The siege Aerion laid was relentless. He did not merely allow them to see, he put his sin on display like a trophy. The castle became a labyrinth of traps. Valarr once walked in on his father, Baelor, in the solarium, where he held Aerion against the window with his breeches undone while the guards’ rhythmic pace echoed just outside the wall. Daeron, seeking peace in the garden, stumbled upon Maekar forcing Aerion to his knees in the shade of ancient trees, his fingers tangled in his son’s silver hair with possessive cruelty.
Every such moment tore a piece from the princes' souls. But Matarys was the first to crack.
That night, he burst into Aerion's chambers without knocking. The room smelled of jasmine and scent of an omega that hung in the air like mist. Aerion lay on the bed, limbs sprawled, dressed only in a thin silk shirt that barely brushed his thighs.
"Do you enjoy watching, cousin?" Aerion’s voice was low, poisonous. He did not even sit up. "Or have you come to preach a sermon to me about our holy uncle’s honor?"
"Shut up," Matarys spat, lunging toward the bed. His face was burning. "You are corrupting them. You are ripping the spine out of this kingdom, turning my father and uncle into... into your curs!"
Aerion laughed. He rose slowly, his shirt slipping from one shoulder.
"They aren't curs, cousin. They are dragons. And dragons take what they want. You’re just angry because you lack the courage to admit you want the same thing. That you catch my scent and it drives you just as mad as it does them."
Matarys wanted to strike him, but when he grabbed Aerion by the collar, the other did not flinch. The omega leaned forward, crashing into Matarys’s lips with a hard, demanding kiss. For a heartbeat, Matarys froze, but then his rage twisted into into a primal lust he had been suppressing for weeks.
He shoved Aerion back onto the pillows, his hands roughly tearing the thin fabric of the shirt. Aerion only cried out in approval, pulling his legs up, inviting his cousin into his world of vice. Matarys acted blindly, his movements wild, stripped of Baelor’s knightly grace or Maekar’s cold method. He took Aerion as if trying to destroy him, sinking his teeth into the omega’s shoulder to stifle his own moans of shame.
Aerion writhed beneath him like a snake, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. When it was over, and Matarys’s heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, Aerion ran a hand across his sweaty brow.
"Now you are one of us," he whispered. "You can no longer judge them."
Matarys recoiled as if struck. He began to dress hurriedly, his hands shaking so violently he could barely fasten his belt buckle. He could not look at Aerion. Only one thought pulsed in his head: What have I done?
He crept out of the chambers, glancing around like a thief. The stench of his own arousal felt so thick he was certain anyone he met would know the truth.
The next morning, Matarys met Valarr and Daeron near the stables.
"You look terrible," Valarr remarked, his face pale from chronic lack of sleep. "Still awake because of what you saw?"
Matarys looked away, feeling bile burn his throat.
"Yes," he lied. "I couldn't get it out of my head. We have to do something about this, Valarr. It’s... it’s wrong."
He felt like the ultimate hypocrite. Every word about Baelor’s honor now felt like ash on his tongue. He knew that if Valarr ever learned of his deed, he would never forgive him. His brother believed in justice, while Matarys had just become part of the very darkness they intended to scatter.
Daeron felt as though he were drowning in wine, but even the strongest Arbor Gold could not wash the images of the past weeks from his memory. He had seen too much. But worst of all was the estrangement he felt from Matarys. His cousin had grown sullen, avoiding conversation, and smelled not of the training yard’s iron but of the same heavy, musky intoxicant as Aerion.
That night, Daeron could not sleep. The walls of the Red Keep whispered to him of sins. He wandered the dark corridors, clutching a half-empty bottle, until his feet led him to the Godswood. There, beneath the twisted branches of the weirwood, he saw Aerion.
"You’re drinking again, Daeron," Aerion’s voice rang out not as a reproach, but as an invitation.
Daeron stopped, breathing heavily. His eyes were clouded with tears of helplessness.
"You’re a monster, Aerion. You’ve destroyed them. You’ve destroyed Matarys. I see it in his eyes."
Aerion approached slowly, his steps noiseless. He reached out and took the bottle from Daeron’s fingers, taking a long swallow.
"I didn’t destroy them. I helped them. Maekar no longer has to be eternally second, and Baelor no longer has to be eternally perfect. They are just men, Daeron. Just like you. Full of fears and loneliness."
He stepped in close, and Daeron felt his brother’s warm breath on his lips. Aerion smelled of night flowers and hot skin.
