Chapter Text
He must have lost his mind.
As he lays beaten and bloodied and burning from the humiliation of being bested by a gods-forsaken hedge knight, Aerion's mind is haunted by the memory of that hulking beast of a man over him, behind him, on him, weighing him down and dripping his own blood and sweat upon Aerion's skin.
Just thinking about it makes him want to rage all over again; if the loosened tooth and the split lip was an offense, the mere suggestion of his inferior blood having made contact with the blood of the dragon is enough to make him nauseous with hatred.
And as if that wasn't enough—
Aerion burns with a heat, with the weakness of his sex. It is a particularly infuriating, oppressing heat, fire burning at his spine, making his wounds boil in the open air. Slick gathers between his thighs, his cunt aches, and try as he might he can't get his breathing under any semblance of control.
It is salt on the wound of his already bleeding pride. A hedge knight, a knot-headed alpha, reducing him to the trappings of his very body by virtue of being too fucking stupid to know when to kneel down to his prince.
The Maester of Ashford tends to him with a royally-approved midwife in tow, as if Aerion was suffering from birthing-bed fevers; perhaps the man was simply too cowardly to spread Aerion's legs open and look at his cunt himself, or perhaps his father and uncle had decided to grant him this misguided bit of modesty. Aerion couldn't care less about his cunt, when it is his pride that hurts the worst.
Such Maester looks at Aerion now as the midwife slips water past his lips, their plain beta scents giving him a headache.
"You body has gone through a great shock, You Grace," he all but mumbles, his voice low and grating to his ears. Aerion would prefer to be in the midst of the battlefield again, surrounded by screaming horses and the song of steel and blood than to hear his pathetic explanations, stating the obvious. "Moontea will be administered along with the milk of the poppy in order to aid your… grievances. Your father has told us, while you slept, that this heat is unprecedented for you, as your cycle had already ran not a half-moon ago. We will keep you under close observation, lest you succumb to a harsher fever…"
He'd gone on like that for a while, while Aerion replayed the Trial of Seven over and over in his head, imagining himself a champion instead of a humiliated prince to past the time. He studied the battle, trying to find where he went wrong, where he should've dived left instead of right, where he should've backed away instead of pushed in, where he should've hit harder—it mattered not now, because Ser Duncan had defeated him, but that didn't stop Aerion from his obsession.
It was only when the midwife and Maester left—not without making him swallow copious teas and chew on leaves—that his thoughts turned back to his heat and the visions in his head changed from blood and mud to slick and fire. Ser Duncan plagued him even then, and dreams blurred together until he was vividly imagining what it would be like to take the man's knot into his cunt.
It'd likely hurt, splitting him open, considering the size of him. And Aerion would like that.
How fucking shameful. Humiliating. Aerion should have him hanged for even daring to make such an impression upon him that his stupid omega brain was latching on to him during this stress-induced heat.
The anger did not stop him from bringing his less-battered hand down to plug himself with two fingers. The milk of the poppy made him sluggish and weak, unable to do much of anything beyond slowly fucking his fingers into himself. The wound on his thigh burned white-hot, but that only seemed to make every orgasm he managed to wring out of himself all the sweeter.
He doesn't allow himself to look ashamed when the midwife checks on him hours later and finds him with his sheets drenched and his hand wet. Even though he burns with it, even though he is at his lowest, Aerion is still a prince of the blood and he will not be judged by a useless beta whose job is to look upon every royal cunt to make sure it doesn't break before bearing heirs.
He almost hopes that it does break, what with this illness, but the midwife must see something in his eyes that makes her speak up, too bold for his taste, under the guise of medical examination: "Your lord father will be pleased to know this ailment is thus far behaving like a normal heat, my prince. A scare, but one you shall come out unscathed from. You needn't worry for any long-term effects."
Aerion sneers at her, speaking through clenched teeth, ignoring the pain it causes him due to his battered face. "You mean he'll be glad to know my maidenhead is intact. I should have your tongue out, you stupid wench."
