stone come to me

Dunk had followed him on foot without thinking much of it, more out of instinct than instruction, and when Aerion offered him money to leave him be, he simply refused. The boy had then flatly denied to return, and Dunk had found himself with little choice but to take him by the arm and drag him back to the family residence, ignoring the resistance and the sharp edge in Aerion’s voice as he protested the entire way.

At the time, Dunk had thought he was just doing what he had been hired to do. For Maekar, however, it had marked him as something else entirely—one in a million, perhaps—the only person who neither bent under Aerion’s charm nor flinched at the casual cruelty in his threats.

After that, things began to shift. Dunk’s presence was requested more frequently, not just for the daily routine but for various events and gatherings, always in the same capacity: to take hold of Aerion’s arm and guide him back when he strayed too far, to remain close enough that deviation became difficult, if not impossible. By the fourth month, Maekar Targaryen had offered him a better position, a higher salary, and a new arrangement altogether: to live in the house, in a room at the end of the corridor where the children’s bedrooms were, to keep occasional company with the younger ones—who, Dunk had noticed, had developed a quiet fondness for him—and, above all, to ensure that Aerion remained where he was meant to be.

For Aerion, Dunk’s presence did not mean the end of his attempts to slip away, but rather something to work around, an obstacle that demanded planning and, in a way, invited it. Aerion had taken the time to learn Dunk’s schedule, memorizing the few nights each week when he attended university classes, and had waited for one of those evenings to align with a shift covered by Blane Hayford, who had been assigned to security at the estate. The man was an idiot—Dunk would never say it out loud—and worse, he had already accepted bribes from Aerion before. This time was no different. Everything had gone smoothly, and Aerion had managed to leave without interference.

Dunk had thrown up before he even finished asking Crakehall to wake Maekar, the words coming out shaky, because when he returned from his classes and checked Aerion’s room, the boy was simply not there.

The calls began around three in the morning, one after another, each one adding something worse to the last. Not only had Aerion run off, but he had somehow managed to gain access to a private party hosted by the Qartheen delegation, had gotten drunk, and the photographs were already circulating. By the time the cars were sent out to find him, the entire house had been pulled awake, lights turning on one by one, voices carrying through the corridors. Dunk found himself silently thanking the Seven that Maekar had chosen to go in person rather than sending him, leaving him behind with little Aegon and the girls, trying to settle them back into bed.

Dunk takes a slow breath, though it does little to settle him, his anxiety making itself known in the tightness of his chest and the way his shoulders remain slightly raised without him noticing. Since the Qartheen affair, the security staff has been on edge and Dunk is certain that if Aerion were to slip away again, whoever allowed it—whether through distraction or carelessness—would not only be dismissed but likely ensured never to find work again. He does not know if Maekar Targaryen said it outright or if it was simply understood, but in a house like this, there is little difference between the two.

Crakehall notices the hesitation in him before he can mask it, placing a firm, steady hand on his shoulder in a gesture that is meant to ground him more than to hurry him along.

“Everybody’s home,” he says, his voice kept low.

Good, Dunk thinks, Aerion is here.

“Mr. Targaryen is a bit tense,” Crakehall continues, with a faint restraint that suggests he is choosing his words carefully, “it seems young Aerion will be in the news.”

Tense is one way to put it. Even from where he stands, just beyond the entrance hall, Dunk can hear Maekar’s angry voice carrying through the house.

Dunk makes his way up the staircase with the intention of keeping to himself, of going straight to his room at the end of the corridor and leaving whatever is happening elsewhere in the house to resolve without him, but the sound carries more clearly the higher he climbs, not just Maekar Targaryen’s voice but something else beneath it, jagged and unmistakably Aerion’s. It is not the tone Dunk is used to hearing from him, not the usual provocation, but something younger, thinner, and it makes him slow without fully deciding to, his steps losing their rhythm as his attention shifts toward it.

The upper floor is quieter than the rest of the house, the noise from below fading into something distant, and the corridor stretches out in a long, uninterrupted line, lined with framed portraits and carefully chosen pieces that speak more of continuity than decoration, the kind of space that has been maintained over time. The carpets soften the sound of his steps and further down, set slightly apart from the main bedrooms, one of the smaller sitting rooms stands with its door not quite closed.

It is not a large room, but it is finished with the same quiet excess as the rest of the house, a space meant for private use, with a low set of armchairs arranged around a polished table, a writing desk placed near the far wall, and shelves lined with books that Dunk doubts anybody has read in years. The door is ajar just enough for sound to pass through clearly, and when Dunk draws closer, he can see movement inside, though not all at once.

He should keep walking.

Instead, he stops just short of the doorway, close enough now that the voices lose their echo and settle into something immediate.

“Dad, that hurts!” Aerion twists in discomfort in Maekar’s grip, not violently, not with the intent to break free, and Dunk can see Maekar’s hands holding his, though from where he stands he cannot yet make sense of what exactly is being done.

“Brynden called, did you know?” Maekar says, his voice tight in a way that only emphasizes the anger beneath it.

Another sharp hiss escapes Aerion, his gaze fixed not on his father but on their hands.

“He has an early copy of the article. It will be published, no matter how much money we offer.”

Dunk sees Aerion’s face then, properly, and the change is abrupt enough that it holds him there. His cheeks are flushed, his expression unguarded in a way unknown to Dunk, under Maekar’s hands he looks younger, not just in age but in something else, something has been stripped back. He is young, Dunk reminds himself, only seventeen, but he carries himself in a way that makes it easy to forget, the piercings along his face drawing attention away from the softness that still lingers in his features, from the fact that it is still there at all.

“Dad, please, just leave it,” Aerion says, and the words come out closer to a plea than anything Dunk has ever heard from him, his voice unsteady, breaking at the edges. “Daddy, please—”

Maekar presses what Dunk now realizes is a piece of wet cotton against one of his fingers, firm and unrelenting.

“They have photographs, Aerion,” he says, each word measured. “You and another man kissing in the middle of a diplomatic event. Do you understand how that looks?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re not sorry.”

Another finger. This time Dunk understands what he is seeing. The black polish, the one Aerion always wears, is being stripped away, removed with a strictness that is too forceful to be dismissed as anything else.

Aerion twists again, more sharply this time, a small sound leaving him despite the effort to hold it back, and Dunk finds himself wondering how much pressure Maekar is using, how much force is being applied beneath that cotton. He has seen Aerion’s hands before, up close, pale and fine-boned, untouched by anything rough or practical, hands that have never had to withstand this kind of handling, now held in place with certain violence that someone like him should never experience.

Dunk feels the urge to step in, to cross the threshold and put an end to it, to separate them if nothing else, not out of defiance but out of a need he cannot quite justify, a need to make sense of both Maekar’s anger and Aerion’s visible discomfort but he knows better than to act on it. This is not his place, and very little in this house truly is. There are lines that are not spoken but are understood regardless, and crossing them would not help Aerion, nor would it help him. So he does what is expected of him, or what he assumes is expected, and steps away from the door, continuing down the corridor toward his room.

He tells himself that the best thing he can do now is to wait, to remain available if needed, to stay out of the way until he is called, if he is called at all. There is a possibility, one he does not dwell on but does not dismiss either, that he might be let go after this, that the failure—whether his or not—will be placed where it is most convenient. Still, before retreating fully, he finds himself turning toward the children’s rooms, the thought coming easily: to check on them, to make sure they are asleep, that they have not wandered into the path of something they are not meant to witness, that they do not, by accident, come too close to whatever is unfolding between Maekar and Aerion behind closed doors.

When he opens Aegon’s door, the room is empty, the bed undisturbed, and that absence redirects him without pause.

It is in Daella’s room that he finds them all.

Not just Aegon, but Rhae as well, and Daeron.

The eldest sits tucked into a small armchair set into the corner of the room, part of a recessed nook designed for reading, the space softened by cushions and lined with shelves that hold more books than toys, though a few have been left scattered across the floor. Blankets have been pulled down and arranged loosely, forming a makeshift nest around him, and the children have gathered into it as though by instinct. Aegon leans heavily against his shoulder, already asleep, his head tipped to one side, while Rhae rests in his arms, small and still, her breathing slow and even. Daella lies among the cushions at his feet, wrapped in a blanket drawn up to her shoulders, her eyes half-lidded but not fully closed.

Together, they resemble less a group of children and more a single, quiet shape, a pile of blankets and soft movement contained in one corner of the room, removed from the rest of the house.

Daeron, for his part, is not looking at them.

He stares out the window instead, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass without any clear point of focus, as if whatever holds his attention lies well outside the room, or perhaps nowhere at all. It is something Dunk has noticed before, this tendency of his to drift like that, to fall into stretches of stillness where he seems disconnected from what is around him, not asleep, not fully present either.

