Chapter Text
The atmosphere in the carriage was stifling. The cloying scents of two other omegas - one newly ripened, the other swollen with child - had Aerion’s hackles rising.
Cloistered as they were, Aerion could not fault Matarys’ slack-jawed fascination with the wide world beyond the Maidenvault - dreary and grey as it was. Aerion had been much the same the first time he had been permitted outside the high walls of the Red Keep.
Four and ten, silver hair longer than the black veil crowning him, kept tightly at his father’s side. A wedding he could not remember, surplanted by the simple pleasure of breathing new, fresh air. He had been allowed to dance with Daeron - just once - and he had not been able to catch his breath for laughing as his brother spun him around some great lord’s hall.
Daeron had taken Valarr’s hand for the rest of the evening, twirling him in Aerion’s place. Aerion was returned to his rightful place at his father’s side, left to simmer in silent rage at how correct they looked together. Valarr’s face tilted up to Daeron’s, radiating a serene joy even behind the veil covering his sharp, perfect features.
Aerion had pictured himself waking his cousin in the night, straddling his slender hips as he pressed thumbs into his mismatched eyes. Allowed himself the dreamt screams, the sting of nails on his wrists, Valarr’s pretty face contorted in pain, blood streaming down his pale cheeks. Daeron would not want him then, would not smile each time he spoke Valarr’s name. The betrothal would be broken; Daeron would be returned to him.
A pleasant dream. One to cling to as he was led back to the Maidenvault - docile, like a lamb to slaughter.
It had been just he and Valarr for so long. Breaking through the fever and haze and hurt of his first heat, it had been Valarr sat at his bedside with a damp towel to his forehead and soothing, whispered words. Not Daeron, not his father - improper as it was for an alpha to be so near a blossoming omega.
His mother was years dead, taken by a sickness that had nearly claimed them both. He had been feverish then, too, nuzzled against the slow rise and fall of his mother’s chest as her quiet voice lulled him to sleep, only to wake to stillness and cold. Too frail to cry out, he remained curled against her unmoving body as the sun rose, praying to the Mother for mercy - that he might die as well.
Aerion knew he had cried out for his mama in the throes of his heat; had wept in relief at the soft hands on his face, stroking his brow. He had clutched at tumbling, thick, dark hair and begged his mother to stay at his side. And Valarr had stayed. Aerion despised him for it - for seeing him in such a weak and vulnerable state. He wanted to pry the memory from his cousin's skull by force, wanted to lash him with such vicious and cutting words, like whips against his pale skin.
He hated him so much, and had told him so plainly after Valarr brought a cup of water to Aerion’s cracked and bleeding lips. Valarr had only nodded, and told Aerion he would be in his room should he need him.
Aerion did not need anyone.
Two years his senior, he knew Valarr had been alone in the Maidenvault for his first heat. Only a septa there to force watery broth down his throat and leave him with a useless prayer to the Maiden. He must have suffered, must have cried and begged as Aerion had, clawing at his own skin as if he could tear out the burning animal need in his veins. The thought comforted Aerion, even though he was half-sure his cousin’s heat had been borne in silent placidity and reverent prayer, as was Valarr’s way.
Valarr had been gone a year from the Maidenvault; wed and mated and bred like the good omega he was. In his place came Matarys, lest Aerion be allowed a moment of solitude, fresh from his thirteenth nameday, and as restless and unhappy as Aerion had once been. Silence was rare with his young cousin, who confounded the septas with his boundless energy; who could not sit in repose long enough to embroider a single stitch, who had all the grace of a newborn foal, who crawled into Aerion’s bed when storms raged or his busy mind would not quiet.
His heat had come on him just weeks before Valarr’s pregnancy was announced, days after his fourteenth nameday. Aerion knew, as he brushed tendrils of auburn hair from Matarys’ damp forehead, that he would soon be gone from him too.
The marriage had been arranged for some time, Daeron told him, on one of his brief visits. An alliance forged with the Baratheons - a dragon sold to a stag in the name of security - to keep the house in line, loyal to the throne should the temptation of another Blackfyre ever arise. His sweet cousin given to a man greying at the temples to keep the hounds of rebellion at bay.