He must look pathetic, because the woman barely pales. She just quickly bows and leaves the room, uncaring of his fury. Aerion will ask for her head as soon as his father deigns visit him in person.
Days pass like this. He isn't sure how many, but his heat drags on, making each minute feel like an hour. The strength of the poppy milk is intensified at some point, which makes it harder to figure out how long he has been laying in heat. The moontea is a sour taste on his tongue that he grows accustomed to through the days, and it barely seems to do anything to keep his heat at bay.
He is stuck in a limbo of fever and pain, until one day he wakes to the sound of low voices outside his partly-open door. Sun struggles to stream through the curtains, and he feels ridiculous for being so sick that he sleeps through whole days without notice.
"…not be wise," the Maester is saying, sounding oh-so apologetic. It immediately makes his hackles rise, just from that simpering tone. "His Grace must retain at least some semblance of modesty, which I imagine you understand, ser."
A pause, and then an infuriatingly familiar voice. "…I just wanted to say my sorrys… I hadn't any idea of his sex…"
Adrenaline fills each and every one of Aerion's limbs like it hasn't since that stupid puppet show. Suddenly, he is a being of rage once more, and that rage makes him sit and stand and trip all over his chambers until he reaches the door and yanks it open, as naked as the day he was born.
"You brutish oaf!" Aerion shrieks, ignoring the way both the Maester and Ser Duncan jump away from him in shock. Both their eyes widen, the Maester immediately calling for that wretched midwife and for a Kingsguard to fetch his father, but Aerion is already stumbling forwards, making a ruckus, trying to sink his nails into Ser Duncan's neck to rip his throat out. "Your insolence knows no bounds, does it?! I shall have you hanged—!"
They slam into the wall opposite his door, messy and stiff from their wounds, but Ser Duncan, clearly in better health and due to his ridiculous height advantage, has ultimately little issue avoiding Aerion's fists and grabbing him by the wrists. To Aerion's further humiliation, the stupidly big knight brings him closer only to throw Aerion over his shoulder like a fucking potato sack.
"Sevens be merciful," the Maester exhales, scandalized beyond belief as Aerion struggles, kicking and clawing at Ser Duncan's back, who seems to stumble only because he's discarded his flimsy crutch in order to get his hands on Aerion. "He's actually risen. Go, go, in the bed, Ser Duncan, he should not have moved!"
"Apologies, m'lord," Ser Duncan has the gall to say, not sounding very sorry at all as he drops Aerion down on his filthy bed, jostling every one of his wounds, his ears red as a beet, his eyes adverted to the ceiling. "I did not mean to—"
"Oh, you care about my modesty now, do you?! You buffoon!" Aerion barks at him. He tries to stand, but the Maester gets in the way, forming a barrier between Aerion and Ser Duncan as if that would stop him. His hand reaches for his shoulder and Aerion slaps it away, seething. "Do not touch me! I should have both your tongues and eyes out—!"
"What is the meaning of this?!" His father bellows as he comes into the room. The picture before him would send any parent to any omega into an early grave: his son, naked and bleeding, a low-born alpha in the room pretending not to be looking at him, and a useless Maester all but whimpering with stress. As it is, his father goes very pale, and then concernedly red. "Aerion! Have you no shame?!"
Aerion barks out a laugh. "Oh, so it's my fault Ser Duncan is fool enough to ask after a royal omega in heat?!"
His father, to Aerion's satisfaction, turns towards Ser Duncan with a look in his eye that would usually mean he's about to put out his steel. "Scram, Ser Duncan! I shall deal with you later!"
Ser Duncan doesn't need to hear that twice; he bows so low that he is almost of normal height, mumbling embarrassed apologies, still avoiding looking anywhere near Aerion's nakedness. He disappears from the room with impressive speed, for a man his size, and Aerion inhales the vestiges of his scent of rain and grass, now lingering in his sheets and the air in his chambers. His father catches onto his flaring nose, and the despair is so clear in his face that Aerion almost feels bad.
Almost. He is still, mostly, just raging, but in the face of his father he attempts to appear composed, crossing his legs even though it hurts, letting the Maester and the midwife cover his body with sheets. "If you have any consideration left for me, father, you shall have his eyes gouged out."
