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The air that hung over Storm’s End was heavy – one could see the dark-grey and black clouds hovering over the sea, beyond the horizon, signaling a storm that would soon descend upon the ancient fortress. Yet Lord Lyonel Baratheon had merely laughed in his boisterous way and said such a sight was typical; they weren’t called the stormlands for nothing.

But for Aerion Targaryen, the air was heavy for different reason. Not with the weight of an oncoming deluge of rain and lightning, but the thick, suffocating weight of royal duty.

It had been Aegon, Aerion’s youngest brother, who had let slip the words ‘betrothal negotiations.’ Where the young lad had heard them, Aerion hadn’t the slightest clue, but it mattered not. It all made sense now. Why their uncle Baelor, Hand of the King and heir to the throne, had seen fit to take Aerion, a Targaryen omega, to Storm’s End, where the alpha Lyonel Baratheon still reigned without a mate.

In a time not so far in the past, an omega like Aerion would’ve been expected to wed within the family. To his cousin Valarr, perhaps; though Aerion would sooner shove his cousin onto one of the many spikes of the Iron Throne than be his mate, even if it meant being the queen. Matarys, Valarr’s brother, might have been more tolerable, but alas, he’d presented as a beta the year before.

So marriage to one of the other noble houses of Westeros was to be Aerion’s fate. His father Maekar had tried his hand at arranging a match for his second son and only omega child for years. Lannisters, Tyrells, even Starks had passed through Summerhall, hoping to earn Aerion’s favor, yet each and every one eventually came to the same conclusion.

Namely, that Aerion was a terror. Whereas others of his endotype were soft-spoken, gentle, and delicate, the young Targaryen was wild and vicious, refusing to be tamed. He saw himself as a dragon, and dragons were not genteel creatures meant only to marry and produce heirs. So Lannisters were mocked, Tyrells had wine poured upon their sputtering heads, and Starks were sent back to the north with bruises on their jaws and pride.

Thus, the parade of hopeful suitors soon dwindled, leaving Aerion blissfully unmated at the scandalous age of nineteen. Maekar had given up on arranging a match for Aerion himself… which meant the duty was handed over to Baelor in his stead. And Baelor, apparently, meant to marry off the Targaryen problem child to the Lord of Storm’s End.

Aerion held back a scoff, watching with thinly-veiled disdain as Baelor greeted Lyonel, the two alphas amiably clasping arms and speaking in low tones, so he could not hear their words. Aerion had yet to dismount from his horse, but Aegon had, hopping on the damp stone with a soft grunt. 

Aerion didn’t know why their uncle had seen fit to have Aegon accompany them to Storm’s End. Aegon was nine years old, had yet to present, and had little patience for lessons in politicking. Perhaps Baelor meant to find a knight who would take the boy in as a squire, in case the betrothal negotiations went nowhere… and Aerion fully intended to make that so. Lyonel Baratheon was a handsome enough alpha, and by all accounts a jovial and good-natured man, but Aerion didn’t care. He would be no man’s broodmare, Lord Paramount or not.

When the alphas finally deigned to look over at him, Aerion finally dismounted, his jaw ticked in annoyance as Baelor formally introduced him.

“My nephew, Aerion.”

“Ah yes, the Brightflame,” grinned Lyonel. His eyes flickered over Aerion, though admittedly his gaze did not hold the lecherous gleam he’d seen on many other alphas. He seemed more… amused, than anything. “Though I’ve heard ‘Spitfire’ would be a more fitting moniker.”

Aegon snickered from his spot beside Aerion, but the boy quickly schooled his features into a neutral expression when Aerion glared at him. Baelor merely smiled graciously, clearly not intending to reprimand Lyonel for the slight at all. 

Aerion grit his teeth and plastered on a tight smile. “Lord Baratheon. Have you perhaps been struck by lightning?”

Lyonel raised a brow. “I cannot say that I have.”

“Ah. Then I cannot fathom how you dare to address a member of the royal family in such a disrespectful manner. If your brain has not been fried, then am I to assume you are just naturally senseless?”

A beat of silence passed, save for the distant rumbling of the storm at the horizon. Aegon seemed torn between another snicker and a horrified gasp, whereas Baelor had the same tired, put-upon look that Maekar often did when trying to rein in his most insolent child.

But Lyonel just laughed, louder and harder than he had before.