Aerion knew nothing of Lord Baratheon, only that he had sent his betrothed expensive silks and glistening jewels and a small, porcelain doll. Flame-haired, gowned in delicate black and gold. Matarys had giggled at the thing, his freckled nose wrinkling in amusement as he turned the doll over in his hands, setting it aside to drape himself in garnets and gauzy lace as if Aerion could not see the yearning in his eyes to hold the toy. Lyonel Baratheon had a sense of humour, if nothing else.
The young prince had given in to temptation, it seemed, the doll now clutched with one hand and settled on his lap as they rode on to Storm’s End.
Matarys had been uncharacteristically silent in the days since they left King’s Landing. In their tent at night, or a small room in some lesser lord’s castle, Aerion had listened tentatively for tears, for tossing and turning - any sign of distress from the other omega. But if Matarys was scared, he was facing down his own doom with surprising rectitude.
Valarr had noticed his younger brother’s unusual poise too, it seemed, as his gaze never left the boy. Even now, as he sat with one delicate hand over the swell of his stomach, pallour near grey from the uneasy sway of the carriage, he watched only Matarys. Occasionally he reached out to tuck a strand of his brother’s silken hair behind his ear, or run a thumb over his high cheekbone, but he offered no other comfort than that.
Rain bounced almost sideways against the carriage, pelting the windows like it meant to harm the three princes tucked warmly inside. The rolling hills and clusters of small thatched houses eventually lost their lustre and Matarys turned to his travelling companions at last.
“What is he like?” Matarys asked into the stiff silence, absentmindedly petting at his doll’s hair.
“Lord Baratheon?” Valarr spoke up almost instantly, as if afeared of what Aerion might say in reply, “I know him not, brother. We met only briefly at my wedding but he seemed… jovial. A good-spirited man. Generous, too - he gave Daeron a hunting bow as a wedding gift, and sent a little velvet doe for the babe. I believe a man like that would be kind.”
Valarr’s every word was calculated, as if he weighed them upon his tongue before he allowed himself to speak. Words to soothe or to tear a man to pieces - though Aerion had never heard his cousin speak an unkind word to anyone. He wondered if Valarr spoke sharply to his husband when he came drunk to feasts, or whether he hissed foul insults as Daeron crawled atop him with breath reeking of wine.
Though he never even chided Aerion for burning the miniature he kept of poor, dead Jena. Or for ripping apart the old baby blanket he kept tucked under his pillow. Or for reading the letters Daeron sent him, full of love and desire, aloud in front of their septa, who had whipped Valarr until he bled for the crime of receiving such filth.
Aerion had been rewarded for bringing his cousin’s transgression to light, that his soul might be saved through scourging of the flesh.
“Do you think he will like me?”
Aerion rolled his eyes at the inanity of his cousin’s question.
“It does not matter if he likes you,” Aerion begun in his usual droll monotone, ignoring Valarr’s eyes on him, burning fire into him. “He will wed you and fuck a child into you. That is his duty. Yours is to spread your legs and pray.”
“Aerion.” Valarr’s voice had gone cold, the temperature of the carriage dropping with a single word.
“What, cousin? Tell me which part I have spoken is a lie. Your brother is being sent south to become a lord’s broodmare. All for the good of the realm. It is greater cruelty to lie to him of love and kindness than to tell him the truth of what awaits him.”
“Remind me what you know of marriage, dear cousin?” Valarr asked with all politeness, reaching a hand out to clasp one of Matarys’. A fierceness lit his eyes, though his face remained pleasantly expressionless - a blaze of his love for his sweet brother. Aerion thought it a sickening weakness.
A smile played on Aerion’s lips as he regarded Valarr, amethyst eyes flitting from his face to his rounded belly. Wherever Valarr walked, he kept a hand to the bump as if covetous of the babe - like someone would come and pry it from him. Aerion had watched Daeron place a gently reverent hand to his mate’s stomach each night they made camp, escorting him from the fire to their tent as if Valarr were glass ready to shatter at any moment.
“Your concern is misplaced, my prince,” Aerion said airily with a dismissive wave of his hand, “if I were you, I would worry more about my husband being too drunk to remember the birth of our child. That is - if your body does not fail the babe before its time.”
Valarr could only open his mouth to respond before Matarys interjected - “Stop it. Both of you, stop it. You’re being horrid to each other and you’re going to ruin my wedding.”
Valarr, at least, had the care to appear chastened by the remonstrance.
