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Aerion Targaryen had known for weeks that he was going to have a big baby.
His obstetrician had said it gently, almost cheerfully, as if announcing the weather. The measurements were consistent. The percentile charts did not lie. Everything about the pregnancy was healthy—perfect, even. The only thing slightly alarming was the size.
Aerion had nodded then, composed, one elegant brow arched in mild disbelief. Secretly, he had hoped for average. Manageable. Something proportionate to his five-foot-three frame.
Instead, Duncan’s genes—those broad-shouldered, six-foot-three, absurdly solid genes—had apparently decided to dominate.
He feels it every time he lies back on the examination table. The paper crinkles under him; the room smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender soap. The gel is always colder than he expects when the nurse spreads it over the taut curve of his belly. He flinches, fingers tightening instinctively on the edge of the bed.
Then the wand presses down. The screen flickers to life. There is his son.
Large. Distinct. Already taking up space.
“He’s going to be a big baby,” the doctor repeats with a smile, finishing the final ultrasound. “But everything still aligns with the plan we discussed.”
Aerion exhales slowly. “We’re still going ahead with it?”
“Yes. Scheduled C-section. It’s the safest option.”
Safest. If he is going to push a watermelon through something the size of a lemon, he would rather not push at all.
He had considered everything. A natural birth with every modern drug available. The epidural. The best anesthesiologist London could provide. The best surgical team his family’s money could secure. He wanted to be conscious. Present. He wanted control—even if the control was an illusion.
The pregnancy itself had been chaos from the beginning.
Cravings that bordered on violent. Acid reflux burned up his throat at three in the morning. His legs thickened first, then his arms, then his cheeks softened. His belly had started showing at four months—obvious, undeniable. By seven, he looked eight. By eight, he looked ready to deliver any day.
Nothing fit. In the end, Duncan’s oversized shirts became his uniform. The fabric hung off his shoulders but stretched stubbornly over his stomach.
And Duncan—idiot, soft-hearted, hopeless Duncan—had been there through all of it.
“Aerion…” he would murmur, already pushing himself out of bed when a craving struck. “Spicy noodles at two a.m.? And cake? Seriously?”
“Don’t question me,” Aerion would snap, one hand braced against his lower back. “Next one is yours, idiot. I swear it. If Maegor ever asks for a sibling, I'll adopt a dog for him, and you’re raising it.”
Duncan would just huff out a laugh, rub his face, and pull on his shoes.
Later, he would kneel behind Aerion on the bed, his large, calloused hands working carefully into the small of his back. There was strength in them—undeniable—but also a surprising gentleness. He kissed the curve of Aerion’s shoulder. His temple. The side of his swollen belly.
Aerion never admitted how much he needed that.
They had chosen this. Four years together. One unexpected test. Two stunned silences in a bathroom lit too brightly. Aerion had wanted the baby. Duncan had wanted him. The rest had followed.
The final weeks dragged.
His feet swelled painfully. The summer heat clung to his skin. His family hovered. His youngest brother’s shaved head made him irrationally nauseous for days—it gleamed under the lights like a polished egg, and for some reason that scent-memory of early pregnancy returned, sharp and humiliating.
Mostly, he thought about the size.
How someone of his height was about to deliver a child who would likely outgrow him before middle school. He thought about how he got here. He thought about how desperately he wanted it to be over.
Maegor Targaryen arrived screaming.
The epidural worked. The C-section was clean, controlled, and exactly as planned. There was pressure, tugging, the distant clinical commentary of surgeons. Duncan’s hand never left his. At one point, Aerion squeezed so hard Duncan muttered, half-laughing, half-wincing, —I think you’ve actually broken something.
“Good,” Aerion hissed through clenched teeth. “Suffer. You did this, so you need to suffer.”
And then— A cry.
Sharp. Furious. Alive.
Four kilograms. Nearly fifty-five centimeters. (Eight pounds, just under twenty-two inches.)
Big. Loud. Perfect. Healthy.
Dark hair plastered damply to his head. Skin flushed red from effort. Eyes that might one day turn blue.
Duncan was there for every second. Through every contraction before surgery. Through every tremor afterward. When it was over—when Aerion was stitched up and stable and exhausted beyond dignity—Duncan looked like he had run a marathon and won.
The private room later felt impossibly clean. Quiet. Controlled.
Family filtered in slowly. Aemon had watched the surgery with clinical fascination before returning to his residency schedule. Aegon was still in school. The younger (Daella and Rhea) girls will visit tomorrow. Maekar had not yet arrived.
