing. He didn't want to admit he’d been lurking in the walls. It would make him look petty, or worse, obsessive. But he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "You’ve been distracted lately. You’re clearly making preparations for... changes."

Valarr stared at him, his brow furrowing as he searched Aerion’s face for clarity. "I don't know what you're talking about. I’ve been busy with council duties, yes, but–"

"Busy with arrangements," Aerion interrupted, his voice dropping to a harsh, cutting whisper. "I know how this works, Valarr. You’re preparing for the new arrival by the week's end."

Valarr looked struck, his expression morphing into something that looked like confusion. "The girl? You think I’m involved in that? I haven't even–"

"It doesn't matter," Aerion snapped, cutting him off before he could offer a defense that Aerion wasn't prepared to believe. “If you’re so eager to focus on your new alliances, then stop wasting time pretending to care who I train with. It’s not as if I’ll be your only concern for much longer."

The words landed like a physical blow. Valarr recoiled as if struck. His expression shifted from confusion to a quiet hurt. He opened his mouth, a plea or perhaps a question on his lips, but Aerion didn't wait to hear it.

He turned on his heel and stormed off toward the keep, leaving Valarr standing alone in the dust of the yard. The alpha remained motionless, watching his brother leave.

Aerion marched down the corridor, his boots striking the stone with a violent force. Under his breath, he was mumbling a litany of curses, his mind replaying the stinging look of hurt on Valarr’s face; not that he cared. He was the one who had been betrayed, the one who would be left behind. He rounded a corner, his vision clouded by blind irritation, and slammed directly into a wall of solid muscle.

Both of them went sprawling. Aerion hit the floor on his backside with a huff of indignation. "By the Seven, who is the clumsy–" He stopped mid sentence, his scowl deepening as he looked up to see Ser Duncan the Tall scrambling to apologize.

"Oh," Aerion spat, his nose wrinkling. "It’s the oaf."

Ser Duncan ignored the insult, eagerly reaching down with a calloused hand to help the omega up. Aerion glared at the hand as if it were a spider and shrugged him off, rising to his feet to wipe at his tunic. "I have commoner on me now," He muttered loudly.

Duncan offered an uneasy smile, hesitating as a heavy presence made itself known down the hall.

King Baelor stepped into view, flanked by two impassive Kingsguard. His eyes landed on his son, and his expression warmed instantly.

"Happy Nameday, Aerion," Baelor said, his voice resonant and kind.

Aerion’s bravado faltered, replaced by the instinctual comfort of his father's presence. He stepped into Baelor’s reach, allowing himself to be tucked into his side.

"Kepa," He muttered.

Baelor nodded once to Ser Duncan, dismissing him, and turned to steer Aerion down the corridor. He walked with ease, though his eyes remained watchful.

"Were you harassing Ser Duncan once more, Aerion?" He asked, his tone light.

"I was doing no such thing," Aerion spluttered, his cheeks flushing. "The oaf ran into me."

Baelor gave his shoulder a squeeze, guiding him toward the hall leading to the King’s solar. "There is something I wish to speak to you about in my solar, my boy," Baelor said, his voice dropping into a more serious, measured register.

At the mention of the solar, Aerion froze. He couldn't help it. It was purely because of the knowledge of the betrothal he’d overheard in the walls. It felt like he had a pit of lead in his stomach. His scent flared out, a tang of distress that pricking the air.

Baelor stopped immediately. He didn't pull away; instead, he reached up, his thumb pressing lightly against the sensitive skin of Aerion’s scent gland. The motion was deliberate and soothing. He pushed a wave of calm; the heavy, reassuring presence of an alpha father.

Aerion sighed, the tension in his limbs bleeding away under the influence of the pheromones.

Baelor looked at him, his brow pinched in concern. "Aerion," He murmured, his gaze searching. "You haven’t been afraid to be brought to the King’s solar in years. What is troubling you?"

Aerion rolled his eyes, his boots scuffing impatiently against the marble as he let out a frustrated breath. "It isn’t hard to know what is coming, kepa," He grumbled, his voice low and riddled with cynicism. "I am eighteen now, and still unwed. My brothers and I are the talk of the court, are we not? I’ve heard the rumors through the stone. The walls have ears, and they are quite loud lately."

Baelor stiffened, his expression sharpening, his eyes searching Aerion’s face. "Have you been sneaking through the walls again?" He asked, his tone heavy with both paternal disappointment and a strange relief.

Aerion ignored the question entirely, his jaw set in a stubborn line as he looked pointedly toward the door. "Is that all?" He asked tiredly, his voice tight with the sting of the betrayal he imagined.

Baelor sighed, the weariness of the crown settling into his posture. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly like a man burdened by the weight of too many secrets. "Yes," His voice softened, lacking edge. "That was all. I suppose I had thought... I had thought you would be more pleased by it."

Aerion scoffed, a bitter sound that echoed in the quiet solar. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest as he turned his back on his father. "Then you must not truly know me at all."

Baelor frowned, a warier look entering his eyes as he stepped closer, his voice a quiet, earnest tone "It is a good match, Aerion. It will turn into a love marriage with time. I am near certain of it. It is to be announced at the end of the week, when Lady Kiera of Tyrosh arrives."

Aerion didn't turn around. He felt the blood drain from his face, his mind racing to the image of Valarr. He imagined the brother he believed to be his by right, being handed off to a foreign woman. He didn't see the relief on his father’s face, nor did he understand the game being played. He only felt the crushing certainty that his place at his brother’s side was being dismantled.

Aerion didn't look at his father. He couldn't. His throat felt constricted, tight with a mixture of suppressed rage and the suffocating feeling that his world was shifting beneath his feet. He kept his back turned, shielding his face, relying on the shadow of the heavy drapes to hide the tremors in his hands.

"If that is all, Kepa," Aerion said, his voice flat, stripped of all the warmth he had possessed. "I have no desire to be late for the evening feast. It is my nameday, after all, and I have yet to dress for the celebration."

He didn't wait for Baelor's permission, nor did he look back as he navigated toward the door. His steps were measured, forced, but every nerve in his body screamed at him to run. Aerion slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him. He didn't pause to see if his father was watching him, nor did he care. He just needed to get away. He needed away from the solar, away from the King's expectations, and into the dark.

Aerion’s mind was a fractured mirror, reflecting only one horrific image. It was Valarr’s bed, but not with him in it. He could see it with vivid, agonizing clarity. He pictured this stranger, this Lady Kiera of Tyrosh, tangled in Valarr’s silk sheets.

He could see Valarr’s large, alpha hands, the very hands that usually held Aerion to his chest.. Aerion imagined them tracing the line of her spine, soothing her, comforting her. Cherishing her. Not him.

The thought made his vision swim with red. He would be alone. He would be left in his cold, empty chambers, his dreams of Valarr the only thing to haunt him. All while Valarr learned the scent and the skin of another.

By the time Aerion kicked open the doors to his chambers, his face was set in a mask of such terrifying, cold fury that his maids didn't even dare to curtsy. They scrambled to clear a path, their eyes wide with fear as they scurried to prepare his bath, sensing the storm that radiated from him like heat.

Aerion didn't say a word. He stripped with violent efficiency, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his tunic until he tore the lace. He let the silk fall into a heap on the floor, ignoring the maids as they hurried to fetch fresh water. He stepped into the basin, the water scaldingly hot, but it barely phased him.

He took the rough cloth and scrubbed at his skin with a vicious intensity, as if he could scour away the shame of his father’s words and the sting of this impending betrayal. He scrubbed until his skin turned a raw, angry pink, his jaw locked tight enough to ache.
When he finally rose, dripping and shivering, he caught his reflection in the gilded mirror. He looked dangerous. He looked like a beautiful, wounded creature ready to bite.

A calculated smirk replaced his scowl.