"You fear your dreams, brother. Dragons burning the world. But here, with me, the fire doesn’t hurt. It warms."
Daeron wanted to push him away, but his body betrayed him. He was too weary from the struggle. When Aerion pulled him down onto the soft carpet of old leaves beneath the white tree, Daeron offered no resistance.
It was different than it had been with Matarys. There was no fury here, only despair and a thirst for oblivion. Aerion was gentle, but the gentleness was poisonous. He caressed Daeron, whispering in his ear that now he wouldn't need to drink to fall asleep. Daeron felt the last wall of his defense crumble. He wept, burying his face in Aerion’s neck, while the other simply stroked his head like a child’s, all the while clutching him.
Morning found Daeron in his bed. He didn't remember returning. His head throbbed, but a strange, dead emptiness reigned in his chest.
At breakfast, the table seemed like a battlefield where everyone hid their wounds.
Valarr sat at the head, haggard and alone. He looked at Matarys, who wouldn't raise his eyes from his plate, and at Daeron, whose hands were not shaking today for the first time, but whose gaze was focused on Aerion.
"Cousine," Aerion suddenly called out, cutting through the silence. "You are far too tense today. You should come with us to hunt in the Kingswood. Your father, my father... we will all be there."
Valarr raised his eyes. He saw Matarys flinch at the word "we," and saw Daeron quickly look away. He felt the circle tightening around him.
"I have business in the city," Valarr replied dryly, standing up. "Enjoy the hunt."
As he walked out, he felt Aerion’s gaze on his back. Aerion knew Valarr was the last one left. And he knew that sooner or later, the knight in golden armor would also bow his knee.
The Kingswood met them with the heavy gilding of autumn leaves and the icy breath of a wind that drove clouds in from the Narrow Sea. The hunt was meant to be a reprieve, but it had turned into a silent procession of shadows. Baelor and Maekar rode at the front, their horses flank to flank, and between them, atop a snow-white pacer, sat Aerion. He laughed, tilting his face toward the sparse rays of sunlight, and his laughter scattered among the oak trunks like a taunt.
Valarr, who was forced to join, kept to the rear, feeling the heavy stares of Matarys and Daeron. His brother and cousin rode on either side of him, yet a chasm had opened between them. Matarys's face was a frozen mask of shame, while Daeron stared into the void as if he were watching his own funeral. Valarr did not know of their nights with Aerion, but he felt something had snapped.
When the group halted for a rest near Deer Creek, Baelor and Maekar stepped away with their huntsmen to discuss the boar's trail. Aerion seized the moment. He sauntered over to Valarr, who stood by his horse checking the cinch.
"You look as if you carry all the Seven Kingdoms on your shoulders, cousin," Aerion whispered, stopping so close that Valarr could feel the heat of his body. The omega reached out, appearing to flick an invisible speck of dust from Valarr’s doublet. "Your father is so happy today. Haven't you noticed? He has finally stopped being merely a knight in an iron mask."
"Do not dare speak of my father," Valarr spat, catching Aerion’s hand. His fingers squeezed the slender wrist until it turned white. "I know what you are doing. You are poison, Aerion. You corrode everything you touch."
Aerion didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips nearly brushing Valarr’s ear. His eyes, violet and deep as twilight, burned with a manic fervor.
"Poison? Or perhaps the cure? Look at Matarys. Look at Daeron. They no longer fear the dark, Valarr. They have embraced it. You are the only one agonizing over a 'honor' that no one needs. Not even your father."
Valarr shoved him away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw Matarys watching them from a distance, his brother's gaze was a wild cocktail of envy and guilt. Daeron simply uncorked another bottle, tilting his head back so he wouldn't have to watch another prince begin to teeter on his pedestal.
A few more days passed. Valarr tried to avoid Aerion, but the omega was everywhere. His scent haunted Valarr in the corridors; his voice echoed in the snapping of banners in the wind.
The collapse came at night, when a thunderstorm broke over King’s Landing. Valarr stood in his chambers by the window when the door quietly clicked open. He didn't turn. He knew who it was.
"Go away," Valarr’s voice was hoarse, broken.
Aerion entered soundlessly. This time, he wore no silks or jewels, only a simple nightshirt, soaked from the rain blowing in through the gallery windows.
"You are lonely, Valarr," Aerion said, approaching from behind. He placed his hands on his cousin's broad shoulders, and Valarr jolted as if struck by lightning. "Your father shares a bed with me. Your brother... they have already found their peace. You are left alone. Aren't you cold?"