Daeron, unemployed and chronically available, stood at the foot of the bed staring at the baby as if assessing livestock.
“If we were American, the NFL would already be drafting him,” Daeron declared. “First contract at birth. Imagine it. The first Targaryen linebacker. Maybe we need a Targaryen in sports.”
Duncan snorted. He had made a similar comment when Aerion was eight months pregnant. Aerion had simply responded with annoyance.
Aerion raised one exhausted eyebrow. “If I weren’t holding him, I would hit you.”
“Worth it,” Daeron replied, grinning.
Later, when the room dimmed and the noise finally died down, Aerion had Maegor to himself.
The baby wore a soft white onesie and a tiny violet cap embroidered with small dragons—a quiet nod to a family that liked to remember it once ruled something greater.
Duncan slept awkwardly in the armchair, long limbs folded badly, mouth slightly open. He looked wrecked.
Aerion adjusted Maegor in his arms. His weight was real. Solid. Heavy against his chest.
“If you’re going to be as tall as your father,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the baby’s cheek, “at least inherit my eyes. I’m not negotiating that.”
Maegor’s eyes fluttered open. Curious already. He didn’t cry much. He simply looked.
Aerion traced the tiny button nose, the pink mouth, the round cheeks. This was the child who had kicked him awake at three in the morning. The one who made him dizzy in grocery stores. The one who stretched his body beyond comfort.
He leans down and presses a careful kiss to his cheek.
“You’ll always be my little dragon,” he whispers. “No matter how big you get.”
Maegor settles against him, warm and impossibly alive.
Aerion closes his eyes for just a second. He is exhausted. Sore. Stitched. Changed, but he is exactly where he wants to be, with the man he loves sleeping a few feet away. With the child, he had once only imagined breathing softly in his arms. And for the first time in months, the chaos feels worth it.
Maegor is perfect.
Perfect vitals. Perfect reflexes. Strong lungs. Strong grip. The pediatrician had smiled the entire appointment, calling him “impressive,” which was apparently the polite medical term for large. He is long for his months—genetics, everyone says. His eyes are unmistakably Aerion’s: pale blue with that strange violet cast that shows up in certain light. He sleeps through most of the night, heavy and warm in his bassinet, but during the day, he stays awake in quiet fascination, as if he is already studying the world he has entered.
He is rarely put down.
There are always arms waiting for him. Aerion’s. Duncan’s. Maekar’s, occasionally, under supervision. He is the first grandchild. The first nephew. The first everything. The novelty hasn’t worn off.
But mostly, he is in Aerion’s arms. And he is always eating.
Aerion hadn’t expected to love this era of his life so much. The late-night feeds. The slow afternoons. Even the mindless scrolling on his phone while Maegor nurses, the glow of the screen is the only light in the room at two in the morning. He nurses at home. Once, discreetly, on a shaded park bench while Duncan hovered like an overprotective bodyguard.
Maegor is only one month old.
In Aerion’s arms, he looks closer to two.
In Duncan’s, he looks almost small—engulfed by broad shoulders and thick forearms, his entire body fitting neatly along Duncan’s chest. Aerion pretends that it doesn't affect him.
“Honestly,” Aerion murmurs one afternoon, adjusting the baby against his chest, “I’m grateful we live in this century. I would have been bored to death doing nothing but surviving, while you eat like a warrior.”
Maegor continues nursing with a determined focus.
They are in the nursery—soft white walls, muted blues, subtle dragon motifs woven into blankets and framed prints, with many animals, horses, bears, wolves, all adorable, while Duncan had followed Aerion's instructions months ago. Duncan painted a few of them himself: simple, rounded dragons with oversized wings and soft expressions. The room smells faintly of baby lotion and clean cotton.
“Slow down,” Aerion adds, brushing a thumb along Maegor’s cheek. “You’re not in battle.”
Duncan’s voice drifts faintly from the living room; he’s on a video call with one of his partners in the company. They had both agreed to take six months off. Aerion could afford it without blinking. Duncan technically could too—he owns his garage and a few other blue-collar businesses—but he still checks in, still manages, still keeps one foot in responsibility.
Maegor’s sucking grows more insistent.
Aerion shifts slightly in the armchair, fabric whispering beneath him. His milk had surprised him. Thicker than he expected—almost like cream, the doctor had explained. Normal for a larger baby. He needs more. He grows more.
Still, Aerion watches everything with a faint crease between his brows.
“Don’t bite,” he mutters softly. “You don’t even have teeth, and yet somehow you manage.”
