Chapter Text
Aerion was dying. He was drowning in a sea of darkness that swallowed and consumed him, invading his lungs until it choked him. If he blinked, Aerion could even feel the hands clutching at his body, tightening around his throat as they shook him and screamed.
'Omegas are gentle creatures who sicken at the sight of violence.'
Perhaps so many years surrounded by it were taking their toll, or perhaps Aerion had finally died and his punishment was to be suffocated for all eternity by every soul whose life he had taken.
He was not certain he was wholly satisfied with such a death. His father would surely finish dying himself if he learned that Aerion had perished on the journey he had charged him with.
Father. . .
He woke with a start when a faint sound set every part of him on edge.
He had but a moment to reckon with his last thoughts, and then the truth slid over his body. The hallucinations, the choking, the fear. They struck his head and drained his mind, leaving behind nothing but a hollow ache.
He brought a hand to his chest, finding his own pulse, which though swift was steady. Air entered his body once more with ease, filling his lungs with that scent of herbs. It was not hard to recognize Edrik’s chamber, for these past four days he had been aiding him whenever he was not set to some other task. It was wide, orderly, and warm. It put him in mind of Brynden’s Tower in King’s Landing, full of instruments, papers, potions, and many dried herbs. Though Brynden’s was far darker and felt heavy upon entering, whereas Edrik’s was pleasant.
“If you move too swiftly your head will pain you.”
Aerion turned at the sound of the voice, finding Edrik’s back as he worked over a bubbling pot. The words proved true at once, for soon blows seemed to fall upon his skull. He raised a hand to the nape of his neck, trying to knead away the tension and ease a measure of that torment; it was in vain.
“What happened?” he asked, making no effort to sound less guarded.
He remembered the world spinning as he choked, and Edrik trying to speak to him. Had he fainted? He? Aerion tasted the bitterness of humiliation; in this single journey he had swooned more times than in all his life.
“You fainted,” Edrik said. His hair was loose and fell to half cover his nape. It bore a gentle wave, though Aerion did not mark it, nor the heavy chain that lay about his neck. “How do you feel?”
Wretched, but he did not answer, his gaze caught by the faint glimpse of a round scar upon his nape when his hair shifted a few inches. Bite scars were common, pink and uneven circles that marked more or less deep according to the force. An Alpha’s were especially plain, for their fangs were more pronounced and made to take hold where they sank. What was curious was the pale platinum hue of that scar.
He drew up his knees, leaning against the wall beside the bed, and watched Edrik’s movements keenly. It was the first time he had seen him in lighter garments; the cloaks hid his scent and scar well enough.
“They said there were no Omegas on the Wall,” Aerion murmured, watching Edrik pour some fragrant infusion into a bowl. He showed no surprise at the remark, nor concern.
“There are none,” Edrik said.
“Liar.”
“To the world I am an Alpha,” he answered, setting the bowl upon Aerion’s legs. A sweet scent of cinnamon and other spices beset him, and for a fleeting instant he thought of Cat. Joss had told him they would remain in Winterfell when they returned. “On the Wall I am only Maester Edrik.”
“So no one knows?” He swallowed the warm draught, clinging to the heat against his fingers. “Not even the Lord Commander?”
“The Lord Commander knows,” Edrik nodded. “I use potions to hide my scent and I pass my heat in an abandoned tower, as everyone.”
So Jack Musgood kept an Omega hidden upon the Wall. Would Brynden know? Most like he would; such foul secrets were ever to Bloodraven’s liking. Aerion had seen him share matters of interest with Shiera when he was but a boy. He had listened, for he spent his days in that tower, and neither seemed troubled that he heard. At the time it had not concerned him, yet now he felt a fool, for surely the knowledge they shared had been of worth.
Aerion had cared more for his books of potions and spells, for when Shiera was with them she would coax Brynden into teaching him a few amusing tricks.
“And the rest?” he asked.
“How long has it been since you slept?” Edrik asked instead, trampling his question.