Dunk has also noticed that something is not quite right with him, though he has never tried to name it directly. It is there in the moments he has found him drinking in the middle of the day, and in the way he carries himself even when he is sober, a kind of looseness that does not settle into anything steady. His hair, a dull shade of sand, hangs longer than it should, uneven and rarely washed, and Dunk cannot help but find it strange that someone with access to everything—money, time, whatever services he might want—would let it go like that, would not sit in a proper chair and have it cut by someone who knows what they are doing, when Dunk himself still trims his own with kitchen scissors in the small bathroom he used to share with Arlan. It is not something he has ever said aloud, and likely never will.

Daeron does not turn when Dunk enters, but after a moment, he speaks anyway.

“I heard him from downstairs,” he says quietly, as if continuing a thought rather than starting one.

“Is everything alright?” Dunk asks, though even as the words leave him, he is no longer sure what he means by them, whether he is asking about Maekar and Aerion specifically or about the house as a whole.

Daeron nods, a small, absent motion, letting out a low hum that does not quite commit to agreement.

“Aerion did something, as usual,” he says after a moment, finally turning his head to look at Dunk, his eyes a pale shade that leans closer to violet than blue, made more noticeable by the shadows beneath them.

“The other night,” Dunk answers, because the embassy—or the party, whatever it had been exactly—feels removed already, something that should have settled by now, considering that Maekar had already spoken to Aerion and to the staff in the days that followed.

Daeron nods again, slower this time.

“Yes, but today Father read the article, or was it Brynden who read it first and told him? I’m not sure,” he continues, his tone loose, almost indifferent on the surface, though the fact that he has gathered the younger children into Daella’s room, keeping them here instead of letting them sleep in their own beds, suggests something else. “They can’t block it. It’s going out tomorrow. Brynden said so.”

Dunk swallows, the movement more noticeable now in the quiet of the room, his gaze shifting briefly toward the door before returning to Daeron, as if the walls might carry the conversation further than intended.

“What happens now?” he asks.

Daeron shifts slightly in his seat, careful not to disturb the weight of Aegon against him or the way Rhae has settled into the crook of his arm, his gaze drifting back toward the window before returning to Dunk with a kind of quiet acceptance, as if the answer is already obvious to him in a way that does not require much thought.

“We leave,” he says, like it is the simplest outcome available. “Father already said so. We’re going to the summer estate.”

Dunk nods once, slowly, though the words do not immediately settle into anything concrete for him beyond the fact of movement, of relocation, and he waits, expecting more.

“They’ll start packing tonight,” Daeron continues, glancing briefly toward the door, his tone remaining even, almost detached. “Staff first, then the rest in the morning. We won’t stay here while it’s out.”

While it’s out. Dunk understands that much.

“And Aerion?” he asks after a moment, because that is the part that feels less clear, the part that seems to matter most in the way everything has shifted.

Daeron lets out a small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh.

“He won’t be going anywhere,” he says, adjusting his hold on Rhae without looking down at her. “No phone, no going out, no one in or out unless Father approves. Not for a while.”

The way he says it suggests there is more attached to it, something unspoken that does not need to be listed out, at least not for him. Dunk nods again, slower this time, filling in what he can from the gaps, from the tone more than the words themselves.

“And… that’s it?” he asks, though it sounds uncertain even to him.

Daeron shrugs, a small movement that barely shifts the blankets around him.

“For now,” he replies. “It depends on how bad it gets once it’s out.”

Aegon shifts slightly before opening his eyes and settling them on Dunk, who offers him a small, automatic smile in return. The boy looks tired, the kind of tired that comes from sleeping lightly rather than not sleeping at all, his body not fully at rest in the position he has ended up in.

“Duncan, you’re back,” Aegon murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep as he rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’ll take you to bed, little lord,” Dunk tells him gently.

The nickname is a quiet joke between them, something that had formed without much intention on Dunk’s part, after one long afternoon in which Aegon had spoken at length—without pause, without losing interest—about his family’s history, recounting how his grandfather, Daeron Targaryen, had served as prime minister for two consecutive terms and then again some years later, and how, if one traced their lineage far enough back, it led to the old royalty of Westeros. Dunk had listened the entire time, not interrupting, letting the boy speak as much as he wanted, and by the end of it Aegon had started calling him “Ser,” half-serious, half-playing at something he clearly enjoyed, and Dunk, in turn, had answered by calling him “little lord.”

Not long after that, he had overheard Mr. Crakehall and another guard referring to Aerion as “princeling,” the word passing between them with a kind of careless amusement that made Dunk pause. It did not carry anything close to the quiet fondness with which he called Aegon his own little lord.

Dunk lifts Aegon into his arms, the nine-year-old weighing almost nothing to him, and as he adjusts his hold, he glances back toward Daeron and suggests, quietly, that he should get some rest as well, or at least take Rhae and Daella back to their beds. Daeron tells him he will, his tone easy, but Dunk is not entirely convinced and suspects he will need to check on that promise later, once things settle—if they settle at all.

When he steps out into the corridor with Aegon, the voices from the study are no longer as loud as before. There is still something ongoing between Maekar and Aerion, a conversation in the loosest sense of the word, but the door is now closed, and whatever is being said reaches him only in fragments, blurred and indistinct. Aegon shifts slightly in his arms, settling more comfortably against him.

Dunk carries him to his room and lowers him carefully onto the bed, adjusting him so his head rests properly against the pillow, making sure he does not stir too much in the process.

“How was school?” Aegon asks, his eyes only half open, his voice soft with sleep.

Dunk exhales quietly, a small breath, before answering.

“It was fine, Egg,” he says in a low voice, keeping it gentle so as not to pull him fully awake now that he is so close to sleep. “Get some rest. You heard Daeron—you’re going to the summer house tomorrow.”

“Are you coming?” Aegon asks, the words slower now, already slipping.

Dunk hesitates for a fraction of a second. He is not sure. This feels like something too contained and private, the kind of situation where his presence might no longer be required once the immediate problem has been handled, but he does not let that uncertainty reach his voice.

“Of course,” he answers softly. “If I’m needed.”

That seems to be enough. Aegon’s eyes close fully, his breathing evening out almost immediately.

Dunk remains in the room a while longer, even once he is certain the boy is asleep, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, letting the quiet settle around him. He sits with it, with the stillness, as if trying to steady himself through it, hoping that if he stays long enough, the anxiety that followed him through the house will ease, if only enough for him to sleep for a few hours before everything begins again— because if what Daeron said is true, the house will not wake slowly in the morning.

Dunk eventually pushes himself up from the chair, careful in the way he moves so as not to disturb the quiet, his gaze lingering for a moment longer on Aegon’s sleeping form as if to confirm that the boy will remain that way once he is gone, and for a second he considers staying there, if only because it is the only place in the house that does not feel strained.

But it is not his room, and staying would mean falling asleep in a place where he is not meant to, so he steps back instead.

The corridor feels different the moment he is back in it.

The lights remain on, casting an even glow across the long stretch of carpet and polished wood, and for a moment Dunk simply stands there, adjusting to it, listening without meaning to. The study has gone silent. Not completely—there is still something, the low murmur of voices and calls—but the sharp edge from before is gone, dulled into something harder to read from a distance. The door must be fully closed now.

Dunk exhales slowly and turns in the direction of his room, intending this time to follow through, to leave it at that.

He does not get far.

Near the far end of the corridor, one of the kid’s bathrooms stands open, the lights left on, the tap running without pause, and more than anything, Aerion Targaryen inside it, breathing unevenly, his shoulders rising and falling in small, irregular motions that catch on quiet hiccups, his jaw clenched tight as he scrubs at his hands with more force than necessary, as if trying to strip away not only the trace of acetone but something that Dunk suspects has less to do with the polish and more to do with his father’s grip.

Aerion mutters under his breath, the tone suggests the kind of things he did not say earlier, or could not, and his breathing tangles in on itself again before breaking into a small, sharp sound that does not manage to stay contained.

Dunk approaches slowly, the knot of anxiety returning with the same ease with which it had faded in Aegon’s room, and though the door is wide open, he does not step inside, does not cross that threshold, instead stopping at the frame and resting there, one hand briefly touching the wood as if to steady himself before he speaks.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice careful and his gaze dropping briefly to what he can see of Aerion’s hands in the mirror. “Are you hurt?”

Aerion’s eyes snap to him through the mirror, catching his reflection rather than turning to face him directly, and there is something in the look he gives him that is closer to a rabid dog than a teenage boy.

He shuts the tap off with a hard twist of his wrist.

“Why would I not be alright, you idiot?” he says, the words coming out fast, biting. “What would hurt me? A bit of acetone?”