Maekar stares at him for a moment, and then lets out an incredulous laugh. "Has the fever taken your wits from you, Aerion, or are you just determined to extinguish any good regard I might hold? It seems that ever since you met that giant, every drop of sense has left you!"
Aerion purses his lips, trying not to falter, even as his face reddens in the face of the implications hidden in Maekar's words. "Father, I—"
"I won't hear any excuses from you, nor any dishonest apologies!" Maekar cuts in, then gestures to the Maester. "Leave us, both of you!"
The door slams as Aerion is left alone with his father, but he has no chance to get a word in before he continues: "My brother, the Hand of the King, the heir to the throne, almost died. The Kingsguard have embarrassed themselves in their attempts to keep Baelor unharmed by their steel. This tourney and Lady Ashford's name-day is ruined. Several lords dead or wounded, your brother is thinking himself a squire to a hedge knight too slow in the head to know his letters… and as if that wasn't enough, here you are, parading yourself before everyone with eyes and ears to see your shame."
Aerion opens his mouth, scrambling to defend his actions, feeling quite suddenly like he's lost his grasp in the situation. But Maekar throws him a withering look, eyes full of enough contempt to render him quiet.
"Were you not an omega, I would banish you from my sight," Maekar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, pacing, ignoring the way Aerion freezes and his chest rapidly rises and falls. "I would exile you to Braavos, to Lys, to Pentos—anywhere, as long as you were far enough away to stop tarnishing our family before lowly lords and unintelligent peasants. Alas, you are of the fairer sex—I won't have you bearing the bastards of some foreign lord or filthy sellsword. Thank the gods that you've been sensible enough to remain pure, because then I would have no choice but to send you to the Silent Sisters."
Each word sends a wave of panic through Aerion, and he finds his fire extinguished. His voice shakes when he speaks, a tiny thing unlike himself. "Father, please, I never meant any harm—"
"That is precisely your problem, Aerion, you never mean harm, you never mean to hurt, yet you always do," Maekar pauses his pacing to stand in front of Aerion, leaning closer, looking down at him as if he doesn't recognize his own son. "Gods know where I went wrong with you, with Daeron, but it is too late now for me to fix it. I cannot indulge you any longer. Once we leave here, I shall have you locked into the Maidenvault and guarded at all hours until I can secure an acceptable marriage for you. You are not to bear arms or train or joust or even carry a fucking kitchen knife around."
Aerion stands, his breath coming in short, all his wounds and his heat forgotten in the face of a fate worse than exile. "No—father, you can't—"
"I can and I will!" Maekar slams his hand against the bedpost, shaking the whole frame, pent-up frustration leaking from him in waves. "Were your brother sensible, were your sisters older than yourself, were Valarr unwed, I'd give you to them. Alas, I cannot. I know now you need a firm hand, a watchful eye, and I will find an alpha befitting of your station and our blood, one who won't indulge your every whim and succeed where I failed. I gave you too many liberties and all I've got left is an omega son who would shame himself to the point of appearing naked before the very man you tried to have killed."
"I won't allow this," Aerion breathes out, falling to his knees, clutching the tail of his father's cloak. It burns him even further, that this is how he discovers he is not above begging. "You know me, father, I can't—I'm not a fucking broodmare! I'm not made for that life, I would not make a good wife, you know this, father, you know this, please—"
"I won't listen to any more sniveling," Maekar steps back, unforgiving, glaring down at Aerion like he's the dirt beneath his boots. The panic continues to rise, a tightening in his chest, the further quickening of his breath until he begins to feel lightheaded, but his father is beyond understanding. "It is unbecoming of you and try as you might, you don't sound genuine. Spare us both the embarrassment."
Aerion stares at his father with his mouth open for a few long seconds, and then shakes his head. "I'll cut my womb out if I must."