Aerion would sooner have gone on speaking of subgenders. Or not spoken at all.
“It is not your busin—”
“Do not do that,” he cut in. “I am not your servant nor your escort. You will use proper words with me. Answer my question.”
Aerion was too weary to quarrel. His head throbbed and his arms felt heavy.
“I do not know,” he admitted, avoiding his unsurprised gaze.
“You do not know? Three days? Four? A week?” Aerion shrugged. He truly could not recall. “Give me a number.”
“I have not slept well since we left Winterfell,” he murmured, tracing the rim of the vessel with his forefinger. “Near three weeks.”
He remembered falling asleep in Duncan’s arms still in the baths, and waking later in his own bed with Duncan dozing beside him. He knew it because he could not recall the last time he had slept so well. And because Duncan had the habit of slipping his hand beneath his garments as he slept, leaving it at his waist. As if he feared he might flee in dreams.
There was reason enough for that.
His chest ached at the memory, and more so when he bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to cover pain with pain.
“Drink that,” Edrik said. “There is a little Milk of the Poppy in it. It will make you sleep.”
Aerion did not know what to do with the dread that seized him at the thought of sleeping alone once more, beset by nightmares. If that draught made him sleep, would he not wake so easily? He did not want that. He must remain alert.
“I do not want it,” he said, setting the bowl upon a table beside the bed. “Milk of the Poppy brings ill dreams, and I am not wounded.”
“You have not slept in weeks, which is as ill,” Edrik said. Aerion could not fathom how he had failed to see the man was an Omega; even his voice was gentle, his features mild, his scent sweet though faint. “It is but an extract. It will bring sleep, nothing more.”
Aerion did not wish to sleep if it meant more nightmares. He was sick of them. Sick of being weary all day yet unable to hold sleep more than two hours without waking drenched in sweat as he died again and again.
“Whose mark is it?” he asked.
“A dead man’s.”
“Liar.” Edrik smiled instead of taking offense. Aerion frowned. “All know you die with your mate if you are bound.”
“My mate is dead to the world,” Edrik said then, seating himself before him. “As am I. I will not tell you who he is, yet I will not lie if you learn it.”
“And what did you do to end here?”
“Nothing, in truth.” Aerion frowned, watching him rub his nape absently. The heavy chains that marked him as maester chimed softly; his brother must wear like chains by now. “No one sent me.”
“No one comes to the Wall by choice,” Aerion said, wrinkling his nose at the smile. Seeing him so kind was dreadful. He put him in mind of Cat, save that Cat did not speak and his presence was not so chilling.
“I do. Here I owe nothing to any man,” he said. “Before I came, I was the son of a wealthy lord. Much was expected of me, and I would have met it. You must understand that, must you not? Losing yourself to fulfill it.”
Aerion hid the blow those words struck, yet Edrik did not press the wound, only went on. Aerion found himself strangely caught in the tale.
“I was miserable. A tormented Omega. The thought of sharing a bed sickened me. To think of bearing a child from duty made me long for death. I never wanted marriage. I wished to study and to learn. I desired freedom above all.
»When I turned sixteen my father wed me to a northern lord who seemed good of heart and purpose. He was not, and he made certain I knew it each night for near three years. Each time the maester declared I was not with child, my husband grew worse, more violent, more cruel, until one of his guards tired of seeing him destroy me and stood against him. It was scandal. My husband accused me of adultery. The guard was sent to the Wall and I was beaten. Then he had our marriage annulled on the charge of adultery, and because I was ‘drier than the deserts of Dorne.’” Aerion saw Edrik’s fingers toy idly with his chains, lost in memory. “My father cast me off for the shame, and because I had no purpose being barren, so I was left alone.
»I took what little I had and went to Oldtown. I remained long, striving to become an acolyte. I was an Omega with no name nor coin. None would sponsor me. Yet it was all I had left, so I did not depart, and in time they took me when they saw I was well taught.