“You do not think I know my duty already? That it is not the only thing the septas have spoken to me about since my heat? It is boring enough from them, must I hear it from the two of you as well?” Matarys huffed a breath of pure annoyance and turned once more to face the rain-blinded window - though Aerion noted he did not pull his hand from Valarr’s grasp.
“I would not see you thrown into a labyrinth without a thread,” Aerion sniffed, shooting a poisonous glare at Valarr.
“Your concern is heart-warming, Aerion. Truly, your charity knows no bounds.” Valarr said through gritted teeth as he shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable and strained after hours of sharing the cramped confines of the carriage - his patience now thinly tethered by his desire to keep Matarys from distress.
With his face to the crowds or the courtiers, the young prince appeared hale and hearty. A carefully constructed fabrication years in the weaving; Valarr had always been a sickly child, and that frailty had followed him into adulthood. Prone to prolonged bouts of illness and exhaustion, whisked away from the city at the whisper of a fever - Aerion knew his cousin’s health was a fragile thing.
Rare as male omegas were, some whispered that they were abominations, some that they were a blessing (what praise from the gods that there were three born in this generation of Targaryens). Either way, Aerion knew their bodies were laced with some wrongness - the thread of their fate pulled taut and thin as they brought new life into the world. Many lived, more did not.
Valarr himself had confessed fear at the thought of carrying a child. It had been one of those rare, soft nights when the two omegas could not bear the rending separation of their own beds. The loneliness came swift in their captivity. They had eaten supper together and gone to bathe apart and Aerion had allowed his body to lead itself to Valarr’s room, slipping between the sheets without a word. He did not need one - they shared a language of silence. They had lain awake, side by side, hearing only each other’s quiet breaths and the wind whistling through the halls.
“There is a pregnant omega at court. Lord Swann’s son - Allard, Allyn - something of the sort. He is nearing his time, I think. I visited my father today and I saw him in the gardens; each step looked pained, even leaning against his husband.” Valarr finally broke the silence, speaking up to the canopy of his bed. Aerion waited, tilting his head slightly to see if Valarr would continue his story.
“That is not particularly enthralling gossip, though by your standards-”
“I could not stop watching him. How could something so natural look so obscene? I- I felt as though he were some beast in a menagerie as I stared at him. He felt me watching him and he turned - he smiled at me, and I was grateful to be veiled lest he see the fear on my face. He is so small, I do not understand how his mate could stand by, knowing what is likely to happen.” Valarr’s voice had not risen above a whisper, but Aerion could hear the tension in it, gone thin and reedy in his distress.
“That is what alphas do. They cannot feel love, only a desire to breed,” Aerion breathed out into the dark chamber.
“You know that isn’t true,” Valarr whispered back, one hand, unseen, snaking to rest against his stomach.
“Even if my brother loves you as he says, the second you are wed he will try to spear you on his knot and put a child in you. Sooner, if he can get you alone.” Aerion did not like to think of his brother like that - did not truly believe it of him, but he knew well enough to beware all alphas, no matter how good they seemed.
“You always insist on being so crude - on taking everything and twisting it until it is just as ugly and warped as you are.”
There was no bite in it; Aerion could hear tears in his voice. The victory did not feel well-won.
“Was there some point to your little tale? Or am I meant to care that Allyn Swann is about to have a child?” Aerion turned on his side fully then, facing Valarr in the darkness. A concession, an invitation. Valarr understood.
“I am frightened,” the confession came like a gasp, almost unbidden, “I will not be able to give Daeron a child, and the attempt will be my own undoing.”
Aerion let the words settle around them. He never considered that Valarr could know fear - even that he could understand the shadow of it. His cousin was the embodiment of grace and stability; a calm, unerring wall upon which Aerion’s own tide broke.
“You are healthier now, and older than most at their first,” Aerion whispered.
Valarr did not reply. Instead turning to lie facing Aerion, their foreheads almost touching. Aerion had no words to soothe him - the simple truth he spoke would not ease Valarr’s worry. Even if he owned the correct words, he would not say them; he would not lie. He knew they were both like to die in their birthing beds, snuffed out and discarded like so many before them.
It was pathetic; a prince of the blood seeking comfort like a child after a nightmare. Aerion should have laughed at him then as he wanted to now. Over a year harbouring the knowledge that Valarr could, in fact, know fear and he had thrown it away on a wasted quip. Perhaps the journey had tired him more than he thought.