“Spitfire indeed!” Lyonel crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Aerion with that same amusement, as if Aerion were a pet performing tricks, and not a dragon of the Targaryen family. “Ser Duncan will have his hands full with you.”

The agitation in Aerion’s bones stilled, and he blinked in confusion. “Ser Duncan?”

Baelor cut in, clearing his throat. “Mayhaps this is a discussion best held indoors, Lord Baratheon?”

Lyonel waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, yes, yes. The servants will handle your luggage. Come, we can speak further in the solar.”

The two alphas turned and began walking into the fortress. Aerion shared a look with Aegon, who seemed just as confused as he felt. But the boy just shrugged, and made to follow them. Aerion scowled, and did the same.

The four of them settled into the solar, with Baelor and Lyonel seated on two plush chairs – decorated with antlers, as that seemed to be Lyonel’s preferred decorative flourish. Aerion and Aegon were left to share a bright yellow couch across from them. The omega tapped his foot impatiently as Lyonel instructed a servant to bring them food and drink.

“Uncle, what’s going on?” Aerion snapped, unwilling to wait a moment longer. His grip on his chalice, provided to him by a Baratheon servant, was white-knuckled. “Who is ‘Ser Duncan’?”

Baelor calmly took a sip of his own wine. “Ser Duncan the Tall is one of Lord Baratheon’s sworn swords.”

“He was a humble hedge knight when I met him,” Lyonel mused, his face full of fondness as memory overtook him. “We crossed paths at a tourney in the Riverlands, oh... two years ago? He did well in the lists, and was a fun lad to be around, so I offered him a place at Storm’s End.”

“How… charitable of you,” Aerion murmured. Aegon looked far more enraptured with the tale; a mere hedge knight somehow catching the eye of a Lord Paramount was exactly the sort of feel-good fairytale nonsense Aegon adored.

“He must be quite the knight, my lord!” exclaimed Aegon, his eyes gleaming with childlike glee. “Why is he called ‘the Tall’? How tall is he?”

“He’s a full head and a half taller than Prince Aerion, I would wager,” replied Lyonel.

“But why is a simple hedge knight relevant to me?” Aerion interrupted, irritable. “Are we not here to discuss a bethrothal?”

At that, Lyonel’s grin only grew, and Aerion very valiantly fought back the urge to chuck his cup at him.

“Indeed we are. Ser Duncan is an alpha, you see, and though he is nearing his twentieth nameday, he has yet to take a mate.”

Baelor set down his chalice with all the grace expected of the heir to the throne. “Lyonel assures me that Ser Duncan is a good, honest man. He is to be your husband, Aerion.”

Aerion froze. “… What?”

Aegon tilted his head in confusion. “But aren’t hedge knights usually commoners?”

Aerion jolted, gesturing to his younger brother gratefully.

“Exactly! How could you expect the blood of the dragon to wed a mere pauper knight?”

“He’s hardly a pauper now,” Lyonel said, shrugging off Aerion’s indignant rage. “He has a high position in my house. He shares my table, trains my men, guards my lands… Why, I liken him to more of a brother than a sworn sword.”

“But he is not your brother,” seethed Aerion. “He is a peasant! Uncle, how could you arrange such a farce? My father would never allow–!”

Baelor cut him off. “Maekar is aware of the the arrangement, and he has given his blessing.”

Aerion’s mouth flapped uselessly, scrambling for a response. Aegon scooted further away from the omega, nose wrinkling at the scent of fury and distress rolling off of him in waves. The alphas, for their part, seemed unaffected. Baelor was certainly used to such displays from his nephew, and Lyonel was still acting as if this was just a grand show for his amusement.

Baelor sighed. “You’ve only yourself to blame, Aerion. You’ve scared off every potential highborn mate in all seven kingdoms. Maekar was considering giving you to a convent if no one else would have you. It was a godsend when Ser Duncan sent a letter humbly asking for your hand.”

The omega prince bristled; he ignored the comment about the convent, even as his heart sank at the idea. “He dared to ask for my hand?” he shouted instead. The audacity!

“Well, I sent the letter,” offered Lyonel, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “You see, Ser Duncan saw you at the tourney at Ashford a few months past, and he was quite taken by your beauty, my prince. He has been rendered woefully lovesick ever since, and I took pity on my poor knight. Hence, the letter.”

Aerion shot the Baratheon alpha a glare that could have melted steel. Lyonel merely tilted his head with another insipid little grin.