Maegor makes a small, offended sound without unlatching.
“If you keep this up,” Aerion continues in a quieter tone, “I will listen to the suggestions. Mixed feeding. And I promise you, you won’t enjoy it nearly as much.”
It isn’t really a threat.
He scrolls absently with one hand. A link catches his eye—something Valarr’s partner had sent weeks ago. A ridiculous green dragon onesie. Bright. Playful. Completely against the carefully curated neutral wardrobe Aerion had built: creams, soft browns, pale blues, fine cottons, and cashmere blends.
He stares at it longer than he intends. His throat tightens unexpectedly.
Without thinking, he adds it to the cart.
Maegor finishes at last, slackening with a satisfied sigh. Aerion lifts him to his shoulder with practiced ease, one hand supporting the heavy curve of his back. His weight is solid now—noticeable. Real.
A firm pat. and then a small, dignified burp.
“That’s my little dragon,” Aerion murmurs, smoothing down dark hair.
The door clicks softly.
Duncan enters with a half-smile, sleeves pushed up, hands still faintly smelling of motor oil despite having washed them twice. He pauses, watching the scene for a second too long.
“You were complaining again,” he says lightly. “About him biting.”
Aerion lowers his shirt, adjusting the fabric carefully before standing. He passes Maegor over with controlled reluctance. Maegor looks absurdly tiny in Duncan’s arms.
“The doctors did say you can combine feeding,” Duncan adds gently, settling the baby against his chest. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Aerion smooths down his shirt again, fingers lingering over the soft curve of his still-healing stomach. The pregnancy weight hasn’t fully left. His chest is fuller. His hips are slightly wider. He notices all of it, but he also knows he has an excellent partner by his side, though he'll never say it out loud, who always boosts his ego, ever since Maegor was born. Months ago, he started gradually gaining weight.
“I’m not proving anything,” he replies coolly.
Duncan’s gaze softens. “I know.”
A pause. “Just saying it’s an option.”
Aerion exhales sharply and crosses his arms. “If you continue with that line of reasoning, I will become extremely unpleasant.”
Duncan huffs a quiet laugh.
“In fact,” Aerion continues, collecting a few burp cloths and a few things from the dresser, “if you persist, I’ll have you up at five every morning.”
“I already get up at five,” Duncan replies calmly. “So you’re not alone when you feed him.”
That stops him. Just for a second.
Aerion lingers in the doorway, expression sharpening to hide the flicker beneath. “Now you’ll do it out of obligation,” he says softly. “Also, since you’re feeling so generous with advice, you can dress my baby. Yes, my baby. He’s currently in nothing but a diaper.”
Duncan arches a brow. “Our baby.”
“This week you’re on diaper duty,” Aerion adds smoothly. “Entirely.”
“Seriously, Aerion?” he asks, his words laced with disbelief. He knows all too well what Aerion can be like when he's annoyed. But he also has a smile on his face. Maegor is waving his little arms, as if he knows they're talking about him.
“Yes, seriously, giant.”
He leaves before Duncan can see the faint upward curve at the corner of his mouth.
He would never admit it aloud, but he treasures these moments. The quiet feeds. The warm weight against his chest. The way Maegor’s eyes—those impossibly large, violet-blue eyes—lock onto his as if he understands something no one else does. Aerion does not judge anyone for mixed feeding. Pregnancy softened some of his sharper edges. Broadened his view.
But there is something about this—about the stillness of night, about whispering thoughts into the dark while Maegor drifts toward sleep—that feels sacred. Later, when the house is quiet and Duncan is asleep, Aerion will hold his son close and murmur things he tells no one else.
His fears. His insecurities. His love.
Maegor will blink slowly, warm and heavy in his arms, and listen without judgment. And in those moments, Aerion feels the bond in his bones—something ancient and unbreakable. No matter how tall Maegor grows. No matter how much he eats. He will always be Aerion’s little dragon.
Maegor grows like something out of a story.
By three months, he already looks closer to four. His limbs are longer, heavier in the arms; his head rests against his shoulders with surprising weight. Strangers glance twice when they see him.
Which is exactly why Aerion prefers that Duncan carry him in public. Gods. Aerion had never imagined he could grow so tired of the same park. The same paths, the same trees, the same benches. At some point, even the birds began to irritate him. So now they go elsewhere. Cafés. Shops. Short walks through busier streets, and Duncan carries Maegor—because really, who wants to explain why their three-month-old looks like he’s ready to start kindergarten?
The vaccination appointment had been worse.