»To study was… I was happy. Very happy. Each chain, each reading filled my soul. I never wanted children, so celibacy was no burden. When I forged my chain I remained some years more, until word came that the Wall needed a maester, and I offered myself.
“Now I have dozens of sons. I care for each with joy. I think deep down they know what I am. It does not trouble me. I am free here. I am happy.”
Aerion listened in silence, weighing each word. Edrik tilted his head toward him gently. Aerion wished to know how he could be so kind. The world had taken all from him, and still he smiled, content in the farthest corner of the world, apart from all, alone. Yet he was not alone. Not wholly. Aerion glimpsed more circles fading into his bedding, monstrous bite scars melting into pale skin.
A chill ran through him, for if there was aught that truly pained, it was a mark unanswered, just for the blood. The blood of omegas was sweeter and more addictive than anything, even for Beta's.
“Why the Wall?” he asked. “Why did the guard help you?”
“Alphas cannot bear an Omega’s weeping, you know. At times there is no need for tears; they feel the suffering,” Edrik said. “It drives them mad. Their instinct compels them to protect above all.”
Duncan had said something like it, that he could not stand idle and ignore it if he felt him suffer. He had not thought it so deep.
“I have seen Alphas try to abuse Omegas.”
“At times the mind goes awry. In the cold it is hard to scent pheromones, yet it is not common. Had Jack seen you, guilt would gnaw at him for exposing you to that.” Jack meant nothing to him; Aerion held no fondness for the Lord Commander. “He will come soon. I told no one I brought you here. I wished to speak with you first.”
“We have spoken enough,” he muttered. “I must finish ordering the armory.”
“You must sleep, prince,” Edrik said, shaking his head. “You must eat. You will not make the journey back if you go on so. You are killing yourself. Whatever your torment, it does not deserve such cruelty toward your own flesh.”
Aerion sought fault in that and found none. What did his death matter? Now more than ever, with his brother dying in the capital and he the next choice. Aerion was certain they would poison his food ere they let him be king, as though he desired that crown.
“Not all find freedom in their chains,” he murmured, gesturing faintly to the metal collar about his neck. “And I do not wish my father’s rejection.”
“But you wish to be free,” Edrik observed. “Freedom is a shifting thing. Mine are my chains. Yours may be a person.”
His mouth parted, shock and indignation crossing his face and making him falter. How much did Edrik know to speak so boldly of Duncan? Did he mean Duncan? A dangerous unease took him at the thought Edrik might know what they had done in the baths. If he knew, nothing stopped him from telling his father, and then Aerion would be utterly lost. Duncan as well.
How could Duncan free him? If any learned what he had done with him, he would be damned beyond saving. Duncan was the farthest thing from freedom he knew. If he was anything, he was a breath of fresh air in his cage. A caress amid a beating. A praise among insults. He did not mend the root of his plight, even if he wished to.
Three knocks cut his words short, and both turned toward the door.
“Enter,” Edrik called.
The door opened to reveal Jack Musgood, Lord Commander. He stepped inside, looking first to Edrik and then to Aerion. His cloak bore a fresh coat of snow, as did his beard and hair, as if he had come straightway upon finding the armory half ordered and empty.
“My orders were plain,” Jack snapped.
“The prince was unwell,” Edrik said before Aerion could speak. “I took the liberty of bringing him to tend him.”
“Without informing me, as I see,” Jack muttered.
“My apologies, Lord Commander.”
Jack grumbled under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose when a second voice joined them, low yet known.
“Ser Duncan wished to know where the prince was,” Jack said, sounding deeply weary. “And his state of health, for it seems he cannot manage so simple a task as ordering an armory.”
“You told me you would not set him to heavy labors,” Duncan muttered from behind.
“And I said I would make no distinctions. The fool tried to cut out a recruit’s tongue.”
Aerion still meant to. No man insulted his father’s name.