Valarr spun around, intending to throw him out, but he met Aerion’s gaze. His resistance, built over years of upbringing, collapsed in a single heartbeat.
He seized Aerion’s face, crashing into his lips with such force that he tasted blood. It was not an act of love; it was a surrender. Valarr pinned him against the wall, tearing the wet fabric of the shirt.
When they fell onto the bed, Valarr acted roughly, almost with a sense of self-loathing. He wanted to sear the feeling away, to displace it with pain, but Aerion only wrapped his legs tighter around him, baring his neck for the bites. Every movement Valarr made, every shroud of arousal that washed over him, took with it a piece of the prince he had been only yesterday.
When it was over, Aerion lay on Valarr’s chest, tracing patterns on his skin.
Valarr stared at the ceiling, where shadows from the hearth danced their grotesque dance. He knew that now, when they all gathered for the morning council, he could no longer look down upon Matarys or Daeron. They were all the same. They were all captives of a single silver dragon who had tamed his alphas, turning their strength into his personal toy.
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Dragon's Treasure Part One
The stench of old stone and dampness in the secret passages of the Red Keep usually provoked only loathing in Daeron, but today, excitement and anxiety had supplanted his discomfort. Beside him, breathing shallowly, moved Valarr and Matarys. The brothers were as tense as lute strings. The reason was simple yet incomprehensible: Aerion.
The bright, haughty, and cruel omega had been extinguished. His laughter, which once resembled the clatter of breaking glass, had vanished, giving way to a strange, almost submissive silence. He no longer tormented the stableboys or threw tantrums. Instead, he had become a shadow of his uncle Baelor or his father Maekar, hiding his gaze behind silver strands of hair.
"He went to father again," Valarr whispered, his face appearing as if carved from marble in the gloom. His fingers nervously gripped the hilt of his sword. "That is the third time this week."
Matarys only nodded, his eyes glinting with a dark foreboding. They stopped by an inconspicuous chink in the masonry that looked directly into the bedchamber of Prince Baelor Breakspear.
What they saw had nothing to do with matters of state. The room was thick with the heavy scent of musk, cedar, and the cloying aroma of an omega in a state of total emotional surrender. Aerion sat on a massive oak bed, his shirt cast aside to reveal the pale skin of his shoulders. Baelor, usually such a restrained and stern knight, was behind him, his large tanned hands slowly, almost possessively, stroking his nephew's neck.
Aerion let out a low, guttural sound—a mix of a groan and a purr—and leaned his head back against his uncle’s chest. Baelor leaned down, burying his face in the silver hair, his lips brushing the sensitive skin behind the ear. This was no accidental gesture. This was an intimacy nurtured by time.
"My little prince," Baelor’s low voice vibrated even through the wall. His hand slid lower, shamelessly caressing Aerion’s thighs, making him arch toward the touch.
Valarr recoiled from the gap, his face turning a sickly blue-white.
"This... this is impossible," he exhaled, gasping for air. His ideal of a father, the paragon of honor and duty, was now corrupting his mad cousin. Or perhaps, conversely, he was soothing the boy's inner beast.
Matarys froze, his gaze pinned to the scene. He watched as Aerion turned in Baelor’s arms, pressing into his lips with a desperation that bordered on adoration. There was no coercion here—only a dark, thick passion binding alpha and omega.
Daeron, whose dreams were always full of dragons, now saw a real fire. He felt a wave of nausea mixed with a morbid curiosity.
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the bedchamber swung open. All three observers held their breath. Maekar stood on the threshold. His silhouette in the torchlight seemed like a thundercloud. Valarr tensed, preparing to spring from the passages if bloodshed began. Brother against brother, father against son.
But Maekar did not draw his sword. He slowly closed the door and bolted it shut. His heavy gaze swept over Aerion’s bare body and Baelor’s hands, which still held the youth.
"You are late, brother," Baelor said calmly, without removing his hands from Aerion’s waist.
Aerion, seeing his father, did not flinch. On the contrary, his eyes shone with a sickly, triumphant brilliance. He reached out a hand toward Maekar.
"Father..." he called out, and there was as much craving in that word as there had been in his address to Baelor.
Maekar approached the bed. His face, usually a frozen mask of severity, softened into a predatory smile. He sat on the other side of his son, and as Aerion leaned into him, Maekar embraced him, inhaling the omega’s scent.
"Was he restless today?" Maekar asked his brother, his fingers beginning to untie the laces of his own doublet.
"Only until I took him in my arms," Baelor replied.