He dried his skin, his movements becoming fluid, deliberate. He wouldn't be the weeping omega left behind. He would be the sun around which the entire room revolved. He imagined himself walking into that feast. He saw the heavy, intricate fabrics of his finest robes flowing like water, his scent amplified to draw every eye in the great hall.

He would turn heads. He would be the only thing the court saw. And when he walked past the high table, he wouldn't look at Kiera. He would look only at Valarr. He would make sure that when Valarr looked at him, he wouldn't see a brother. He would make Valarr regret ever accepting another betrothal.

When he was King, he would force Valarr to see exactly what he lost. The alpha might rule the realm, but he would forever miss the omega that he had first. He would make Valarr ache, he would make him desire him, and he would make the alpha realize that no foreign lady of Tyrosh could ever hold a candle to the dragon he was casting aside.

Tonight, he wouldn't just be the birthday prince. He would be an inescapable truth.

The room was thick with the scent of lavender oil and Aerion’s rising temper. The maids were moving like frightened mice, scurrying across the chamber floor to fetch silks and jewels, their eyes averted from his glowering reflection in the mirror.

"If you pull that thread again, I will have your fingers for it," Aerion snapped, his voice a blade that made the girl closest to him flinch. He watched in the glass as she trembled, her clumsy hands fumbling with the laces of his corset. "Do you think I have all night? The feast will not wait for your incompetence."

"My prince, I–"

"Silence," Aerion bit out. He snatched a heavy, ornate brooch from the vanity and shoved it toward another maid, who barely caught it before it hit the floor. "Pin this. And ensure the silk lies flat against my chest. I didn’t ask for comfort. I asked for perfection."

When they finally brought the gown, he didn't thank them. He stepped into the intricate creation, a masterpiece of deep red silk that pooled around his feet like liquid fire. It was a daring piece, the bodice plunging dangerously low to expose the delicate, pale skin of his collarbones and the very scent gland his father had tapped with such patronizing calm earlier that day.

The back was almost entirely open, save for the delicate gold chains that laid against his spine. The fabric was cut to cling to his form in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. It was enough to make his father, King Baelor, tighten his jaw and frown in that disappointed, weary way he had.

It was a scandal waiting to happen, but it was regal enough that no one would dare demand he cover up. He turned, letting the silk slide over his frame, watching the way the candlelight caught the gold chains and the sheer drape of the sleeves. He looked beautiful, sharp, and entirely unreachable.

"Leave," He ordered, his hand sweeping toward the door without looking at them.

As the maids scrambled out, grateful for the reprieve, Aerion leaned close to his own reflection. He touched the edge of the deep neckline, his eyes hardening. He looked lethal. Let the court stare. Let his father frown. And, more than anything, let Valarr see exactly what it was he was about to throw away for a girl from Tyrosh. Tonight, there would be no mistaking who the true prize in the room was.

Aerion turned back to the glass, his gaze sweeping his reflection with predatory satisfaction. He leaned in, his fingers brushing the fabric of the bodice, ensuring it sat exactly as he desired. The tailoring did its work perfectly, pushing his petite breasts together to create a soft, tempting curve that would be impossible for any alpha in the room to ignore.

His hair had been styled, curling just so at his jaw, softening the sharp, haughty set of his expression. He looked like a jewel, a prize, and a threat all at once. He was pleased. He was actually more than pleased; he was lethal.

He didn't spare the room another glance. He turned and swept toward the door. His guards fell into step behind him, their armor clanking against the floor, acting as invisible shadows to his advance.

As he moved through the corridors, the sound of the feast grew louder. He could hear the clinking of goblets, the laughter of lords, and the strumming of a harpist tuning strings. Aerion felt his heartbeat quicken, not from nervousness, but from the thrill of the confrontation to come.

He didn't slow his pace as he approached the entrance of the Great Hall. The guards at the doors stood straighter, their eyes widening as they caught sight of him, but Aerion didn't acknowledge them. He felt the weight of his own desire and his own hurt pressing against his ribs like a physical stone. He decided that if his heart was going to break, he would ensure the entire court watched the pieces fall.

He slowed slightly just before the heavy doors. Look at me, He thought, his jaw setting into a hard line. Look at what you’re losing. He motioned for the doors to be opened, ready to step into the light.

The doors of the Great Hall groaned open, their booming protest cutting through the roar of the feast. For a heartbeat, the clinking silver and rowdy laughter stuttered into a hush as the herald’s voice echoed against the rafters.

"Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen, son of King Baelor and Queen Consort Maekar Targaryen."

Aerion stepped into the light, and it was as if he brought a sudden, sharp frost with him. He didn’t hurry. He walked down the center aisle with the deliberate, predatory grace of a dragon on the prowl. The gown caught the flickering torchlight, the gold chain lattice across his spine catching and releasing glimmering sparks of light with every step he took.

He could feel the weight of a hundred gazes. He imagined the shock of the courtiers, the sharp, hungry interest of the alphas, and the stifled gasps of the ladies. He ignored them all, his eyes locked forward on the high table.

As he reached the dais, he came to a stop and swept into a perfect, fluid curtsy. It was agonizingly graceful, and calculated to draw every eye to the daring plunge of his bodice and the sheer elegance of his posture.

He rose, smoothing the silk over his hips, and flashed a bright, practiced, and utterly innocent smile toward his father. "Kepa," He greeted, his voice light and airy, feigning ignorance of the tension radiating from the King.

King Baelor looked down at him, his mouth set in a hard, uncompromising line. His gaze flicked over the exposed skin of Aerion's collarbones and the dangerous cut of the bodice, his jaw tightening in displeasure. He did not return the smile.

Beside Baelor, Queen Consort Maekar was sitting in a controlled terrifying silence. His lips were pressed so tightly they had turned white, and his knuckles were bleached of color where he gripped the edge of the table. He looked like a man deciding whether to drag Aerion out by the ear or simply commit murder right there on the dais.

Aerion’s smile didn’t falter; in fact, it widened, though his eyes remained as cold as the glass he’d studied himself in only an hour before. He knew exactly what he had done, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He was daring them to speak, daring them to ruin the scene, all while he waited for the one person in the hall who mattered to finally turn his head and look at what he had been trying to hide.

Aerion didn't bother checking to see if the seat was occupied. He approached the high table with the ease of someone who owned the very air of the room, ignoring the subtle ripples of shock that passed through the courtiers at his brazen choice of dress.

Daeron’s seat was empty, as expected, the second eldest prince was fashionably late, and Aerion slid into it without a thought.
He settled into the chair, the gown fanning out over the wood, and deliberately shifted until his thigh brushed against the solid, sturdy edge of Valarr’s seat.

He could feel the tension in Valarr the moment he sat down. His brother didn't turn to look at him, but his shoulders stiffened, jaw locking tight. The scent of him was suddenly overwhelming. Aerion smirked, feeling the heat of the alpha’s gaze finally flick toward him, though Valarr turned his eyes back to the hall, struggling to maintain his composure.

At the center of the table, Queen Maekar’s reaction was exactly how Aerion had expected. The blood drained from his face, replaced by a flush of cold fury. He leaned forward, his hands tightening on the table’s edge, his eyes fixed on Aerion’s exposed back and the audacity of his appearance. Maekar opened his mouth, the unspoken command to force the prince back to his room vibrating in the air between them.

Before a single word could escape the Queen Consort’s lips, King Baelor reached out. He placed a steady, silencing hand over Maekar’s, his fingers pressing firmly against the back of his husbands wrist. Baelor didn't raise his voice. He didn't even turn his head from the spectacle of the hall, but his tone was absolute.

"He is eighteen today, Maekar," Baelor murmured, his voice low and devoid of room for argument. "It is his nameday. Let the boy have this."

Maekar’s chest heaved, a silent protest trapped in his throat. He looked at Baelor, his eyes flashing with the urge to override the King, but he recognized the finality in Baelor’s posture. With a jerky motion, Maekar pulled his hand away and sat back, his gaze burning a hole into the side of Aerion’s head.