Duncan stepped into view over Jack’s shoulder. Aerion marked his blue eyes beneath a furrowed brow that softened when their gazes met. Something dark did dark things within his belly.
Duncan crossed the room and crouched before him, bringing himself level. He held his gaze a moment. Aerion did not resist when his fingers brushed his brow and then his neck, savoring the warmth that spread over his skin. Warm honey sweetening his blood. Aerion had to force past the iron fist lodged in his throat and merely clear it.
“I knew this would come. I said you did not look well,” Duncan muttered. “Is it the fever?”
“What fever?” Edrik asked.
“Nothing,” Aerion said, casting Duncan an ill look before shaking his head. Duncan looked as vexed, yet did not argue.
“Then what befell him?” he asked instead.
Aerion turned to Edrik, who seemed more intent on keeping the fire strong.
“He is exhausted. It seems he has not slept well in weeks. That can unmake even the strongest,” Edrik said, straightening after wiping his hands upon his trousers. “The prince will rest today, Lord Commander. Pray do not deem it indulgence. If he does not sleep, he will fall ill on the morrow.”
“He has not finished the armory,” Jack growled. “What message do I give if I withdraw my own command?”
Aerion had several thoughts on where Jack might thrust those swords. He kept them to himself, fearing if he spoke Duncan would note his hand still at his neck and draw it away.
“That you know the limits of an Omega’s body,” Edrik said, guiding the large man with a hand. “The lad must sleep. Tomorrow you may have him set another task. I hear the stables are somewhat neglected.”
He was not certain how much better it was to have him muck stables, yet Aerion preferred beasts to sharing the kitchens. He loathed the kitchens; the smell of food turned his stomach.
“Ser Duncan,” Jack said, and Duncan’s hand left his skin as he turned. “Unless you wish to guard the prince from his nightmares, you have no further business here.”
Aerion would gladly have torn every tooth from that man’s mouth with bare hands. Instead he held his tongue. He could not expose himself; they were but a letter away from telling his father he was overly bound to his escort.
“The prince is his charge, my lord. They have traveled far together,” Edrik said. “Let them share words if they wish.”
Duncan looked back to him. Aerion avoided it deftly.
“I do not wish,” he cut in swiftly, rising as he took the milk of the poppy from the table. He drank it down in one swallow and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Duncan rose beside him; Aerion could feel the irritation in him like a warning tremor. “I will sleep in my chamber.”
“The fire is not lit,” Edrik observed.
“I will light it,” Aerion replied.
***
Sleep was not hard to find, nor waking. The trouble was that when he woke, he was not in his chamber wrapped in his blankets and beset by the familiar tremors.
When Aerion opened his eyes, he saw at once his father’s ruined face, struck by his deeds, as he held him with a force that would have pained had Aerion felt aught beyond the storming pulse in his belly.
Not again. . .
“Rivers, do something!” Maekar shouted. “He is dying! Fetch the maesters!”
“My king, it is a mortal wound,” Brynden said. “There is naught the maesters can do.”
Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Brynden’s lone eye shone with something strange, a mingling of irritation and pity he had never seen before.
“Aerion! No, no.” Was it so ill to savor the panic in his voice? The only other time he had heard it so broken was at his uncle’s death. A death Aerion had wrought. “No, gods… Brynden!”
What could Brynden do? Half his blood lay spilled upon the floor. It was mockery to have his father’s hand pressed to the wound, for life poured between his fingers all the same.
Aerion had lived this dream twenty times these past days, and it was no less dreadful. Now it was worse, for he could not wake, and every part of him ached as if he were being stabbed anew. Again and again, each night he stabbed himself, each night his father wept holding him, and each night he died.
“Bring the condemned,” Brynden said at last, casting off his outer layer as he strode forward. “And Lady Shiera.”
“The witch?” A guard asked in disbelief. “My king—”
“Bring her!” His father roared, clutching him close.