The tourney at Ashford… Aerion scarcely recalled the event. Another tedious farce held by a lord so minor Aerion had already forgotten his face. The only moment of note was when a Reachman alpha, a Fossoway or some such, had attempted to court favor with Aerion. Aerion had already been of a foul mood – he despised tourneys, as omegas were forbidden from participating, and thus he was expected to merely sit in the stands and look pretty, despite being a better rider and warrior than half the knights in attendance. And so, he had grabbed the alpha’s apple-emblazoned shield and smacked him across the face with it, leaving him with a broken nose and three less teeth than before.

Aerion stormed back to the royal tent after that, and soon after, Prince Maekar had learned of the altercation and sent Aerion back to Summerhall, quick and quiet, and that was that.

Aerion frowned. Ser Duncan had been at the tourney, apparently. Did the fool fancy himself with a better chance than the Fossoway moron? He clearly didn’t see what Aerion did to presumptuous alphas who dared reach above their station.

“I don’t care if he’s wasting away,” Aerion roared, slamming his hands on the table in front of him, making Aegon jump. “I am blood of the dragon! I will not marry a fucking hedge knight, be he Lord Baratheon’s pet or not!”

“I’m afraid we are past the point of it being your choice, my boy,” said Baelor. He seemed wholly uninterested in Aerion’s fury, unlike Lyonel, who found it endlessly entertaining. “Either you marry Ser Duncan, or you will be given to a motherhouse to spend the rest of your days as a septa, stripped of your royal title. We will not have you ruining the Targaryen name by remaining as you are.”

Aerion’s hands balled into fists on the table, his nails biting into the heels of his palms. Marriage to a commoner was an insult, but to be forced into a convent and lose his title… Even Aegon was looking at him with something horribly close to pity.

“And just where is this ‘Ser Duncan’?” he snarled, shoving back the wave of despair he felt encroaching upon him. “Where is the man who presumes himself worthy of a dragon? Is he so craven and shameless that he’d send a Lord Paramount to do his dirty work?”

“One of the nearby villages is having trouble with bandits,” answered Lyonel. “Ser Duncan and a few of my other knights rode out three days prior to deal with the matter. We expect them back on the morrow.”

“I hope the fool loses his head,” the omega seethed.

Without another word, Aerion stormed out of the solar, leaving the two alphas and his little brother in his wake.

The moon sat high in the sky as night descended upon Storm’s End, though it was obscured by a thick cover of clouds. The storm over the sea had edged ever closer, and a constant rumble of thunder echoed in the well-appointed chamber that Aerion had been provided.

He sat on his bed, angrily picking at the threads on the gold-and-black sheets that seemed to cover every surface of the room. The heated conversation in the solar kept replaying in his mind. Marriage to a hedge knight, or life as a septa. The insult of allowing a peasant to claim him, or the indignity of losing his princehood and forced into a life of simple piety. Both options made his skin crawl.

Aegon had come into his chambers some time ago, to relay what Baelor and Lyonel spoke of after Aerion had stormed off. Aerion hadn’t asked, but neither did he stop his little brother from reporting. Apparently, Aegon was brought along to squire for Ser Duncan; perhaps their uncle thought it would be a conciliatory gift towards Aerion, who would have at least one family member close by after being wed to the alpha. 

All Aerion could think was how could a mere hedge knight be so damned lucky. Not only granted a Targaryen prince as a mate, but to train another as his master? What had Ser Duncan done to deserve such a fortuitous hand?

“Lord Baratheon says Ser Duncan is kind and chivalrous, and a very good knight,” Aegon had said, his dark purple eyes wide with what Aerion suspected was preemptive hero worship. The boy had not yet met Ser Duncan, yet already seemed to favor him. “Maybe he’ll be a good mate to you, brother.”

Aerion had scoffed. “His character does not matter. A dragon should not be made to play broodmare to a peasant.”

Aegon’s mouth twisted. “Mother didn’t think she would like father, but they were happy enough. You might like Ser Duncan.”

Aerion had nothing to say in response to that, so naturally, he instead threw a pillow at his younger brother to chase him out of the room. That had been hours ago, and now Storm’s End was quiet as most of its inhabitants had gone to bed, the distant thunder a lullaby that grated on Aerion’s nerves. If he married the hedge knight, he would have to move to Storm’s End, and such sounds would become part of his daily life. Yet another mark against poor Ser Duncan.