A short, dry laugh follows, rough at the edges, and Dunk does not move, does not answer, simply watches.

“That would only hurt if I had some open wound on my hands,” Aerion continues, his voice tightening, “if there was anything to sting.”

Dunk considers leaving then, taking the answer as it is offered, turning back toward his room and letting the moment close on its own, because this is not his place and never has been, but then Aerion’s breath catches again, breaking through whatever composure he is trying to force into place.

“If I had—” Aerion starts, and stops, another hitch interrupting him. “If my fingers were— or if I bit my nails or—”

He cannot finish it, his gaze dropping to his own hands as if they have become something unfamiliar.

In the months Dunk has spent in this house, he has never seen Aerion like this, has never seen him cry, not when he argued, not when he bled, not even the time he had his tongue pierced after convincing a half-drunk Daeron to lend him his ID. This is different, and for a moment it leaves Dunk uncertain in a way he does not often feel. He steps forward despite himself, closing the distance enough to reach him, and when he does, he places his hands beneath Aerion’s simply holding them there.

Up close, the difference between them is unavoidable. Dunk’s hands are large, rough, marked by work, while Aerion’s are pale, the skin thinner, the edges of his nails reddened where the polish has been removed too harshly. There is irritation there, a rawness at the cuticles where Aerion probably bites himself without meaning to, but nothing that should account for the way his breathing breaks, for the tears that have already begun to dry against his skin.

Dunk exhales slowly and allows Aerion a few seconds to breathe without interruption before letting go of his hands, though not entirely stepping away, as he brings one of his own up to rest against Aerion’s shoulder and bends slightly at the waist, just enough to try and catch his eyes, searching for that familiar shade of lilac of the boy, Dunk supposes, is also, in some way, his little lord.

“You need to rest,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

He does not insist beyond that, he gives Aerion the space to move first, which he does after a moment, though not with any real acknowledgment, just a slight shift of weight that turns into a step toward the corridor; Dunk reaches back to turn off the bathroom light and pulls the door mostly closed behind them before following a step behind, resting a hand on Aerion’s shoulders as if to ground him.

“I don’t need you to,” Aerion mutters, the complaint automatic, lacking force, and yet he does not stop Dunk from reaching past him to open the bedroom door once they arrive, does not tell him to leave then.

Aerion pauses just past the threshold, squeezing his eyes shut as he draws in a controlled breath and with an irritated movement of his shoulder he shrugs off Dunk’s hand as if the contact itself has become disgusting; Dunk lets his hand fall without resistance while Aerion drags his palm across his own eyes in a harsher motion, wiping at any remaining trace of tears with more force than necessary.

When he looks up again, whatever had cracked open earlier is gone, sealed over so quickly it might never have existed. His expression sets into something colder—the rabid dog coming back to bite—his gaze fixed on Dunk with focused hostility. Before Dunk can say anything, Aerion lifts his hand and presses a finger hard into the center of Dunk’s chest.

Dunk steps back on instinct, more out of caution than fear, but Aerion follows immediately, closing the distance again with the same insistence, driving him backward into the room.

“Don’t you dare open your mouth,” Aerion says, each word edged. Dunk takes another step back, crossing the threshold without quite meaning to, and still Aerion presses forward, not allowing that space to hold. “Do you think you can make easy money off this?” he continues, the accusation landing before Dunk fully understands it. “Sell a story?”

For a second, Dunk simply stares at him, caught off guard by the direction of it, the thought having never crossed his mind.

“I wouldn’t—I don’t—” he starts, but Aerion cuts across him by stepping forward again, lifting his foot just enough to push the door shut behind them with a dull, final sound.

Dunk feels something in his chest tighten at that and it makes him raise his hands slightly, palms open, an instinctive attempt to calm him before this escalates further.

“I respect your family,” he says, choosing the words carefully, keeping his voice steady even as Aerion’s anger sharpens in front of him.

“My family?” Aerion snaps, the words coming out full of poison. “To the seventh hell with my family.”

He leans in just slightly, not enough to touch again, but close enough to make the point of it clear, his gaze fixed on Dunk.

“You’re supposed to respect me,” he adds, slower this time, each word placed with intention. “My father hired you for me.”

Aerion lets out a short, bitter laugh and he turns his head just enough to look at Dunk properly, his breathing mostly under control again even if there is still a trace of it left in the tightness of his jaw; he lifts one pale eyebrow, the piercings along it catching the light as they had in the bathroom, and Dunk, standing just inside the room where Aerion had effectively driven him, finds himself thinking why would Aerion insist on altering a pretty face like that, what he thinks it adds.

“What,” Aerion says after a moment, his voice steadier now, “you escort everyone to bed now?”

Dunk does not answer.

“Or just the ones who cry in front of you?” he adds, tilting his head slightly, watching for a reaction that does not come, and when Dunk remains where he is, neither retreating nor advancing, Aerion’s mouth pulls into something that is not quite a smile.

“You feel important?” he asks, quieter this time, and he moves again, slower now, until he is close enough that Dunk has to tilt his head down slightly to keep him in view.

Dunk exhales through his nose, steadying himself before answering, unwilling to match the tone being set in front of him.

“You’re tired,” he says, voice low and even. “That’s all.”

Aerion’s expression tightens almost immediately.

“That’s all?” he repeats, the words flatter now, and he takes another step forward, enough to force Dunk back a fraction whether he means to or not. Dunk shifts his weight but does not fully step away this time, holding his ground just enough to keep from being pushed further into the room.

“Yes,” he says again, just as steady. “That’s all.”

Aerion lets out a low, mocking hum, as if he is actually weighing what Dunk has said, though the look that follows makes it clear he is not, his eyes lifting through his lashes in a way that feels deliberate, and the smile he offers is not a real one, not anything close to it; Dunk knows better than to mistake it for that. It is something thicker, slower, almost cloying, like honey that lingers too long on the palate, sweet at first glance but too heavy, something that sticks.

“You don’t have to pretend, you know,” Aerion says, almost offhand, as though the thought has only just occurred to him and as he speaks he steps forward again, closing the last bit of distance between them before placing his hands against Dunk’s chest, his palms flattening briefly as if testing something, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. “You’ve been staring.”

His hands shift upward drifting closer toward Dunk’s neck without quite reaching it, and Dunk moves before the gesture can settle into anything more, catching him by the wrists and pulling his hands away from his body.

“Aerion—” he starts, the name coming out quiet, more a warning than a reprimand.

“Is this the part where you act like you’re better than the rest of them?” Aerion cuts in before he can continue and he tilts his head slightly, his tongue passing over his teeth in a restless, habitual motion that clicks faintly on the piercing there.

Aerion wrenches his wrists free from Dunk’s grip only to place his hands on him again almost immediately, as if the contact itself is something he refuses to lose, his palms sliding over Dunk’s chest, then lower, tracing the line of his abdomen in a slow, deliberate motion that feels like something he has done before and expects to work again.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, and there is a shift in his tone now, something smoother.

Dunk understands it, more than he wants to admit. Aerion is not difficult to look at, and he knows how to soften himself when it suits him, how to tilt his head just enough, how to let his voice settle into something easier to follow; Dunk has seen it before, directed at other people, watched it land exactly as intended, and it is not hard for him to see how, in different circumstances, without the red around his eyes and the unsteady edge to his breathing, Aerion could be genuinely attractive.

Aerion steps closer, closing the distance until there is no space left to close, small warm body pressing lightly against Dunk’s and he feels one of Aerion’s hands move higher, fingers catching briefly at the back of his neck where his hair grows longer, curling slightly at the ends; Dunk exhales slowly through his nose.

“Aerion,” he repeats, and this time he reaches for him again, catching his wrists and pulling them away from his body before they can settle anywhere else. “That’s enough.”

He knows what the boy is trying to do, or at least what he thinks he is trying to do but what he does not understand is how Aerion cannot see that it is not working, that whatever effect he is aiming for is undercut by everything that came before it.

“Let go,” Aerion mutters when he fails to pull free this time, his voice losing some of that practiced ease as he twists against Dunk’s grip.

“No,” Dunk answers, just as firm. “Stop it.”

Aerion pulls again, harder this time, and when that fails, something in him shifts, the control he was trying to project giving way to something more erratic; he jerks sharply, trying to wrench himself free, and when Dunk adjusts his grip to keep him from doing it, Aerion’s frustration spills over into movement, into force.

He drives his knee forward, aiming without precision, then again when that doesn’t land properly, his hands no longer reaching but pushing, striking where they can, his foot coming down hard in an attempt to catch Dunk’s, to unbalance him; Dunk absorbs it, more out of size than skill, tightening his hold enough to keep him from slipping away while trying not to escalate it further.