His vision split, yet he did not see his father twice but his uncle beside him. He is not my father, yet he was. He had always been. Did Valarr know? Was that why he would not wed him? Did Daeron know? Since when? Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Aerion would have preferred ignorance if it had at least allowed him to suffer only his mother’s death. But once his suspicions began, nothing stayed his mind from wandering, from questioning, from digging ever deeper. And when he saw his father collapse among the burned remains of his uncle, there was no lie great enough to cover the vastness of that truth. The truth.
“Do not close your eyes,” his father begged, shaking him weakly. “My boy… Do not fall asleep…”
Aerion blinked, aware that his father’s voice was rising into desperate shouts, yet they came to him more and more muffled in his own ears. His form became a blurred shape where pale hair shone and bright eyes gleamed with tears that wet his face.
“Aerion, wake,” he whispered, their foreheads brushing faintly. “Please…”
What for?
“Aerion…”
“Cover the wound. If the prince died, we will be able to do nothing,” a hand touched his cheek, warm fingers clearing his face. “Prince…”
I killed my father.
“Aerion…”
“Wake, prince.”
The only bastard worth aught is the one who feeds the worms with his corpse.
His father shook him harder.
I am worth more dead.
“Prince!”
Aerion opened his eyes, yet it was not his father shaking his shoulders but Duncan. His eyes were darkened deeply by a frown Aerion only half perceived. It was dark. And they were standing. Duncan held him by the shoulders at arm’s length and stared at him in shock, grave and troubled. Very troubled.
He drew in a breath and wrenched himself free without thought. The fingers burned, the world spun, and all he could feel was the pulse in his belly, where the skin was now whole.
Too late he noticed it was Duncan who bore much of his weight and kept him upright, for when he took a step back his knees failed and sent him clumsily to the floor behind him. It did not hurt, nor did he much care for the shame of falling before Duncan.
“Why are you—” Aerion faltered as he looked about and realized the chamber was not his own. “What—”
Duncan moved toward him. Aerion was swift to retreat even upon the floor, dragging himself back until his spine struck a wall. How had he come there? Was it another dream? Another nightmare?
“Prince, be calm.”
His hands sought a dagger, only to discover, not without horror, that he was utterly unarmed. A chill bristled along his skin.
“Do not come closer,” he growled, baring his fangs as a last defense. “Why am I here?”
“You came into my chamber,” Duncan said softly, halting a few paces off to keep a distance Aerion inwardly thanked him for. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to stop at any moment. “You were speaking of things, so I thought you wanted something, but you were asleep.”
Speaking of things.
Aerion felt the heat drain from his face at that. What things? What had he said? Had he named his father? His uncle? What if Duncan learned it?
“Prince…” Aerion rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the haze of sleep that still clung to his mind. Edrik had said the draught would help him sleep, and yet not only had he found no rest, he had gone into Duncan’s chamber and laid himself bare in every manner. “Aerion…”
He blinked at his name upon Duncan’s lips.
“You forget your place,” he murmured, drawing up his knees and resting his hands upon them, covering his eyes as he tried to quiet the uneasy tingling at his nape. “What did I say?”
“Nothing. You spoke in another tongue.” Aerion had spent enough time beside that man to know when he was not sincere.
“Liar.”
Duncan was silent a moment. Even without seeing him, Aerion felt his presence before him. He drew his feet closer, noting they were bare. Duncan’s chamber spared him the northern cold, yet nothing could thaw his blood at the thought—
“Tell me what I said.”
“I do not think that wise.” Aerion raised his gaze and found Duncan crouched before him. “No matter what I know, no one else shall.”
“What thing?” he pressed, seeing Duncan turn his head in plain discomfort. “What things shall no one else know?”
“It is not neces—”
“Say it.”
Duncan hesitated. Aerion did not need to look to know there must be deep conflict in his features.
“Say it, Duncan,” he repeated, swallowing past the fist in his throat. “Spare me the anguish.”
He saw him press his lips together, weighing words that would wound least in speaking such a ruinous truth. At last he yielded with a sigh.
