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There is to be a celebration held in the King’s honor on the morrow. A celebration for his vigilance, for an act of bravery that has saved the realm from plunging into further anguish after such a devastating loss. A savior to the realm is what they have deemed Aegon, Second of his Name to be.
Tales have now been spoken in his glory, plays written describing the war that has been named the Dance of the Dragons, songs sung of the one true heir’s courage when facing off against his whore of a half-sister.
It comes to no surprise that the King has gained the favors of plenty of lords from his newly established Act. Many would kill to have a fertile omega at their grasp, even if it meant rounding up the last few fruitful omegas like cattle and selling them to high lords. It was a privilege, really, or at least – that's how he tried to look at it.
An omega is the very image of the Mother and the Maiden made flesh, to be spoken of with reverence.
Most of the omegas had been hunted down in their homes, by order of the King, those who were known to be with-child in the past – those who had carried healthy children during the Dance. Brothels were raided; mothers taken from their families to be put under the King’s custody. A kindness.
They should be thanking him, really. They should be kneeling at his feet and thanking him. Their lives would amount to nothing if it weren’t for their child-bearing wombs, for the privilege that their King had graced upon them. No-one would willingly choose to continue their lives in the slums of the city, where they were surely bound to meet much harsher fates, if they were presented with an opportunity such as serving their realm. And all they had to do was spread their legs and bear the seed inside them, to allow life to grow, was there no better labor than creating life?
“My brother Daeron. Will he be in attendance?” Aegon’s voice cut through the council chambers, piercing Criston back into reality. He shifts his stance from within the room’s corner carefully, the soft clink of his armor disturbing the peaceful silence that came after the King’s question.
Criston blinks and realizes quickly that the question is being targeted to him. He clears his throat bashfully, attempting to remember what they had been discussing only seconds before. “Prince Daeron has been holding the front lines in the North for weeks. The remaining Black supporters refuse to yield.”
Aegon laughs gruffly, his head leaning in from where his arms are propped up against the council table. “Still, they rave? It has been moons since their bitch queen perished under my command.” He leans back, slumping against his seat. He is turning his cup by the stem aimlessly, staring straight into him.
“They fight only for honor and promised oaths, now. The North has never been known to back down from one,” Criston absentmindedly finds the hilt of his sword for comfort, watching from afar as Aegon lifts the cup off the table and tilts back his head to down the rest of it in one swing.
“Stale oaths mean nothing when they have nothing left. They fight for ghosts now, I see no point to it.” Aegon signals towards one of the cup bearers, urging the young maiden to pour quicker. His gaze lingers generously as she bends over to reach the cup in front of him, and the King smiles when she scurries away as quickly as she had appeared.
“Who do they mean to crown if not me, truly? Daemon and Rhaenyra’s eldest? He is barely a boy of ten—” Aegon does not finish his sentence before he is burying his nose back into his cup once more.
“They have been rallying for the bastard, your grace.” Otto Hightower cuts in after a beat of silence. His hands are folded out in front of him, and Criston can see the way they curl tighter around each other. Aemond, from his seat next to Aegon’s, stirs with discomfort. He has said nothing thus far, and it seems as though he has no plans to.
It has been this way for moons, it seems. Their council meetings have gotten them nowhere, and Aemond has refused to indulge himself in any of the conversations they bring to the table. He has taken the habit of leaving early, especially when the topic lingers a second too long on the bastard holding his child.
“Lucerys?” Aegon laughs, as if it is a jest his grandsire spoke and not that of traitors rallying for a bastard boy to steal his throne from underneath him. “He has been declared a bastard by my word, bastards don’t inherit thrones. And even then, he is fruitful, his purpose now is to spread his legs and pop out my heirs. It is what the Gods intended, it is his fate, nothing more.”
Otto’s mouth curls down at the distasteful language his grandson expels from his wine-soaked mouth but does not comment on it. They are all used to it by now, Aegon’s drunken thoughts leave him without hesitancy.
They are not all bad, Criston must admit, their King was the one who brought forward the idea of his Repopulation Act after the realm saw a rapid decline of healthy births. He was the one who dragged the kingdoms out of despair. Surely history will remember him kindly for it.
“Still, they persist. Every passing day Cregan Stark brings forward a hundred more men to battle. Prince Daeron and his armies can only hold them off for so long.” Criston worries at this terribly. The North is vast and nearly as large as the rest of the kingdoms, and the first signs of winter have already begun to show. “The North does not fight as we do. When winter comes, they will own the field. We cannot afford to lose more people with another war being fought.”
“That is why we will send double the soldiers they send a day. Let them drown in our numbers.” Aegon huffs with an ease to him that suggests he is not taking things seriously. His wine cup is empty again, and the serving girl hesitates only for a second as he motions her over with his heavy gaze. Otto raises his hand to pause her while she is mid-step, but Aegon glares at her and that is what finally gets her legs moving from beneath her.
“We will squash them beneath our boots if we double our effort. Let us not drag this out, Ser Cole. Gather all training men you can find, boys too if they wield a sword well enough, and send them North.”
“I don’t believe that is a wise choice, your grace–”
“I do not care. If the northerners want to play, let them play themselves to ruin.”
Criston swallows thickly. From the corner of his eye, he can see Alicent with her thumb stuck in her mouth, chewing the thing raw. Her hair is disheveled, and she looks as though she has not slept in days.
“Perhaps if we send Vhagar–”
“Vhagar’s place is here, defending King’s Landing.” Aemond’s voice is cool and calculated as he cuts through his words, his hand rolling the perfectly shaped stone in front of him. It is the first time he has spoken in a council meeting in weeks, and it catches Criston completely off guard. “She is still recovering from her injuries, and she refuses to fly.”
Aegon too seems surprised at this, but he scoffs, “You claim she has been recovering for moons now. Surely that hoary old bitch is fine by now.”
“If you wish to go check, then be my guest, but do not be surprised if she bathes you in a wave of fire.”
The King’s expression hardens, sobering his features as he stares at Aemond directly. Prince Aemond does not fully face him, his blind side preventing him from facing his brother. Criston realizes then, that a few weeks ago, Aemond had switched his seat from the right side of the table to the left, so he would not have to look at Aegon from his good eye.
“This is because of the boy, isn’t it?” Aegon accuses, his tone mocking and all the way cruel, “You have refused to leave King’s Landing on demand of your King ever since you’ve gotten that bastard with-child.”
Aemond stops rolling the marble sphere, his lips tightening into a thin line. It is as if Aegon has struck a nerve. The council room fills with silence once more, uncomfortable and suffocating, but is cut off with a scraping shriek as Aemond stands abruptly, pushing his chair back with enough force that he nearly sends it reeling back against the floor.
“It is my right that I, as his alpha, protect him from those who wish to harm him.” Aemond slams his fists down onto the table to punctuate his words, leaning in close to his brother. Aegon leans back ever so slightly. He keeps his stance proud and still, unwavering in the face of Aemond's deadly ire. He reaches for his cup once again, but Aemond places a quick hand over the goblet. Aegon sneers, his features twitching in irritation. “I have seen the way you look at him, brother. You may not have him while my claim is still fresh on him.” His words are so faint that Criston nearly does not catch them, but as he does, the discomfort inside him only festers.
“Aemond, please.” Alicent pleads to her lost son, who pays her not even the courtesy of a glance. “This is not the place to flaunt your obsessions.”
The King grins, then, teeth white and taunting. “You are ill, brother. Ill with envy.” Aegon straightens, unafraid now that Aemond has displayed his true nature in front of the council. Exposed and vulnerable. Perhaps this was Aegon's plan all along, to get Aemond to bite. “Was it not I who granted you the privilege of bedding our nephew first? Was it not I the one who gave you a reason to have him as you please?”
Aemond hums noncommittally. He still does not lean back.
“You forget yourself, Aemond,” Aegon spits out his brothers’ name like it is filth in his mouth, “You are beneath me, whether your line continues does not matter. I am the one who sits the Iron Throne and wears the Conqueror's crown. Lucerys will bear my heirs, your…fixation with him will not change that.”
The world stills and it is as though time itself has stopped. Aemond finally pulls himself away completely, detaching himself from his presence over the King. Criston releases a shaky breath he had not known to be holding, allowing his chest to fill with what he has been depriving himself of subconsciously. He watches as the prince’s jaw flexes, fire lingering behind his sole narrowed eye. It is a dangerous thing, one that Criston wishes not to pursue.
“Forgive me, it seems as though I have let the boy’s bastard nature cloud my senses.” Aemond’s tone shifts to one of attempted shame, but Criston does not buy it at all. He watches as Aegon relaxes slightly in his seat, keeping a wary eye on his brother. It is clear that Aemond does not mean a single word he spews, but Criston does not dare make a comment on the disingenuity of it all.
“You may have him, in time, but not now. He belongs to me until the day he births my son.” Aemond speaks through clenched teeth, it seems as if he wants to say more, but the heavy gazes of the councilmen have him cornered like a wounded mutt.
Criston forces himself to look away. He can no longer bear the sight of the boy he had practically raised being leashed by such a wanton bastard. It is disturbing, seeing Aemond in such a state. Aegon is the one who is indulgent, the one who is rotten with the sin of lust. It was uncharacteristic for Aemond to have dug himself into such...depravity.
Perhaps the boy is exactly as his mother was in her youth, a whore. That must explain it. The way he presents himself, meek and fragile like a delicate little thing, knowing he is the complete opposite of what he masks himself to be. It is vile, a mockery of what the Mother and the Maiden stood for.
Something heavy settles in his stomach then, something akin to resentment.
“The matter seems to have settled, then.” Otto Hightower breaks the silence once more with a clear of his throat. He is a stiff man, with shoulders taut together tightly from the tension that brewed within the room. Suddenly it snapped, like a weak rope, and Aemond departs without so much as a word.
The scent of blood and smoke leave with him, and Criston feels as though he can finally breathe.
“Envious cunt.” Aegon mutters beneath his breath the moment Aemond is beyond the closed doors. “He truly believes that because he rides the largest dragon that he is immune to my law. I could have his tongue for that. I should.” Aegon has taken the Valyrian Steel dagger from where it had been previously sheathed in its scabbard. The King twirls the weapon in his hand, thumbing the point as if it could not cut him with the lightest pressure. “I should, shouldn’t I? Make an example out of him. Perhaps hang him along with the others.”
Criston has seen the others, and it was quite the extraordinary sight when he first had the displeasure of looking upon it. Just in the past fortnight, seven alphas were strung up along the Red Keep’s towers to hang and rot for the crime of having their filthy hands upon fertile omegas. They had hoarded sacred creatures of the crown, indulged in greed and lust that would most certainly have the Mother and Maiden in tears if they had the misfortune of witnessing their crimes. It was the most disgraceful sin an alpha could commit, and their fates were justified under the eyes of Gods and men.
“It’s not best to act upon our impulses, your grace. Our enemies in the North would rejoice if they were to see the state we hold ourselves in, quarreling uselessly with each other while they slaughter our men in battle.” The King’s grandsire speaks with a sort of gentle urgency, careful to not misdirect Aegon’s anger. Otto sends a careful glance towards his daughter, who only has her thumb deeper in between her teeth, chewing the skin raw.
Criston wishes to get to her, to comfort her, but Alicent has not spared him a single glance since the death of the Bitch Queen herself. She has taken to breaking her fast alone in her chambers, has taken to speaking only when it was demanded of her. He could not wrap his head around her sulking, did she truly value a decade's stale friendship over her son's regime? Over him?
Bitterness sinks against his skin, wrapping around him like a venomous serpent. He should have expected no less from this – it has happened once before, and it was bound to happen again with the woman who hadn’t the decency to even indulge him in conversation longer than it was required of her. He should have foreseen this, it was a wicked play of karmic fate.