Aerion barely remembers the doctor’s explanations, the paperwork, the calm reassurances. Medicine saved lives. He believed that completely. But none of that had mattered once the needle touched Maegor’s soft thigh.
Maegor screamed.
Aerion had tried to soothe him immediately, rocking him close, murmuring soft nonsense into his hair. And Duncan—Duncan had cried.
Actual tears.
Later, Aerion would think about it and feel the familiar flicker of dry amusement. Somehow, he had ended up living with two crybabies: one infant and one grown man who had also cried when the doctor announced the baby’s gender.
“Wait,” Daeron’s voice cuts through the phone speaker, incredulous. “You didn’t take photos? Or videos?”
Aerion adjusts the nursing cover draped over his shoulder as Maegor nurses beneath it, slow and steady now that the worst of the crying has passed. They’re seated in a quiet lactation room near the clinic, with soft lighting and pale walls meant to feel calming.
He balances the phone easily in one hand.
“No.”
“The NFL would have loved that footage,” Daeron continues dramatically from the other side of the video call. “We could save it until he’s fifteen. Like Aegon when he turned twelve, and we showed him the video of him sitting in the middle of a pile of food and with an awful haircut like a bowl.”
Aerion snorts.
“But seriously,” Daeron adds, leaning closer to his camera somewhere in whatever apartment or bar he currently inhabits, “I still have a vision. Maegor the athlete. I’ve seen it in my dreams.”
Across the room, Duncan is methodically packing Maegor’s things back into the diaper bag—spare onesie, wipes, bottles, the little dragon hat Aerion insists on bringing everywhere.
He pauses briefly, listening. “In your dreams?” Aerion repeats flatly. “Forget your dreams, idiot. You know Duncan used to play rugby.”
He shifts Maegor slightly, instinctively supporting the baby’s head beneath the blanket.
“But,” he adds with a delicate lift of one eyebrow toward Duncan, “I did discover something interesting today.”
Duncan glances up.
“Apparently,” Aerion continues, voice sweetly thoughtful, “I also have a second crybaby in the house. When they vaccinated my son.” Duncan freezes. “If I’d known,” Aerion goes on lightly, “I would have brought an extra pacifier for the larger baby.”
Duncan turns slowly. “Are you telling your brother that?” he asks carefully. “Aerion, we agreed that was a secret.”
Aerion shrugs, utterly unapologetic, and glances back at the screen. “Well,” he says to Daeron, “I live with two infants now. One cries because he’s three months old and got vaccinated, and the other cries because he has feelings.”
Daeron grins.
“Also,” Aerion adds coolly, “if you want to see your nephew, try showing up sober for two consecutive weeks. Just a suggestion.”
Daeron makes a face. “You’ve become insufferable since Maegor was born. I’m not even a father, and I still like that kid more than you.” A pause. “Anyway. I’ve got things to do.”
The call ends.
Duncan approaches a moment later, diaper bag slung over his shoulder, his expression mildly offended.
“Are you really never going to let that go?”
Aerion adjusts Maegor again, feeling the steady pull of the baby nursing against his chest.
“No,” he says calmly. “It’s entertaining.”
Duncan sighs.
“Well,” he replies, reaching down to gently pluck the phone from Aerion’s hand and slip it into his own jacket pocket, “I also won’t mention that your eyes were a little shiny earlier.”
Aerion narrows his eyes.
“Because,” Duncan adds with a quiet grin, pressing a soft kiss to Aerion’s cheek, “I love you.”
Aerion exhales sharply through his nose. “Come on,” Duncan continues. “Let’s go before the traffic becomes a war zone.”
Aerion rolls his eyes—but he walks beside him.
And fine. Maybe his eyes had stung earlier.
It had been his baby. His perfect baby with porcelain skin and soft curls, and someone had stuck a needle into him.
At least now he was back in Aerion’s arms. That was enough.
A few weeks later, the thing Aerion had seen months ago finally appeared again. They are out without Maegor for the first time since his birth. Maekar insisted on babysitting his grandson. Duncan insisted even more strongly that Aerion needed a break. Dinner. Fresh air. A normal evening. Aerion keeps telling himself that. But the absence feels strange.
He misses Maegor’s small sounds. The way his face has recently started breaking into real smiles. The flailing little arms. The fascination he’s developed with his own feet. Everything. Still… Duncan had been right. Aerion will never say that out loud, of course, but the man occasionally has correct instincts.
Maegor had already been fed. Aerion had pumped milk just in case. His father had raised six children; maybe none of the children are perfect, but still, he could manage one baby for a few hours. And yet, Aerion still checks his phone twice.