“You are Prince Baelor’s son,” Duncan said low, very low. “Are you not?”
A hollow laugh slipped from Aerion’s mouth, short and joyless.
“It is so.”
He bowed his head, burying his hands in his loose hair. What remained of him if he could not even govern his own body in sleep? He was a ghost of what he had left in King’s Landing, an empty shell, drained of life, secrets, and will. If his father learned Duncan knew, perhaps he would forget their old friendship and have him slain. Or Brynden would. Perhaps Aerion himself should do it.
“Am I to believe you do not judge me now?” he asked. “Not even Baelor was so saintly.*”
A whisper of cloth set all his muscles on edge. From the corner of his eye he saw Duncan move without haste, one step, then another, until he settled beside him with but inches between them and mirrored his posture. Aerion had neither strength nor will to pull away.
“Did you know it was I in the brothel when you cut yourself?” Aerion did not relish the change of subject, yet if he must choose, he preferred talk that did not touch his kin. He shook his head once. “What you said…”
“It was a lie,” Aerion snapped, hearing Duncan’s sigh. “It was but one day. There was no child to harm, and I did not know it was yours had there been.”
Though he still remembered the fear that had plagued him in the armory. He was not certain since when the thought of killing his own child troubled him more than the thought of having a bastard.
“I will not forgive such a thing again,” Duncan murmured, still looking ahead, his voice low and steady. “Know that.”
“Your forgiveness does not interest me.”
“Liar.”
Aerion chewed upon the emptiness, vexed, yet did not deny it. More lies would gain him nothing but their weight stealing further hours of sleep. From the corner of his eye he looked at Duncan. The man seemed to have nothing more to say, yet his mere presence at that scant distance struck every raw nerve in him.
“You should have left,” Aerion muttered, resting his chin upon his knees to keep some scrap of warmth. “You should have let me die in that cabin.”
“You do not wish to die,” Duncan said. “You simply do not fear death.”
“Profound.”
“You asked me not to leave you.” Aerion remembered it well; shame was cruel when he thought on his words in Winterfell. “Will you say that was a lie?”
“It would be simpler if it were,” he admitted, noting Duncan’s slight nod. “I understand why I did it, losing myself in desire and wrapping myself about you in that brothel. What was your reason?”
“My reason?” Duncan echoed. Aerion nodded. “I do not think I require one. You have been a recurring thought since Ashford.”
“Twelve years scratching at the memory of the only Omega who bested you, hm?” Duncan let out a low laugh through his teeth. Aerion would wager all his coin the man’s ears were red. “It is rather ignominious.”
“You came into my chamber,” Duncan pointed out. “That is more ignominious.”
Aerion did not deny it. He was ashamed of yielding to his desire. He had only caught the faint woody note that called to mind the hedge knight, and he had been powerless not to seek him.
“Enough to wish to kill mys—”
“No,” Duncan cut in. “Do not jest of that.”
Aerion let out a soft huff of laughter, then breathed out in a contained sigh, silent. The wind beat at the walls, the fire crackled, and Duncan was there beside him.
Without a word Aerion found himself leaning against his shoulder, recalling dimly that he had done much the same while drunk. The difference was that now Duncan merely remained still as Aerion rested against him without looking his way. His arms still clasped his knees tightly, and he felt the brief change in Duncan’s breath at the movement.
“What am I to you?” he asked quietly, resting his head upon his hands.
“My prince,” Duncan said.
“Was I in the brothel?”
Duncan kept silence a moment too long.
“You were a dream,” he said at last. Aerion breathed when Duncan did, hearing his low exhale brush faintly through his hair. “I turn to that memory when I think there is no salvation in you.”
“I told you there is none,” he whispered. “You cling to an idea of me that does not exist.”
“You also said no terrors beset you,” Duncan observed without raising his tone. “Yet torment shines in your eyes. There is no cruelty great enough to hide your own suffering.”