Aerion, however, remained utterly unbothered. He turned his head, looking at Valarr with a wide and innocent smile. "You seem tense, brother," Aerion whispered, his voice smooth as honey, loud enough only for the two of them to hear. "The feast has barely begun. Try to enjoy yourself."

The feast proceeded with a suffocating formality that Aerion found delicious. He toyed with his goblet, the wine dark and rich, feeling the burning gaze of his muña like a weight against his back. He didn't care. He leaned back, the gold chains of his gown shivering against his skin, and caught the scent of roasted boar and spiced mead mingling with the underlying musk of the alphas at the table.

He was lifting his goblet to his lips when a stumble disrupted the high table. Daeron arrived with the grace of a collapsing tower. He smelled of strong ale and stale sweat, his hair ruffled as if he’d been fighting the wind. He wedged himself into the seat next to Aerion, effectively pinning the omega against Valarr’s side.

Daeron blinked, his eyes unfocused as he took in Aerion’s appearance. He let out a low, long whistle that cut through the conversation of the nearby lords.

"Seven hells," Daeron slurred, leaning in, his breath reeking. He gestured vaguely at the plunging neckline and the exposed expanse of Aerion’s back. "I’m honestly surprised Father hasn't stripped the cloak off his own shoulders to cover you up, little brother. You're practically a walking invitation."

Aerion didn't even turn his head. He simply rolled his eyes, a bored, practiced gesture, and took a slow sip of his wine. "Go sleep off your stupidity, Daeron," He murmured, his voice indifferent to his brother's drunken observation.

He felt Valarr shift beside him. The heat radiating from his brother was intense, a sudden, sharp pressure against his own side. For a long moment, the only sound was the clatter of silverware and the distant drone of the music. Then, Valarr leaned in, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a vibration against Aerion’s ear, a secret shared beneath the noise of the hall.

"He's right about the cloak," Valarr said, his tone devoid of his earlier anger, replaced by a dark, heavy timber that made Aerion’s pulse stutter. "But he’s wrong about the invitation."

Valarr’s hand brushed Aerion’s hip, the touch brief and hot enough to singe through the silk. "The red looks good on you, Aerion."

Aerion didn't look at him, but his smirk deepened, satisfied and lethal. He had his brother’s attention. He had his brother’s gaze. And beneath the table, he felt the alpha tense, his desire slipping past the mask of his composure, exactly as Aerion had intended.

The arrival of various lords and minor nobles provided a dull hum of entertainment for Aerion. They approached the high table with fawning smiles and practiced bows, wishing him a happy nameday while their eyes lingered a second too long on the plunge of his neckline. Aerion accepted their well wishes with a cool, detached grace, his chin tilted just high enough to be regal without appearing bored. He was a statue of crimson and gold, perfectly aware of the picture he made.

Then, the press of courtiers seemed to thin, parting with a nervous, collective deference.
Daemon Blackfyre stepped into the clear space before the high table. He didn't look like the other alpha’s. There was a lethal, predatory ease in his gait, a man who moved through the world as if he owned the very floor he walked upon. He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the table before locking onto King Baelor.

Daemon bowed, a deep, fluid movement that was at once respectful and mocking in its perfection.

"Your Grace," Daemon said, his voice carrying easily over the chatter of the hall. He straightened, his eyes flickering to Aerion, then back to the King. "It is a rare privilege to celebrate such a milestone. Might I be permitted the honor of a dance with the prince?"

Aerion felt a thrill race up his spine. He sat up straighter, the gold chains against his back catching the light as he straightened his posture, waiting. Beside him, Valarr’s reaction was instant. The alpha bristled, the scent of him turning sharp and agitated.

"No," Valarr snapped, the word hitting the air with the weight of a command.

Aerion’s pulse jumped. He looked at his brother, savoring the raw, unfiltered jealousy in those eyes.

"Father,” Valarr began, turning to Baelor, his voice low and vibrating with a protective urgency. "He shouldn't–“

"Enough, Valarr," Baelor said, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute tone that silenced the entire table. He didn't even look at his heir. He merely raised a hand, shushing him with a flick of his fingers.

Baelor turned his gaze to Daemon, his expression unreadable, though a hint of weary amusement played at the corners of his mouth. "You are bold, Uncle. But very well. The floor is yours, provided you return him in one piece. I will not be responsible for Maekar’s response if you do not.”

Aerion didn't wait for further permission. He rose from his seat, the crimson silk flowing around his legs. He caught the look of absolute, burning fury on his muña’s face. Maekar wore an expression of silence, one that screamed of disapproval, and it only made the triumph taste sweeter.

He moved toward Daemon, his stride confident and fluid. As he drew near, he caught the scent of the man; spiced wine and cold iron. Daemon reached out, taking Aerion’s hand in a grip that was firm and unmistakably proprietary.

"You look like trouble, little prince," Daemon drawled as he led him toward the center of the hall, his voice a low and meant only for Aerion.

Aerion tilted his head, flashing a sharp, triumphant smile back toward the high table, specifically toward the rigid, tense form of his brother. "Then you should be very careful, Uncle. I am exactly that."

Daemon let out a boisterous, ringing laugh that echoed against the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall. He spun Aerion through a turn, his hand resting very respectfully on the small of the omega’s back.

Aerion rolled his eyes, his silk skirts swishing around his ankles as he followed the lead. He found Daemon’s sudden gallantry insulting. He hadn't asked for a gentleman, he had hoped for his sparring partner.

"You’re being dreadfully boring," Aerion huffed, keeping his voice low as they glided past the gathering of lords. "I did not know you were capable of such restraint."

Daemon grinned, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement as he guided them toward the center of the floor, deliberately positioning them so that Aerion’s back was turned toward the royal dais. "I am a man of many talents, little prince. Self preservation happens to be one of them."

He dipped his head closer, his breath warm against Aerion’s ear. "Look toward the high table, but don't turn your head. Your muña is staring at me with such intensity I fear he might actually incinerate me with his gaze. And if he doesn't, your brother Valarr is halfway to standing, looking ready to commit treason just to drag you off this floor."

Aerion felt a thrill of vindication, though he forced his expression to remain aloof. "Let them look. They have no right to dictate my dance."

"They have the right to dictate my appendages," Daemon countered, his tone droll. "Your mother would have my hand on a platter before the music ended if I showed even a hint of indecency. And if he failed, I suspect the Crown Prince would ensure I never held a blade again."

Aerion huffed, the sound sharp with indignation. He caught a glimpse of Valarr’s rigid posture in the peripheral of his vision and felt a surge of possessive heat.

"They are acting as if I am a child being led astray," Aerion grumbled, his fingers tightening on Daemon’s shoulder. "What I do, who I dance with, and how I carry myself... it should be of no concern to either of them. They are far too preoccupied with their own control and betrothals to notice that I am no longer a puppet to be managed."

Daemon’s grip on his waist tightened just a fraction, a brief flash of the dragon beneath the courtly mask. "A dangerous sentiment, Aerion. But it suits you."

The dance was a frantic swirling tirade, much different to the cold clarity in Aerion’s mind. He didn't care who watched them. He didn't care about the whispers that would inevitably follow this brazen display.

"If Valarr is to be betrothed," Aerion spat, his voice low with bitter resentment, "Then perhaps I should find a husband of my own. Since loyalty is apparently such a rare commodity in this family."

Daemon faltered for a heartbeat, his usually composure slipping. He missed a beat of the music, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at the younger prince. The audacity of the suggestion and the desperation behind it caught the Blackfyre off guard.

Aerion didn't stop. He pushed into Daemon’s space, his grip on the older man’s shoulder bruising. "Take me to Dragonstone, Uncle. Wed me in the way of our ancestors, the old way. I deserve a dragon of our house who actually acts like a dragon, not a prince who bows to the council’s whims. I will not marry any less."