“Don’t do that thing,” Aerion snaps, his voice breaking through the movement, “where you act like you’re above it all.”

Dunk barely has time to register the words, his focus split between keeping hold of him and making sure the noise does not carry beyond the room, his jaw tightening slightly as Aerion twists again, more force behind it now.

“You think I don’t know what they say?” Aerion continues, the words coming faster, tripping over themselves as he struggles against him, his nails digging where they can reach, catching against Dunk’s wrist. “They all look at me like I’m a fuck-up, like I ruin everything.”

“Aerion—stop,” Dunk says again feeling the strain in the way Aerion pushes back, not strong enough to break free but relentless in a way that makes it harder to contain.

“It was just a party, I—” Aerion cuts himself off, his breath catching in his chest, the words faltering not because Dunk stops him but because he runs out of air, out of control. “I don’t ruin everything, that’s not true.”

“You’re not making sense,” Dunk tells him trying to cut through whatever spiral he has worked himself into.

“Oh, I’m not making sense?” Aerion lets out a short, sharp laugh that doesn’t hold any humor, the sound dry and off-balance, and for a second it throws Dunk more than the struggle itself. “Right. That’s the problem.”

He manages to free one of his hands just enough to shove at Dunk’s chest, the force of it landing square in the center, and Dunk swallows a groan, still attempting to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible.

“I said stop,” Dunk repeats, and this time there is more weight behind it.

When Aerion lunges again—less coordinated now—Dunk stops trying to match him piece by piece and instead uses what he has been holding back, shifting his grip to catch both of Aerion’s arms properly, locking them in place before pulling him in and turning the movement into something tight; he steps forward as Aerion is forced back. The bed catches him a second later, the mattress dipping under the impact as Dunk pushes him down onto it, following just enough to keep him there without putting his full weight on him, holding his arms steady until the fight bleeds out of them.

“Enough,” Dunk says, his breathing heavier than before, his grip unyielding even as Aerion continues to struggle for another second, then another.

Then it stops.

The resistance falters first in small ways, in the way Aerion’s movements lose their aim, then in the way his breathing breaks again, not from exertion alone but from something that Dunk hasn’t caused, something that had been there from the start and never really left.

He does not let go immediately. He waits, watching him, making sure the fight is actually gone this time before easing his grip, not releasing him completely but loosening it enough that it no longer holds him down, only keeps him from starting again.

“Just—” Dunk starts, then stops himself, adjusting instead, his voice softening as he steadies his breathing. “Just lie still.”

“Please, just get off me,” Aerion says, his tone suddenly flat, like he is no longer fully there. Dunk releases him slowly, watching for any sign that he might start struggling again, but Aerion doesn’t move; he stays where he is on the bed, his expression becoming tight and bitter, his lips pressed into a thin line, and for a few seconds the silence between them stretches without either of them knowing what to do with it.

“I’m not a failure,” Aerion says again, quieter this time, as if repeating it makes it more real. Dunk finds himself wondering whether Aerion actually regrets what happened at the party or only the fact that he was seen. He hasn’t heard him apologize, not once, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

“I don’t think you are,” Dunk answers, because there isn’t much else he can offer.

Aerion’s gaze shifts toward him briefly, unreadable, and then away again.

“Sleep with me,” he says, the words coming out without buildup, catching Dunk off guard, and for a second, he genuinely considers leaving, stepping back, going to his own room. “Please,” Aerion adds, softer now, so low that Dunk almost misses it at first, the word slipping out like something half-formed, a small mumble; in the space it takes Dunk to process it, Aerion starts to push himself up again, like he’s already preparing for the refusal.

“Stay down,” Dunk cuts in, the words coming out more urgent than he intended, and he shifts forward before Aerion can fully get up, not forcing him back this time, just stopping him from moving away. “Just—stay. I’ll stay.”

He fumbles slightly over the rest of it, not used to negotiating things like this, especially not with someone like Aerion, and after a brief, awkward pause he lowers himself onto the bed beside him, keeping enough distance to make it clear that he’s there without pressing in; the mattress is wide enough that it doesn’t feel cramped, even with both of them on it.

“I asked you to lie down, not to propose,” Aerion mutters after a moment, rolling his eyes in a way that almost feels automatic, like muscle memory kicking back in now that the worst of it has passed, and he turns onto his side, putting his back to Dunk.

Dunk exhales quietly, staring up at the ceiling before letting his head fall back against the pillow, not entirely comfortable but staying anyway.

He stays tense, unable to fully settle into sleep in Aerion’s bed, his body held in a kind of quiet alertness that refuses to let go, and he finds himself trying to regulate his breathing under the vague, irrational notion that if he breathes too loudly it might wake Aerion, might disturb him, might undo whatever fragile calm has finally taken hold. So he keeps himself as still as he can manage, eyes open in the dim light, letting them wander across the room in search of something to focus on, something that might keep his mind from circling back to everything that happened earlier; he wonders briefly how late it is, knowing it was already late by the time he put Aegon to bed.

The walls are not as bare as he would have expected. Aerion has things pinned up—photos, posters—and Dunk realizes he had never paid much attention to Aerion’s room, not even the times he had opened Aerion’s door at night to check he hadn’t left. Underneath it all, he can still see the carved wood paneling, polished and expensive and below that, at the foot of the bed, there is a loose pile of clothes that shifts slightly in the low light, enough that it almost looks like something alive before his eyes adjust and it settles back into something ordinary, just another thing left behind for someone else to take care of. There is too much of everything, he thinks—too many clothes, too many objects, too many things that will have to be sorted through by someone who is not Aerion—and he finds himself wondering, without much direction, what Aerion will choose to take with him when they leave for the summer estate.

The bed itself feels too large, larger than anything Dunk has ever slept in, easily wider than a queen, and he cannot help but think that no one really needs this much space, not even someone like Aerion. The sheets shift softly beside him when Aerion moves in his sleep, the sound quiet but noticeable in the stillness, and Dunk turns his head just enough to look without moving the rest of his body; Aerion shifts again, closer this time, not waking, just drifting, until he bumps lightly against Dunk’s side, the contact small but enough to stop him there. He doesn’t pull away. Dunk watches him for a moment longer than he means to, a faint, unspoken hope settling in him that, despite everything, Aerion might actually be resting.

Dunk remains where he is, awake, unmoving, letting the time pass without keeping track of it, not quite comfortable, just like that, eyes open in the dark, simply staying.

Embarrassment follows quickly behind, his hand withdrawing abruptly as he shifts beneath the covers, pulling them higher without quite knowing what he is trying to conceal.

“Baelor, I—”

His brother’s brows lift slightly at the sound of his name, something faintly amused flickering there before it softens into something more familiar and he leans forward just enough to close the distance between them, his hand coming to rest against Maekar’s forehead.

“You look better,” Baelor says, his tone light. “The fever seems to be giving you some relief.”

Maekar exhales slowly beneath the touch, his eyes falling shut again as he allows it, allowing Baelor to take up more space without protest.

“How do you feel?” Baelor asks.

“If this is what being an alpha feels like, then poorly. I don’t know how you manage it,” Maekar replies, his own hand lifting to rest over Baelor’s, pressing it there with an absent sort of tenderness.

The scent of him—smoke, wood, and blood orange—settles around Maekar more fully now, and he draws in a deeper breath, instinctively seeking more of it.

“Baelor… do I smell wrong?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter, almost uncertain, the question coming from a fragile place. Baelor lets out a soft, amused breath.

“You smell sweet, actually,” he says. “You could do with a bath after sweating this much, but it’s not bad.” Sweet. Maekar frowns faintly at that, something in the word not aligning with what he has always been told an alpha should be.

“Like plums and leather,” Baelor continues, as though it is a simple observation. “And a bit of smoke—seems all Targaryens carry that, one way or another.”

Maekar tries to follow, but his thoughts begin to loosen again at the edges, no longer holding as firmly as they had a moment ago. He should be clearer than this. He feels his head clearer. And yet—

Without thinking, his lips part.

It is a small movement, natural, and he does not question it at first, only dimly aware that this is how relief comes, that this is how it has come before, even if he cannot fully place when or how. His mouth remains open, expectant.

Baelor stills.

For a fraction of a moment, something in him tightens and then he moves again, slower now, his hand shifting to Maekar’s chin, guiding it upward with care, his thumb brushing lightly over his lower lip. He breathes in through his nose, shoulders held steady, as though he was trying to contain something.

Maekar feels the press of Baelor’s thumb between his lips, and it’s simply familiar, something already known and the scent around him deepens—orange turning sharper, heavier, almost overwhelming in its closeness.

Too much.