Days of travelling through bucolic pastures, peasants and mules alike turning to watch their caravan, gave way to the more rugged landscape of the coast; shambling villages and inns both becoming more scarce. They were intended to reach Storm’s End by the fall of evening, and Aerion knew he was not the only one who yearned for a soft bed and a bath hot enough to scald. Daeron and his father rode alongside their carriage, stalwart guards as ever, undoubtedly soaked to the bone and already catching a chill.
What an uninspiring entourage they made; drenched and sniffling. All the grand ceremony a Targaryen without his dragon could muster; a spluttering candle to a once-roaring flame.
The journey passed in a studied silence. Aerion dozed and stared idly out of the window, lulled by the strange backwards motion of his position in the carriage; Matarys fidgeted, braiding the doll’s hair over and over again; Valarr sat in a painfully forced stillness, discomfort written plain across his features. At least there was some entertainment on the road.
The great, dark, looming mass of Storm’s End slowly appeared out of the wind-whipped rain and mist. A hulking beast of a fortress; there was no poetry in the castle, no elegance - a monument to brute force. The distant sound of waves crashing violently against Shipbreaker Bay and the insistent caw of gulls made Aerion feel as though they had reached the end of the world. It looked such a lonely place, gloomy and sullen; he could not imagine sweet, happy Matarys making a home in that isolated fortress. Aerion reasoned he would not stay sweet and happy for long.
Matarys finally perked up as they rattled closer to the castle, pressing his face so close to the carriage’s window that the pane steamed with his breath. He was frowning, chewing anxiously on his lower lip. Whatever the young omega had allowed himself to dream, reality was an unkind awakening.
“I thought it might be more like… Summerhall, or Highgarden.”
Even Valarr could not make up a saccharine falsehood to soften the ugliness that faced him. At least he would be safe; only a fool would try to take the near-impregnable fortress. But Aerion supposed safety did not matter much to a child who dreamt of knights and princesses dancing through glittering castles without a care for raiders or pirates - or bastards.
“I have heard the castle is haunted,” Aerion drawled, fighting a wicked smile playing on his lips.
“What? No it isn’t. By who?” Matarys immediately lost all interest in the castle’s approach and turned his full attention to Aerion.
“Aye, it is,” Aerion nodded gravely, “by Lord Baratheon’s last omega wife. The weather made him so miserable, he threw himself from Durran’s Point.”
“You’re awful. I know that isn’t true because father said I am to be his first wife.”
Matarys didn’t seem too put out; used now to Aerion’s cruel jabs that he somehow always managed to twist into something close to fraternal mischief - as if Aerion had the capacity for joking and teasing.
Surprised Valarr had not begun chiding him yet, Aerion turned his attention from one cousin to the other. The prince was as white as the streak in his hair, eyes clenched shut and body gone taut. The dark of his undereyes stood out in stark contrast; a similar grey to the hollows of his cheeks.
Valarr could bleed out the babe then and there for all he cared. He’d like to watch as panic overwhelmed his features, as his body failed to do its one essential task. They would all know he was not so perfect then.
But he felt his arm move of its own accord, resting atop Valarr’s knee. His eyes snapped open, bleary gaze meeting Aerion’s. At the question etched into Aerion’s face, Valarr simply shook his head and forced a tiny, tight-lipped smile. Nothing so dramatic. Still, Aerion knew his cousin inside and out, and all was not well.
“It is the travel - the air in the carriage is stuffy, and I have not had Daeron at my side since the morning,” Valarr said quietly, as Aerion continued to regard him with a cool, calculating gaze.
“Well, no doubt you will have your fill of him tonight. Once he is blind drunk and pawing at you as always.” Aerion rolled his eyes, anything that could have been mistaken for the shadow of concern quickly dashed away.
Valarr smiled again, placid, and closed his eyes. It seemed as though the child was draining all the marrow from his bones, taking the usual rosiness of his cheeks and silken lustre of his hair. He looked so tired. Aerion wondered if Daeron saw it too - the parasite he had planted inside his beloved, taking everything vital from him until nothing but a husk remained. Would he have the strength to birth the thing, or would he simply be gutted?
Bile crept up his throat. Valarr was right; the carriage was stuffy, and the ground grown increasingly uneven.