Behind the wall, there was a dead silence. Valarr pressed a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. His world was collapsing. His father and uncle—the two pillars of the dynasty—were sharing a single omega, their own kinsman, in some bizarre, vicious union.
Matarys turned away, pressing his forehead against the cold stone. He felt sick at the realization of how long this had been happening right under their noses. Those quiet evenings, those meetings behind closed doors... it was all a lie.
Daeron watched, unable to look away. He saw Baelor and Maekar begin to undress Aerion together, like a synchronized mechanism, like two predators sharing prey they both loved and hated at once. When Baelor leaned in to kiss Aerion while Maekar simultaneously pressed his lips to the back of his son’s neck, Daeron understood: this was no accidental sin. This was their secret order of things.
"We have to go," Valarr whispered hoarsely, pulling his brothers by their sleeves away from the gap. "Right now."
Breakfast in the royal dining hall became a true test of endurance for Valarr, Matarys, and Daeron.
Valarr sat bolt upright, his back as tense as a bow before the shot. He could not look at his father, Baelor. Every time his father raised a wine cup or calmly discussed strengthening the city walls with the King, Valarr saw not the knight sans peur et sans reproche, but those hands that had gripped Aerion’s pale thighs. The image of the "Perfect Heir" had shattered into jagged shards, leaving behind the bitter aftertaste of betrayal.
Matarys, by contrast, could not tear his eyes away from his uncle Maekar. He sat opposite him, grim and focused, silently carving a piece of roasted boar. His movements were precise and forceful. Matarys felt a fury boiling within him, mixed with an inexplicable, sticky dread. His father and uncle, the two pillars of the realm, had been transformed in his eyes into predators sharing a common den.
Daeron was the only one who found refuge in wine. His hands trembled more violently than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot from sleeplessness. He knew his father Maekar had always been stern, but this new facet of his personality, a commanding, almost animalistic passion, was impossible to wrap his head around.
"You are far too silent today, nephews," came a voice as thin as the creak of dry wood.
It was Prince Aerys, the bookish eccentric. He looked up from the scroll he was reading right at the table. Beside him, Prince Rhaegel hummed a tune under his breath, swaying in his chair.
King Daeron, his face etched with the wrinkles of exhaustion, pushed aside his plate and looked intently at the sons of Maekar and Baelor.
"Indeed," the King supported softly. "Valarr, you haven’t uttered a word about the tourney all morning. Matarys, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost in the corridors. Did something happen during your night watch?"
Valarr flinched, feeling cold sweat prickle the back of his neck.
"Nothing out of the ordinary, Your Majesty," his voice nearly betrayed him. "Just... a long night. Lack of sleep."
At that moment, the doors opened, and Aerion entered the hall. He moved with an unusual grace—not the arrogant stride of before, but a certain feline, confident softness.
As he passed his cousins and brother, that same scent they had chased through the secret passages wafted through the air: musk and sweet intoxicant. Aerion stopped beside Baelor, barely brushing his shoulder—a gesture that looked like accidental respect to an outsider, but to those who knew the truth, it was a scream of belonging.
"Good morning, Uncle. Father," Aerion smiled, a serpentine mockery lurking in the corners of his lips.
He sat opposite Valarr and slowly raised his eyes. His gaze met his cousin's. Valarr failed to look away in time. In that brief contact, Aerion read everything: the disgust, the shock, the knowledge. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed into thin slits. He understood. They had seen.
Aerion took a knife and began slowly peeling an apple. He felt the weight of all three gazes upon him. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from a predatory satisfaction. He held power over them now.
"Why do you look at me so, Daeron?" Aerion asked suddenly, without lifting his head. "You seem as though you wish to ask about my... well-being? I have never felt as at peace as I have lately."
His brother choked on his wine, coughing until his face turned red.
"No... nothing, brother. I am glad for you," he croaked.
Baelor and Maekar continued their calm conversation regarding grain supplies from the Reach, entirely unaware of the storm brewing right in front of them. To them, it was just another morning.
"Rhaegel, stop swaying, you’ll knock over the salt," Maekar snapped irritably at his mad brother, not even looking his way.
Rhaegel only giggled, staring at Aerion.
"A dragon with two heads..." he whispered so softly that only those nearest the table heard. "Two heads holding one... what a delicious supper."
Aerys looked up from his scroll and shot a suspicious glance at Valarr.
"The three of you are acting as though you’ve hidden a corpse in the cellar. If you’ve gotten into some trouble in the city, you’d best say so now."