Daemon caught the rhythm again, but the amusement in his eyes hardened into a darker, more calculating look. He interrupted Aerion, his voice cutting through the prince's tirade with precision.

"I would be very pleased to have an omega such as yourself, Aerion," Daemon admitted, his gaze tracing the defiant set of Aerion’s jaw. "But you would be wrong to not ask yourself why you are begging for a rescue. Why can’t you be the dragon? Why don't you demand exactly what you want?"

Aerion blinked, his breath hitching at the force of Daemon’s challenge. He felt small, suddenly, despite the grandeur of the hall. He looked up at his great uncle, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of confusion and defeat.

"I can't," Aerion relented, his voice weak, the defiance draining out of him. "The betrothals are confirmed. The ink is dry on the arrangements. I will not have the alpha I wanted."

Daemon let out a dry huff of laughter that sounded nothing like the noise he had made earlier. He leaned in, his lips curling into a wicked smirk. "As much as I flatter myself, little prince, I have no desire to be your second choice. I am many things, but I am not a consolation prize."

He spun Aerion out, catching him again and pulling him tight, his face hovering just inches from Aerion’s. "But you speak as if betrothals are written in stone by the Gods themselves. They are nothing but ink and parchment, Aerion. And parchment... is famously easy to burn."

Aerion’s eyes narrowed, his gaze unfocused as the music seemed to fade into a dull, distant roar. Burn.

The realization didn't hit him like a hammer. It bloomed inside him like a slow, consuming flame, and it was tied entirely to the nature of the man watching them from the dais. Valarr wasn't just a brother, or a prince, or a pawn of their father’s court. Valarr was an alpha.

Aerion watched his brother, the way his knuckles gripped his goblet, the way his eyes tracked every movement of Aerion’s body with a raw focus he barely kept leashed. He saw the tension in Valarr’s shoulders, the way the Alpha’s instincts were screaming at him to intervene, to claim, to protect.

If I push him, Aerion thought, his breath hitching.

He realized that his brother was already a fuse waiting for a spark. If Aerion went to him, not as a brother, but as an omega… Valarr’s discipline would shatter. What alpha could walk away from an omega who beckoned him to claim his maidenhead? It would be a scandal, yes. It would cause hurt. It would be a sacrifice of his own innocence and a reckless gamble with his reputation.

But if they crossed that line... if Valarr took him, if he marked him, if he left his scent on Aerion’s skin in a way that couldn't be washed away...

The arrangement with Lady Kiera would be a jest. Their parents would be forced into a corner. They couldn't marry off a "damaged" Aerion to a lesser house, and they certainly couldn't ignore the fallout if Aerion ended up carrying a bastard child. They would have no choice but to sanction the union or watch their son crumble under the scandal.

Aerion’s chest heaved, his heart drumming rapidly against his ribs. He had been waiting for his family to give him what he wanted, acting the part of the dutiful, scorned prince, when he had the ultimate leverage hidden in plain sight.

He had the alpha’s nature on his side. He looked up at Daemon, his eyes wide and bright with a sudden, dangerous clarity.

"I don't need a sword to destroy the arrangement, do I?" Aerion whispered, his voice trembling not with fear, but with power.

Daemon’s lips curled, the smirk deepening into something knowing. He spun Aerion out, catching him and pulling him close, his eyes reflecting the ambition he had ignited in the younger prince.

"An alpha's nature is the most predictable thing in the world, little prince," Daemon murmured, his thumb brushing over the skin of Aerion’s back, right over the lattice of gold. "He wants, he takes, and he claims. If you make it impossible for him to deny you, if you give him that taste… then the parchment is as good as ash."

Aerion’s breath hitched. The plan was reckless. It was ruinous. It was everything his father and muña would hate.

It was perfect.

"Thank you, Uncle," Aerion said, his voice cold and steady, the hurt of the evening hardening into something far more dangerous. He pulled away slightly, his gaze drifting across the crowded floor until it locked, unerringly, onto the alpha at the high table. "I believe I know exactly what I need to do."

The music reached a slow beat, but it didn't matter. The tension in the room had already snapped. Before the last note could fade, Valarr was there, cutting through the space between the dancers. He didn't ask; he didn't wait. He simply stopped in front of them, his jaw set in a line, and extended a hand toward Aerion.

It was a demand disguised as a gesture.
Daemon chuckled, a low, rasping sound of genuine delight, and released Aerion’s waist, though his eyes remained lit with triumph. "It seems my time is up, little prince," He offered a mocking bow to his nephew.

Aerion didn't look at Daemon. He fixed his gaze on Valarr, his pulse hammering against his ribs, and placed his hand into his brother’s grip. Valarr didn't hesitate. He pulled Aerion in, his other hand coming up to settle firmly at the small of Aerion’s back. He pulled him flush against his chest, the contact so immediate and grounding that Aerion let out a soft, involuntary sigh.

Valarr’s expression was unreadable, his eyes usual blue eyes dark and stormy as he leveled Aerion with a look that stripped away the pretense of the room. He smelled of rain and iron; the scent of an Alpha who was holding back a roar.

"Our muña is already looking for the scrolls to draft the order," Valarr said, his voice low. "He’s planning routes to send Daemon to the Wall. If you have any sense, you will avoid him for the rest of the evening."

Aerion tilted his head back, looking up at his brother through defiant eyes. He felt the heat of Valarr’s hand on his spine, burning through the silk of his gown.

"Is that so?" Aerion replied, his voice dripping with a sharpness that made Valarr’s grip tighten. "How terribly fragile the court must be if a simple dance is considered treason. I seem to recall our parents did far worse than dance with one another when they were our age."

Valarr’s brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation passing through his gaze, but he didn't rise to the bait. He was better at this than Aerion, and he knew how to pivot. He let the silence stretch for a moment, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the small of Aerion’s back.

"Keep your tongue, Aerion," Valarr commanded quietly, his tone shifting from warning to something else entirely. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Aerion’s ear, sending a jolt down the omega’s spine. "We are not our parents, and I have no desire to discuss your escapades on the dance floor any longer."

He pulled back just enough to look Aerion in the eye, his gaze intense. "I have your nameday gift in my chamber," He admitted. "It’s been waiting there all day. It’s time you came to collect it."

Aerion blinked, his expression shifting into a mask of exaggerated, wide eyed innocence. He tilted his head, his fingers tracing a slow, teasing path along the lapel of Valarr’s doublet.

"In your chambers?" Aerion repeated, his voice feigning a breathless sort of shock. "Valarr, honestly. We are an unwed alpha and omega. Think of the propriety, the scandal of it all... it really wouldn't be appropriate, you know. I’m quite certain that if anyone saw me walking toward your quarters at this hour, muña would have your head, and my reputation would be ruined before the moon turned."

He looked up through his lashes, daring the alpha to play along with the lie. Valarr’s reaction was immediate. A single dark brow arched upward, and a knowing, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn't break his hold on Aerion’s waist.

Instead, he stepped into his space, shielding the younger prince from the view of the court. His scent, woodsmoke and ozone, spiked, rolling over Aerion in a warm, suffocating wave of possessiveness.

"Propriety?" Valarr echoed, the word dripping with dry amusement. He tightened his grip, pulling Aerion flush against him, so close that the gold chains on Aerion’s back dug slightly into Valarr’s hand.

"That is a sudden and remarkable concern, brother," Valarr’s voice dropped to a register meant only for Aerion. He let his gaze drop, lingering for a fraction of a second on the curve of Aerion’s lips before locking back onto his eyes. "It’s a strange sudden conscience you’ve developed, considering it has never once stopped you from sneaking into my chambers in the dead of night to crawl into my bed whenever you please."

A wave of heat rushed up Aerion’s neck, blooming across his cheeks, not from shyness, but from biting irritation. He hated it when Valarr cornered him with the truth. He hated that his own secret habits were being thrown back in his face with such calm, infuriating confidence.