“They will not be laughing when the sky falls upon them,” The King laughs, hilting the Valyrian dagger back in its leather holder around his waist. Then, he looks up at him with his pale brows knitted tightly. “You’re still here?” He looks around the room aimlessly, as if is making a mockery of him. Criston straightens, the heavy metal of his armor clanking awkwardly. “I believe I told you to gather troops, did I not?”
“Yes, your grace—”
“Then what are you still doing here, Ser Cole? Time is a precious thing, and we cannot go upon wasting it.”
Criston leans away from the wall he had stationed by slowly, taking a long look at Aegon who only returned it with annoyance.
“Of course, my King, I apologize.” Criston feels that heat in his stomach coil further, fire fueled by irritation. He says nothing more and leaves the council room with a bitter taste in his mouth.
Besides the main gateway of the Red Keep there are four new bodies hanging by the necks, hands tied in front of them with a thick line of rope to keep the broken limbs together. Their heads hang limply, dressed in white bags as their heads tip sideways onto their shoulders. Lucerys stares at them from below, watching the way their blood runs down the red bricks of the Keep. Their leaking would have blended in had the bodies been fresh, but Lucerys can tell the way the blood runs dark and congealing that these men have been up since morning.
He stops as if on signal to stare. It does not matter if he does, they are supposed to look. It is what they are there for, hanging on the wall. They usually do not take them down until they have a new batch of bond-breakers and rapers and black loyalists to hang, but Lucerys has once seen men that have been hung and kept so for an entire week. He wonders how long these ones will last, how long he will have to stare at their lifeless corpses displayed in a horrific spectacle.
He sees one man, the farthest to the left is missing a hand entirely. Instead, the gored stump is held out by a separate piece of rope coming down from the top of the wall. This one, Lucerys can tell, was hanged for one reason: for debasing a fertile omega. It is a hand they take as punishment, for lowborn alphas are no longer permitted to lay with fruitful omegas, even if they too are lowborn. Even if they are– were bonded, it no longer matters.
The Gold Cloaks are the ones who have taken to this justice, scouring the city for any activities that may warrant a hanging. Brothels are no longer permitted either, Lucerys has heard in passing through one of the castle maids, except the ones that are. Kept in secret and turned a blind eye to, but it is all very hush-talk. Lucerys is not surprised, he knew Aegon to be too lustful to completely outlaw pleasure houses.
Lucerys tilts his head back a little further. The sheer veil around his face covers most of what he can see, hung by the wings caging his in his gaze. The wings are to keep him from seeing, but also from being seen. Aemond likes it that way. You are for my eye only, Aemond had told him on the night he had presented him with the new piece of green colored garbs, and Lucerys let him believe so. The veil does nothing but obscure his vision and have made it harder to stare at people when they speak to him. He is not supposed to anyway, but Lucerys can’t fight the loneliness and instead has found taking up conversation with various servants throughout the Keep. It is his curiosity that keeps him sane, and the poor souls who have found him pitiful enough to spare him slivers of conversation when he is desperate enough to speak.
Though, the attacks have not gotten any better because of it. Not when he has truly begun to show signs of his pregnancy, not when his body has begun to change because of it.
He has become the main talk of the Keep now, and the Sept’s bells ring in his honor. They announce each moon his pregnancy passes, broadcasting to the entire Kingdom that the babe growing inside him is well and healthy. Yesterday, they rang the bells seven times. They ring the bells each time they put up a new batch of bodies too, but Lucerys hadn’t heard anything that morning.
Omegas were rare now, fertile omegas more so. We are sacred now, Lucerys thinks distantly, but not so sacred that we deserve our own freedom.
As Lucerys stares longer at the bodies hanging. He decides that it is the bags that are the worst. Worse perhaps than a face might have been. They press against their heads tight enough that he can almost make out the outlines of the features under the white stained cloth, like gray shadows.
Once, they must have been lively, but now they hang like puppets, like scarecrows– which is what they are, since they are meant to scare.
They do not scare him. At least, not in passing, not when he stares at them for only a second.
It is the unspoken possibility that scares him, one that he knows could never be.
Jace would have been up there, would he still be breathing. He tries not to think of it, tries not to think of how he might have looked up there, with his head suffocated in a white bag, with his hands tied in front of him–hanging by the neck with a rope thicker than his neck. His death was kinder, better than it would have been if he had survived only to be executed here. But it is no longer kindness he thanks, but mercy. At least, in his watery grave, he was not made to be a spectacle like these men are.
It is their purpose now, to be a reminder.
Lucerys shifts uncomfortably in his stand. Whether it be the sight of rotting bodies or the paranoia that his condition has brought forward, he cannot shake the feeling of unease from his shoulders. It is almost as if he were being watched from a distance, but he knows there is no one around besides the occasional servant or guard that has been stationed for watch.
All their men have gone to battle in the North, and it is why Lucerys no longer has a guard watching over his every little move everywhere he went. He is thankful for it, it is the only reason he has managed to successfully sneak through the Keep at night and see his brothers without raising any suspicions. Still, he cannot help but wonder if the guard who had roughly manhandled him a moon ago before he could give a proper goodbye to his brothers is rotting six feet below. The thought brings a faint smile to his face, one that he forces down as quickly as it appeared.
It is there that he sees the man. Hiding in the faraway corner, dressed in rags and matted furs. Lucerys does not notice him immediately, but he is there, and he is staring. He feels the weight of a gaze burn through his back, searing like the force of a thousand suns. It makes his fingertips prickle oddly, and he has to bite down the sudden urge to jolt at the feeling. They are not meant to stare, either. Eyes are just as violating as hands.
There is no one around besides a few servants scouring to get their chores done, with the occasional guard left wandering, not yet fit enough to ride to battle in glory. Or to die in glory.
He cannot fully see the man, for he wears a deep hood that covers most of his pale, sickly face. He is out of place, almost as if he is not meant to be there at all. It is this that frightens him. This is nothing new. Smallfolk have forced their way into the castle before, have disguised themselves as rat catchers or foreign traders here to see the King. He is no stranger to this fear, the fear of being taken, of being stolen, of being violated.
Lucerys moves. He doesn’t know where his body takes him, all he knows is that he must flee, before those thoughts become a reality.
He is no stranger to the lustful gaze of men.
It has happened before, and it is bound to happen again. It is partly why he has been grateful for Aemond's looming presence these past couple of weeks. Lowborn alphas have snuck into the Red Keep to see him, not the King– not the prince of the realm who mounts the largest dragon in the world.
It is me they seek for. My fertility. My womb, for it is all what I am now. A broodmare. Meant to breed.
The first time it happened, it was when Lucerys had managed to escape the small confines of his bedchambers to visit Egg and Vis. He had been desperate for an escape then, so much so that he had memorized the guards that were posted outside his corridor and their schedules. The ones that would doze off to slumber when they would think he was not looking. It was a dangerous game he played, and Aemond had reminded him of it the moment the bastard’s body was hung along with the others.
I will not hesitate to shatter your legs, if you run, Aemond had told him. You don’t need legs to breed.
Perhaps that would have served him some good, had they caught him in time. The bastard was hiding in the shadows when he got past the gardens, as if awaiting him, like a lover awaiting a mistress or an old flame. Scandalous, it might have been, though it was anything but.
It was not so romantic as it was terrifying. Lucerys did not know what was upon him until he felt something- someone- rip the nightgown clean off his body, he hadn’t given himself time to change into some proper clothing. Which he only regretted in the moment. Had he not been lucky enough that Aemond, like a maniacal freak, wandered the Keep at night endlessly, Lucerys would have been broken in, taken, by another.
Aemond had cut the man’s head clean off his shoulders immediately when he saw what was happening. It all happened so fast, too fast, that Lucerys couldn’t even separate the moment in which the bastard had his filthy paws all over him and when he was showered in a vicious splatter of the man's blood.
Lucerys hadn’t known whether to curse Aemond or bless him, to kneel before him and admit that he had been wrong all along, that he belonged to him and him alone. He didn’t have to say anything for Lucerys to know that was what Aemond was imagining, fantasizing about. He would have enjoyed hearing those words come from his lips, would have thrived for it, which is why Lucerys did not say anything except stare at him, soaked in blood and all.
The act might have been romantic once, might have even dreamed of Jace beheading someone for him, once, but the thought leaves only a bitter taste in his mouth. Like fresh bile, heavy on his tongue.
Lucerys clutches the necklace around his neck. It was mothers before everything went to shit, before all her things met the same fate she did, burned in a blast of dragon fire. All those memories, gone in an instance.
Egg had been wise enough to stash everything he could fit into his pockets that belonged to Mother, to Jace, to Joffrey and Baela and Rhaena. Anyone who still clung desperately to their memories like weaning children. Though, not everything survived. Upon arriving at King's Landing everything that was not clothing had been confiscated. Everything was gone, lost, stolen, except mother’s necklace.
It was of Valyrian steel, thinly roped with mother of pearl in its middle. It was subtle enough that he could tuck it into the fabric of his dress when he feared they might take it from it. It was safety, for him, safety in a place where no such thing existed anymore.
Rounding the Keep corridor, Lucerys quickened his step. He ignored the discomfort that prodded at him, at his legs and shoulders, at the ache that was a constant presence now that there was something-someone growing inside of him. He had not fully grasped it yet, the thought still foreign.
A blanket of quiet enveloped the open hallway, except for the constant click of his own footsteps against the stone floorings and behind him– Lucerys could hear the distant rustle of movement. His breathing hitched as he turned an abrupt corner, taking the wall in hand for support.
Lucerys turned his head back around his shoulder subtly, the curls of his face framing the man standing at a distance, only a few feet away. It was not just a suspicion anymore, but a terror that struck through him like lightening. Bunching the fabric of his dress in his palm to keep himself from tripping over himself, he ran as fast as the legs beneath him would allow him. His chest tightens around him, compressing his insides, suffocating him. He could hardly breathe against the dress and that only made it so much worse.
Turning another corner quickly, it is not free space that he is met with. Instead, Lucerys clashes with something hard. Like steel, or a brick wall.
He is forced to stumble back, nearly tripping over himself as he tries to steady himself. His nose aches from where the impact had hit him hardest, and his face scrunches at the dull pounding against his skull.
Lucerys tilts his head back with caution, catching a glimpse of unruly dark hair. He sneers involuntarily, lips curling into a tight, distasteful frown. He hopes the wings hide it, as they hide everything from sight, but he knows Criston has caught the disdain on his face before he can even lower his gaze to the ground. Lucerys can feel the way the King's Guards hands tighten against his shoulders.
Criston had laid a hand on his arm to keep him from falling as they collided, now his hold grips tighter against him like a tantalizing snake. There is equal distaste coiling on the King’s Guards face, from where he can see from beneath the sheer veil, ugly and burning hot like fire. He smells of musk and freshly watered earth. It nearly overpowers his senses and makes his eyes water as the man grows closer.
“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” There is something hanging from his tongue, a word, an unspoken accusation. Bastard. Lucerys knows what he wants to say, wants him to say it, he could, if he wanted– no one is here but them. But Criston clamps his mouth shut quickly, as if he feared speaking something he shouldn’t.
But there isn’t fear there, not like there was once– not like when mother was alive, or Daemon, or even Viserys.
Lucerys tears his arm away from the other’s hold, as if their mere touch seared through his skin like heated coals. He is out of breath still, and his chest continues to tighten around his insides sharply.