No, he could not accept this match. Ser Duncan’s chivalry and honor be damned, Aerion was a dragon. Aegon could debase himself and squire for the oaf if he wished, but Aerion would have nothing to do with him.

Tearing himself out of bed, Aerion strode to his trunks, half-unpacked, as he’d scared off the servants who’d been in the middle of tending to them. He dressed in his riding clothes, throwing a dark velvet cloak over his shoulders. Then he quickly packed a bag – a few changes of clothes, a pouch of food, and as much of his gold and jewelry as he could conceivably carry. 

He would have more than enough to take ship. Perhaps he could go to Braavos, or Lys. The Free Cities were known to favor omegas much more than the Westerosi, with many unmated omegas attaining status and power in their own right. Aerion would more than likely lose his Targaryen name, disowned and disgraced, but at least it would be his choice.

The main issue was how he would escape Storm’s End unseen. Two Kingsguard had accompanied them, along with a handful of their own personal retainers and knights. Two such knights were posted outside his door, and the Baratheon’s own men were likely patrolling the fortress. With his dark cloak and slight frame, Aerion stood a good chance of sneaking out under the cover of night, and perhaps the thunder would muffle any of his missteps. He could make his way to the port, bribe a ship captain to take him to Essos, and he would be free of the absurd choices his family was forcing him to make.

He glanced at the sole window in the room. Peering out, he saw a drop of almost fifty feet, but the grounds were clear of any soldiers or servants. Turning back to his bed, Aerion then grabbed the fine silken sheets and set to work tying them together.

Time passed, and soon his makeshift rope was complete. After making sure the knots were secure enough to hold his weight, he quietly opened the window. With one end of rope tied to the bedpost, Aerion let the rest of it drape out alongside the drab stones of the fortress’s tower. And then, before he could lose his nerve, he drew the hood of his cloak over his head, climbed out of the window, and began to make his descent.

The air had grown thicker with humidity as the storm drew ever closer, but Aerion paid no mind to the flashing lightning or rumbling thunder. He focused on maintaining his grip on the rope of sheets, as he carefully lowered himself closer and closer to freedom.

Until. He reached the edge of his makeshift rope, and found that there was still fifteen feet between himself and the ground.

He cursed under his breath. A fall from this height wouldn’t kill him, probably, but if he landed wrong he could injure himself, and that would seriously impede his escape plans.

And because the gods seemed to delight in torturing him, a voice called out to Aerion from the ground.

“Ho there – what on earth are you doing?”

Hands tightening on the rope, Aerion glanced down. Through the darkness, barely illuminated by torch fire, stood a man dressed in plain, drab clothes. A stablehand or a servant, most likely. Aerion could not make out his face.

He said nothing, and the man took a step.

“I’ll not ask again, thief.”

Indignation bridled in Aerion’s blood, though he knew that was a logical assumption. A dark-clad figure, climbing the walls of a Lord Paramount’s fortress, especially with visiting royalty also inhabiting the place. A thief was a more likely assumption than a runaway omega prince.

Still. A dragon did not suffer such insults.

“I am not a thief, you oaf,” Aerion snapped. 

“Oh, aye?” the man’s tone was clearly skeptical. “Then who else would be scaling a wall in the dark of night?”

“I’m not scaling, I’m descending,” Aerion growled. “I mean to escape this place, and I’ll give you two gold dragons if you keep your mouth shut about it.”

There was a beat of silence. Aerion risked glancing at the man again, but he still could not make out any distinct expression on his face.

Finally, the man spoke. “Why would you need to escape? Who are you?”

Aerion’s fingers were beginning to tire. He grit his teeth. “That’s hardly any of your business.”

“Suppose not. But Lord Baratheon will likely take offense at one of his guests attempting an escape. Perhaps more if his guest slipped and broke his neck in the attempt.”

“The grinning fool would find it amusing, more like,” Aerion muttered, but his voice must have carried, for the stranger laughed, a deep and throaty sound.

“Aye, he probably would. Let me help you, m’lord.”

He heard the crunch of boots on gravel, and when he glanced down again, sure enough, the man had moved. He was now underneath Aerion, his arms held out as if to catch him.

“… You expect me to trust a stranger? What if you drop me?”