The air feels thicker in his lungs, his chest tightening as though he cannot draw in enough of it, his pulse quickening until he can hear it in his ears, loud and insistent, and something in him recoils all at once.

No—no, this is—

“Wait—” he manages, his hands coming up to catch Baelor’s wrist, pushing weakly trying to create distance, to stop whatever this is before it continues. “No—what are you doing?”

“Maekar, don’t worry—”

But he does not listen.

The unease sharpens into something closer to alarm, his body twisting beneath the covers, not entirely coordinated, but driven by the need to pull away.

“Don’t make it worse,” Baelor says, still calm, still controlled, as though nothing has changed.

“Make what worse?” Maekar’s voice breaks, the desperation in it surprising even to himself. “You’ve— you’ve been coming to my chambers, haven’t you?”

The words land between them, heavier than anything that has been said so far. Why him? Why must Baelor, of all people, mock him like this? Coming into his chambers when he cannot even think just to ridicule him?

“Shh,” Baelor murmurs, attempting to soothe him, his tone steady, grounding. “You don’t want it to hurt, do you?”

“Hurt? What’s going to hurt?” Maekar snaps, frustration overtaking the confusion now, anger easier to hold onto than fear. What is there left to hurt? His body? It’s been doing nothing else for weeks—He cannot imagine it can get worse; it cannot hurt more than what he’s enduring.  He breaks off, breath uneven, the sensation beneath his skin rising again, that same restless, invasive heat that refuses to settle cleanly.

Baelor watches him for a moment, then exhales quietly.

“Your heat, Maekar,” he says at last, voice low, certain. “I can smell it. You’re going into heat.”

Maekar stills. Heat? No. That’s wrong.

That isn’t—

“That’s not possible,” he says immediately, the denial quick. “I’m an alpha. I’m going into rut, not—”

Nothing feels right, and the panic tightens around his chest until he cannot draw a full breath, each inhale falling short before it reaches his lungs. He is crying—he knows it distantly, can feel the salt of it as tears slip down his cheeks and reach his lips—and his hormones surge in response, thrown further into disarray by the distress. His entire body turns defensive, reacting before he can think through it, and he begins to sob, the sound breaking out of him with a desperation he cannot contain.

“Maekar, breathe,” Baelor says, and there is real concern in his voice now as he takes hold of his shoulders, trying to steady him, to make him focus. “Look at me. I need you to breathe.”

A hand moves to his chest, firm and grounding, and Maekar feels the broad press of his brother’s palm against his skin, guiding the motion—pressing lightly, then easing, setting a rhythm for him to follow. His breaths come uneven at first, catching into small, fractured inhales as he tries to both pull air into his lungs and push Baelor away at the same time, his hands weakly grasping at his wrist, but Baelor does not withdraw. He stays, steady and unyielding, holding him there until the rhythm begins to settle, until Maekar can breathe on his own again.

Even then, he does not let go.

“Good. That’s better,” Baelor murmurs, quieter now, and Maekar feels it then—the subtle release of pheromones, controlled, deliberate, meant to soothe rather than overwhelm. “You see? It settles when you listen.”

Maekar shakes his head again, the movement small but insistent. He doesn’t understand—he cannot understand—this cannot be another failure of his own body, another way in which he has gone wrong. Everything feels misaligned, incorrect, and the only instinct left to him is to retreat, to disappear, to hide somewhere no one will see him like this.

For the first time, he can smell himself.

Sweet—just as Baelor had said—but now tainted, sharpened by panic, something raw and exposed in it that makes his stomach twist. It clings to the air around him, heavy enough that if he can notice it, then anyone can. Anyone who steps into this room will know. They will breathe it in and understand immediately.

That he is not—

That he is—

His throat tightens painfully.

“Maekar, sweet brother, please—you’re worrying me.” Baelor is still there, still trying to ground him.

“No,” Maekar says, the word breaking apart under the weight of his breath, his voice unsteady, thick with tears. “You mock me.”

The accusation lands blandly, but it is all he has to hold onto.

“You’ve been coming into my chambers,” he continues, forcing the words out despite the way they catch in his throat, “watching me—while I… while I presented wrong.”

He swallows and it hurts.

“I would never do that, Maekar,” Baelor answers immediately, firm, certain.

“Then why?” The question comes sharper, more desperate now. Why would he be there? Why would he take advantage of him in that state, confused, fevered—treat him like something lesser, something to be handled, used. Why would he spit on him as if he were nothing more than some whore?

Before Maekar can continue, before the thought can fully form into something he can say aloud—

Baelor leans in and kisses him. He doesn’t go rough; he tries not to scare him. Baelor holds Maekar carefully, trying to avoid pushing him further into panic—and yet it does. Because it is familiar.

Maekar feels it immediately, the same presence he has known without knowing, the same taste, the same closeness, the same overwhelming sense of being surrounded by Baelor’s alpha scent—wood, smoke, blood orange—stronger now, unmistakable.

It settles over him, through him, the same way it has every night.

And beneath it, that same response follows.

His breath stutters, then steadies against his will, his body reacting even as his mind recoils, the panic loosening at the edges despite everything in him that insists it should not. His lips part slightly against Baelor’s—his body already knows this, already responds to it—and that is what frightens him most. Because it means this was never a dream. And it means he has been letting it happen.

Maekar cannot fail again. He cannot shame his mother—worse, his father. He is meant to stand equal to his brothers, meant to be an alpha, meant to reach them. And yet his body betrays him the moment it is placed near a fully presented alpha; he feels it, unmistakable, the way his body responds to Baelor’s presence, the slick gathering between his legs, the way his muscles loosen against his will.

For the first time in his life, he thinks he hates Baelor.

He forces himself to act, to stop this, pushing against Baelor with what strength he can gather, and when he finally breaks the contact he strikes him—his fist connecting cleanly with Baelor’s cheek. He does not want to do it, but the anger is too immediate, burning through the confusion.

His brother’s alpha presence has been poisoning him, shaping his presentation without his understanding, and even if Baelor believed he was helping, he has planted something inside Maekar that has now taken form in the worst way possible.

“You—” Maekar’s voice shakes despite himself. “You did this.”

He does not know if Baelor understands the full extent of what he has done, and for a moment, he almost hopes he does not, that this was ignorance.

“You think you get to decide what I am?”

Baelor does not hesitate.

“Yes.”

Maekar stills completely. For a few seconds, everything goes quiet, as though the world has dropped away from him. Baelor does not deny it, does not soften it, and the hand that settles against Maekar’s hip feels deliberate as Baelor shifts further onto the bed, closing the space between them again.

“You are my brother,” Baelor adds, as though that is reason enough. “You are like me.”

Maekar lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but there is nothing amused in it.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Baelor cuts in, more firmly now, his hand sliding upward, fingers pressing at the side of Maekar’s neck, holding him there, anchoring him in place. “You fight like I do. You think like I do. You hold yourself the same way.” His voice lowers, steadier, more certain. “You are not meant to end up like them.” Rhaegel. Aerys. The names do not need to be spoken.

Something tightens in Maekar’s chest.

“This—” he gestures weakly, his breath uneven, his body still betraying him in small, humiliating ways, “this is not like you.” Baelor watches him closely.

“It is,” he says. “It’s just wrong as it is now.” Maekar’s stomach drops at that.

“Wrong?”

Baelor’s hand shifts again.

“You were coming up misaligned,” he says, like he is explaining something simple, something obvious. “Your body didn’t know where to settle. It happens.”

It doesn’t. Maekar knows it doesn’t.

“I corrected it.”

Maekar stares at him, something close to disbelief breaking through the panic.

“You don’t get to—”

“I do.” Baelor does not raise his voice, he simply states it, calm and immovable. “That is my place.”

His thumb presses lightly at Maekar’s throat, over his glands, and Maekar’s breath stutters despite himself.

“I’m not lowering you,” Baelor continues almost patient. “I’m keeping you where you belong.”

Maekar shakes his head, but the movement is weak, unconvincing even to himself.

“This makes me less.”

“No,” Baelor says immediately, and this time there is something more in it, something closer to insistence. “This makes you mine.” Baelor dares to caress his cheek lovingly. “Closer,” Baelor adds, softer now. “Stronger. You won’t drift. You won’t end up apart from me.”

Maekar’s throat tightens, his thoughts scrambling to hold onto something solid, something that still makes sense.

When Baelor kisses him again, there is nothing gentle in it this time. It is not meant to soothe, not meant to calm, but to prove something, to assert it, his hand firm at Maekar’s waist as he presses him back into the bed and settles over him. The kiss is deeper, more insistent, and Maekar feels the difference, he feels Baelor’s tongue on his, licking the inside of his mouth, taking it all in.