“Someone– there– the man was following me–” His voice is strained against his throat. It is a raw thing, a painful scratch almost, as he speaks. Lucerys turns his head back over his shoulders quickly, ready to point the man out who had been chasing him down. Only, the man has disappeared, leaving nothing in his trace. He blinks once, twice– and feels Criston’s judgement pining needles against his skin. Cold and unforgiving. He knows what his fate will be for deceiving, and he almost does not fight it.
Had he been hallucinating it– the man? Lucerys has been doing that as of lately– seeing things that are not there. He had thought it a symptom of his pregnancy, but the hallucinations have become more vivid, more real as of late.
He had told nothing of it to Maester Orwyle or to Aemond, wishing to avoid anything that would warrant an unnecessary check-up that did not relate to his pregnancy, but he knows Aemond has seen something wrong with him, he is certain of this. Lucerys could only be thankful for the fact that his uncle lacks the decency to ask him of his personal worries.
Once, when Aemond was fucking into him from behind with face pressed down against the thin pillows to conceal his cries of pain and faux arousal (he found that if he played pretend, Aemond would finish quicker), he had seen something that nearly made him shriek. It was his mother's skirt, dragging along the floor. He couldn’t lift his head enough to see her face, but he knew it was her. Felt it in his blood with the familiarity of it. Lucerys had wanted to reach out and touch her, to see if she was truly there, but he had been so weak then, flooded with exhaustion.
Mother, he had whispered.
Mother, Aemond had heard.
Gods, how psychotic he must’ve sounded, begging for his long dead mother in the middle of his uncle fucking him. Aemond must have thought him pathetic, truly, but he only pretended to not have heard him. None of them had exchanged a word, which was nothing out of the ordinary and Lucerys couldn’t be more grateful for it.
He had thought that Aemond was poisoning him, slipping something into his daily meals that made him hysterical— made him see things that were not really there, just to keep him on the verge of breaking. He wouldn’t put it past him, Aemond would do anything to keep him under control. That much, he knew.
But even when he did protest, when he did refuse his meals, the visions did not subside. They only intensified with each passing day. He had seen Jacaerys, once, with Mother, when he was walking along the outside gardens. He had seen them from the corner of his eye and in that moment, his heartbeat ceased to exist. Only, when he had turned to look at them, they disappeared into thin air. There no longer. He wished he had never turned around, then perhaps he could have enjoyed their presence a little while longer. Even if for a few seconds, enough to feel as though he wasn’t alone in the world. He wishes he never turned around.
He hears the way the King’s Guards metal armor clinks together as he shifts, breaking him free from his chain of thoughts. He is looking behind him, eyes squinting as he scours the hallway with his gaze. Lucerys knows he will not bother to investigate further, even if the threat is real and looming. “It is a poor excuse. And one I have heard most often from you especially,” His tone shifts to accusation. Lucerys’ eye twitches.
“He was there only a moment ago,” His voice breaks with desperation, cracking at the edges. Lucerys hates it, the way he involuntarily cowers like a kicked mutt. It is his body betraying him, telling him that it is no longer his own.
But then again, when has it ever been his?
“I swear I’m not crazy— he was hunting me down like I was some prize to collect.” His words are harsh, emotional, and Criston does nothing but sneer.
“The castle is most secure, as ordered by the King. No rat will scurry amongst these walls, we have made sure of it.”
“Why would I lie about such a thing? I do not understand—”
“You are lacking your personal guard, and you know you are not allowed to tread these areas without being accompanied by one.” Criston says between gritted teeth. Lucerys leans away, keeping his feet frozen in place.
“The Keep has been vacant from guards ever since the King decided to continue his war— why am I the one at fault for it? I was only trying to get some air, my days are bleak enough as they are.” Lucerys cannot bite his tongue, not for Criston Cole of all people. Bootlicker is what he is, to put it kindly. Always sucking up to His Grace.
Another dog. Gods, the Keep is just full of them.
“And why should I choose to believe that? Prince Aemond has warned us of your…delusions. I am merely carrying out orders to keep an eye on you, in case you choose to flee.”
Lucerys laughs. It is a sharp thing, one that makes his neck contract in quick, trembling motions. “You speak as though I have somewhere to go. Even if I did, I can assure you I wouldn't get very far with the state I'm currently in.”
He watches as Criston’s gaze flickers to his stomach. It is noticeable, the effects of his pregnancy, and the changes to his body have made him ache in every area, places where he did not know was possible before Aemond’s seed had truly taken root inside of him.
It would have been easier, if Mother was here. She would have known the right words to tell him, to get him through this– she went through six pregnancies, she was an expert. His worries wouldn’t be as vicious as they are now, he has only the Maester and Aemond to guide him through this. And they are all just groping hands and blunt words. The library is forbidden now. Once, he might have rejoiced in the fact. He was never someone who dotted too much in his studies, but the feeling is something he missed greatly. Filling his head with something other than his position, of having to spread his legs every night for whenever Aemond felt like using him. It might have made things bearable, if he had something to occupy his mind. Perhaps he wouldn’t consider the easier option of taking the window as his salvaging when the nights were long.
He has tried once, to get inside, to steal a book or two–nothing controversial, nothing that would get him in any real trouble, a love tale perhaps, or maybe even a novel of ancient myths–but he had been caught by Ser Criston before he even took a step in. Now, it is like a repeat of that night. He has been through this before and knows well enough that the King’s Guard will not let this down without a bargain.
“You truly expect me to believe that? You are a snake, bastard, making yourself out to be a dragon. It is a disgrace, what you are—only, the Gods have gifted you a mercy. A healthy womb. Many wish to have what you hold, would kill for it, and still you flaunt your base nature as if it is something to be proud of.” Criston catches his wrist as he attempts to get away, the iron of his glove pressing into his skin. Lucerys squirms, bares his teeth, but Criston leans in close to whisper lowly to him. “You should be grateful that your King is ever merciful, allowing you to stay under his care instead of sending you to a pleasure house in Essos. He ought to, even if for a few moons, it would fix you right up.”
“Prince Aemond would never allow that,” Lucerys hisses against his teeth. He is staring at Criston in the eyes now, unwavering, throat closing emptily. His mouth is dry but his words are as hard as steel. “He would burn the entire Seven Kingdoms before ever allowing such a thought to be spoken out loud.” Lucerys leans in closer, his words dragging against his tongue—it is a weapon of his own, nearly as sharp as the long sword Criston carried at his hip. “So I suggest you tread lightly, Ser Criston, lest you want to feel the wrath of dragonfire—.”
It is the metal he feels first, against his cheek. Then the blood. His mouth fills with the flavor of something metallic, silencing him as quickly as Criston’s hand had struck him.
His hand is at the wounded side of his face, cradling the flesh beneath the veil. Lucerys pulls his hand back, brushing his fingertips along his lips, watching as it comes back a shade of red. His bottom lip had been split from the impact, he can feel the way it stings, the way it tastes.
Something twitches along his busted lip, a smirk, or something close to it. Lucerys wills it away, biting his tongue from the words that are lodged uncomfortably in his throat. Aemond will have your head for this, he wishes to say, but he’d rather have Ser Criston find that out for himself.
Instead, Lucerys spits the mouthful of blood and spit that has gathered in his mouth at Criston’s feet. The Knight makes a noise of startled disgust before reaching for him, as if to slap him again—Lucerys stumbles back, wishing to escape Criston’s retaliation. The Knight is quicker, far more agile than he is in his current state, and before Lucerys can even think, a gloved hand wraps around his wrist with an iron hold.
Lucerys looks at him wildly, surprised at the pure audacity that Criston has displayed. This could get him hanged, if he were any other man— but he isn’t. He knows enough that the crown turns a blind eye to certain cases, and this would certainly be one of them.
“You will present yourself to the King, confess your treasons, and accept any and all punishment he may bestow upon you.” The alpha's scent changes then- does something that Lucerys cannot even begin to describe. It fills his throat, stealing away his breath. He is entirely defenseless as it wraps around the entirety of him.
“I have done nothing wrong except speak the truth,” Lucerys speaks through a clogged throat. With his free hand, scarred as it is, attempts to rip Criston’s own off. The man is stone, and Lucerys manages nothing.
“The King will be your judgement,” Criston hauls Lucerys forward, dragging him along the abandoned hallway. When they make a sharp turn left, towards the King’s chambers, Lucerys knows what the outcome will be. He has not faced Aegon directly in a few weeks, but he knows the man has been restless as the North has closed in on their bannermen. Lucerys does not struggle any longer, instead allowing Criston to drag him along like a leashed dog.
By the time they reach the King’s quarter’s, Lucerys’ wrist is bruised and pulsating beneath his touch. Criston’s hold has not lessened, not even as Lucerys' fight had extinguished completely.
The King will be just when casting his judgment, Criston thinks, tightening his hold when Lucerys attempts to free himself once more. He knows the metal of his armored glove will sink into the boy’s wrist, will make his filthy skin tear if not careful.
The guard stationed besides the chamber entrance opens the door and announces the both of them as they enter, as if the bastard needs an official announcement. Criston throws him forward, and the boy stumbles for a moment before catching himself. Lucerys straightens, glaring at him from beneath the sheer face coverings.
Aegon groans somewhere in the distance, signaling that their disturbance has not gone unnoticed. “What is it now that you must interrupt your King when he is in the midst of his pleasures?” His words are slurred, clinging to each other in a way that only suggest drunkenness. He is slouched atop one of the many wooden tables stationed in his chambers, cup in hand. Criston grimaces at the sight.
It is an ugly one, but certainly not one that is rare. Most days, the King is in a constant state of intoxication. It must be the stress that the crown bestows, Criston thinks, he is within his right to relieve himself of duty when he pleases.
“The bastard was caught attempting to flee, your grace.” Criston folds his hands out in front him, straightening himself as he speaks.
Aegon lifts his head groggily before allowing it to drop with a strained laugh, almost as if his head is a weight he cannot uphold for more than a few seconds.
“Flee? Flee where?” Aegon asks with a mark of suspicion, one that is heeded with amusement. Almost as if what Criston speaks of is complete and utter nonsense. The King’s Guard swallows thickly, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I am unsure, your Grace— I caught him heading for the main entrance—”
“The only thing I was attempting to flee was the man stalking my presence!” Lucerys’ voice rises above his, sharpened to defend himself. His face is struck with annoyance, tilting his head to the side to huff in disbelief.
“Yet, this man you describe was not discovered.” Criston fully turns his body to face the bastard, clutching the pommel of his sword. He watches with quiet satisfaction as Lucerys shrinks back slightly, but still, the unrelenting scowl was permanently etched upon his bloodied lip.
“It is not the first time this has occurred— there has been instances—”
“What did this...man you witnessed appear like?” Aegon cuts in from his corner, he is standing now, barely, wobbling against himself. He holds his cup close to himself, almost as if nursing it.
Lucerys flushes, lowering his head for a moment before turning it to look at the King directly. “I did not catch a glimpse of him, he was wearing this— hood, I suppose, but it seemed as though he had been anticipating me…it wasn’t sporadic.”
“So, you didn’t happen to see what he looked like in any measure?” Aegon huffs a laugh, one that Lucerys tensed at. It is Criston’s turn to bite back the subtle smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, then.
Criston relishes the sight of Lucery’s expression falling, the way his shoulders give out a little, the way his eyes narrow in quiet defeat.
“No! I mean,” Lucerys inhales shakily, his hand pressing along the edge of his hip in trembling movements, as if to soothe himself. Criston thinks it makes him look pathetic. “No. It all happened quickly, I would have— I only wished to get away at that moment. I was terrified—”
“And where was Aemond, in all of this?” Aegon speaks with bitterness clinging to his words, muffled by the cup pressed to his mouth. “Has he not proclaimed himself your protector now that you’re carrying his bastard inside of you?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t— I haven’t seen Aemond since dawn broke.” Lucerys is fidgeting with the hem of his dress nervously, lowering his head for the wings around his face to obscure him further.