He pulled back just an inch, smoothing his expression into something brittle, desperate to reclaim the upper hand.

"Perhaps it shall come to a stop then," Aerion voice was dismissive, as if he were discussing the weather. He let his gaze drift over Valarr’s shoulder, feigning detachment. "It would be for the best, truly. Especially by the end of the week."

Valarr’s expression flickered, the amusement in his eyes cooling into a more guarded reaction. "The end of the week?" He repeated, his grip on Aerion’s waist tightening almost imperceptibly. "Why the end of the week, Aerion?"

Aerion allowed a small, knowing smile to touch his lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He knew he was being cruel, but the sting of jealousy in his chest was powerful.

"Oh, you know," Aerion said, tilting his head with a mocking innocence. "Once the guests arrive you’ll find that a lady requires more of your attention than I ever could. It would be dreadfully improper for me to sneak into your rooms when you have such... new responsibilities to attend to."

He met Valarr’s eyes, challenging the Alpha to deny the arrival of Kiera, challenging him to admit that he would soon be occupied with a new, noble bride. "I simply thought I would offer you the chance before the change becomes permanent."

Valarr’s expression flickered with genuine confusion, a furrow appearing between his dark brows as he looked down at Aerion. He didn't seem to understand the poison dripping from the younger prince’s words, nor did he seem to grasp the sheer gravity of the event Aerion had been stewing over for days.

"I don't know what makes you think she would require an abundance of my time," Valarr said, his voice dropping into that calm tone that usually soothed Aerion, but now only served to grate on his raw, exposed nerves. "She is a guest, Aerion, not an occupation. And it is Kiera, not 'the Lady of Tyrosh.' You’ve never been one to stand on such formal titles."

Aerion’s entire body stiffened. The correction hit him like a physical blow, a condescending pat on the head that made his blood boil. Being handled. That was what this was. Valarr was treating him like a petulant child who didn't know how the court worked, correcting him as if he were a tutor correcting a scribe.

It made the jealousy in Aerion’s chest sharpen into a dangerous sensation. He didn't want Valarr’s calm rationalization. He wanted the alpha to care that he was being betrothed to someone else and not Aerion.

"Don't," Aerion snapped, his voice tight with clipped irritation as he forced himself to maintain the dance, his grip on Valarr’s shoulder bruisingly tight. He looked up at his brother, his eyes flashing with genuine malice. "I will call her whatever I please, Valarr. I am perfectly aware of who she is, and I am perfectly aware of what her arrival signifies for the court and for our family. You may pretend otherwise, you may hide behind your ignorance, but don't you dare try to manage me."

He pulled back just enough to let Valarr feel the distance, his jaw set in a defiant line. "If you are so fond of her that you feel the need to correct my tongue, then perhaps you should find someone else to dance with."

Valarr didn't pull away. Instead, his grip on Aerion’s waist tightened, holding him in place as if he were afraid Aerion might shatter if he let go. The confusion in his eyes was eclipsed by a raw, desperate sort of pleading that made Aerion’s breath hitch in his throat. He looked at Aerion not as a prince or a brother, but as a man holding onto the only thing that kept him tethered to the earth.

"Please, brother," Valarr reasoned, his voice strained and stripped of its usual edge. "Let us not fight. Not tonight. It is your nameday, Aerion. You deserve to be celebrated, not... not arguing with me."

Aerion opened his mouth to retort, to tell him that he was the one who had brought up the Lady of Tyrosh, but the words died in his throat. Valarr’s thumb pressed into the soft, exposed skin of his hip and began a slow, circular motion. The alpha’s touch was as much a demand for submission as it was a gesture of profound, aching need.

Aerion felt his shoulders sag, the defiance draining out of him faster than he could fight it. He hated how effective the Alpha was, how quickly Valarr could turn his righteous fury into a more softer, more needy feeling. He wanted to hold onto his anger, to keep the distance, but the feeling of Valarr’s hand against him made his heart ache with the very affection he was trying to hide.

He kept his gaze averted, staring stubbornly at Valarr’s tunic, his heart still beating frantically. He looked up at Valarr, his eyes narrowed, trying to maintain the facade of his displeasure, but his lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

"Fine," Aerion huffed, the word dragged out and dripping with sulkiness. He looked like a spoiled, petulant prince who had just been scolded, though he made no move to pull from the Alpha. "If you are so insistent on peace, then stop dancing and take me to your chambers. Where is my gift?"

The tension in Valarr’s face didn't just vanish, it slid off and transformed with such grace. A slow boyish smile spread across his features. Aerion couldn’t recall seeing that expression directed at anyone else in years.

Without a word, Valarr hooked his arm through Aerion’s and began to lead them through the crowded floor. He moved with a purposeful stride that forced the courtiers and lords to part like water, his hand firm and warm against Aerion’s side.

Aerion let himself be led, his chin tilted high, though he kept his gaze fixed on his brother. From the corner of his eye he couldn't help but track the change in Valarr. The Alpha looked invigorated, his eyes bright with an eagerness that made Aerion’s pulse stutter in his throat. It was incredibly and infuriatingly endearing.

Aerion fought to keep his expression into one of indifference. He chewed the inside of his lip to stifle a smile of his own, his chest swelling with warmth. He had expected to fight, to drag the Alpha into this, but Valarr was already halfway there, pulling him toward privacy with an eagerness that matched Aerion’s own.

They burst through the heavy doors of the Great Hall, leaving the roar of the feast behind them. The corridor was cool, dim, and mercifully empty, the torches casting long, flickering shadows against the stone.
As the doors thumped shut, muffling the music, Aerion finally allowed his shoulders to drop, his composure fraying just a little.

He shot a sidelong glance at Valarr, who was walking slightly ahead of him now, his stride long and impatient. The Alpha didn't look back, but the way his hand tightened around Aerion's and the way he practically radiated, was answer enough.

Aerion looked away quickly, hiding his satisfied smirk. He was getting exactly what he wanted, and the night was only just beginning.

The door clicked shut with a final thud, sealing them in Valarr’s private chambers. The air was cooler, sharp with the scent of pine needles and the familiar, grounding musk of his brother. The scent usually anchored Aerion, but tonight acted as a catalyst for his rising pulse.

Aerion lingered at the entrance for a heartbeat, his hand still resting on the latch. He watched Valarr move toward the dark wardrobe in the corner. His brother was already tossing aside silks and heavy wools, his movements hurried, his back entirely turned. He looked so eager, so genuinely focused on the gift he had chosen, that a sharp spike of possessive triumph lanced through Aerion.

He has no idea what he’s actually about to give me, Aerion thought, his eyes tracking the span of Valarr’s shoulders.

He considered his next move. He could play the role of the appreciative, coy little brother, batting his eyelashes as he accepted whatever trinket Valarr had unearthed. He could wait for the gift to be presented, lingering in the center of the room. Or... he could seize the narrative entirely. He could make the room his stage.

Aerion’s gaze drifted from his brother’s back to the bed that dominated the center of the room. The furs were turned down, the sheets dark and inviting in the flickering candlelight. A slow pleased smirk curled around his mouth. Coy was for children. He wanted a reaction.

He moved, his movements fluid and soundless against the rug. He didn't head for Valarr; he stalked toward the bed. With grace, he climbed onto the mattress and sprawled against the plush pillows. He hooked his arms behind his head, his elbows splayed wide to frame his face, a pose that arched his back and thrust his chest forward.

He curled his body along the end of the bed, his legs tangling in the furs, the movement hitching the hem of his gown. The cut of his bodice did the rest of the work; it was a calculated display, pushing his petite breasts together into a soft, pale swell that caught every flicker of the hearth fire. He looked like an offering waiting to be claimed.

He kept his head tilted back, watching Valarr through lidded eyes. He didn't speak. He simply lay there, radiating as an invitation that was impossible to ignore, waiting for his brother to turn around. He needed the alpha to realize the gift he was looking for wasn't in the wardrobe at all, it was waiting for him on the bed.