It seemed an age before they finally heard the shouts of guards calling for the drawbridge to be lowered. Valarr seemed suddenly to revive himself, now focussed on fixing Matarys’ veil atop his head. Aerion could still make out his young cousin’s fine features through the silken, gauzy material; still able to catch the gleam of his pale, lilac eyes under the dark shroud. He dutifully affixed his own veil, allowing Valarr to fuss with the hair tumbling over his shoulders without trying to bite his hand off. He knew his father would be pleased to see him looking put-together; neat and poised and obediently hidden away.
Married and mated, Valarr no longer wore a veil - though Aerion knew he would be more comfortable hiding beneath an extra layer of protection. The bite Daeron had given him; his scent shrouding him; his pup growing inside him - that protected him now. Fragile things against the thick, strong walls of the Maidenvault.
The grating metal cacophony of the drawbridge lowering and the portcullis rising created a discordant symphony alongside the shouts of men and the click of horse’s hooves over cobbles. Something unpleasant flipped inside Aerion’s gut. Years had passed since he was last escorted from the Red Keep. When the engagement was announced, Aerion assumed he would remain behind with his younger siblings. He had not complained when his father explained that he would accompany Matarys - it was not his place to complain, although being a glorified maidservant to his baby cousin might once have drawn a few grumblings from the prince.
He would be at Matarys’ side, guiding him through the intricate rituals of courtly etiquette, making sure he remained well-behaved and silent until his new husband sunk his teeth into his neck and he could not be returned. Aerion had not thought of how little he knew of courtly life now. Outside his family, he interacted only with septas and maids, and his conversations with them rarely went beyond a few words. Now, he would be expected to sit at the high table and converse pleasantly with strangers; his face obscured but his voice ringing clear. How he acquitted himself would reflect on his father, on his house - on his king.
But he was a dragon, forged of blood and scales - being in the presence of an alpha he was not related to did not daunt him. It did not make his skin crawl, or sweat bead at his brow. The nausea roiling in his stomach was from the days of travel, the heavy food at the fireside. There was no ringing in his ears, no desire to hide behind his mother’s skirts. No mother to hide behind anyway.
Valarr stepped out of the carriage first, Daeron already there to offer him his arm and help him to the ground. Aerion followed, Maekar poised to lead him out into the dim light of the courtyard. It was big, bustling with nobles and servants alike. It seemed the entire Baratheon household had come to greet them, or to gawk at the new lady of their household.
Matarys hopped out of the carriage gracelessly, one hand in King Baelor’s, though he still wobbled when his feet met the ground. Aerion closed his eyes and inhaled, offering a prayer to the maiden for his cousin’s sake.
“My King,” a booming voice drew Aerion’s attention to the man approaching their party.
Louchely handsome, hair and beard shot through with streaks of grey but not old as Aerion had imagined, bent and feeble. Instead, Lyonel Baratheon looked to be a strong, boisterous man with a loud laugh and a wide smile, lines crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. If he had noticed his bride-to-be nearly tumbling to the dirt, it did not seem to bother him.
“My Lord Baratheon,” Baelor grinned, clapping Lyonel on the back as he drew him into a hug. Matarys had ended up behind his father, almost successfully hiding.
“Please, allow me to introduce my son,” Baelor said as he took Matarys’ by the shoulder and drew him forward, placing him square in front of Lord Baratheon.
Matarys said nothing, but extended a slender, pale hand to his betrothed. He was shaking.
“Prince Matarys, it is an honour. I hope you will find everything here to your liking.” Lord Baratheon spoke as if he were approaching a wounded animal cornered on the hunt, but he took Matarys’ hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world, placing a kiss to his knuckles.
“You must be tired after your journey,” Lord Baratheon still spoke directly to Matarys instead of addressing his father. Aerion knew he was bright red under his veil, eyes flitting anywhere but the man in front of him; he would not know how to respond. They would all stand there in a terrible silence for eternity like statues.
“Only a little, my lord,” Matarys’ voice rang out like a tiny bell, “but excitement has kept me cheered these past days.”
Good boy. Aerion could have patted his little head. Flatter him, keep him sweet; he will not be so inclined to hurt you.
The rain had eased up, though the sky above still hung grey with gathering storm clouds. Daeron looked miserable and damp. Aerion would have teased him for it had it just been their blood surrounding them. Instead, he let his gaze drift over his brother, and the hand he placed at the small of Valarr’s back, to the host awaiting them outside the keep.