“Then whichever noble house you belong to will have my head, I suspect,” said the man, far too casual. “Besides, the way I see it, you can either trust me to catch you, or you climb back up into the fortress you were trying so hard to escape.”

“And then what? Will you drag me back to my chambers anyway? Or will you parade me in front of Lord Baratheon for his entertainment?”

“By the Seven, you’re a paranoid one,” remarked the man. “I swear on my honor, I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go.”

“…” 

Truth be told, Aerion’s fingers were growing sore. And if the man were duplicitous, the omega had a dagger hidden under his cloak.

“… On the count of three, then,” he relented.

“Aye. One, two…”

As ‘three’ left the man’s lips, Aerion took a deep breath and loosened his grip, shutting his eyes. He dropped from the rope, air whooshing past his ears… and then just as suddenly, he stopped. The pleasant scent of clean cotton and vetiver filled his nostrils, with the underlying, telltale musk of an alpha. Warm, strong arms held him securely. Aerion looked up, his hood falling from his head with the motion, to finally see the face of the man who’d caught him escaping.

Deep blue eyes looked back at him, wide with surprise. The eyes belonged to an admittedly handsome face, clean-shaven, with a strong jawline and thick brows. Dirty blond hair hung over his forehead, but was shorn-short otherwise. Full lips were parted in a soft gasp as the man stared at Aerion.

“You’re…”

Aerion quickly snapped out of his stupor. A tinge of pink colored his ears as he shoved at the man’s chest.

“Set me down, you oaf!” 

The man hurriedly obeyed, gently lowering Aerion to his feet. The omega prince huffed, brushing down nonexistent dirt from his trousers. He kept his back to the man, unwilling to risk looking at his handsome face and get caught gawking like a fool yet again. He heard rustling. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man on one knee, his head bent low.

“A thousand pardons, Prince Aerion,” the man murmured. “I did not realize… I would never have spoken so casually to you had I recognized you.”

“Yes, well…” Aerion cleared his throat. “I wore the hood to avoid recognition, fool.”

“Ah, yes…” The man looked up, his blue eyes still large with unguarded awe. “Even so… forgive me, m’lord, but what are you doing in Storm’s End?”

Were Lyonel Baratheon’s servants so uninformed of the goings-on of the fortress?

“Royal business,” Aerion said, his voice clipped. He should have left it there, but he felt compelled to elaborate. “Marriage talks.”

The man suddenly stilled. “Marriage?” he repeated, sounding faint. “To… To Lord Lyonel, you mean?”

Aerion scoffed. “As if I’d grant that ingrate such an honor. I’d rip out his laughing tongue before the ceremony’s end. Not that he was ever my intended,” he spat the word with venom.

“Ah…” Did his eyes deceive him, or was there a flicker of… relief on the man’s face? “Then, who…?”

Perhaps it was the leftover emotion Aerion had felt ever since the afternoon, when his uncle had dropped news of the arrangement on him, anger and resentment bubbling inside him, burning like wildfire, eager to be unleashed. Or perhaps it was simply the gormless expression on the face of the alpha still kneeling before him that compelled him to speak.

“A mere commoner. Some hedge knight Lyonel Baratheon favors to the point of senselessness.”

The man grew pale. “Hedge knight? Not… Not Ser Duncan the Tall, surely?”

Aerion growled, startling the man. “The very same! My uncle, the Hand of the King, bids me to marry a peasant-born knight because I have rejected every highborn alpha who dared think themselves worthy of a dragon! And if I disobey, I am to be dragged kicking and screaming to a convent, to be stripped of my princehood and live the pitiful life of a septa! It is a punishment, plain and simple! A mockery!”

“M’lord…”

“I will not stand for it, for any of it!” Aerion raged, ignoring the man as he began to pace. “I am a dragon! I would rather fly free and far from here, away from my palace and titles, than be shackled to a lowborn brute and forced to bear his pups!”

The man was silent for a while, his face twisted in an emotion Aerion couldn’t name. Save for the thunder, the only sound between them was the panting of Aerion’s breath. 

Then, at last, the man spoke again, his voice just barely audible over the thunder. “Perhaps Ser Duncan is of a like mind, my prince.”

Aerion paused, looking down at the man incredulously. “What?”

Instead of answering, the man stood up, drawing himself to his full height. His very full, very tall height.

‘He’s a full head and a half taller than Prince Aerion, I would wager,’ Lyonel Baratheon had said.