"Ah ha!"

The sound rang through the room, followed by the rustle of silk and velvet. Valarr whirled around, a box clutched tightly to his chest, his face beaming with the eager pride of a man who had found the gift he had spent so long planning.

The smile vanished the moment his eyes landed on the bed.

Valarr froze. The breath hitched in his throat, a sound that pulled all the oxygen from the room. He didn't drop the gift, but his knuckles tightened against the box, his gaze tracking the length of Aerion’s body. His eyes traced the pale curve of Aerion’s throat, to the way the crimson silk clung to his breasts, accentuating the soft, rising swell of his chest.

His pupils dilated until his eyes were near black, the predatory hunger of an alpha warring violently with the protective instinct of a brother. Aerion didn't move. He kept the pose, his expression softening into one of wide eyed vulnerability. He let his lashes flutter for a second, a performance of exhaustion.

"I’m sorry, Valarr," Aerion spoke, his voice sounding small and breathy. "I didn't mean to… I am just so tired. The feast, the stares, the expectations… it has made me feel so terribly anxious tonight." He shifted, the chains on his back rustling. "I just needed to be here. Your scent… it’s the only thing that calms me."

Valarr stumbled forward, his movements uncoordinated, like a man sleepwalking. The box slipped from his hands, thudding onto the thick rug, but he didn't even look down at it. He was focused entirely on the omega on his bed.

The Alpha’s resolve was crumbling. His nostrils flared, scenting the air, his growl muffled deep in his chest. He let out a sound that was half warning, half whimper. He looked torn, his hand trembling as he reached out, fingers hovering in the air before he touched the edge of the mattress.

He sat down, the bed dipping under his weight, his presence suddenly massive, overwhelming, and stifling. His hand moved of its own accord, his palm resting near Aerion’s hip, his thumb brushing against the silk with a gentle, agonizingly slow rhythm.

The alpha softened, his features losing their sharp edge, replaced by a raw naked concern. He looked Aerion over searchingly, as if he’d find the culprit responsible for the omega’s distress.

"Anxious?" Valarr whispered, his voice thick, his hand shaking as he reached to tuck a strand of hair behind Aerion’s ear. He leaned in, his forehead almost brushing Aerion’s, his breath hot against his skin. "Why are you anxious, little dragon? Tell me. What has been troubling you?"

Aerion let his lashes flutter, his breath hitching as he played the part of the fragile, overwhelmed omega. He bit his lower lip, turning his gaze toward the flickering candlelight to avoid meeting his brother’s eyes.

"It’s not just the feast, Valarr," He whispered, his voice trembling with forced fragility. "It’s the changes. The... the arrangements. Everyone talks of alliances and duty, and my inner omega– it’s just so anxious. It feels like everything I know is slipping away, like I’m being replaced by a stranger's name on a piece of parchment."

Valarr’s frown deepened, a shadow of genuine pain crossing his features at the sight of Aerion’s distress. He abandoned all pretense of keeping his distance. He climbed fully onto the bed, his weight shifting the mattress as he moved to frame Aerion, his legs curling around the younger prince to trap him in a cradle of heat and strength. His arm came up, his hand moving in slow and soothing strokes up and down Aerion’s side.

It was meant to be comforting, but the friction of Valarr’s palm against the silk of the gown was setting Aerion’s nerves on fire. As Valarr’s fingers drifted upward, they skimmed the exposed skin of Aerion’s back where the gold chains gave way to bare flesh. The contact caused a heat to fill Aerion. Valarr’s breath hitched in his throat, a sharp, ragged sound that betrayed the sudden spike of his arousal.

His eyes, heavy and dark, drifted down to the deep plunge of Aerion’s bodice. His mouth parted slightly as he stared at the pale, heaving swell of Aerion’s chest, his own internal logic unraveling under the strain of the proximity.

"You don't have to be afraid of that," Valarr assured him, his voice thick and unfocused, his gaze lingering on the cleavage Aerion was so carefully displaying. He seemed to lose the thread of his own sentence, his hand pausing as his thumb traced a circle against the omega’s ribs. "Nothing has to change, Aerion. We can still be... we can still act however you need, even after the betrothal is announced. I won't let it change us."

The words were a naive, dangerous promise, and Aerion knew exactly how to use them. He shifted, arching his back and pushing his chest out further, forcing Valarr’s eyes to track the movement. He let out a pathetic whine, forcing a sound of disagreement in the space between them.

"You're wrong," Aerion breathed, his eyes locking onto Valarr’s with a mixture of challenge and desperate, feigned hurt. "Everything will change, Valarr. You’ll see."

Valarr was paralyzed, his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of Aerion’s chest, of the barely contained soft, pale swell he was presented with. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak, how to blink, how to act as a prince of the realm. Aerion smothered a smirk, he had the crown prince completely unraveled, his composure shattered by nothing more than a pose and a look.

He scooted closer, closing the final inch of space until he was pressing firmly into Valarr’s chest, his own scent wrapping around the alpha. He nuzzled his nose gently against the corded muscle of Valarr’s neck, inhaling the scent there.

"Will you hold me, Valarr?" He whispered, his voice thin and fragile, perfectly crafted to sound like a plea. "Please?"

Valarr didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Aerion, pulling him so close that the contact was absolute. His hands, large and warm, splayed wide, pressing directly into the bare, smooth skin of Aerion’s back where the gown dipped low. Aerion wiggled, brushing against the alpha’s frame, and felt the sudden, unmistakable firmness pressing against his hip.

He paused, feeling the immediate, rigid tension in Valarr’s body as they brushed again. Aerion pulled back just enough to look at him, feigning a look of confused, wide eyed wonder.

"Valarr?" He asked, his breath coming out shallowly. "Why is your... why are you hard?"

Valarr swallowed, a harsh, painful sound in the quiet room. A flush crept up his neck, staining his skin a deep red. "It’s... it’s just a bodily reaction, Aerion," He stammered, his voice sounding strangled. "It’s nothing. Please, don't worry about it."

Aerion didn't let him off the hook quite so easily. He looked up, his eyes bright and inquisitive. "Is it because of me?"

Valarr couldn't look at him, but he couldn't pull away either. He gave a jerky, tortured nod, his jaw clamped shut. Aerion took that as his cue. His fingers wandered from Valarr’s neck down to his chest, tracing the heavy, solid wall of muscle beneath the tunic. He giggled softly, a sound that was light, breathless, and entirely planned.

Valarr shifted with a low, agonizing groan, his restraint snapping like a brittle twig. Aerion moved with him, the friction of their bodies becoming more deliberate, and as he shifted, he let his knee drift upward, lightly brushing against the Alpha’s groin.

The reaction was immediate. Valarr’s hands slipped, sliding further down the small of Aerion’s back until they were caressing the soft, firm curve of his bottom. Aerion giggled again, but this time it was deeper, conspiratorial. He buried his face in Valarr’s chest, his voice a whisper against the fabric.

"Valarr... you’re touching my bottom."

Valarr whipped his hands back as if he had been burned by dragonfire, his eyes wide, panic and apology flooding his features. "I–I’m sorry, I didn't– I lost my–"

"It’s okay," Aerion whispered, cutting him off, his voice soft and trembling. He looked up at Valarr, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his face flushed a rosy pink. "It’s okay, Valarr. It just... it made me feel funny."

Valarr’s breathing was ragged, his eyes searching Aerion’s face for clarity, his hand trembling as it hovered in the air. "Funny?" He breathed, his voice low. "How, Aerion?"

Aerion peeked up at him under his lashes, the color high on his cheeks. "I feel wet, Valarr."

Valarr inhaled sharply, a harsh sound that tore through the quiet of the room as if he had been struck in the gut. The air seemed to vanish from his lungs, leaving him breathless, his eyes darkening into pools of possessive intensity. He stared at Aerion, his jaw tight, his entire frame vibrating with the effort of holding back.