Aerion looked at his marked hands, at the lines that ran from his knuckles and vanished beneath his garments, over his shoulders.
“All men have terrors.”
“Monsters do not.” Aerion turned his head toward him. Duncan was already watching him, blue eyes that might well have shone in that dim light. “Monsters have no terrors.”
He looked back to his scarred hands, letting out a breath low enough to hide the tremor that shook his tight throat.
“I suppose I failed in that as well,” he murmured in a faint attempt at humor. “Or perhaps you can give even the worst monster terrors. Do you think if I kill you it would end all this?”
Duncan seemed about to speak, then held his tongue. Beside him he shifted slightly, crossing his legs yet not drawing away.
“I cannot undo what we did,” Duncan said softly. “But I know killing me will not help you in any way, and I do not think you truly want it.”
Aerion worked his jaw, clenching it with such force a ringing filled his ears.
“I do. I truly do. I have wanted to kill you since you bested me at Ashford. I pictured your face in every man I slew in Lys. I wanted to kill you when I woke and found I had lost the only thing of worth in me to a man who looked like you. I wanted to kill you each moment since my father forced this cursed journey upon me. I wanted to kill you when you saved me, and when you whipped me I wanted it more. It is your fault I am not the monster I seek to be. Why do you think I do not want to kill you?” He hid the tremor in his hands by curling them into fists and pressing until his nails bit his palms. “I want to kill you. I want to tear your heart from your chest for doing this to me—”
He exhaled, forcing breath into his lungs as a hand of steel closed about his throat once more. It was cruel, destructive, like the grip that had choked him senseless that very afternoon. Duncan said nothing at his side.
“I hate you,” he hissed. “You are my sickness and my cure, and the moment we reach the capital and you depart—”
“I told you I am not going anywhere,” Duncan reminded him carefully.
“You cannot promise that,” he growled, lifting his hands to his own face to sweep the hair from his eyes. “You cannot… I do not want your help, do you not understand? I do not want it. I am not so weak. I am the blood of the dragon, son of a king, grandson of a king. I am not—”
The words broke when the air would no longer pass into his lungs. I am only a bastard. Bastards have no claim. They are meat for worms. The cruelest wars were fought for bastards with royal blood. His own father had battled the Blackfyre Rebellion thrice. A rebellion of bastards.
Bastards like him.
“If I am no monster, then I am nothing.”
But Aerion was nothing. He was worth nothing now. He had no virtue, could sire no child, held no claim—and wanted none—and it would take but one whisper, spoken too loud, to finish the sentence of his foul existence.
He knew he was choking when Duncan turned toward him and the worry showed plain in his eyes. Yet the man did not look afraid, nor was he rough when he bent toward him, one slow movement at a time.
Duncan was slow when he wrapped him in his arms, like a serpent coiling about its prey, promising a long and painful death. Aerion wished to feel pain in that assault. He wished that gentle warmth would finish burning him, set all aflame. He wanted the hurt, if only it would drive away the crushing weight that bound his chest when Duncan drew him close and held him there. Holding him.
It was a pulse at his side, beating with its own warmth yet not smothering, a presence of softer tones clinging to him and filling him with wicked things. Cruel things.
“Do not do this to me,” Aerion muttered, and if it sounded perilously close to a plea, he did not show it. “I hate you…”
Duncan held him tighter still, shielding him from the world. There were no pheromones, no fever, only Duncan covering him with the breadth of his body. Aerion was not gentle when he bit the inside of his cheek, striving to hide the agony that lodged in his throat like red-hot chains, choking, tightening.
“Hatred has a foul scent, my prince,” Duncan murmured.
'Freedom is a shifting thing.'
His mouth trembled. His blurred sight betrayed him, though Duncan lay beyond his line of vision. The man gave him no space to fret. He could not have, even had he wished it, for all that filled his head was the sound of Duncan’s breath against his hair and the hands that held him without force. Aerion knew he could move if he willed it. Duncan ever gave him that freedom. The choice.