Tall. Wearing commoner’s clothes, yet walking about Storm’s End with the ease of someone with some degree of authority.

Aerion could almost hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“You’re Ser Duncan.” It was not a question.

Still, the alpha – the hedge knight – ducked his head in a nod, appearing sheepish. “Aye.”

Gritting his teeth, Aerion’s fingers subconsciously sought the dagger hidden in the folds of his cloak. “Did you enjoy taking me for a fool, then?”

Duncan’s eyes widened, and he shook his head furiously. “No, m’lord! I promise you, I really had no idea who you were until I got a clear look at you!”

“And upon realizing that I’m your betrothed, you say nothing as I insult you and your liege lord?” Aerion hissed. “Have you no pride?”

The alpha held up his hands, likely meant as a placating gesture. It only served to annoy Aerion more.

“This is the first I’ve heard of any betrothal!” said Duncan. “I know Lord Lyonel was expecting guests, but he never told me they would be Targaryens!”

Aerion narrowed his eyes. The oaf looked sincere. His scent, that clean linen and damp earth, was tinged with a hint of distress that made Aerion’s nose wrinkle. 

“He said you were wasting away longing for me,” he accused. “Ever since you saw me at the Ashford tourney.”

Duncan’s cheeks turned a brilliant red, making the blue of his eyes stand out all the more. Aerion refused to find it endearing.

“I… Wasting away is not the term I’d use…” he muttered. “R-Regardless, I said nothing to Lord Lyonel about wanting to arrange a match!”

“So you… don’t want to marry me?” Aerion asked skeptically.

“No!”

Despite himself, Aerion felt another flare of anger, this one directed at the audacity of this mere hedge knight to refuse Aerion’s hand. Nevermind that Aerion hadn’t wanted to give it to him in the first place.

Before he could formulate an appropriately vicious response, Duncan continued.

“I’m sure Lord Lyonel meant well, but he can take his jests too far at times.”

“You think asking for a Targaryen’s hand is a jest?” seethed Aerion. “You should be falling over yourself in gratitude for the honor!”

Duncan’s hands went up again in that gesture of surrender. “I would be grateful if you wanted to marry me, m’lord! But… you made yourself clear, this isn’t what you want. What sort of alpha wants an unwilling omega?”

Aerion stared at him. “Are you a moron?”

Duncan blinked. “I’ve… been called that, yes.”

For once, Aerion found himself at a loss for words. Duncan smiled at him, small and awkward, his shoulders hunched and his fingers twitching nervously, even as he lowered his hands back down to his sides.

“I’ll speak to your uncle and to Lord Lyonel in the morning and get this cleared up.” He dipped his head down in a nod. “Everything will be alright, Prince Aerion. There will be no need of an escape, I promise.”

Without awaiting his dismissal, Duncan turned and began to walk away. Aerion stared after him, stunned into silence. He took a step towards the retreating knight.

“What if I run away anyway? You’ll be ordered to track me down and drag me back.”

Duncan turned his head, smiling gently at the omega. “I already swore to you that I would not force you to go anywhere you did not wish. And I’ve seen what happens to alphas who try to persuade you,” he laughed. “I’d like to keep all my teeth, if it pleases you, m’lord.”

“So you’ll… do nothing? You’ll just let me go?” Aerion persisted.

“I would ask you to trust me that I will have you released from this obligation,” said Duncan. “A prince like you should not have to run away from anything. But I also know that I could do little to stop you, should your heart be dead set on escaping Storm’s End. I’ll not ask where you intend to go. I only ask that you keep yourself safe, my prince.”

Duncan waited for Aerion’s reply, but there was none. The omega prince just stared at him, his lilac eyes full of confusion. So Duncan gave him another smile and a bow, and continued on his way, leaving Aerion in the empty courtyard.

He could still run. With the storm coming to cover his tracks, it would almost be easy, even. He could hide in the nearest town until the weather cleared enough for ships to sail, and then he’d be bound for Essos. No more royal obligation, no more marriage talks, no more threats of a convent if he continued his misbehavior.

He’d probably never see Ser Duncan the Tall ever again.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Aerion picked a direction, and began walking.

Duncan held back a yawn as he made his way to the dining hall for breakfast. He’d spent a good few hours the night prior arguing with Lyonel – well, to be more accurate, he felt more like he’d whined at his liege lord before the laughing stag finally acquiesced.