Maekar looks as if he might strike him, and that would be preferable to the disgust that clouds his eyes. "Then you'd still at least serve to warm some old lord's bed. And don't try to tell me you'd kill yourself then—I know you, and so I know you value yourself too above to waste our blood in such matters. It is decided, Aerion… now pick yourself up from the floor and let this heat and pain pass you. We leave in a week's time at latest, and if you refuse, I shall drag you to King's Landing tied to my horse."
His father storms from Aerion's chambers without looking back, slamming the door behind him. There is a brief moment where Aerion just kneels there, frozen on the floor, his naked torso shivering against the chill coming in from the windows—the remnants of the foul, rainy weather that has clouded Ashford Meadow since the very arrival of their royal party.
And then Aerion finds himself too warm once again, reminded of his ailments; the pain in his thigh, the blood that wants to seep through the cuts all over his skin, the bruises painting him purple and black, and worst of all: the heat in his cunt and the cramping in his belly.
He drags himself into his bed and buries his face in the cleanest pillow he can find. Then Aerion screams.
He screams and screams until he works the rage back into his body through sheer stubbornness, until he feels faint with it. At some point someone must have noticed him doing so, for soon there are Kingsguard hands holding him to the bed to keep him from striking the Maester and the midwife whist they force poppy milk past his lips, and then something stronger when it doesn't put him to sleep quick enough.
I must have lost my mind, Aerion thinks to himself as he finally succumbs to the concoction, I must have drank from Daeron's cup and caught his sickness. He thinks it over and over and over again, burying himself in the deepest denial of his reality that he can muster.
It serves not to relieve him.
Five days after, Aerion is very reluctantly allowed to catch fresh air by the Maester, but not without an old Septa, a Kingsguard, and that gods-forsaken midwife trailing closely behind him.
At the sight of the Septa, Aerion had almost sent her away with a derisive snort, until he remembered his father's very real threat of sending him the Silent Sisters' way. It became clear then that her presence was not just an attempt to find him pious company on his stroll, company that would not be easily disturbed by his unruly nature, but a reminder of where he stood; so near ruin he could taste it on the back of his throat.
If the gesture had been directed towards anyone else, Aerion would've admired his father's quiet way of imposing his word. As it is, it has him shivering, hair standing on ends.
It is during his afternoon walk that he stumbles upon further company, which is half-hidden and almost mumbling from the shadow of an elm tree, near the river.
"…back to your family, lad," comes Ser Duncan's voice, tired and thick with pain still. Aerion knows the Maester has been tending to him as well, but perhaps the old goat miscalculated his dosages when it came to such a giant. If he was in pain, Aerion was glad to see it, as he stepped closer to the oaf's messy camp, yet unnoticed. "You'd be halfway to your castle by now if Prince Baelor hadn't chosen to linger."
"And you'd be with us, ser!" Comes Aegon's whiny voice, and Aerion can't help but roll his eyes at the ridiculous picture they paint: his baby brother, bald as a newborn, attempting to look confident and tall before Ser Duncan's folded down body. He is resting against the elm tree with a nonchalance that Aerion feels he shouldn't be allowed to display, and even then Aegon barely comes level with the top of his very head. "My uncle has said so, that you promised to be his man after this was all over. He intents to give you a white cloak, I'm sure, and then I could continue to be your squire!"
Aerion feels his own father's vexation come over him. He calls out: "Do not be so ridiculous, little brother. If the oaf is to be rewarded with a cloak for his insolence, I shall make sure he is stationed as far away from Summerhall as possible. I'm sure uncle Baelor would agree, for he knows I'd have his throat cut in his sleep if he found himself in our home."
Aegon and Ser Duncan jump at his voice in a manner that makes him feel just a little better about himself, a reminder that he can still inflict fear upon those of weaker disposition. Ser Duncan stands, however, and it displeases Aerion that he apparently has enough nerve to approach him, his bulking form an insult in itself.