“Oh, what a surprise.” Aegon stops in front of them. Or, tries to, he is swaying despite himself, pointing a bouncing finger in the boy’s direction. “I would have believed that he was guarding you like a hound dog, because that’s what he is, isn’t he?”
Aegon grows closer to Lucerys now, and Criston can see the way the boy moves to inch away before a hand is placed on his shoulder, gripping him in place. There is a silence, heavy and prolonged.
The question is what quiets him to silence, unknowing of what to say. It is clear that Lucerys is walking on a thin line here— not just him, Criston too. He watches as Aegon turns to him as well expectantly, as if awaiting an answer from him too. Criston stammers, but the words die in his mouth before he even has a chance to speak them out loud.
Lucerys laughs, it comes in shallow bursts, nervous and uneven. It comes out of nowhere, staining the silence with something other than its suffocating burden. Criston looks at him, shocked, eyes wide in disbelief. He is about to say something, perhaps even backhand him again, but Aegon’s laughter soon breaks in.
Aegon’s own hysterics are muddled by his drunkenness, ripped straight from his throat without a care for formalities. He has never cared for them, really, especially not now, not with them.
Lucerys is holding himself steady, keeping himself from curling into himself. He holds a hand over his mouth. Criston stands besides them, stunned by the sudden overtake in mania. He knows nothing of what to do except just stand there and wait for it to be over.
He finds nothing hilarious, in fact. Certainly not when Prince Aemond would surely have his head upon a spike if he were in the room with them. So instead, he clears his throat— a careful reminder of what they were there for initially.
It takes a second for the two to recover. Aegon turns to him then, his laughter dying down almost immediately the moment they lock eyes.
“Ah, Ser Criston.” The King looks around the room for a second, then furrows his brows together, “How long have you been standing there?”
“I’ve been here the entire time, your grace.” Criston feels the muscles in his shoulders tighten unwillingly, his hands falling behind his back as he holds them into a fist.
Aegon stares at him for a hard second, his lips pulling into a mischievous little smile. Criston does not like that look. Not at all. It sends the feeling of insects crawling all over him. He does not let himself shake off the discomfort and only furthers his posture. In the corner, he can hear Lucerys stifle another hearty fit of manic giggles.
“Seven hells, perhaps learn to unclench,” Aegon folds his lips in his mouth, holding back another outbreak of hysteria. “Then we wouldn’t have such useless issues to resolve.”
Criston flickers his eyes down, as if he were a child being scolded. It is not embarrassment nor shame he feels. Instead, only anger— anger for the boy who believes himself to be in the right to laugh so freely at him.
Aegon detaches himself from Lucerys, rounding Criston like he is something to inspect. Criston feels something sling around his shoulders, he tenses, turns his head and sees Aegon’s crooked grin stretch across his face. His breath stinks of wine and ale, and Criston has to steer his head in the other direction to avoid being directly hit by the stench of it.
“Have you ever fucked an omega’s cunt before, Ser Cole?” Aegon begins to walk them further inside of his apartments. He feels the grip Aegon has on him tighten with his words, and Criston feels as though something has been lodged in his throat. He cannot breathe for a second, suffocating on nothing but his shock.
The question sounds unreal, made-up, almost. He is certain that he had not heard Aegon’s words correctly, but the room is so silent that there is no choice but to listen. Lucerys has gone deathly silently next to them, and Criston notices for the first time as Aegon’s hand slithers around the boy’s delicate waist.
“No, your grace– I would never– I would never sully the White Cloak with– with such debaucheries.” Criston manages to choke out, but the moment the words fall from his mouth, it sounds all wrong.
“You have served me nobly, Ser Criston, but there is no need to tell such a filthy lie.” Aegon leans in closely to whisper his words, and Criston feels lightheaded simply from the whiff of alcohol he catches.
His eyes flow naturally to the boy. Lucerys. His laughter shoved uncomfortably back down his throat. He looks at Aegon with equal astonishment. Criston feels no satisfaction in it, in the way his eyes are wide with fear, no matter how hard he tries to.
Is Aegon suggesting that—?
Criston cuts down the idea immediately. It was of no foreign thought, truthfully, but never had he allowed himself to linger on it for more than a mere second. Never would he ever stoop so low as to bed a bastard, one that was of the pretender’s filthy blood especially.
Besides, Lucerys was of no great beauty, but he carried a certain vulnerability that invited abuse. Perhaps it was the natural sweetness in his features, the hint of coyness in his common eyes, or the fertile womb he carried inside of him that made him so ensnaring at first glance.
Cole’s cock stirs beneath his heavy armor.
Guilt settles in the pit of his stomach, but he tried desperately to now allow it to consume him. He hasn’t relieved himself in moons, not by the Queen Dowerage and not even by his own hand. Alicent has rejected any and all attempts at his handling, and as much as Criston resented her for denying him, he could not blame her.
It would be justified, Criston thinks, if it were to happen. I am owed that much.
“No, I’ve never—”
“Good, then I suppose you’ll be pleased to hear that tonight you’ll get your first taste of the Gods’ greatest creations. A delicacy, truly.”
Looking down upon him, upon the unblemished face of the whore’s bastard, something in him set ablaze. Here, he could see the faint brush of freckles painted across his delicate features like stardust. His nose is crooked ever so slightly from the brawl that night on Driftmark, the night that left Prince Aemond maimed and House Targaryen in a quiet, unyielding war.
Lucerys had been so small then. So pure. At least, that is what they preached. He had never bought into it, someone who was pure would never cut out someone’s eye.
Lucerys is nothing of what he was then. A supposed innocent. He is ruined now, a whore. Just like his mother.
A feeling of nausea washes over him like a crushing wave, and Cole has to fight himself to not bend over and vomit the small remnants of breakfast he had that morning. His gaze flickers to the King, who has made himself at home against the large bed frame of his apartment. Sloth in all his glory.
Aegon simply smiles, a lazy, cruel thing–and urges him on without so much as a word.
Whatever protests might have built up on his tongue die instantly, and Cole forces himself to look back upon the shadow that is Lucerys. He seems to not have fully registered the meaning of Aegon’s words, because he looks between them with confusion. Or maybe it isn’t confusion at all, but simply a grasp at it.
A fear settles in his stomach then, quick and terrible. Something he can’t quite grasp, it is curling inside him like a serpent, uncontainable, as the boy stares up at him with an indecipherable gaze. He has seen battle, has experienced the horrors that war brings on. He has seen men crushed to death by beasts larger than the holdfasts they were assigned to patrol, has seen men plundered by swords to a point where they were unrecognizable— but this. He fears this more with a vigor he cannot understand.
“Well? Get on with it. I have a higher chance of passing out of boredom than hardening at the rate you two are going.” He is holding a cup of wine, swirling it around with a flick of his wrist. There is a smirk there, hidden behind the gold goblet as he indulges himself one more.
“I am not— I am not sure how I should—”
“Gods, you are like an incompetent child. Strip him, for God's sake. This could not have been so different from all those times you bedded the Queen.” Aegon speaks with bitterness, his violet eyes narrowing harshly.
Criston inhales sharply. It is almost as if a hand has wrapped itself around his throat with a crushing grip that only intended death. He does not move for a second, and then it all comes quickly. His words are mush in his mouth, falling like sand, dry like sand. There is nothing that he can say or do that will make a plausible defense. He tries anyway, for honor's sake.
“I am– I am not sure what you have heard your grace, but I have done nothing that would disgrace the Dowager Queen in such a manner. These slanders are…fiction, meant to bring us down–”
From the corner, a burst of laughter erupts from Lucerys like a mantra. It comes in hysteric bursts, on and off, on and off. On and off again. Criston’s gloved hands tighten into a fist. The bastard has no right to laugh, not when his own honor has been defiled thrice over. He is about to go to the boy, to do what? He does not know, but Aegon’s scattering laughter explodes with an equal amount of strength that stuns him into place. It is humiliation that overtakes shame, then.
Lucerys’ dies quickly, almost as if in stark realization. The boy pales, holding himself with his thin arms. His nervous eyes keep flickering towards the door, almost as if contemplating an escape.
“Again, Ser Criston, there is no need to tell such a filthy fucking lie. We are all men grown, are we not?” Aegon speaks in between haggard breaths. He is refilling his wine cup, placing the amphorae of wine back against the bedside table carelessly, nearly tipping it over with his newfound giddiness. The King slumps back against the bed frame, sinking into the embroidered pillows depicting dragons spitting fire.
Criston finds he has no more words to say. Nothing that can save him this humiliation, this dreadful confrontation. Though, he finds that it is nearly outweighed by his own sense of shame. He has sullied the white cloak, his honor, for an eternity. His head spins, and for a moment, he feels faint, unguarded, it is a strange feeling— this level of carelessness that Aegon has presented him with.
“Gods, I will not punish you for such a frivolous thing. I will not blame a man for his lustful desires, even the noblest of men crumble to their knees for the sweetest of cunts.” Aegon licks his lips then, he is staring behind him, to the boy that has quickly shut his own loose mouth. Criston turns back to look at him, he has begun to shrink away, as if they might forget about him entirely and he would be able to slip away from their King’s wrath. Aegon is not quick to forget.
“What of Aemond?” Criston forces himself to speak through his frozen state of shock.
“What of him?”
“Will he not…retaliate at this?” Criston fears nothing more than the man he had practically raised when his own father was too busy doting on his bastard grandchildren. He had taught the boy the proper way to hold a sword, how to swing and aim with an accuracy that would guarantee a hit. Had taught him how to saddle a horse and how to ride one, how to properly block an attack and dodge one. And when Aemond had returned to King’s Landing with one eye less, Criston had taught him all those things over again.
Starting with learning how to walk again.
Criston had molded Aemond to be the realm’s fiercest warrior, so he cannot help but feel some sense of entitlement to this. He has worked for it, has earned some kind of repayment for all he has done.
Aegon scoffs. He slumps further against the bed, nearly as if to become one with it. “My brother is cunt-struck, yes, but I am still his King. I was the one to bestow him with the privilege of having our sweet little nephew first to warm his bed and have his child. I am only in my right to take my share, here and now.”
Criston sees it clearly, the tear that has formed between the two brothers. Aegon is clearly bitter that his brother has forbidden him from having Lucerys in his bed, and Aemond feels entitled that he has the right to have the boy all to himself. How has he managed to get himself caught in the middle of it all, Criston questions, is beyond him.
Suddenly, from the corner, Lucerys speaks for the first time since Aegon’s crude suggestion. It is small words, quiet in their own regard, and if Criston wasn’t paying attention, he might have missed them.
“You may have me, if you wish.” Lucerys says, fidgeting with the hem of his dress sleeve. Criston’s face crumbles. Just like his mother. Still, why is he surprised? The boy is blatantly offering himself up like some bastard flea bottom whore. It disgusts him, perhaps even more than Aegon’s suggestion. The boy could have saved himself some dignity by resisting the little amount he had left.
He is the one that has Aemond riled up and the King risking his own hand to get a taste. Criston feels as though he has failed at something. Raising these boys as if they were his own was a challenge, yes, but had he truly failed this terribly?
"My only request is that you have me...gently."
There is an itching to his hand. If he takes out Lucerys here and now, perhaps all this madness could end. Aemond would go back to his old self and Aegon would redirect his focus back to the war being fought in the north.
There is something beyond Lucerys’ words however, he can see it in the way his bastard brown eyes narrow. There is an underlying motive there, one Criston cannot quite pinpoint for himself.