“I thought you’d be delighted,” Lyonel had admitted. “You’re not like to find a finer match than a pretty Targaryen, temperamental though he may be.”

“Aye, it’s a fine match for me,” Duncan replied. “But a mockery for him. I do not wish to cause him suffering, m’lord.”

Lyonel had given him a long look. Even after years in his service, Duncan still didn’t quite know how to read him at times. Then, the stag relented, holding up his hand and waving it dismissively.

“Oh, alright. I’ll speak to Baelor about it in the morning. You’re lucky the Targaryens aren’t as powerful as they used to be, or it would be our heads for this whole mess.”

His words had been terrifying, but Lyonel was smiling as always, so Duncan allowed himself to loosen the knot of anxiety that had been forming in his belly. Lyonel would handle the Hand of the King, and hopefully the penalty for withdrawing the betrothal would not be too harsh on the Lord of Storm’s End.

And hopefully Prince Aerion could find some measure of peace, once this debacle was firmly behind him.

Absently, Duncan flexed his hands, remembering the way the omega had felt in his arms. He was lean, slight in stature, yet firm and wiry, like a snake coiled to strike. His scent, like jasmine and berries, still lingered in his nose. He doubted any other omega in the world would smell half as sweet. And by the gods, Aerion was as pretty as Duncan remembered from Ashford – more so, even, now that he’d had the honor of seeing him up close. 

He sighed. For all he knew, Aerion was hiding in the port town, waiting for his chance to hop on a ship and sail away from Westeros – and Duncan – forever. He would have to treasure the memory of their encounter for the rest of his life, and bury it deep should he ever find another omega, more fitting to his low station, to wed and mate.

He nodded to servants as he passed, and shared greetings with the knights guarding the entrance to the dining hall. They opened the grand oak doors for him, and he stepped inside.

“Ah, there’s the man of the hour!” came Lyonel’s voice, snapping Duncan to attention. At the head of the dining hall, Lyonel sat in his usual seat at the head table. To his right, a dark-haired man with kind eyes regarded him curiously, and Duncan realized with a start that he was Baelor Targaryen, judging from the distinct hand-shaped pin affixed to his tunic. Beside Baelor was a young boy, no older than ten, with silvery-blond hair that denoted him as yet another Targaryen, and he looked at Duncan with wonder.

And to Lyonel’s left sat none other than Aerion himself.

Duncan blinked at the omega, standing stock-still. Aerion had not looked at him, too busy lathering a slice of toast in jam. Those lilac eyes flicked up, almost lazily, passing over his body as if in assessment. To see the prince’s behavior, one never would’ve guessed that he’d had a rather unusual run-in with Duncan the night before.

At Lyonel’s urging, Duncan jolted himself out of his stupor and awkwardly made his way to the table. He was introduced formally to the Targaryen party. Baelor shook his hand with a fond smile, and the boy – apparently Aerion’s younger brother Aegon – seemed absolutely enthralled by Duncan’s height. Most children were, and Duncan found himself smiling easily at the child.

Aerion still had yet to acknowledge him beyond a bored grunt when Baelor gave his introduction. Yet neither his uncle nor Lord Baratheon seemed thrown by the omega’s standoffish behavior, unlike Duncan.

Breakfast passed in relative peace. At young Aegon’s urging, Duncan relayed how he and his men dealt with the bandits, the boy’s eyes growing rounder with every word. Yet every so often, Duncan glanced at Aerion, only to see the omega pointedly ignoring him every time.

Perhaps Aerion took Duncan at his word that he would get Lyonel and Baelor to give up on the match, and that was why he was still at Storm’s End. The thought made Duncan uneasy – Lyonel and Baelor were behaving as if such an arrangement was very much still in effect. Surely, if Lyonel had spoken to Baelor as he promised Duncan, the Hand of the King would not be so agreeable.

“Oh, by the way, Ser Duncan,” Lyonel suddenly spoke up. “You’ll have to skip your morning training today.”

“I… I will, m’lord?”

Lyonel’s grin stretched wide across his face. “Prince Aerion has asked that you give him a tour of Storm’s End.”

Duncan’s gaze whipped to Aerion, who still refused to look at him. Yet, there was the slightest tint of pink to his ears that wasn’t there before, easily visible on his pale skin.

“R-Really?” came Duncan’s stuttered reply.

Aerion finally met his gaze, those pretty amethyst eyes unwavering.