Aerion, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, forced himself to squirm. He moved with a clumsy, feigned uncertainty, twisting his hips against the mattress and creating a friction that sent a jolt of electricity through them both. He looked up at Valarr, his eyes wide, shimmering with a manufactured, teary confusion that was as soft as it was deadly.

"I... I don't understand it," Aerion murmured, his voice trembling with a breathless, innocent wonder. "No other alpha has ever made me feel this way. I mean, not even... not even when I’m with Uncle Daemon."

Valarr’s grip on Aerion’s back didn't loosen, it seized. The name hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

"Daemon?" Valarr repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, his focus zeroing in on the name with a terrifying sharpness.

Aerion tilted his head, playing the role of the oblivious omega to perfection, though his pulse hammered with the sheer thrill of the gamble.

"He has such strong hands, Valarr," He said, his voice trailing off as if he were merely sharing a secret. "Sometimes, when he dances with me, or trains me, he... he grabs my waist like this."

He reached up, placing his hands on his own hips to demonstrate, his fingers splayed. "And he pulls me so close that I can feel his heartbeat against my skin, and he makes me feel so tingly."

Aerion’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, his gaze darting toward the floor as if he were embarrassed by his own confession. "It was never wet like this with him. Not ever. Why do you make me feel like this, when he… when he just makes me feel tingly?"

The effect on the Crown Prince was catastrophic. Valarr’s face drained of color before flooding with a flush of pure rage. The protective, soft brother was gone, replaced by an alpha whose instincts were screaming that his omega was being touched and claimed by the most dangerous rival he had.

Valarr let out a choked sound, his hands sliding from Aerion’s back to grip his shoulders with bruising force, pulling him up until they were nose to nose, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

"Don't," Valarr rasped, his eyes burning with a desperate, dark hunger. "Don't you ever let him touch you like that again."

"If not him, then who will?" Aerion challenged, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he pouted up at the prince.

Valarr didn't hesitate. His hands didn't just find Aerion’s waist, they clamped down, squeezing the soft skin there with jarring strength. His knuckles tightened, his jaw clenched as he leaned over the prince. His eyes burned with the fire of a dragon who realized his hoard was being threatened.

"I will," Valarr growled, the words vibrating through his chest and into Aerion’s own. "I am the only one who will."

The pretense, the acting, the calculated manipulation, it all began to dissolve into the reality of the moment. Aerion felt a genuine, breathless flush creep up his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wiggled in Valarr’s grip, the movement completely instinctive now. Through the jagged slit in his skirts, his knee peaked out, pale and trembling.

He parted his lips, a small, genuine whimper escaping his throat as the scent of the alpha swamped his senses. Valarr shifted, his weight pressing Aerion back in the pillows. He didn't offer a gentle courtship. He leaned over him, his breath coming out in hitches as he dipped his head to press a searing kiss to the column of Aerion’s neck.

Aerion moved restlessly, arching into the touch, his head lolling back to bare his throat, exposing the pulse point that throbbed against Valarr’s lips. His right leg lifted, smooth and fluid, wrapping firmly around Valarr’s hip. He used the leverage to push his pelvis up, grinding his body against the alpha’s groin.

Valarr let out a broken half groan as he felt the friction. His control was fraying, the edges of his reasoning turning to smoke. Aerion felt it happen in the shift of the alpha’s weight, the way the world seemed to tilt.

"Aerion..." Valarr groaned, his voice cracking.

Aerion took the final step, pushing his own legs apart to pull the alpha closer, to invite the inevitable. As he did, Valarr’s hands slipped from his waist. They didn't stop. They slid down, fingers digging into the curve of Aerion’s hips, sliding lower to trace the line of his thighs as the gown hiked up.
Valarr was no longer the crown prince, no longer the protector. He was an alpha who had reached his breaking point.

His hands trembled against Aerion’s skin, not with uncertainty, but with the violent, restrained power of a man who had stopped fighting his own nature. The friction was driving them both toward madness. Aerion writhed against the mattress, his back arching, the gold chains of his gown clinking softly as he twisted.

"Alpha... please," He whimpered, his voice high and thick with a need that felt like an ache in his very bones. "Please, Valarr. It hurts... make it stop."

Valarr’s hand dived beneath the hem of the silk, his fingers hot and trembling. He gasped as they made immediate contact with the damp, lace silk of Aerion’s small clothes. At the touch, Aerion let out a ragged whine, his hips instinctively pushing up, grinding into the alpha’s palm. Valarr groaned, a sound of total surrender, as he slid his fingers beneath the fabric and found the slick, swollen nub of Aerion’s clit.

Aerion gasped, his head falling back as he frantically reached up, his fingers working the silk ribbons at his bodice with trembling hands. With a desperate shove, he bunched the fabric of his dress down his torso, exposing his pale, flushed chest to the room.

Valarr faltered, his eyes wide and dilated as they locked onto the sight. He stopped his hand, his mouth parting as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Slowly, reverently, he lifted his other hand, cupping one of Aerion’s small breasts.

Aerion’s voice was small, shy, and laced with a pathetic, practiced insecurity. "I'm sorry... I know they're small, Valarr."

Valarr shook his head violently, a growl of pure want vibrating in his chest. He dipped his head, his mouth latching onto the taut, aching nipple, sucking with a hunger that made Aerion cry out.

"They're perfect," Valarr rasped against his skin, breathless and wrecked. "They are so pretty... you are perfect."

Aerion giggled, a breathless, broken sound, and pushed his hips up demandingly against Valarr’s working fingers. The alpha needed no further invitation. He drove his fingers inside, plunging into the slick heat of Aerion’s cunt, the rhythm frantic and deep.

Aerion’s fingers flew to Valarr’s belt, his nails digging into the leather as he tugged at the buckles, his heels digging into the mattress to shove the breeches down the alpha’s powerful legs. He kicked his own small clothes away, exposing himself fully, arching his back and begging, "In... Valarr, please, alpha!"

But just as the friction reached a fever pitch, Valarr froze. His hands stilled at Aerion’s chest, his eyes suddenly unfocused and dazed as if a cold bucket of water had been thrown over him. He pulled back, shaking his head, his breathing coming in jagged, pained heaves.

"No," His voice hoarse and raw. "No, Aerion... we can't. Not like this. We can't... it's–"

The rejection was like a slap. Aerion’s expression didn't crumble, but it hardened into something cold. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he shoved at Valarr’s chest, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Fine," Aerion spat, moving to slide off the bed. "If you are too much of a coward, I’ll go find Uncle Daemon. I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to finish what you started."

He barely had time to finish the sentence. Before his foot even touched the floor, Valarr moved. The alpha was a blur of motion, slamming Aerion back down flat against the mattress. He pinned him there, hovering over him with a glare, his chest heaving. Valarr grabbed his own cock, rigid and throbbing, and held it firmly, dangerously, over Aerion’s bared, trembling cunt.

"You will not go to him," Valarr snarled, his voice a command. "You are not touching anyone else tonight."

Valarr braced himself, his hands trembling as he began the slow, agonizing process of sinking into Aerion. He hissed through his teeth, his forehead pressing against the younger prince’s as he muttered about just how impossibly tight Aerion was. It felt like a velvet trap, a heated, crushing grip that threatened to make him shatter before he had even fully claimed his place.

Aerion let out a high, broken whimper as he felt the overwhelming stretch, his back arching sharply off the mattress. It was a searing, blooming ache that made his vision swim, but there was no thought of pulling away. Instead, he hooked his legs tightly around Valarr’s hips, locking the alpha in place, drawing him down deeper, demanding every inch of him.