Aegon hums from the bed, slightly fixing himself to lay higher, to get a good view of the both of them. “Does my brother not pleasure you enough that you have to seek it elsewhere?” Another soft chuckle is expelled from the King, more lowly this time. Lucerys doesn’t answer.
“Come here, darling nephew.” Aegon calls him forward, and Lucerys goes without effort. He helps himself upon the sizable bed, knees on first. Lucerys holds the small of his stomach carefully, almost as if guarding it. Criston feels sicker, then. Is he truly about to defile a pregnant omega under the King’s orders? Would Aegon allow him to refuse, if he tried?
His mouth remains closed. He feels uncomfortably heated beneath the heaviness of his armor, wishing only to discard it.
Aegon helps hoist Lucerys forward, capturing the boy in his arms. Criston watches with a careful eye as the breath hitches in his throat, listens carefully to the small noise that escapes past his teeth-worried lips. The heat in the room is near unbearable.
The King buries his face in the crook of the omega’s neck, nudging the skin along his scent gland with his nose. Lazily, he whispers, “Are you simply going to stand there like an imbecile or do I have to demand you as your King to prepare him?”
Criston moves on instinct, as if he had been snapped from the spell grounding him. He disregards the armor along his chest first, moving to unclasp the straps holding the iron along his forearms when he successfully throws the heavy chest plate somewhere along the room.
His mind is fogged, and a strange feeling of dejavú overtakes him for a second as Lucerys pulls away from Aegon and moves to help him take off the remaining pieces. Criston can smell him from their closeness, but it is not arousal that he finds. Not even a drop of it. It is a strong wave of sea salt and burnt caramel, overwhelming his senses as he stares down at the boy.
Lucerys pauses in his movement, hands slowing as he unties the leather straps that keep the protective layer beneath his armor in place. He looks up at him with searching eyes, flickering rapidly. There is no hint of want behind that gaze, not even desire. It is nearly pleading. The boy does not want this, Criston realizes, but still he insists. It makes no sense to him, why he would agree to such a thing in the first place.
Lucerys breaks his gaze away first as Aegon says something behind him that Criston doesn’t fully catch. He discards the rest of his armor with Lucerys’ help, who moves away the second Criston allows his shirt to fall at his feet.
The boy turns his back on him as he settles forward on the bed, sitting himself upon his knees.
“Ser Criston, care to undress our lovely courtesan?” Aegon gestures him forward with a grin. Criston obliges carefully, his side of the bed dipping in weight. Lucerys tenses in front of him, and Criston watches as his slender shoulders rise and fall unevenly with every shaky breath he takes.
He is a sight to behold, truthfully, dressed in deep emerald green. Though the dress conceals him nicely, the exposed neck and shoulders allows Criston to bathe in the boy’s carmeralized scent.
Before he even thinks, he reaches forward to caress the boy’s neck. He hears the way Lucerys bites back a noise of surprise, suppressing it as he clenches his fists into a tight ball. He is shaking, Criston realizes as he grows closer, though it seems as though Aegon could care less. He has readjusted himself to gain a more comfortable view, wishing only to watch them for now.
“I’m going to undress you now,” Criston whispers beneath his breath, so only Lucerys catches it. He doesn’t know why he tells him this, as if in warning, he has no care for the bastard— but it feels like common courtesy. The boy nods once in reply.
He cannot see his face, but he knows he wears a look of strained tension. He can sense it, smell it in the leaking softness of his scent gland. Criston’s mouth waters, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep himself from leaning forward and pushing his nose into the crook of it.
From where Criston kneels, the strange angle allows him to indulge. To picture a different person in front of him. A Queen, perhaps, or even an estranged princess. The shape is right, almost terrifyingly so, but the scent is all wrong. He remembers Rhaenyra to smell of fire and blood, blood of the dragon through and through. Her son lingers similarly, but with a certain softness that Criston cannot decide whether he adores or despises.
All the same, it makes his head spin.
Rhaenyra was no omega, and the blood of the dragon ran through her veins far too deeply than anyone truly anticipated. It was something that Criston hated, something that Criston sought to destroy. That carelessness, that defiance. It consumed him until he was no more.
Here, Criston could believe that he succeeded in destroying it.
The King’s Guard grips the side of the green dress at the shoulders, thumbing the fabric. It was incredibly soft beneath his touch, and he swore he could feel the boy’s heated skin beneath it. Without thinking, Criston pushes the fabric down the boy’s shoulders with a force that nearly sends the boy falling forward. The material slides down gracefully, a sharp noise as the fabric splits and comes apart in his hands echoing around him. Lucerys gasps, his hands quickly moving to conceal himself.
The dress made it down to his waist, and the boy only wore a thin garment beneath it. He could see the way his back curved, the bruises lining down his sides, nearing down his hips and concealed by the stubborn fabric that refused to go any further. Aegon exhales heavily in the distance, his own scent of dragon fire and grape-wine growing stronger with arousal.
The boy's arms curl around his chest, covering the soft mounds of his pitiful breasts that had begun to change during the course of his pregnancy. He had seen how they filled out, his body readying itself for the babe. Criston stifles a soft groan, pushing down the rest of the torn dress. Lucerys clumsily lifts his legs one by one to allow the material to be discarded, being only left in his thin, see-through under layers.
The bastard is shivering, fragile beneath it all. Criston sees a crack in his delicately built facade, and he wishes only to finger it until it widens.
He grows closer, watches as Lucerys fights the instinct to move away. Criston holds him before he can make any real move, pressing his chest against the small of the boy’s back.
“Look at how well my darling nephew has begun to fill out, Gods, isn’t he beautiful, Ser Criston?”
The King’s Guard flushes himself against the omega, all previous shame and guilt and ugliness melting away as he sniffs at the neck of the boy, breathing in his scent and allowing it to cloud his mind, his senses, his everything. He has never been this close to an omega before, especially not like this. Instinctively, his hands go to the boy’s hips, guiding him back to press against his front.
He feels the way the boy’s plump skin presses against his stiffening cock, the only barrier between them being Lucery’s small clothes and his own trousers. He hears the way the boy gasps in surprise, hears the way he whimpers when he grinds himself against his softness.
Aegon departs from his comfortable place against the pillows, the bed weight dipping towards where they are kneeled. Criston pauses in his movements, allowing Aegon to have his turn, he still holds the side of the bastard's hips, loosening his grip ever so slightly.
The King bundles the soft fabric of Lucerys’ smallclothes in his fist, lifting them above his fluttering stomach. Aegon nearly heaves at the sight.
“Look at that sweet little cunt,” Aegon blinks down in disbelief. Criston cannot deprive himself of such a sight, so he quickly leans his head against Lucerys’ shoulder to peer down and look. “My brother is full of greed for refusing me such a prize.”
The boy’s cunt is bare, pink and appears untouched and unruined. Virginal. If Criston was none the wiser, he might have believed the bastard’s maidenhead was still intact. Aegon dips his hand down, spreading the silky folds that part easily between his fingers. Lucerys cries softly, his thighs trembling as he fights to keep himself upright.
Aegon rubs the little pink pearl above the boy’s lips slowly, as if testing him, and Lucerys gives a whole body shudder at the electricity that flows through him. Criston groans as the bastard, in turn, rubs up against his hardening cock.
The King’s hand comes back doused in slick, glistening under the flickering candle lights that illuminate his apartments. “Seven hells, you’re wet already.” A grin grows across Aegon’s features, he stares at Lucerys dead in the eyes, a challenge. “Has my brother not been fucking you properly?”
Criston watches in amazement as Aegon brings his soiled fingers to his mouth, licking them clean. Lucerys takes a shaky inhale of air beneath him, twisting in his hold. Criston has subconsciously gripped him hard enough that he’s sure to leave bruises. He finds that he can’t bring himself to regret it, even if Aemond discovers them when he takes his fill of the boy. There will be a mark of him, of his existence, of what they’re about to do on his body—it is nearly as thrilling as it is frightening.
“A-Aemond fucks me at his own pleasure,” Lucerys whines pathetically under his breath, gentle and provoking. Aegon makes a noise of acknowledgement, as if weighing his options.
“Come here,” The King coos, leaning back down on the bed frame. Lucerys shuffles forward, abandoning his spot against Criston. He feels the heat leave him begrudgingly, but stares in awe as the boy settles along the King. With his back against Aegon’s chest, they almost become one.
Pale hands strip what’s left of Lucerys’ garbs, his small breasts spilling into the open. They are tiny, perky things, swollen from their growth. Criston wishes to have one in his mouth, just to see how the boy’s skin would taste, how he would sound at the feeling of heat against his sensitive chest.
Criston digs his nails into his palm, breaking himself from such depraved thoughts. Perhaps he is no better than other men, after all.
Even the noblest of men crumble at the sweetest of cunts, the words echo in his mind from a distance. There is a truth to them, a truth Criston wishes not to face.
“Come take your fill, Ser Criston.” Aegon huffs from behind Lucerys, an arm already snaking around the boy to keep him in place. “Make the bastard forget my brother all together.” Aegon has his face buried in Lucerys’ shoulder, drunk now off his suffocating scent.
Criston wastes no time. He moves to hassle with the string of his trousers, hands shaking slightly, until the King hisses in disapproval, head not raised an inch from where it has planted itself against the porcelain skin.
“No, you imbecile. Use your mouth first. Get him nice and wet before you pull your cock out.” Aegon’s voice is sharp, and Criston feels nearly threatened by it. He swallows thickly, flicking his gaze to Lucerys. The boy gives him that small look he gave earlier, something desperate, not for pleasure or desire.
He feels something roll in his stomach. Ignoring it, Criston dips down, settling himself against Lucerys thighs. He has done this a handful of times, knows the basics of using his mouth for pleasure. But here— now, he feels akin to the most oblivious fool having his first go at it. His face burns with a kind of twitchy embarrassment, still in disbelief this was truly happening.
“Gods, are you deaf or just a craven?”
Criston digs himself out of his thoughts, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. He plants his hands against the thighs of the boy, swinging them over his shoulders. He gives them a fair squeeze, soft beneath his own rough hands— the skin there is malleable, but he can tell they were once molded with muscle, strengthened by dragon riding. There is no more of that now, and so the bastard is soft under his touch. Lucerys’ breath grows louder, the tiny swell of his stomach fluttering slightly in anticipation. His lips grace the edges of the boy’s bruised skin— painted with shades of purple, green and angry red.
His tongue slips past his lips, giving the boy’s mound an experimental lick. Lucerys exhales shakily above him, the feeling of slick flowing against his tongue freely. It is nothing of what he’s ever had before, like sweet summer wine from the Eastern Isles. He takes a second to savor it and— Gods, Aegon was right, there is nothing more refined than the taste of an omega’s cunt. It is sweet syrup against his tongue, and Criston finds he is hungry for more.
Using his hands, he buries his face in Lucerys’ quivering cunny. His mouth is around him, around the silky softness of his wet mound. The boy gives a strangled cry and struggles to stay still. Aegon holds him down, preventing him from moving too much, holding him hostage to their enjoyment.
The boy’s thighs cradle his head as Criston circles his tongue against the boy’s clit, listening to his soft cries of strained pleasure. Everything is so wet, so filthy. He is lost in it, almost, and has to ground himself by digging his nails into his palm.
The King’s guard circles his tongue torturously slow, giving a particular hard flick when Lucerys jerks back down against his face. Slick gushes out of the bastard’s cunt softly, staining the lower half of his face in its sweet nectar. Criston swallows down what spills in his mouth generously, greedily slurping down the quim that flutters against his tongue.
He fucks his tongue against the apex of the boy's sex, applying pressure where he believed it would send the bastard into a deeper state of ruin. His noises were heavenly, those pathetic sounds reflecting straight to the heat of his own cock. Criston forces himself to not reach out and stroke himself, wishing this to last longer, wishing to drag every last second they were given.