"We haven't gotten into anything," Matarys cut him off sharply, rising from the table. His patience had snapped. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, I must get to the training yard. I desperately need to... hit something."
Valarr and Daeron rose after him, nearly bolting from the hall under the King’s puzzled stare.
Aerion watched them go, taking a bite of the apple. He felt Baelor briefly squeeze his knee under the table, while Maekar cast a short, commanding look that promised a continuation tonight. Aerion knew: they had no inkling. They were too confident in their own inviolability. But what his cousins knew... that was an interesting tool indeed.
Aerion had always been a master of petty, refined cruelty, but now his game had taken on a new, dark hue. He saw how Valarr averted his eyes, how Matarys’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, and how Daeron tried to drown his memories in wine.
Matarys was the first. Aerion knew his cousin usually practiced until late at night, exhausting himself on the grounds before returning through the gallery that overlooked the inner courtyard near Maekar’s chambers. That evening, Aerion intentionally left the window of his father’s bedroom open. The candles were dimmed, but the moonlight flooded the room, turning it into a stage for a shadow theater.
Matarys stopped, hearing a sound that could be mistaken for nothing else: Maekar’s hoarse, commanding voice and Aerion’s soft, almost childlike laughter. Peering into the window, he felt his stomach tighten into a hard knot. Maekar sat in a large armchair, and Aerion was settled on his lap, completely naked save for a heavy gold chain around his neck. Maekar slowly ran his hand down his son's back, his fingers leaving red marks on the pale skin.
"You were too defiant at the council today," Maekar grunted, his lips touching Aerion’s shoulder, nipping at the skin.
"I only wanted to catch your attention, Father," Aerion purred, arching so that Matarys could see every line of his body. He turned his head toward the window for a moment, and Matarys was certain: Aerion was looking directly at him, his eyes gleaming with triumph.
Matarys recoiled, nearly dropping his practice sword. He was sickened by this mixture of paternal care and animal passion. He ran away, feeling the scent of Maekar’s alpha stalking him through the dark corridors.
Valarr was next. His trap was more sophisticated. As the future king and a paragon of duty, Valarr often worked on documents in Baelor’s library. Aerion knew of a secret door leading from Baelor’s study to a small niche behind the bookshelves. He lured his uncle there under the pretext of "advice regarding an ancient scroll."
Valarr, searching for a specific book, heard muffled moans behind the thin partition. He froze, hoping he was mistaken, but then he heard the voice of his father.
"Aerion..." Baelor’s voice was unrecognizable, stripped of its usual steely restraint.
Through a gap between the folios, Valarr saw what broke his heart: Baelor had pinned Aerion to a table piled with maps of the kingdom. Baelor’s hands, which should have held a shield and sword, were now shamelessly spreading his nephew’s legs. Aerion wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck, digging his nails into his back, his face contorted in sweet pain.
Valarr felt tears of rage and despair boil in his eyes. He wanted to burst in, to scream of honor and sin, but his feet seemed rooted to the floor. He watched as his father, the Breakspear, completely lost himself in the omega's body. Valarr left the library staggering, as if from a mace blow.
Daeron was the final victim. Aerion caught him at his most vulnerable moment, when he was trying to sneak into the wine cellars in the middle of the night. But Daeron’s path led past the cozy parlor where Maekar and Baelor often spent time together after dinner.
This time, there were three of them. Daeron froze by the half-open door. The room was thick with a scent that made his head spin, a mixture of three Targaryens whose blood was far too hot. Aerion lay on the rug before the hearth, and both alphas were leaned over him. Baelor was kissing his hands, while Maekar unbuttoned his brother’s shirt, as if inviting him to join the act of possession.
"Look at him, Baelor," Maekar said quietly, his hand resting on his brother’s chest, pushing him toward Aerion. "Our little dragon."
Daeron saw them begin to caress Aerion simultaneously. Aerion groaned, throwing his head back, and his gaze fixed for a moment on Daeron standing in the shadows of the doorway. Aerion winked at him, even as Maekar’s fingers and Baelor’s lips drove him to the edge.
Daeron couldn't take it. He turned and ran blindly until he reached his own quarters. He trembled, trying to uncork a bottle of wine with his teeth. Now he knew: no one would save their family. His father and uncle were not enemies; they were accomplices in this cloying sin, and Aerion was the glue that held this vicious union together.
And Baelor and Maekar continued their night, unaware of the eyes that had watched them. They saw only Aerion, their weakness and their shared secret, which with each passing day became heavier and more sweet.