Then they pass the storefront. Duncan notices the look immediately.
“I know that expression,” he says quietly, squeezing Aerion’s hand. “Maegor makes the same face when he wants something.”
Aerion frowns.
“I’m simply observing,” he replies with dignity. “It’s… cute.”
Inside the window display sits the onesie. Green. Ridiculous. Soft-looking. The dragon one. The same one sitting quietly in Aerion’s online cart for months.
“I think he might need it,” Aerion adds casually. “We could… look.”
Duncan laughs under his breath.
“Aerion,” he says gently, squeezing his hand again, “if you want it, just say that.” A pause. “This was supposed to be a date,” Duncan adds. “But let’s be honest. We’re both thinking about our baby anyway.”
Aerion rolls his eyes and kisses his cheek.
They go inside.
The shop smells faintly of cotton and new fabric. Rows of tiny clothes line the walls—soft colors, animal prints, miniature jackets. For a moment, Aerion remembers those early weeks after the pregnancy test. The anxiety. The endless questions. Without hesitation, he walks straight to the rack he saw before.
He picks up the dragon onesie.
And smiles.
Duncan, standing beside him, quietly adds a few more pieces from the same collection—foxes, bears, little mythical creatures.
“For when he’s bigger,” Duncan says thoughtfully. “He’s growing fast. One day, he won’t fit in our arms anymore.”
The words land softly.
Too softly.
Aerion stills. He doesn’t answer. They buy the clothes without making any other comment. That night, however, Duncan discovers something strange. Normally, he kisses Aerion goodnight. Wraps an arm around him. Pulls him close. Tonight, Aerion simply turns over in bed and mutters something cryptic.
“You should remember today,” he says quietly. “You’ll understand later.”
Duncan frowns at the ceiling. It will take him a very long time to realize what Aerion meant.
Time moves faster than Aerion ever expected.
Sometimes he hardly believes it.
There are moments—quiet ones—when Maegor falls asleep in his arms, heavy and warm against his chest, and Aerion simply watches him breathe. Watch the slow rise and fall of his small body. Watch how much he has grown, and then his mind drifts backward. To fear. To anger. To the long years he spent hating parts of himself he could never change. He remembers how much he once despised being an omega in a family built almost entirely of alphas and betas. How deeply he had wished to be something else—someone else. A beta like Aemon. An alpha like his father… like his older brother. Anything but what he was, but when those thoughts come, other memories follow. His mother. He can still see her when he closes his eyes.
Her arms around him, warm and steady. The way she would call him my little dragon and smile as though the sun itself had decided to shine only for him. She used to tell him that being an omega was something rare. Something powerful. Something special. She told him that in the Targaryen family, it might be complicated—but that he should still be proud of it.
Aerion remembers her laughter. Her old songs. The gentle kisses she pressed to his cheek. Most of all, he remembers her arms.
And now, when he looks at his own child—the baby who filled his dreams long before he existed—Aerion understands that some things are worth everything.
So he holds Maegor often. Always. He held him when Maegor took his first steps at ten months old, wearing the ridiculous little dragon onesie Aerion had once bought on impulse. The apartment had been quiet that afternoon. Duncan was nearby with his phone already raised, recording.
Maegor had wobbled across the living room floor, small legs stubborn and determined.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then he fell.
Aerion’s heart nearly stopped.
But Maegor simply pushed himself back up, cheeks flushed with effort, and kept walking—straight into Aerion’s waiting arms.
“My little dragon,” Aerion whispered as he pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his soft hair. “You did it.”
In that moment, Maegor reminded him so much of his mother it almost hurt.
Aerion doesn’t want his son to grow up the way he did—burdened with anger and self-hatred, even his little dragon is alpha. He wants something better for him. He wants Maegor to remember warmth. Laughter. Arms that are always open.
He wants his son to grow up surrounded by affection so constant it becomes the foundation of who he is. Better than him.Better than both of them.
Months pass. And one night, Aerion realizes something quietly painful. Maegor is growing too big to carry the way he used to. The thought sits somewhere in his chest all evening.
Later that night, he hears Maegor crying through the baby monitor. Duncan is asleep beside him.
Aerion shifts carefully, already pushing himself upright. “I’ll get him,” he murmurs. “Don’t get up.”
Duncan opens his eyes slightly in the dim room but doesn’t reach for the lamp. Work has been relentless lately. He’s been pushing himself harder than ever—trying to make sure he can take another extended break once the twins arrive. Because yes. Soon, there will be two more babies in the apartment. An energeticnineteen-month-old baby is already chaos enough.