“Please,” Lucerys cries above him. Criston opens his eyes, breaking the illusion. There is no abominable princess pressed against him, nor a pious queen dressed in mourning black. Only a bastard boy with the resemblance of both. A miserable abomination. “Please, I-I can’t. It feels strange.” His voice is all desperation, and Aegon hushes him quietly.
“You can take it, just a little more, come on, need to get you all nice and wet before we fuck you,” Aegon reaches his hand down to Lucerys’ thigh, giving him a small, encouraging squeeze. The boy shakes his head, a useless protest. A whine is quickly ripped from his throat as Criston’s hands pull his folds apart with each of his thumbs, brushing his fingertips along the fluttering edges. The Kings guard spreads him crudely, watching as the pinkness of the boy’s mound twitches open, struggling to close against his hold with each little shaky breath he takes.
It is a filthy sight, one that Criston engraves into his memory. Lucerys’ swollen clit is beating red, glistening with slick and spit. His hole is clenching around nothing, desperately empty, calling to be stuffed and filled. He presses his mouth closer, allowing the stubble of hair along his lower face to scratch against him. Above him, the boy makes a strained, little sound at the rough contact, squirming uselessly.
“Gods, so sensitive, like a maiden,” Aegon purrs. He has one of the boy's small teats in hand, rolling around the swollen bud in between his fingers. He pinches at the pink nipple until it hardens and turns a delicate shade of red, like a blooming rose. Lucerys cries at the pain-pleasure of it, shutting his eyes tightly as he shifts his head back from left to right in desperation.
Criston pushes his tongue against the boy’s entrance, applying enough pressure so it slips into his leaking hole. There is nearly no resistance to his intrusion, his cunt opening generously to allow him to slip his tongue in and out slowly, savoring the sweet tanginess that explodes in his mouth. Wrapping a guiding hand along Lucerys’ hips, Criston lifts him from the bed, repositioning them to a new angle that allows him to fuck his tongue deeper into the boy’s cunny.
Lucerys is crying now, giving full body tremors as sobs are broken from his throat. Criston feels a hand wrap along his shaggy uncut hair, delicately small fingers tangling within the oiled mess. The hand that holds him pushes gently forward, almost shyly, rolling his hips down against his mouth once, twice— Criston hears himself moan before he can even conceal it.
He has never tasted something so delicious. Every single one of his senses are ablaze, singing with a frenzied pleasure that he cannot describe. It is madness, maniacal. It is only an emotion that those who carry the blood of the dragon can suffocate him with.
Criston licks— kisses— devours like a starved man, slurping the boy’s cunt with a frantic neediness that is sure to be humiliating. He finds that he cannot bring himself to care, not in this blissful moment.
He feels Lucerys hips jut harder against his face, rolling down shamelessly and oh, there it is— his bastard nature shining through, promiscuous in all its glory. He was right after all, and the boy doesn’t even try to hide it.
“‘S too much. ‘S t-too much, I can’t, I can't.”
Criston pulls back slightly, and the boy above him whines as if it is a major loss. He cannot help the smile that pulls against his lips, the way the coiling heat sets fire to his very core.
He moves the tip of his tongue back to the boy’s clit, dragging it slowly, gathering the wetness there and circling it against the swollen bud. Lucerys sobs, wishing his hips to move away from the abuse, but Aegon has enough of a grip on where he gets nowhere.
The King’s Guard allows himself to indulge. He grazes his teeth in the way Alicent has always forbade him to whenever he was beneath her skirts, closing them around the boy’s clit. Lucerys jolts sharply, alarmed, and Criston feels the way the boy’s tugs become more frantic, more forceful. For a second, he fears the boy will pull out a clump of his curls.
“That hurts!” Lucerys hisses, and doesn't tell him to stop, so Criston doesn’t. He probably would have not if he did anyways. Instead, he’s driving his hips down against his mouth harder, riding him, using him. Criston lets him, pretending for a second that the boy isn’t so below him that the idea of his touch has not repulsed him this entire time.
With his teeth and tongue, Criston tugs at the boy’s pulsating clit until Lucerys goes limp in Aegon’s arms. His mouth is violently flooded with the boy’s slick, sweetness heavy on his tongue. Criston swallows what he can, but even as he pulls his face away from the boy’s inner thighs, there is still wetness weeping from his cunt in small, scattered waterfalls.
“Look how you’ve ruined his virgin cunt, Ser Criston.” Aegon laughs as he reaches a hand to spread Lucerys’ puffy folds, stretching them apart with two of his fingers. They give one, final waterfall of slick before Lucerys allows his hips to collapse back on the puddle he’s made beneath himself. “Gods, what lord will have him now that he’s been soiled with such filth? No pleasure will ever be sufficient enough for my poor little nephew now.”
Criston forces himself to catch his breath. The sight of the boy in a state of such ruin sends his head spinning, forcing himself to steady carefully against the pale, bruised thigh next to him. He feels drunk off it, almost, greedily taking sharp intakes of the boy’s sweetening scent of arousal. His cock is beginning to ache, and he can do nothing more than squeeze himself through the thin trousers he still wears.
“He’s always been ruined, there is not much we can do that he hasn’t done already.” Criston murmurs against the boy’s skin, running his teeth there, almost making the foolish mistake of biting down against something that isn’t his. The thought forces him to sober up, and he straightens himself away from the boy’s quivering body.
Aegon hums an amused response, he half expects the bastard to snap back at them for such comments, but Lucerys looks as though he is too far gone to even formulate a proper thought, let alone speak it. “Good, then I’m sure he won’t mind if I stick my cock inside of his sweet cunny then.”
Criston watches as Aegon lifts Lucerys slightly enough so he can shift down his own trousers, taking his hard and leaking cock in his hand. He gives himself a few, tight strokes before he aligns himself against the boy’s quim. His folds split with ease, already welcoming the girth with a fresh new wave of wet gushing. Lucerys struggles then, fighting back against Aegon’s steel arms holding him in place.
“No, no. Wait, wait, wait— uncle please wait,” The boy cries awake from his stupor, twisting his weak little bird body away. It doesn’t work, not his nails digging against the exposed skin of Aegon’s forearm or the violent bursts of his legs kicking at them both. Criston holds him down by the ankles with an iron hold, leaving Lucerys completely defenseless against them. The King only guides him down in a hurried pace, and Criston watches as the boy’s cunt parts further to allow Aegon’s swollen cock to sink into his entrance.
Lucerys wails, already accepting defeat as Aegon buries himself in deeper.
“Oh fuck, fuck,” Aegon allows his head to fall back against the pillows, scrunching his face as his eyes fall shut. He holds Lucerys against his chest in a crushing hug from behind, knocking the breath completely from the bastard. “So fucking tight, Gods, has my brother even fucked you yet? Are you sure the Gods have not blessed you with a babe entirely of your own?” Aegon rolls his hips forward, watching as his cock disappears inside Lucerys twitching cunny. “You’re gripping me so tightly, nephew, your poor little cunt has been starved of cock all your life, hasn’t it?” Aegon presses a lazy kiss against the joint of Lucerys’ shoulder up to his bared neck, licking softly at the scent gland there.
The boy gives only a guttural moan in response, his body limp once more. “Don’t worry, your uncle is here to fix that right up. It is my duty as your elder to teach you how to take your first cock,” Aegon’s words are clumped together, lost to his arousal and his wine clouded mind.
Criston should be disgusted by the display of shameless filth unfolding in front of him. A normal person would reject this, would repent against it— only, Criston hasn’t felt like a person in years.
He dips his hand into his loose trousers, finally wrapping his fingers around his drooling cock. Just his fingers feel revolutionary, but he knows it will not be enough. He gives himself a lazy stroke, easing himself into it, running his dry palm up and down in shallow strokes. When his hand comes up to cup the hot head of his cock, he squeezes himself until another bead of pre-come pearls against the sensitive slit, using it as lubricant to coat the rest of his aching length.
Lucerys is a babbling mess, he is weakly hitting his fist against Aegon’s thigh, the other hand gripping the sheets tightly to a point where his knuckles have gone white. None of what spills past his lips is coherent, no pleas or begs to stop, no words of encouragement— it is all muddled down to desperate, throaty noises.
“You were made for me sweetling, a perfect fit, don’t you think, Ser Criston?” Aegon urges him with a smirk, he pulls Lucerys thighs up, folding him back at his knees until they rest beside them. The position looks uncomfortable, but it gives a clear view of Aegon’s disappearing cock as it slides in and out of Lucerys at a practiced pace. He watches the boy’s mound quiver with each slap of skin, each thrust inside of him turning the skin a peachy red.
“Perfect,” Criston mumbles beneath his breath in agreement, drowned out by the sharp cry that the boy suddenly gives. Aegon hums in satisfaction, hilting his cock deep inside of the boy, rolling his hips lazily to grind against the spot inside of the omega that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head and his toes curl.
“Uncle, uncle— I beg of you,” Lucerys' mouth falls open as Aegon picks up the pace, grunting lowly against the omegas ear. Any protest that the bastard might have had dissolves completely on his tongue, drool spilling from the corners of his bruising lips. The cut has reopened and blood flows from the injury Criston had bestowed upon him freely only moments go. It feels as though it has been centuries since then, time unforgiving in this personal hell. He watches the crimson liquid dribble down his chin, a small droplet of blood, entranced.
He moves before he can even think, and Criston tastes as the metallic liquid fills his mouth. He takes Lucerys lips greedily, making sure his teeth crash cruelly against the cut. The boy is a rag doll beneath him, unmoving and unfazed. He is pulling back as quickly as he had rushed forward, staring into the wide, brown eyes of the bastard boy. They are glossed over, though they hold a far away look that Criston questions if he had even felt the kiss.
“Please? Please what? You want Criston’s cock inside of you too? Is one not enough for you? Greedy fucking bastard.” Aegon growls, bringing down a ringed hand against Lucerys’ puffy clit. The boy howls in pain, the silver bands serving nearly like a whip to the sensitive skin. “Little whore, you like that, don’t you? Who would have thought my precious little nephew is so fucking cock-hungry.”
Another spill bursts from Lucerys like a dam as Aegon slaps him again, a little harder this time. It soils his trousers, but Criston cannot find himself to care. “Quicken, Ser Cole, look at how desperate my nephew is to have you inside of him. Don’t want to keep the poor boy awaiting.” Aegon purrs, flicking the bastard’s pearl with his fingers as it gives another tiny, pathetic squirt.
Criston nods, hazed by everything— the smell of sex, the ruined sight of the bastard boy, the taste of him still lingering on his tongue. He pulls his cock out, heavy in his hand. The tip is an angry red, swollen from the agonizing wait. But wait he needs no longer, and Criston takes this moment to savor everything.
“It- it won’t fit, I’ll tear—!” Lucerys manages a wail, scrambling to loosen Aegon’s hold around him. The king does not budge. He tries to close his thighs, press them together in a useless attempt at caging himself in. Criston doesn’t allow it. He holds the boy’s thighs apart with a solid, unmoving grip, positioning himself against them like the boy was made for him.
He lifts his gaze then, staring at Lucerys’ writhing, trembling form. Poor thing. Criston caresses his hip, thumbing the dips and curves of his body absentmindedly. “You needn’t worry, bastard. I’ll make it fit.”
His cock rests against the boy’s pretty cunt. Criston fucks him like that for a lazy moment, steadying himself to rub the tip of his length against the abused pearl nestled between the boy’s soft pink folds. Lucerys sobs, extra sensitive, but does nothing to stop him. He is too weak to move.