"Your Grace," he's saying, his voice unfortunately devoid of hatred. Aerion scowls at the tone of it, nervous and sheepish, almost genuinely apologetic. It makes him sick, and he much prefers the look in Ser Duncan's eyes when he's trying to beat Aerion bloody. "I must apologize for—"
"Stop!" Aerion snaps at him in irritation, taking his own few steps forwards. Behind him, the Septa clears her throat, probably annoyed at Aerion's lack of propriety when he's fresh off his heat still. He cares not for it, and comes so close to Ser Duncan he has to crank his neck at the most awkward angle ever conceived in order to look the oaf in the eye. His voice comes out a hiss, venomous enough to make Ser Duncan wince. "If you dare ever recall the incident in my bedchambers I will make certain not even my uncle's pity can save you."
Ser Duncan takes a sharp breath, and then seems to hold it, leaning back as if to escape the scent of Aerion's wrath, or perhaps that of the vestiges of his heat. Either way it annoys him. His answer is an equally unsatisfying mumble: "Of course, my prince, of course."
"Don't waste your breath on my brother, ser!" Aegon calls, and to Aerion's further frustration, he wedges himself in-between them, looking up at them back and forth as if ready to fight his own blood in order to defend his favorite knight's honor. "He is wrong either way, you know. We will be going to the Red Keep instead of Summerhall, and my father told us he'd confine him to the Maidenvault. He couldn't hurt you if he tried!"
"You little bitch," Aerion spits out, a hand reaching for him, but the boy scurries away and Ser Duncan cuts off his path, standing between them like a castle wall. The size of him is truly ridiculous; knowing better now, he doesn't even lift a hand to stop Aerion. He simply stands there, big and dumb and alpha enough to have the shameful side of Aerion want to bare his neck. Disgusting. "If you had any hair left on that stupid bald head of yours I'd pull it out the roots myself!"
"The Maidenvault," Ser Duncan wonders out loud, clearly not taking the argument seriously enough to fear for his life. Aerion feels better now; he's been forbidden from touching steel, but he could still try to kill the giant oaf with his bare hands. He is still a threat. The fact that Ser Duncan isn't acting like it makes him flush. "What is that? It sounds… womanly."
Aerion shakes, and like fire put to oil, his temper makes a swift return, burning away all else. "Womanly? You utter fool—"
His Kingsguard catches him before Aerion can properly lunge at the man. The Septa sends a prayer up to the Mother, or maybe the Maiden, and before Aerion can even think to threaten their lives, he's being dragged back to his prison.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," the Septa lectures him, shaking her head as she leads the way back. Aerion is surprised she's got such daring in her, as if she's his old Septa at Summerhall, and he finds it as charming as the scraping of nails on a mirror. "He got a good sniff at you, my prince, I saw—you would do well to wash his stink off you, it is not appropriate for an unmated omega such as you—"
If she knew what sort of fever dreams involving Ser Duncan plagued him through his heat, the Septa would likely have a fainting spell. The only reason Aerion has maintained his chastity is because the idea of mixing the blood of the dragon with some undeserving sniveling lord or, gods forbid, one of those whores Daeron indulges in, disgusts him to his core. Besides, he is not too old yet, nor ugly, and if push came to shove regarding Valarr's so far unfruitful marriage, the solution is easy.
His satisfaction at the thought is, however, quickly squashed by the Septa's reminder that his father intents to have him wed within the year, and thus he should quit while he's ahead with his unabashed behavior, such as letting low-born unmated alphas learn the notes of his post-heat scent.
His sex is an offend to Aerion's pride and blood, and he's only ever bore with the burden for the sake of family preservation. None of that seems to matter now, not the heats spent without relief, not the hyper-sensitive nose, not the overzealous septas that lecture him about chastity and the marriage bed, not the midwives and Maesters who look at his cunt to make sure he's not debasing himself like a common whore.
All his efforts have become pointless now, and it's all thanks to Ser Duncan the Tall and his meddling little brother who would rather roll in mud with peasants than demand respect for their house, the way Aerion has done all his life.
His womb won't bear a new generation of Targaryen royals, but rather half-breeds carrying the name of some undeserving lord, who'll likely end up marrying whatever children the rest of his family manages to produce, so they might unite their blood once more.
Aerion clenches his teeth so hard a headache blooms.