Maekar makes a strained sound against his mouth, pushing at him, striking at him again in frustration, but Baelor does not stop, does not pull away, accepting every failed attempt at resistance. When Maekar’s hand connects with his cheek once more, Baelor only exhales through his nose, something close to a smile pulling at his mouth before he breaks the kiss just enough to shift lower.

“Get it out,” Baelor murmurs against his skin. “Let it all out.”

Maekar does not answer, cannot, his breath uneven as Baelor’s mouth finds his neck, the contact deliberate now. His hand comes up again, slower this time, less certain, hovering before it falls uselessly back against the sheets.

“Baelor—” he tries, but the name breaks apart as soon as it leaves him.

Baelor hums quietly, not stopping, one hand settling at the side of Maekar’s throat, thumb pressing lightly where his mating gland sits, already sensitive, already overactive. The reaction is immediate, involuntary, a sharp intake of breath that Maekar cannot control, his body responding faster than his thoughts can catch up.

“There,” Baelor says under his breath, almost approving. “You feel it.”

Maekar shakes his head, but it lacks force, his body already giving up in small ways, tension giving way in places he does not want it to, his breathing shifting unevenly as the sensation spreads.

“Don’t—” he manages, but it comes out thin, uncertain.

“You don’t even understand what your body is doing yet,” Baelor continues, his tone not mocking. “And you think you can control it on your own?”

His mouth returns to Maekar’s neck, closer now, right where the gland pulses beneath the skin and something in Maekar’s system giving way all at once. The heat that had been sitting low and unfocused suddenly surges, sharper, directed, settling deep in his body. Not fever, not this time. Heat.

Maekar stiffens as the realization hits, his eyes widening, his breath catching hard in his chest.

“No,” he says, but it comes out as something closer to a plea than denial. “No, that’s not—”

Baelor does not stop.

“You feel it,” he repeats.

The heat climbs his spine, settling at the back of his neck, spreading outward in slow, insistent waves that make it harder to think, harder to separate what he wants from what his body demands. His scent shifts with it, sweetening in a way that makes his stomach twist, his instincts pulling in directions that feel wrong, unfamiliar, humiliating. His legs spread before he can stop them, a reflex he does not recognize as his own, and when he tries to correct it, to force himself back into control, the sensation only sharpens, leaving him more aware of himself.

“Baelor—” This time his voice breaks fully.

Baelor lifts his head just enough to look at him, his expression steady, focused in a way that makes Maekar feel seen in a way he does not want to be.

“Stop fighting it like it’s beneath you,” Baelor says, not unkindly but firmly. “It’s yours.” Maekar stares at him, breathing uneven, his thoughts struggling to hold together as his body continues to respond without his consent, every instinct pulling him in directions he has spent his whole life rejecting.

“This isn’t—” he starts, but the words fail him.

Baelor leans down again, close enough that Maekar can feel his breath, his scent stronger now, wood and smoke and citrus wrapping around him.

“It is,” Baelor says quietly. “And I’m not going to let you tear yourself apart trying to deny it.”

Maekar’s resistance does not vanish, but it falters, thins at the edges, his body reacting despite himself, opening in small, unwilling ways as the heat continues to build, steady and unavoidable. Maekar feels slick gathering under him, and he feels a surge of disgust through him.

Baelor notices too. Of course he does. His hand shifts slightly, anchoring Maekar in place as he presses closer again, his voice lowering.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to understand it yet. You just need to stop fighting me.”

Maekar lets himself fall back against the bed, the restless movement finally leaving him as he goes still, his gaze fixed on Baelor while he removes his shirt, the heat clearly beginning to affect him as well, though he carries it differently, contained, Baelor’s body fully grown and matured. For a moment, Maekar considers the possibility—quiet, dangerous in its simplicity—that Baelor might be right, that perhaps he should stop resisting for once in his life, because has he not always been meant to stand beside him, to follow him, to be shaped in relation to him? Every lesson, every expectation placed upon him has always led back to Baelor in some way, learning to read and write so he might one day draft his brother’s letters as king, learning to wield a sword so he might stand as his shield or command his armies, every path narrowing toward the same point, toward him. And Baelor, in all that he is, in the certainty he carries, has he not always been good to him?

His gaze lowers without him fully deciding to move it, tracing over Baelor’s chest as though seeing it for the first time in years, noticing the differences that time and experience have carved into him, the broader build, the weight of training and battle settled into his muscles. Maekar does not realize when his hands lift, only that they do, his fingers finding Baelor’s skin, exploring without urgency, feeling the firmness beneath, the way the muscle shifts under his touch. There is something grounding in it, something real in contrast to the confusion that has consumed him, and when Baelor exhales softly, his eyes closing for a brief moment, there is a small, unexpected part of Maekar that wants to hold him there, to keep him in that state, to be the one who draws that reaction from him.

His lips part again without meaning to, the motion instinctive now, familiar in a way he does not want to examine too closely, and Baelor notices immediately, of course he does, leaning in without hesitation to close the distance between them once more. The kiss follows naturally, as though it had been expected all along, and this time Baelor allows it to unfold at a slower pace, giving Maekar space to touch him, to map him in return, his back, his arms, the breadth of him, while his own hands move with more certainty, more experience, returning the attention with deliberate care.

Maekar reacts to every point of contact whether he wants to or not, his body far more sensitive than it should be, his heat sharpening every sensation until even the smallest touch feels amplified, his system responding in ways that feel both foreign and unavoidable. Each pass of Baelor’s hands seems to draw something out of him, a shift in his breathing, a quiet reaction he cannot fully suppress, his instincts pulling him closer despite the conflict still present in his thoughts, urging him toward the alpha in a way that feels deeply ingrained, impossible to ignore.

Baelor’s movements adjust to it without comment, allowing Maekar’s body to follow where it is already inclined to go, as though this is not a change at all, but something that had always been waiting to surface.

When Baelor finally touches his cock, Maekar feels like crying. He is hard and dripping with precum; he feels so disgusting, covered in sweat and slick, the bed dirtied with the evidence of past days. Baelor kisses him again while he strokes him, and Maekar feels foreign inside his own body, touching himself has never felt like this before. Part of him feels conflicted again, the changes too real, too evident in front of him, but right as he is about to voice another concern, Baelor begins playing with his cock, a thumb pressing softly on his cockhead before coming down again, his hand even wetter than before, stroking him just right.

Maekar grips the sheets, his knuckles turning white, and attempts to close his legs. The sensation is too much, he is feeling dizzy, he wants to pull away and lean into the touch at the same time, and then, because he is sure Baelor is attempting to drive him mad, he watches as his brother lets a drop of spit, gradually and without realizing Maekar is staring, fall right onto his cock, adding to the mess and friction.

It builds too quickly for him to understand it, that is the first thing Maekar notices, that there is no gradual climb he can brace himself against only a mounting pressure that gathers low in his body and then rises all at once, sharp and consuming, until it feels like there is no space left inside him for anything else.

He tries to hold onto himself, onto something that feels like control, but it slips through him just as easily as everything else has these past days, his breath catching unevenly, his hands tightening uselessly in the sheets as his body reacts without waiting for permission, without asking him what he wants. It is wrong, that is the thought that tries to form, wrong in a way he does not know how to fix, because it does not feel like the solid, contained release he had always imagined an alpha’s body would grant him, it feels open, overwhelming, spreading through him rather than resolving him.

“Don’t fight it,” Baelor’s voice comes, low and steady, close enough that it cuts through the noise in his head. “Just like that.” He says as he continues to stroke him.

Maekar shakes his head, though it is weak, uncoordinated, because he does not know how not to fight it, not when it feels like something is being taken from him and reshaped. His thoughts flicker, disjointed, catching on fragments that no longer hold the same weight—his place at court, the expectations placed on him, the certainty that he was meant to stand beside his brothers as an alpha, equal, unyielding.

Instead, his body softens under the force of it.

The sensation crests suddenly, not contained but spilling through him, forcing a broken sound from his throat that he cannot suppress, his entire body tensing and then giving way in the same moment, the release hitting him harder than anything he has known before, he comes all over himself and Baelor’s hand in white ropes that feel warm, his body convulsing with it.

It feels… different. It lingers, warm and disorienting, leaving him more aware of himself, not less, his body still reacting in small, uncontrollable ways even after the peak has passed, as though it has not fully settled, as though it has not finished with him yet.

“That’s it,” Baelor murmurs, and there is something in his tone that sounds almost satisfied, not with himself, but with Maekar, as though this outcome had been expected all along. “You see? Your body knows what it’s doing.”