“Aerion,” Duncan mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “You know I can go. Your back—”
Aerion shakes his head and gently taps Duncan’s shoulder. “Just sleep,” he says, sliding carefully out of their enormous bed.
His shirt rides up slightly over the curve of his large stomach as he adjusts his sweatpants. The twins—Saera and Alysanne—have made sure the pregnancy is impossible to ignore.
“Tomorrow you have to get up early,” Aerion adds.
“I’ll stay awake,” Duncan mutters, rolling onto his side to watch him. “You should rest more. The twins move nonstop.”
Aerion pauses in the doorway, one hand braced against his lower back. He lifts an eyebrow.
“Six months ago, you said the same thing,” he replies dryly. “And now look at us.” He gives Duncan a pointed look. “Idiot. At least make me something to eat.”
Duncan laughs quietly. Sleep is gone now.
Aerion walks slowly down the hallway toward Maegor’s room. His hand rests instinctively at the base of his spine as he moves. The twins are restless tonight, shifting constantly inside him. Soon, there will be five people living in this apartment. When he reaches the crib, Maegor is standing inside it—red-eyed and upset, his small fists gripping the railing.
Aerion immediately lifts him.
“Bad dream?” he asks softly, settling the toddler against his hip. Holding him like this is harder now with his stomach in the way, but he manages.
“For you, always.”
Maegor sniffles, pressing his face into Aerion’s neck. The familiar scent of his omega parent calms him almost immediately.
“Bad dream, dada,” Maegor mumbles in the sleepy, uneven voice only a one-year-old can have. “Scary. Very scary.”
Aerion gently strokes his curls. Just like his mother used to do for him.
“Oh, I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m here. And Papa is making food.”
He kisses the top of Maegor’s head.
“No more bad dreams tonight. Remember—you’re a little dragon. Dragons can chase away nightmares.”
Maegor only clings tighter. Aerion winces slightly as his back protests under the combined weight of toddler and pregnancy. Eventually, he lowers himself carefully onto the soft nursery rug. Once seated, he adjusts his shirt and pulls it aside.
It has been months since Maegor regularly nursed. Most days, he refuses it entirely with a stubborn little “no more.” But tonight, tear-streaked and exhausted, he latches without hesitation—just like when he was smaller. Within seconds, he’s drinking quietly.
Aerion exhales softly.
“I had a feeling I’d need to help you up later.”
Duncan’s voice appears at the doorway. He steps inside, holding a bowl between both hands.
“So eventually,” he adds with quiet satisfaction, “you’ll have to take back every insult you’ve said about me.”
Aerion glances up. Maegor continues nursing peacefully.
“I could stand up,” Aerion replies with dignity. “With patience.”
Duncan raises an eyebrow. “Yes. That would be entertaining,” he says. “Especially with your sciatica.”
He sits beside Aerion on the rug and places the bowl between them. Popcorn.
Simple. Salty. Perfect.
Duncan reaches over and gently wiggles Maegor’s foot. “Nightmares again?”
Aerion nods. “He’s almost two,” he says quietly. “Apparently, that means bad dreams and permanent attachment to me.”
Duncan chuckles.
“Well,” he replies easily, resting one warm hand on Aerion’s stomach, “I also like being permanently attached to you.”
Aerion rolls his eyes. “Really?” he mutters. “While I’m feeding your child?” He shifts slightly, realizing too late that sitting on the floor had been a terrible idea. “You’re insufferable.”
Duncan grins. “That’s why we got married.” He pauses, his hand still resting over the twins moving beneath Aerion’s skin. A simple ring is on the finger. “That’s why you agreed to have a family with me.”
Aerion snorts. “The sex clouded my judgment,” he says casually. “Honestly, I should have considered my options more carefully.”
“Aerion!” Duncan laughs. “A an energetic nineteen-month-old baby and two more on the way—and now you say this?”
He shakes his head. “You really are a prince.”
“Maybe because I am.”
Duncan rolls his eyes. Eventually, Maegor finishes nursing, but he doesn’t move. He stays curled in Aerion’s arms, clutching his shirt as though letting go might make the world disappear.
Duncan rests one hand against Aerion’s stomach and the other on Maegor’s back. The three of them sit there quietly, and Aerion knows something with absolute certainty.
There will always be space for Maegor in his arms. Always. Because Maegor is everything he once dreamed of—and everything he never believed he deserved.