Positioning his arm against the tangle of bodies, the King’s Guard settles above them, the silver dog tag hanging from his neck, dangling in front of the bastard’s face. He looks mesmerizing by it, if only for a few seconds, before Criston guides his cock to sink into Lucerys’ cunt.
The wind is immediately knocked from his chest and Criston forces himself to not fold over like he’s spineless. The boy’s cunny is hot, so incredibly hot that he nearly spills as soon as the head of his cock pushes in. Aegon is still moving relentlessly inside the boy, not for a second slowing his movements to give the boy some time to adjust, murmuring his own words of encouragement and debasement.
“You were meant for this, weren’t you? Meant to take cock like a cheap whore.”
Criston groans, tilting his head back as Lucerys clenches down against the both of them tighter. The boy flinches like a wounded animal, feral and frightened and rabid. A wild dragon. His body flaying in all directions, his legs kicking out and his hands clinging to Aegon’s arms as they hold him in place long enough for Criston to push himself in a few more inches.
“You're so tight, so wet, so hot. Like fire. Perhaps you do carry the blood of the dragon after all, bastard.” Aegon bites at the shell of Lucerys’ ear, his cock glistening with slick and pre-come every time he slips out. The noises are obscene, repulsive, straight out of the brothels from the street of silk—skin slapping, sopping wet cunts being fucked into, the terrible moans and whimpers that make Criston’s vision blur and muddle together. It is intoxicating. It is maddening.
“It hurts.” The words fall from Lucerys’ lips like liquid, overtaken by his own noises rising high in his throat. They are lost to him, drowned and forgotten. Criston glides his cock in deeper, feeling as Aegon thrusts in and out of the boy’s quim effortlessly. He feels trapped, encased in a tight, warm, hole— Aegon was right, there is nothing that compares to an omega’s cunt.
He has had three different women in his entire life, his first when he was fresh into his years of being a man— still fighting for the Dornish incursions. The woman was of average appearance, some whore from the outskirts of Dorne. It was rushed and as exciting as you would expect your first time to be. In the moment, it was glorious, though he had quickly realized it wasn’t as ground-breaking as he had made it out to be. He had become an oathbreaker the second time he had bedded someone, soiling the white cloak for sleeping with the crowned princess— it was his first taste of fire, his first feeling of what it was like to touch the flames of a monstrous dragon. It had left him addicted and nothing he tried could replicate what he had experienced long ago, nothing could ever compare to being kissed by fire and blood. Alicent Hightower was his third, pious and undoubtedly devout. There was no fire there, only unfixable damage.
Here is the very fire he had tasted decades ago.
Criston grunts as he feels claws slide down the muscles of his back, digging deep into his skin. He stares at Lucerys, whose eyes are fixed upon him wildly. The punctures of his nails dig deeper against him, heat running down his body in liquid fire. Eyes lock upon him, and Criston can feel himself grow harder inside the boy. Lucerys’ mouth falls open helplessly, the noises that escape past him quiet and unsounding.
Subconsciously placing a hand on the bastard’s stomach, Criston drags his fingers along where Lucerys’ skin stretches ever so slightly, where life is forming inside of him. Criston swallows thickly, at the madness of it all—he is defiling a being that mirrors both the Mother and the Maiden.
He should be repulsed, he should be disgusted. The only thing Criston can bring himself to feel is the want for more. An insatiable hunger, an appetite eternally skewed.
It is Lucerys’ nails clawing further at his back that forces him to move his hand away from the boy’s stomach.
Criston sinks his cock in deeper, until he feels himself resting flush against the boy. Lucerys twitches as the King’s Guard rubs himself against his abused cunt mercilessly, coiling into himself. It is then that he sees it—the bulge settled deep against the bastard. Eyes wide in fascination, Criston watches as the outline of his cock disappears carefully as he slips back a few inches, only for it to poke out as he buries himself back in.
Aegon grunts below them, his thrusts becoming far more erratic and sloppy. Criston can feel his cock twitch against his own, the wetness aiding them both through the tight heat enveloping them both.
“Nephew, I’m close,” Aegon sighs as he lays his head back, manhandling the boy back down onto his dripping cock. “Y-You won’t mind if I spill my seed inside of you, right?” The king speaks through exhausted huffs, strained in his throat. Lucerys makes an unintelligent noise, one that most certainly means a no. Aegon ignores it. “Shh, shh. It will be fine, it will be impossible to get you with-child now that you’re carrying my brother’s bastard.”
Criston shuddered as Aegon’s movements begin to stutter inside of the boy, the way his cock twists against his, hears the way the king makes a strained groan of pleasure, mumbling obscenities that Criston can barely decipher beneath his breath. Lucerys weeps and gives a full body tremble as Aegon spills his seed deep inside his cunt, marking him. Criston has to lean his head along the crook of the boy’s collarbone to withstand the feeling of another man’s spend surrounding his cock, of Aegon not slowing down for a second as he rides out his own orgasm, fucking his spill deeper inside Lucerys’ ruined quim.
“Seven hells,” Aegon collapses down onto the bed once he pulls himself free of the bastard’s sweet cunny, shifting himself upwards on the bed. He is out of breath, his chest rising and falling in fatigue. “That was…” Aegon’s words are heavy on his tongue, “You feel better than any exotic whore walking the street of silk, nephew. I can see why Aemond has taken a keen interest in you now, that cunt-struck fool.” Aegon curls his lips in a loose smile, something hidden away behind that look. Something dangerous. Contemplating.
Flickering his eyes back down to the boy, Criston watches as his trembling thighs are coated in the seed spilling out from within him—watches as his quivering cunt clenches around empty space, clutching his length to whatever strength he may have left. He cannot let this go, he has to finish.
I am owed that much.
Criston slips himself free and wraps an arm around Lucerys’ middle, lifting him from the bed effortlessly. The boy weighs almost nothing underneath his hold as he turns him around, pressing his chest to the bastard’s back. He holds him there for a second, his body limp in his arms. Lucerys struggles to keep himself up on his folded knees, making a distressed noise deep in his throat.
He nearly feels pity for the boy. Almost. It washes away quickly with the reminder that his cock is still hard and leaking, wishing to be stuffed into a warm cunt. Criston forces Lucerys’ hands behind his back in one swift movement, the boy barely having any time to register it before both of his wrists are held together in the King’s Guards' painfully tight grasp.
There are bruises lingering along the soft skin of the bastard’s porcelain skin, most that suggest they were imprinted on his skin purposely—with reason. Criston cannot help but press his thumb down against where the bruises are muddled together at their worst. Lucerys makes a weak sound, a little cry that barely makes it past his lips before Criston lines himself up against the boy’s folds and presses in. He is choked off with something louder than a cry of pain, ripped straight from the rawness of his throat.
“No more,” Lucerys wiggles weakly in his grasp as he pops the head of his cock inside. The slide is aided by Aegon’s own spend leaking out from him in small dribbles, the boy’s creamy hole loosened enough that it doesn’t take Criston much effort to sink back fully.
Holding the once-prince by his wrists, the angle causes Lucerys to arch the curve of his back in a way that knocks the wind out of Criston. The boy is a natural.
The heat coils inside him, festers and consumes him. He salivates at the mouth, teeth aching to sink into something. Criston has to remind himself that this isn’t his place, isn’t his entitlement to take, but when the son of the woman he once loved is spread so obscenely below him, it is harder than the steel he holds at his hip.
If he were to claim this bastard, it would be like owning a part of the Bitch Queen herself. Surely she would be rolling in her grave if she were to look up and see it happening to the son she tried so desperately to protect.
A mark of his own, permanently on her brood. Justice finally brought to light.
“Look at how his teats bounce every time your cock sinks into him!” Aegon muses loudly from where he lays, cock in one hand and wine-cup in the other. Criston fixes himself forward, to see the way the small mounds move every time he fully sheaths himself inside the bastard.
Reaching a hand to cup at one of his swollen breasts, Criston twists the boy’s nipple along his fingers until it hardens beneath his touch. Lucerys whines, his head falling limply on his shoulder. Too heavy to keep it up.
He is edging so terribly close towards the edge, so close to unraveling and staining the white cloak thrice over. Criston buries his face into the crook of Lucerys’ neck, inhaling the caramel and sea salt and all the rage and despair underneath, letting it cloud his senses.
Criston chases that warm, gushing heat, allowing it to envelop his cock like a vice, feeling as the boy clenches around him every time he hits that precious spot inside of the omega’s cunt. Lucerys’ moans have become a blasphemous mantra, one that Criston drills into his memory.
Pressing his lips against the empty canvas of the bastard’s neck, the King’s Guard allows his tongue to lick at the pale skin, tasting the honeyed flavor that omegas naturally carry. He thinks he smells the faint scent of sweetened milk, the kind that only pregnant omegas have when they’re well off into their later terms.
Sweet and honeyed. A hint of metallic blood.
That is enough to send him off the very edge.
Criston is chasing the feeling, fast and hard, and the whispered words fall from his lips before he can even register them.
“Princess,” It comes as a deep groan, muffled against the clammy, ruined skin he has buried his face into. The realization hits him too late, his senses delayed by the ecstasy of it all, and all Criston can do is pray that Lucerys did not hear his moment of weakness. Of vulnerability. Of his facade cracking.
The thoughts melt away as he buries himself deeper into the omega’s cunt, allowing the quivering mess to milk him of his seed as he gives Lucerys a couple of final, rough thrusts. An effort to make sure his spill settles deep inside of him. A silent claim, however meaningless.
His knot has begun to fill out at the base of his cock, and it takes an enormous amount of effort to not stuff the bastard full of it. He wouldn’t want to be locked in place with him, no matter how erotic the thought might have been once.
The bastard has gone deathly quiet then. Criston loosens his grip on the boy’s wrists and allows him to fall forward, hips folded into the air. He is catching his breath still, his chest sinking and rising rapidly, skin glistening with sweat. He pushes back the hair that has stuck to his forehead with his hand, sitting back against the bed in exhaustion. He was not as young as he once was, and the fatigue settling in his bones was proof of it.
“Fuck,” Aegon quickly finishes in his hand seconds after, wiping the filth that gathered on him carelessly on the bed covers. Smug but nonetheless oblivious. Criston can’t help but grimace with disgust at the sight, his chest lifting of its weighted worry. The king hadn’t heard his moment of terrible sickness. “We’ve turned him into a proper whore, it seems.”
Lucerys is like a stone statue where he has collapsed, his faint breathing being the only evidence that the boy had not fully given himself over to the Stranger. Criston caresses a hand on the side of his hip, and the bastard jolts at the touch, but doesn’t make any real movement to recoil back from it.
He allows his fingers to trace back to the boy’s ruined quim, pulling apart the folds as he watches the mixed seed of him and his king pulsate out of him with each helpless breath Lucerys takes. It leaks from him freely, slick coating the underside of his thighs enough that Criston can feel it beneath his fingertips.
“He has earned the title well enough,” Criston breathes a heavy inhale, humming in agreement. Lucerys rises then, using his trembling arms as support. He is muttering something underneath his breath, most of it indecipherable. It is of the old tongue, valyrian, Criston recognizes, but it only falls like muddled gibberish to his ears.
The boy’s lengthy strands of brown curls are in disarray, falling from beneath the sheer veil that concealed it. It is a miracle that the piece of fabric stayed on at all, really, through all the indelicacy Lucerys had to endure.
He lifts his head carefully, staring at Aegon as he indulges in pouring another cup for himself. Lucerys reaches for his torn garbs, dressing in them, or attempts to. Criston had ripped them nearly to shreds in his moment of…weakness. Still, the boy holds them together with his small hands, the emerald green concealing his form. Hidden away, once more.