Maekar exhales unevenly, his chest rising and falling as he tries to steady himself, but the heat does not leave him, it only shifts, settling lower, deeper, leaving him sensitive in a way that makes even the air against his skin feel like too much.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, his voice thin with exhaustion, though he is still unable to fall back asleep. Baelor remains focused, pressing slow, lingering kisses along his abdomen, as if guiding him through the lingering intensity of his post-orgasm.

“Mhm?” Baelor hums when he reaches his nipple, kissing it with a little more saliva than necessary.

“That,” Maekar says, gesturing weakly. “With your saliva.”

Baelor smiles against his chest and shifts, pulling Maekar closer into him, settling them into a loose half-embrace where Maekar can rest his head against Baelor’s chest, feel the steady beat of his heart, breathe him in more deeply, press closer without thinking.

“It gets your body used to me,” Baelor explains, as though it is simple. “You needed the incentive, since you weren’t developing the right parts.”

Under any other circumstance, Maekar might have pushed back against that answer, might have questioned it, rejected it outright, but now there is only the lingering sensitivity in his body, a tight, restless bundle of nerves that has not eased even after his orgasm, leaving him too aware, too unsettled to argue properly.

“Under different circumstances I would just stick my fingers in your mouth,” Baelor continues, his tone carrying a hint of something almost playful, something Maekar is certain he has never heard from him before, “but since your body needs as much of me as possible—” He finishes, taking his own fingers to his mouth to get them wet.

Maekar’s eyes cannot quite focus, his gaze dropping instead to Baelor’s lap, where he realizes his brother is hard beneath his briefs; he can feel Baelor’s now wet fingers traveling down his body, but his own curiosity pulls at him just as strongly. He wonders what it is like to touch him, a real alpha—he shakes his head slightly, correcting himself even in his thoughts, he wonders what it is like to touch Baelor.

Before he can reach out, he feels Baelor’s fingers pressing at his entrance, tentative at first, and Baelor’s own breath stutters when he realizes just how wet with slick his brother is. Maekar tenses at first, but Baelor notices immediately.

“Don’t,” he says. There is a pause, and then Baelor shifts closer, his free hand coming to Maekar’s hip like he is being kept exactly where he is meant to be.

“You don’t need to brace against me,” he continues, quieter now, though no less certain. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you.”

His body betrays him again when he feels one finger entering him slowly, easing in small increments, the tension not disappearing but shifting, softening under the steady presence of Baelor’s alpha scent.

“Good,” Baelor murmurs, almost approving, his thumb pressing lightly at his hip as though marking the moment.

He leans in closer as he speaks, his breath warm against Maekar’s skin, his presence surrounding him more fully now, closing the space that had existed between them before, and there is something almost obsessive in the way he lingers, in the way his attention is entirely fixed on him.

“I’ll take care of it,” he adds after a moment, softer, but with a conviction that does not leave room for doubt. “You don’t have to think about it. That’s my responsibility.”

Maekar’s fingers tighten weakly against the sheets, his thoughts struggling to keep pace with what is happening, with the way Baelor speaks as though this has already been decided. The finger moves and presses and Maekar is wet in places he shouldn’t be.

“You’re mine to handle,” Baelor continues, the words low, almost absent-minded as he toys with Maekar, “I won’t let it go wrong.”

His hand shifts again, more certain now, more accustomed to the way Maekar responds, and there is a growing heat in him that he does not bother to hide anymore, his control still present but thinner, he adds another finger and Maekar lets out a noise that goes straight to Baelor’s cock.

“Just stay like this,” he says, quieter again, but no less insistent. “Let me do it properly.”

He searches with his fingers, and he has experience in this, Maekar reminds himself, right as Baelor reaches a place he didn’t know he had inside of him. Maekar moans, loud and unashamed, the reaction pulled straight from his body, and Baelor tests it again, and again, repeating the motion until Maekar is clinging to him, almost shaking, hard once more, mumbling words Baelor cannot fully make out.Principio del formulario

Baelor turns him over, moving him as he pleases while continuing the steady work of his fingers, and Maekar finds himself yielding to it in a way that unsettles him even as it soothes him, his body gradually loosening, unfolding under the guidance as though it no longer belongs entirely to him, as though it recognizes something in Baelor that it is willing to follow without question. He can feel himself giving in piece by piece, tension slipping out of him in uneven waves, his resistance no longer something solid but something that flickers and weakens the longer Baelor keeps him there, keeps touching him with that same conviction that never falters.

There is a heaviness in his head that feels almost like drunkenness, thick and slow, and it deepens the more he breathes in Baelor’s scent, the more it surrounds him, settles into his lungs, into his thoughts, until it becomes difficult to separate what he feels from what is being drawn out of him. When Baelor pushes him down, pressing him forward until he is face down against the pillow, the shift disorients him for a moment, but it does not bring him back to himself, it only drags him further into it, into the haze that has been building inside him since the fever first began.

The fabric beneath his face is warm and damp, saturated with scent, and when he inhales he is met with it all at once—his own heat, sweet and sharp in a way that makes his stomach tighten, layered with Baelor’s, heavier now, more pronounced, thickened by arousal—and it is too much, it presses into him from every direction, leaving him no space to pull away from it, no way to escape it even if he wanted to. The realization flickers somewhere at the edge of his thoughts, that this is what he smells like now, that this is what he has become in this state, but it does not settle properly, it cannot take shape under the weight of everything else.

A sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled into the pillow, something low and unsteady that he does not recognize as his own at first, and his body responds to it in the same moment, tightening and then loosening again as Baelor continues. He presses his face further into the fabric without thinking, breath catching, and for a brief second there is a trace of something like shame, something like alertness—but it slips just as quickly as it comes, drowned out by the warmth spreading through him, by the way his body continues to answer in ways he cannot control.

The fingers leave him, and part of him wants to ask what is happening, why he would stop now, but the question never fully forms because he feels the weight of Baelor’s cock against his back. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps Baelor turned him onto his stomach to spare him the sight of his nakedness, but the thought settles quickly into something else, something much clearer—Baelor put him like this to mount him, just as one would mount an omega. He considers pushing himself up, the idea flickering weakly through his mind, but when Baelor places a hand on his hip to steady him, firm and grounding, Maekar chooses to remain exactly where he is.

He does not know how to describe the first push of Baelor’s cock, only that the contact draws a sound out of him immediately, a strained moan that makes him want to close his legs, an instinct that cannot be followed with his brother positioned behind him. Baelor moves slowly, pressing forward with intention, and Maekar lets out small, broken sounds with every inch that is forced into him, his body reacting before he can think to stop it, tightening and yielding in turns as the sensation builds.

“Agh—” he breathes, reaching back clumsily, trying to find him, to ground himself in something more than the overwhelming feeling, but his hand cannot quite reach in the position he is held in. “Ba—Baelor—”

Baelor catches his wrist before he can move further, guiding it back and pressing it firmly against his own back, using it to keep him in place as he finishes pushing in. Maekar gasps at the contact, the press of skin against skin sharp and burning in a way that makes his breath hitch. They stay like that for a second too long, Baelor waits for a reaction, observing how Maekar is taking it and when Maekar struggles against his hold once again he begins moving.

Baelor fucks him at a steady, deliberate pace, each time his hips meet Maekar’s ass forcing him further down into the mattress, pressing him deeper into the pillow and the sheets beneath him. His heat demands more, insists that he take it, that he give up, that he open himself fully to it without hesitation. Maekar has almost completely forgotten about his own cock, too consumed by the feeling of Baelor inside him, hitting that place that makes his body react uncontrollably, making more slick gather between his thighs, mixing with the precum that has already made a mess of him.

He reaches for himself with unsteady intent, the angle awkward, the strain pulling at his shoulder while his other arm remains trapped beneath Baelor’s hold, but he manages, barely coordinated, to wrap his hand around his cock. Baelor notices immediately, and there is something almost indulgent in the way he takes over, sparing Maekar the effort.

Baelor has him completely caged, his body pressed flush against his back, his chest solid and warm, his forehead resting against the nape of Maekar’s neck as if claiming the space entirely. The rhythm does not falter, relentless and controlled, paired with the firm movement of his hand working over Maekar’s cock. Maekar can hear him then—low, strained sounds slipping past Baelor’s control with every thrust, something close to a growl, something distinctly alpha, stripped of restraint.

When Baelor finally speaks, his voice is deeper, rougher, all composure gone.

“You feel it, don’t you,” he murmurs against his skin, licking some of the sweat off. “The way your body takes it…”

Maekar nods without thinking, the motion small and unfocused, driven more by sensation than understanding, his attention slipping, unable to hold onto the meaning of the words as long as Baelor keeps moving like that.

“You were never meant to be anything else,” Baelor continues, almost thoughtful. “You’ll make a perfect omega, Maekar. You already do.”