His fingers closed in the cloth upon Duncan’s chest, curling into him within those arms.
“There are months yet between us and the capital,” Duncan whispered, stroking his spine with care. “Your brother is whole, and your secrets are safe. All is well, Omega.”
Was it? Nothing was well. Not when it was a common-born man who held him, a man with whom there could be no future, no hope. He ought not cling to him, for he clung not only to Duncan, but to the reminder that this dream would end, and when it did, it would turn to nightmare.
'Yours might be a person.'
“Breathe,” he said.
Aerion hid his face in the crook of his neck and drew in the faint scent of wood. He filled himself with it, let it drown him, dull his senses and ease the sting of the shameful heat in his eyes. He knew not whether a minute passed or an hour, for Duncan did not stir an inch. His only motion was to shift him gently until he lay curled between his legs.
He could breathe of his skin. He listened to each steady breath with a fascination ill-befitting. He saw that his hand yet gripped the cloth upon Duncan’s chest. Slowly he loosed it, spreading his fingers and pressing them to the source of that life, a soft amber flame, warm as summer sun and kind as a spring breeze. The beats brushed his palm, and if he listened close, he could feel his own heart falling into the same rhythm.
Each throb called forth a heavy wave of sleep, making him aware of how late the hour must be, and of the milk of the poppy still wandering his blood.
He did not even know whence came the scratch of dread that clawed up his spine when he felt himself slipping into weariness.
“You may sleep, my prince, maester Edrik said you have not had true rest in weeks,” Duncan murmured, gifting him a gentle stroke along his spine. “I shall remain, if you would have me.”
Aerion clung to the pulse beneath his palm, steady and strong. He counted it in silence, fighting sleep, for to sleep was to lose the time he might spend learning the nearness of him. What if Duncan left while he slept? What if his father came again in dreams? What if he choked once more, but this time in slumber, with no Edrik to soothe him? What if he did not wake?
Even with his eyes shut and weariness pounding his skull, he could not yield. He only tightened his hold upon the cloth at Duncan’s chest, striving to lose himself in the count of heartbeats and drift with them into sleep.
Duncan slid a hand through stray strands of hair, tucking them behind his ear with care. He did not stop there, but traced the line of his neck in a touch that set a shiver through him. There was no desire in it, only a light and careful caress. Ruinous all the same.
He noticed too late the austere brush at the nape of his neck, for he did not refuse the touch. That single stroke shook his being and sank to the deepest part of him in a heartbeat. Duncan’s thumb rubbed the place with gentle care, sending a strange current down his spine. It was not pleasure, nor yet pain. He knew that were Duncan to press harder, instinct would steal his will from him. Yet the man only stroked, and that was enough to loosen his taut muscles and quiet the storm within his head.
Duncan stroked his nape once more, and Aerion could not hide the low purr that escaped him, freezing him where he lay—and Duncan too. A purr. He did not purr. Only in the baths, when pheromones had made him drunk. His face burned fiercely as he understood it, yet Duncan said nothing. Aerion did not know if that was better.
“I want you here,” Aerion breathed, so soft it was near lost to the air, savoring the peace that filled his mind at his own truth. “You are a… soothing presence.”
“Soothing,” Duncan echoed, and Aerion heard the faint mirth in his words, his voice low and warm for him alone. “You may say you enjoy my company. I shall not tell a soul.”
“No one would believe you.”
“No one shall know.”
“Because none would believe you, even if they did,” he repeated, hiding his smile against his neck and feeding upon the low chuckle Duncan gave.
“Sleep,” Duncan said, his voice muffled in his hair.
Aerion had no wish to answer, nor words left for it. He let his eyes close and wrapped himself in Duncan’s scent. It was strong enough to drown a grown Alpha, perhaps Duncan meant it so, to keep all others away whilst he slept. Perhaps it was unthinking. He did not ponder long, for his mind grew dim.
And at last, sleep took him.