It was easy to pick out Lord Lyonel’s relatives from the horde - dark curls and rosy cheeks, warm brown eyes and strong jaws. They all stood tall, even the children amongst them, and seemed poised for athleticism - as if they spent the entirety of their days on the hunt. Perhaps they did, given how many furs and deerskins he spotted draped over shoulders and around collars. The nobility of the Stormlands dressed warmly; thick velvets of black and cloth-of-gold, cloaks adorned with fur, fastened with jewels.
Even their knights were richly dressed. All in gold-plated armour, a stag’s antlers emblazoned upon the cuirass. Alphas, to a man. Aerion could smell the stink of them from across the bailey; sweat and iron, the taste of blood at the back of his throat.
One knight stood closer to the Baratheons than the other retinue. Aerion had never seen a man so tall in all his life - near to seven foot and broad-shouldered, no doubt he could pick Aerion up with as little effort as it took him to lift a sword. He was handsome, in a peasant sort of way; cornflower blue eyes and straw-coloured hair that fell to his shoulders.
Strange, that his scent was so distinct amongst the sea of people; so different. It did not assault his senses like the other knights, but drifted on a gentle breeze. Fir trees and campfire smoke and sea salt. Wild and comforting all at once.
Aerion felt something clench deep in his chest, a pull, a knotted rope wrenched tight; the weight of an anchor in a raging storm.
His grip stiffened on his father’s arm and he was treated to a look of concern; it was not unfamiliar to him. It seemed all attention had turned to him, as if sensing the same wrongness Aerion felt inside his body. He was aware of a keen scent of distress in the air; a child weeping for his mother, a beast with its leg caught in a trap.
“My prince, are you well?” His own family knew better than to ask.
Aerion turned his gaze slowly to Lord Baratheon, as if in a daze, “I am quite well, thank you, my lord. And most humbly grateful for your generous reception.”
Eyes remained on him. He could feel Daeron’s stare, boring holes into his skull. Aerion did not have to see him to know the expression painted across his face. It was the same look with which he greeted Valarr’s every wince of discomfort. Worry, pity, fear.
“I am sure you are all in need of rest, and perhaps a warm fire,” Lord Baratheon gave a tight-lipped smile, inclining his head slightly to invite his guests to enter the keep.
The mass of people parted as they swept inside, Aerion allowing his father to tug him forward, past the tall knight. Aerion did not look at him, could not. He had stared into the sun often as a child, willing himself to keep his eyes open, as if the blazing heat could burn something away in his soul. Perhaps set him alight. He would stare until it hurt, until he was dizzy with it and blinking spots away for minutes afterwards. Aerion had grown up since then; the light could not tempt him.
Aerion was pleasantly surprised to find the keep warm and almost cosy. He hardly classed mounted antlers and deerskin rugs as elegant, but the main hall by no means felt austere. The crackle of the hearth; the echoing chatter of servants and courtiers; the running laughter of children. It did not reflect the dull, gloomy exterior of Storm’s End. It felt like a home, more than a fortress. A convivial, inviting space - despite the glass eyes of bears, boar, wolves and deer following him throughout the room.
Servants bustled by, carrying an endless train of luggage off to their guest quarters. Wine was already being poured, platters of sweetmeats proffered; a merry reception at the end of their funeral march.
Matarys had shrunken back behind King Baelor, unabashedly gawking around the hall. Lord Baratheon was speaking enthusiastically with Daeron and Valarr - even daring to place a ringed hand to Valarr’s stomach. Distantly, he heard strings of their conversation: five moons already and has a name been decided on and was the journey tiring. Inane. Valarr did not even know the man, yet would stand and simper at his attentions; allow his touch and his false sympathy. It sickened Aerion.
Beside him, his father was straight-backed and stony faced. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack his own teeth. Aerion was aware of the number of eyes on him. It was the same at every public outing. He was a rarity; a commodity - the looks and whispers should have felt like flattery. Instead, it felt as though people watched him with bated breath, cautious of any sudden movements; they did not know he was tame, penitent, toothless.
He unlaced his arm from Maekar’s, ignoring the questioning look on his father’s face, and went to Matarys’ side. So close to his uncle, his father could not chide him for trying to escape.
“Handsome, is he not?” Aerion whispered to his cousin, lips close to his ear.