Valarr groaned and pulled back, the sensation of sliding out almost as intense as the entry, before he shoved back in, burying himself to the hilt. He began to roll his hips, a slow, grinding friction that dragged a sob of pleasure from Aerion’s throat. Aerion matched his pace, his hips rising to meet Valarr’s, his fingers tangling in the alpha’s hair.

He pulled Valarr’s head down, forcing the alpha to stay buried against his chest.
Valarr surrendered to the command, his mouth latching onto Aerion’s nipple with a desperate, frantic hunger. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the taut peak while his teeth grazed the sensitive skin, nipping just enough to sting, just enough to leave a mark.

The friction between their bodies became relentless, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only sound in the room, masked only by the ragged, desperate breathing of two princes who had finally stopped pretending.

Valarr’s pace increased, the pace becoming a frantic, punishing collision of bodies that left the air thick with sweat. The bed frame groaned under the force of his thrusts, the sound drowned out only by Aerion’s breathless, incoherent babbling.

"You’re so big," Aerion gasped, his vision swimming, his fingers digging gouges into the corded muscles of Valarr’s shoulders. He tossed his head back, his voice a broken, ecstatic mess. "I bet... I bet you’re bigger than Uncle Daemon. He couldn't ever– he couldn't make me feel like this–"

Valarr let out a low, feral growl that Aerion could feel to his very bones. The mention of the name sparked a new, sharper hunger in the alpha. He didn't just thrust; he took control. He pulled back, leaving Aerion aching for the friction, gasping for the return of his brother’s weight, and then drove in to the absolute, unforgiving hilt, pinning Aerion’s hips deep into the mattress.

"Don't you ever compare me to him. You are mine, and only mine," Valarr rasped, his voice ragged, his eyes burning with a deep grounding intensity. He thrusted once, then twice, the position changing and causing Aerion to gasp out in pleasure.

The omega whined, clenching around Valarr’s cock. The omega began apologizing profusely, babbling that the only cock he wanted was Valarr’s.

“Your cunt was made for my cock,” Valarr groaned, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his chest. “I want you to cum around my cock, Aerion. Can you be a good boy and do that for your alpha?”

The request shattered the last of Aerion’s restraint. The pleasure coiled in his stomach, tight and unbearable, spiraling outward until his entire body went rigid. He let out a high, keening whine, his insides clenching and milking the alpha as the climax hit him like a tidal wave.

He sobbed, his voice lost in the friction, his head falling back as he shuddered violently around Valarr. Valarr let out a throaty groan of his own, his rhythm turning frantic and desperate. He pumped into Aerion, hard and deep, burying himself to the absolute limit.

Valarr’s entire frame shuddered as he surrendered to the heat, pumping into his brother again and again, flooding him with the undeniable proof of their indiscretion. He held Aerion tight, bracing himself against the omega, his breathing ragged and wild as he finally, completely, spent himself inside.

The silence that descended upon the room was heavy, thick with scent of their union. Aerion lay back against the pillows for a long moment, his chest heaving, his body aching with a dull, throbbing heat that felt like a brand. But as the adrenaline faded, it was replaced by a soaring sense of triumph.

He had done it. The ink on his brother’s betrothal was not just metaphorical ash; it was now entirely irrelevant. He slowly sat up, a sharp, stinging wince tugging at the corners of his mouth as his hips protested the movement. He didn't mind the pain. It was the price of his leverage. Reaching over the side of the bed, he grabbed a damp cloth, pausing to clean himself with a deliberate, calm efficiency.

Aerion hobbled to his feet, his legs feeling like jelly, but he held his head high. He tugged the gown back up over his shoulders, the fabric twisted, but he smoothed it out with a shaking hand until it was passable. He turned his back to his brother, the lacing dangling loose against his spine.

"Valarr," He demanded, his voice breathless but firm, lacking any of the fragility from moments before. "Fix this."

Valarr heaved himself up from the bed, his movements sluggish and dazed, his hair a mess and his eyes blown wide with the residual haze. He didn't argue. He moved behind Aerion, his large, warm hands finding the laces at the back of the dress.

His fingers were slightly clumsy, unusually hesitant, as he threaded them through the eyelets. As Valarr pulled the strings taut, securing the dress, his knuckles grazed the bare skin of Aerion’s spine. He didn't pull away. Instead, he let his hand linger, his fingers trailing slowly, reverently up from the small of Aerion’s back to the sensitive nape of his neck.

It was a lingering needy stroke, a silent claim that sent a fresh shiver down Aerion’s spine. Without another word, Valarr stepped back, the loss of his heat leaving Aerion feeling cold. The prince turned toward his own discarded breeches, his face drawn as he began the task of dressing himself.

The room still smelled of their heat, a heavy, musky scent that seemed to cling to the tapestries. Aerion didn't care. He sat back on the edge of the bed, his legs crossed, his posture radiating a calm, triumphant satisfaction. He looked at Valarr, batting his lashes with impatience.

"Well? My nameday gift, brother? Or did you forget in the heat of... everything?"

Valarr, looking dazed and decidedly sheepish, ducked his head. He retrieved the small box from where it had fallen, walking back to the bed with his hand rubbing the back of his neck, his skin still flushed from their exertion. He held it out.

Aerion took it, opening the lid with delicate, deliberate movements. Nestled inside was a pendant, one made of silver, set with a singular stone that shifted from deep violet to a piercing, clear blue. It caught the torchlight, perfectly mirroring the unique color of their own eyes.

Aerion’s mouth parted in surprise. He looked up at Valarr, his eyes bright. "It’s... it's beautiful, Valarr."

Valarr looked away, mumbling something unintelligible, looking like a young boy caught in a confession. Aerion didn't let the moment linger. He stood up, shaking off the stiffness in his hips, and held the pendant out. "Help me put it on?"

Valarr stepped in close, his fingers brushing the nape of Aerion’s neck as he fastened the clasp. The contact was electric, a reminder of what had just transpired, but Valarr pulled away the moment the chain was secured. Aerion turned, catching his reflection in a polished silver mirror, looking proud and poised.

"It is very lovely," Aerion said, beaming at his brother.

Suddenly, a sharp, authoritative knock cracked through the silence of the chamber.
Valarr froze, his eyes widening in sheer panic. He darted a look toward the bed, to where the sheets were tangled and, undoubtedly, bore the proof of their union.

With a frantic motion, he lunged for the heavy throw at the foot of the bed, yanking it up and across the mattress to obscure the stains just as the heavy oak door creaked open. King Baelor poked his head into the room. His expression was stern, his brows knitted together in a frown of disapproval.

"Aerion," the King said, his voice echoing with the weight of the crown. "It is unseemly for the guest of honor to be absent from his own nameday feast. Your mother is asking for you, and the court is beginning to whisper."

Aerion didn't flinch. He smoothed the front of his dress, his face instantly shifting into a picture of innocent, youthful charm. He bounded over to his father, practically glowing.

"Kepa! I’m sorry," Aerion said, his voice light. He reached up, touching the pendant at his throat, angling it so the light caught the violet and blue gems. "I was only just receiving my gift from Valarr. See? Isn't it lovely?"

Baelor’s stern features softened instantly. He looked at the necklace, then back at his son, his expression shifting from scolding to indulgent. A slow smile touched the King’s lips. "It is indeed a fine piece, little dragon."
He held out his arm, offering it to Aerion with a raised brow.

Aerion rolled his eyes, a playful, familiar gesture, and tucked himself firmly into his father’s side, feeling the steady strength of the man who ruled the realm. He looked up at Baelor, his eyes twinkling. "Since you’ve come all this way to find me, Kepa... will you have a dance with me before the night is through?"

Baelor let out a booming laugh, patting Aerion’s hand. "And what kind of father would I be if I refused to dance with my son on his nameday?"

With a decisive nod, Baelor began to guide Aerion out of the room, heading back toward the gala. Valarr stood by the bed, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes darting to the throw covering the bed as he scrambled to compose himself before trailing a few paces behind them, acting the part of the dutiful, stoic heir.