Maekar’s breath stutters, something in the words brushing too close to clarity. Baelor’s hand tightens slightly around him.

“When I knot you,” he adds, voice lowering further, more intent now, “you’ll see.”

That does it.

The words cut through the haze just enough, sharp and unmistakable, and something in Maekar’s body reacts before his mind fully catches up—not pleasure this time, not entirely, but something tighter, something closer to alarm threading through the heat.

A sound that almost resembles pain tears through Maekar’s throat, sharp enough to cut through the haze of his heat, through the pleasure Baelor has been forcing out of him. No—no, he can’t—Baelor can’t do this to him. Fear takes hold of him all at once, his scent turning bitter too quickly for him to control it. He can’t, his heart pulls painfully in his chest; he doesn’t want to disappoint Baelor, but he doesn’t want to be reduced to another failure, doesn’t want to be cast aside and forgotten in favor of alphas. Being an alpha was supposed to mean something, it was supposed to prove something—to himself, to his family, to the court. As an alpha he could stand equal to any lord who challenged him, as an alpha he could choose who to marry, as an alpha he would not bring shame to his house.

“Don’t knot me,” he pleads, his voice breaking as Baelor continues thrusting into him, faster now, more insistent. “Please—” The word cuts off into a helpless sound when Baelor pulls another orgasm from his already overstimulated cock.

Baelor groans against him, the sound low and deep, vibrating through every inch of Maekar’s body, and Maekar feels it echo inside him, overwhelming and inescapable. Baelor presses closer, kissing him, rubbing against him, trying to steady him, trying to coax that sweetness back into his scent, to overwrite the edge of fear with something softer, something that belongs to him.

Maekar’s breath comes uneven, breaking against itself as he tries to hold onto the thought, tries to anchor himself in it—don’t knot me, don’t do this, don’t make me into something I can’t undo—but it slips every time Baelor presses closer, every time that steady presence refuses to give him space to pull away, to think clearly, to gather himself into something solid again. His body betrays him first, it always does now, softening where it should resist, easing where it should fight, and that alone is enough to make panic claw higher in his chest, sharper, more desperate.Final del formulario

“You won’t lose your place,” Baelor finally says, he can feel the exact direction of Maekar’s thoughts. “You won’t fall behind me.”

Maekar’s eyes squeeze shut, breath catching, because that—that is his fear.

“You’ll stay where you belong,” Baelor says, softer, but more certain than anything else he has said. “Who else would do this for you?” Baelor murmurs, softer now, closer again. “Who else would understand what you need?”

Maekar’s thoughts falter there, not because he agrees immediately, but because he cannot find an answer, cannot picture anyone else stepping into this place, into this moment, into this role. Not Rhaegel. Not Aerys. Not anyone at court. No one who would see him like this and not turn away, or worse—use it.

“…Baelor,” he manages, the name quieter now, less a protest than it had been before. And that is the first real sign that he is giving in.

Sweet things are whispered into his ear, words that keep him afloat, small promises he wants to believe in, while steady hands move over him, tracing every scar, every sharp line of bone along his body, and then he feels it—the knot. Baelor groans deeply as he comes inside him, and Maekar can barely manage a sound when he feels the heat of it filling him.

The knot keeps them joined, intense and unyielding, making Maekar instinctively want to move, to escape the intrusion, but the moment he tries, Baelor’s arms tighten around him, possessive, holding him firmly in place, and Baelor lets out a low growl—warning enough. Maekar stills, then turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the side of his brother’s head, a quiet reassurance that he will not move again.

He is not sure he has ever felt like this before, his mind settling into something quiet, something peaceful, without urgency, without the constant weight that has followed him for weeks. He wonders if this is how it will feel every time he is knotted, if this sense of calm will always come after. Maekar hums softly, satisfied, the heat that had been coiled deep in his abdomen finally easing for the first time in what feels like forever, and he finds no desire to be anywhere else but here, under his brother, held securely in his arms.

Baelor’s hand moves slowly over him simply resting and then shifting in small, deliberate motions across his side, his hip, the curve of his waist, as though reacquainting himself with this version of Maekar; there is no urgency left in him now, only a steadiness that seeps into Maekar the longer he stays like this, pressed back into his brother’s chest, able to feel the rhythm of his breathing and the gradual slowing of it. It is strange, Maekar thinks, that this is what finally quiets his mind.

“You’ll feel it again,” Baelor says after a while, his voice lower now, not strained but softened by the comedown, the words spoken close enough that Maekar feels them more than he hears them. “In a few hours, maybe less. Your first heat won’t settle all at once.”

Maekar listens without answering immediately, his mind slower than usual, not clouded in the same way as before but still adjusting, still trying to follow what has happened and what it means beyond the immediate relief he cannot deny; the word heat sounds differently now, no longer something abstract or misplaced, but something that belongs to him whether he wants it to or not, something his body has already accepted even if his thoughts lag behind.

Baelor shifts slightly behind him, enough to ease the pressure without breaking the connection between them, his hand sliding up along Maekar’s side to rest briefly against his chest before moving again. “We’ll need to have a bath drawn before it rises again,” he continues. “And clean sheets. You won’t want to be in this when it starts again.”

There is no embarrassment in the way he says it and that alone makes it easier for Maekar to listen without recoiling; he glances down slightly, aware of the state of the bed, of himself, of the lingering warmth and dampness that speaks to everything he would have once found unbearable, and yet the reaction does not come as strongly as he expects, dulled by the lingering calm that Baelor seems intent on maintaining.

“I’ll have it done,” Baelor adds, almost as an afterthought, though the way his arm tightens briefly around Maekar suggests otherwise. “You won’t have to deal with it.”

Maekar lets out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and an acknowledgment, and for a moment he allows himself to remain there without pushing further; but it does not last, because the realization sits too heavily beneath everything else to be ignored for long, pressing up through the quiet with a persistence that demands to be named.

“I—” he starts, then stops, his throat tightening slightly as the words resist forming in a way that feels almost childish compared to everything else he has just endured. “What am I supposed to do now?”

It is not a vague question, not really, and Baelor does not treat it as one.

“With what?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows.

Maekar exhales again, slower this time, his fingers curling slightly against the sheets as though grounding himself before he forces the words out. “With them,” he says, and he does not need to clarify further. “Mother. Father. The court.”

The silence that follows is brief, but not empty; Baelor’s hand stills where it rests against him, simply pausing as though considering the weight of the question rather than dismissing it.

“They’ll see you,” Baelor says eventually. “Not what they expected, perhaps, but you all the same.”

Maekar lets out a small, humorless breath at that, the tension returning just enough to remind him that it has not disappeared entirely. “That’s not how it works,” he says. “It matters.”

“It matters to them,” Baelor agrees, without hesitation, and there is something almost dismissive in the way he says it, as though their expectations hold less weight than they should. “But it doesn’t change what you are, and it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Maekar feels Baelor’s arm shifts again, drawing him slightly closer without forcing him, reinforcing the point without needing to repeat it.

“You think they expected anything from you beyond what you could give?” Baelor continues. “They wanted an alpha, yes. They assumed it would be simple. It wasn’t. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” Maekar insists, though the edge in his voice is dulled by exhaustion rather than conviction.

Baelor exhales softly behind him. “You’re still theirs,” he says. “And you’re still mine.” And then he adds. “You won’t be alone in it,” Closer to a promise than a statement. “Not with them, not with anyone. I won’t leave you to manage it on your own.”

Maekar does not answer right away, not because he disagrees but because he is still trying to understand what it means to accept that, to let it stand without questioning it further; it would be easier to push back, to argue, to insist on something else, but the truth is that he does not want to pull away from what Baelor is offering, not now, not when his body still feels anchored by him.

It is only then, as he shifts slightly, that he notices it.

At first it is nothing more than a faint, metallic edge beneath Baelor’s scent, something that does not belong there, subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed if he were not already so attuned to it; but when he turns his head just enough to glance back, the source becomes clear. Baelor’s arm bears a mark, not clean, harsh, the skin broken where teeth have pressed too hard, the faint trace of blood already dried at the edges; he has turned his instinct inward, redirecting it away from Maekar.

For a moment, Maekar simply looks at it, his thoughts catching on the implication before they can fully form, before he can decide what to do with it.

“You—” he starts, then stops again.

Baelor does not follow his gaze immediately, but when he does, there is no attempt to hide it, no explanation offered before it is asked, as though he does not see it as something that requires one.

Maekar swallows, his throat tight for reasons he cannot fully name. “You didn’t—”

“No,” Baelor says simply, cutting him off before he can finish. “Not without you asking for it.” The answer is straightforward. “You’re not something to be taken like that,” Baelor continues after a moment, his hand shifting again to rest more securely against Maekar’s side.