“I- I suppose he is.” Matarys turned his face to Aerion’s, cheeks pink under his veil.
“I am sure that will be of some consolation when he mounts you,” Aerion did not allow his cousin to speak before he whispered again, “though he may have you on your knees. Or perhaps on your stomach, and you’ll be trapped under him when he forces his knot inside you.”
“Stop it.” Matarys hissed, jerking away from him. Baelor spared him a glance but only smiled fondly before returning to his conversation with some Baratheon cousin.
“It will hurt, you know. You poor thing, you weren’t allowed to watch Valarr’s mating ceremony. He sobbed when Daeron took him - it sounded like he was being split in two. And you are so much smaller, you are sure to bleed. You’ll feel hollowed out for days after but it will not stop him from touching you, he won’t ever-”
“Aerion!” Matarys had whirled on him, his voice gone high and shrill. The chatter in the hall died out and all eyes, once again, fell on him.
Matarys’ mouth opened and closed. Like a fish, Aerion thought.
“My apologies,” Aerion bowed his head, a supplicant, “the journey has been long, and my dear cousin is tired - his nerves are frayed.”
Lyonel Baratheon had turned his attention to the two omegas, a look of mild amusement on his face. “Forgive me, my prince,” he took Matarys’ hand once more, smiling down at the young omega benevolently, “I had not thought to ask if you wished to retire after your travels, you must think me terribly rude.”
“No! No - not at all, my lord.” Matarys all but squeaked.
Oh spare me, Aerion thought, rolling his eyes under his veil. As much as he approved of his cousin’s grovelling, it was hard to watch the blood of the dragon brought so low. A pathetic show of submission.
“Please, I insist - the sun will shine brighter on the morrow and we can tour the keep when you are well-rested. Ser Duncan?” Lyonel whipped his head around, apparently startling Matarys with the sudden movement. The giant of a knight stepped forward, head bowed.
“Please escort my betrothed and his cousin to their chambers, make sure they have everything they need.”
“Aye, m’lord,” the knight said in a low, rumbling brogue, inclining his head to the two princes.
“Ser Duncan is my sworn sword - there is not a man in this realm I trust more,” Lyonel gave an aside to his assembled guests. Better than sending them off with some hedge knight, Aerion supposed, though he did not relish the idea of being any closer to the tall, shining knight.
Aerion did not complain about his own dismissal; he had gotten what he wanted. An escape from the vile stink of alpha that hung low, like smoke, in the great hall. It rankled that he was reduced to merely Matarys’ cousin - not a prince of the realm worthy of his own address, just another accessory to dispose of. But what was he, if not some ornamental bauble to be gifted and discarded at an alpha’s whim?
Baelor pressed a kiss to the crown of Matarys’ head while his own father gave him a solemn nod, a warning that Aerion could not miss. Aerion intertwined his arm with Matarys’, leaving him little choice but to follow along willingly or be dragged as Aerion motioned for the knight to lead on.
The beast of a man led them along winding corridors and up spiral staircases, the flicker of torches casting long shadows behind them. Ser Duncan, as Lyonel had named him, was a man of few words, clearly unused to the presence of royalty. The tense set of his shoulders and his mumbled directions did not speak to worldliness, or intelligence. He held himself like he expected a blow at any moment, like the armour adorning his large body would not protect him from what he knew was coming.
What might a man like that fear?
How odd, to see an alpha without the usual swagger; the jutted chin, the easy confidence, the certainty in the way they moved their body. And his scent. The wrongness of it, the way it dizzied him, made something furl protectively in his chest. Aerion wanted Matarys to notice it; that their escort was fundamentally defective in some way. It would comfort him to know he was not the only one who sensed it.
He stumbled, grip tightening on Matarys’ arm. Something was badly wrong. With him? With the knight? Aerion did not know. Nausea ebbed in his gut, sweat prickling at the high collar of his gown. Wind, salt, sea, forest.
“Aerion? Cousin, what is wrong?”
There was a ringing in his ears, a thudding stampede in his chest.
“My prince? Is he alright? Should I…?”
“Aerion! Ser, he’s burning up.”
Cool air hit his face as the veil was lifted, and Aerion was dimly aware of hands on him, touching his face, his neck, lifting him into a strong embrace. His head lolled against cold metal, and all was darkness.