“You’re my betrothed,” was the prince’s response. “I’m certainly not going to ask Lord Baratheon, lest the man find himself unceremoniously shoved over the cliff and into the sea.”

Lyonel let out a booming laugh, and Prince Baelor looked entirely too pleased with the omega, in spite of the threat of violence against the Lord Paramount. But Duncan’s mind stuck on one particular word – betrothed.

“I… It would be my honor, my prince,” Duncan hurriedly bowed his head.

Aerion huffed, and that seemed to be the end of that. But Duncan thought he spied the faintest upwards curve on the omega’s lips before he turned his head away.

Later, after breakfast was finished and the table cleared, Lyonel and Baelor excused themselves to continue talking business – perhaps of the realm, but more than likely to prepare for what they saw as an inevitable wedding. Baelor had even dragged Aegon with them, despite the child’s protests. Duncan had promised to show the boy the stables later, though, and that seemed to settle him.

That left Duncan alone with Aerion as they walked the halls of Storm’s End. Aerion’s arm was tucked into Duncan’s, as propriety dictated. Duncan was positive the omega could hear his heart pounding in his chest. They had yet to address last night’s meeting; Duncan almost began to believe he’d dreamed the entire thing up.

Then, at last, Aerion opened his mouth.

“Even if you somehow convinced my uncle to concede, and he didn’t send me to a motherhouse, he or my father would simply find another knight to be my mate. And the next one might not be as agreeable as you are.”

It was spoken plainly, like an explanation. Which, Duncan supposed it was. It explained why Aerion was still here, and why he was behaving as if being mated to Duncan suddenly wasn’t the worst thing in the world anymore.

“Then, you…” Duncan swallowed, his throat damnably dry. “You do wish to wed me?”

The omega prince kept his eyes fixed on a nearby tapestry, pretending to study the embroidered stags rather than meet Duncan’s earnest gaze.

“You are… decent,” he murmured. “I concede that Lyonel Baratheon was not exaggerating when he said you were an honorable man, seeing as how you did not report my attempted escape. And you are…”

Those lilac eyes landed on him, trailing his body like they had earlier in the dining hall. Aerion’s ears once again turned pink as he look away.

“… handsome enough. I suppose.”

Duncan felt his face flush, heat rising to his cheeks. “I — er, t-thank you, Prin–!”

Aerion waved his free hand, which made Duncan shut his mouth.

“And besides, you saw the way my little brother looked at you. He’s determined to be your squire, and he may not get to if we do not wed. The little wretch is intolerable when he does not get his way.”

Slowly, Duncan smiled. “He seems a fine lad to me.”

“Just wait,” muttered Aerion. “He’ll show his true colors before long, the rat.”

Duncan chuckled, and they continued on in an almost… companionable silence. They made their way to the courtyard; though the sky was still grey and overcast, it seemed that, miraculously, the oncoming storm had dissipated in the night, and the fortress remained dry. Duncan noticed the prince’s eyes drift to the tower which held the guest chambers. Then to the ground beneath it… where they had met last night.

“… I will not be a meek or timid mate. Marriage will not soften me. I am a dragon, after all.”

“Of course.”

“I will continue riding, and training. I will not shut myself indoors to embroider and gossip with the other omegas.”

“I would be delighted to spar with you sometime, my prince.”

“… I want to visit Summerhall at least once a year.”

“Tis not so long a ride from Storm’s End. Would you go alone?”

“I might deign to let you come with me,” Aerion sniffed. “I also want to name our firstborn son Maegor.”

Duncan paused, even as his heart fluttered at the thought of them having children together. “Like… Maegor the Cruel?”

“Consider it repayment to my uncle and father for their roles in this arrangement, even if I’ve accepted it.”

“… I suppose it’s not so terrible a name. Will we have only one child?”

Aerion’s gaze swept over him again, then glanced away, the flush spreading from his ears to his cheeks. “… We’ll see.”

Duncan fought back a giddy smile. “Anything else, my prince?”

“Yes,” said the omega. “You may call me Aerion, and I will call you Duncan.”

“My friends call me Dunk,” the alpha offered.

Aerion’s nose scrunched up, and Duncan couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Duncan,” Aerion said insistently. 

“Yes, Aerion?”

“Wipe that silly grin from your face and show me the training yard.”

“Of course.”

They went on their way, the scent of berries and rain-soaked earth mingling in their wake.