“May I—” Lucerys sways from where he sits up on the bed, “May I be excused, your grace? The hour has grown quite late.” His words are emptied of any emotion, strained from a raw throat. Lucerys slides from the bed, holding onto the bedposts at the end for support.
Aegon raises an eyebrow, staring at the boy for a quick moment, almost as if expecting something more from him. There is no hurt behind that look, or a sense of entitlement. Only vague confusion. After a second, the king shrugs, waving his hand around as if to dismiss Lucerys like a castle servant.
“Fleeing like a maiden too, I suppose that should have been expected.” Aegon brushes back his hair as he mutters beneath his cup bitterly. “Do you do the same with Aemond?”
”He is the one fleeing, usually.” Lucerys steadies himself upon the bedpost, nearly leaning his figure upon the weight of it. Aegon snorts at the slight.
Criston dismounts from the bed, gathering his clothes in a scramble. It is a fever dream, the entire time he dresses himself. He hardly believes the sin he has allowed himself to commit. Such debaucheries he never believed himself to ever wish to indulge in. The boy’s bastard nature had trapped him in a spider web of sexual degeneracy.
Lucerys smiles at last and mutters one final thing in the tongue of old before he leaves the room with haste, clutching himself as if he may fall apart completely. It is a sight to behold, the way his trembling frame nearly collapses in itself just as he reaches the door. It reminds him of a wobbling babe learning its first steps, or of Aemond learning how to walk again.
Criston swallows the lump lodged in his throat, watching as the bastard leaves a stream of filth where he walks, staining the ground beneath him.
“I will have his hand, once the war is done,” Aegon thinks out loud, words sluggish with drink. Criston turns back to look at him as he finishes strapping down the last pieces of his armor around his gauntlet. It doesn’t register for a second, but the second it does, it raises a mix of surprise and disbelief.
“You mean to wed the bastard?” Criston’s voice rises in strict concern, wishing to correct the possible mistake Aegon has made in his way of speech.
“I mean to claim him, bite him, mark him— whatever way you wish to say it, it will all be the same. Lucerys will be mine.”
“What of the Queen?”
Aegon tilts his head as if the question is unfathomable to him. “My sister, Helaena?” The King laughs heartily and cracks a smile. “She is no better than a corpse when I bed her, on the rare occasions she allows me to, I will never conceive an heir with her. That thought is long past questioning.”
“You’re suggesting she’s barren?” Criston finds his stare on the floor, fixated on the stain of fluids that Lucerys had left behind.
“It has been nearly a year since the war ended and she shows no signs of carrying no matter how many times we have performed our duty.” Aegon dives back into his goblet, the emerald green gems lining the cup glistening underneath the candlelights.
“She is still your wife, your Queen.” His voice is lining with desperation now.
“That did not stopped Aegon the Conqueror from taking a second wife, or Maegor from taking six.”
It is unreal, the conversation they are having. Criston clutches his eyes tightly, fingers digging into the corners of his eyes, attempting for a moment to not snap.
“The boy is still a bastard with filthy, traitorous blood. What kind of message will this send to those fighting still for Rhaenyra’s blood—for Lucerys out of all of them, seven hells—to sit upon your rightful throne?” Criston rounds the bed, approaching the king where he has sunken into his pillows. “Are you truly about to give this bastard a hold of power? He will be your consort by law. Think about this logically for a second, Aegon, this will not have a favorable outcome if you push for it. The council will despise you for it, the realm even more so for allowing a bastard the title of Queen. And the Lords who have adapted to your law, what will they think when you have taken a breeding omegas to wed? Not to mention the insult it will bring on Helaena, Gods.”
Aegon grows quiet for a moment, fingers tightening around his cup for a moment. “I am the King, Lucerys will hold no power against me.” He takes another deep swing, dragging out the moment. Criston shifts his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently. “I am not granting him leverage, nor for our enemies in the North. He will remain stripped of his titles, of his name, of his body. His purpose will remain the same. I am making him a symbol, a reminder of my mercy as King.”
Criston suppresses a scoff, but the irritation must be as clear as day on his face because Aegon leans in carefully, whispering to him in a low voice, “Do not act as if you have not been drooling over the boy these past few moons, Ser Cole. You have gotten your fill of it, now you may politely fuck off…lest you want that precious while cloak of yours surrendered.”
The King’s Guard backs away slowly, tightening his lips with distaste. There is a build up of words clogged in his mouth, on the tip of his tongue, awaiting explosion. He swallows them down with a bite of his tongue. Criston admits defeat, nodding in forced acceptance. He no longer has a hold on the boys now, Lucerys has his claws in both of them. He leaves the room without another word uttered, breathing in fresh air that isn’t soiled with the smell of sex and the horrible concoction of scents.
A shuffle of fabric catches his attention, and Criston watches as Lucerys retreats quickly around the corner. He doesn’t bother to chase after him, doesn’t bother with confrontation. It is best if they keep their distance, but if the boy chooses to speak of what they’ve done…
Criston brushed the thought aside quickly. No one would place their bets on believing a disgraced, traitorous prince. Still, the lingering fear of Aemond’s wrath hangs over him like a fire waiting to burn him alive.
Turning the opposite corner, he makes his way to his chambers with a staggering sense of dread.
The walk back to his chambers is a walk of shame. He stumbles every so often amongst the grand staircase leading down to the secluded sectors of the Keep, barely managing to catch himself against the brick walls. His legs are shaking beneath him, and for a moment, he feels as though he might collapse. Lucerys forces himself to take a second to lean against the railings for support, catching his breath. He feels as though he might double over with nausea and empty the contents of the very small meal he had to break his fast that morning.
He can still feel it, running down his legs.
They are nearly numb below him, dragging like that of a doll’s. One that has been used up, no longer worthy of play. It is what he is now, something to use. Lucerys ran his hand down against his hip instinctively, trying to soothe himself the best he could. His chest ached with an emptiness that left him hollow, carved out.
Princess. Gods, how pathetic.
It is then that he hears something, inside his body. He’s broken, something has cracked, that must be it. Noise is coming up, coming out. Out of the broken place, spilling past his lips. It is without warning, and Lucerys has to plant a hand over his mouth to stifle the strange noises erupting from his mouth in strifled bursts. If he lets the noise get out into the air it will be laughter, too loud, too much of it, all at once. Someone is bound to hear—the few guards left behind, or perhaps a wandering maid. Either way, the outcome will be the same. Lucerys wants to cram his fingers into his mouth, down the pipe of his throat, to silence himself indefinitely.
The laughter is boiling over like lava in his throat, his ribs ache with how he forces himself to hold the strange noises back. He thinks he may vomit for a second, but it passes and Lucerys has to clench his eyes for the tears to go away. He forces composure upon himself, finding stability as his nails sink into the palm of his hand—focusing on the dull ache there, until blood spills, until pain enters him and his laughter dies abruptly. He forces himself to continue the climb only when he is sure that his body will not betray him and he will not die from hysterical laughter.
It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks dully, to die in such a manner.
It would certainly be more pleasant than a beheading, or a hanging, or during childbirth. Certainly one for the footnotes of the history books, perhaps he will be of some notice there. Never truly forgotten.
When he reaches the entrance of his chambers, the guard lets him in without so much as a word of acknowledgement. He hadn’t noticed his disheveled appearance perhaps, or maybe he did and simply decided not to comment on it. It wasn’t his concern, anyway. Still, he knew what he looked like. The way his clothes clung to him loosely, in a manner that suggested only the worst. His hair spilled from underneath the sheer veil in waves, he didn’t bother to tuck it back in.
His scent was surely reeking of something. Something awful, something he had been forced to get used to. Lucerys cannot smell his own scent, but it must hold some misery behind it, some crude arousal clinging to him like an unyielding parasite.
When he enters the small room, Lucerys nearly jumps out of his skin. Aemond is standing there, against the farthest wall, looking outside the only window in his chambers. Aemond turns as he hears the door shut with a distinct click, single eye closing in on him. Lucerys feels himself shrink, a new layer of tension brewing over him.
“My prince, I had not been expecting you tonight.” Lucerys stammers quickly, shock taking a tight hold over him. He does not know what to say, whether to hide himself the best he can under his uncle’s heavy gaze or allow Aemond to figure it out for himself.
He does not say anything in response, merely hums. Each step he takes forward is deliberate, slow and carefully placed. Lucerys does not dare move back. Aemond’s scent has filled the room in its entirety, who knows how long he has been waiting for him.
Smoke and the tint of metallic, heavy against his senses.
Aemond hums, in that odd way Lucerys has grown to know is simply his way of acknowledgement. He hates it, hates it more now that a response from him matters. He tilts his head back slightly as Aemond stops in front of him, his sharp features even sharper now that they’re shadowed by the darkness of the room. The candles scattered across his room flicker with the open window, nearly extinguishing. Lucerys shivers from the cold, and from Aemond’s closeness.
He reached out to touch him. His face, his lips, where the wound still pulsates openly, down to his neck where it closes anxiously around nothing. Aemond snakes his hand to hold the back of his head gently, well, as gently as Aemond Targaryen can. He sinks his fingers beneath the veil, obstructing the carefully rounded braid.
Lucerys has to stop himself from flinching back as his uncle leans in closer, his nose caressing the scent gland against his neck. He breathes in deeply, his jaw tightening, yet he does not pull back. Instead he whispers against his ear, venom laced in between each word. “You reek of my brother and his dog.”
“I swear it, Aemond, by all Gods— I tried— I told them to stop.” Lucerys clings to his uncle’s leather doublet. He is careful to make his voice a right amount of trembling, so as to not make himself look guilty. Though, it is far from what he felt at the moment. It is rage. Rage in its all fiery, blinding form. His legs give out from him then, involuntarily. They ache despairingly, a pain he has yet to get used to. The knobs of his knees hit the cold, stone flooring—the thin fabric of his dress the only barrier keeping them from scraping his skin raw.
He must look pathetic like this, down on his knees, sniffling like some frightened maiden. Gods, what would they say if they saw him like this? Jace would never let him live this moment down if the circumstances were not reduced such as they are now. He can almost hear it. His voice. His words. That tone that Jace would always use when he wished to tease him.
Poor, whimpering mess, Jace would say. Lucerys can almost hear him, somewhere in the distance.
“You didn’t try hard enough,” Aemond says in that small, whispered tone of his. Lucerys shivers. Aemond traces his face with his sword-hardened fingers, running his fingertips along the edges of his jawline, caressing him, almost. Lucerys feels lightheaded from the anticipation. He leans in to the touch, hopeful, showing his desperation.
There is something deadly behind that sole, violet eye. Something that screams violence. Simmering behind a forced cloak of self control. Aemond is anything but, Lucerys knows enough to realize that the threat of death is hanging above all of them. The entire realm, at the hands of Aemond.
What a terrifying thought.
Lucerys is crawling now, to fit himself better below the one-eyed man. His head is tilted all the way back as he clings to his legs, holding him captive. Aemond does not move— does not say anything other than look at him with interest.
He fixes in a look that is almost tantalizing, it screams provocation through and through. Lucerys knows what this will do to Aemond, he is an emotionally weak man. Though he pretends not to be, Lucerys can see right through him. He is a child, still— hidden behind all the wickedness and evil he bears in his soul. Lucerys feels everything, and nothing at all for him.
“The King demanded that I pleasure him. I only feared what he would have done to me if I said no— to my brothers, to you.” His voice is shaking now, involuntarily, but he finds that it draws Aemond closer. His desperation draws Aemond closer. He rests his cheek above his knee, tears pearling along the edges of his eyes, catching upon his dark lashes.
His heart clenches tightly in his chest, and for a moment, he feels as though it might implode inside of him. It is a strange thought, one with the probability of being near impossible, but the lingering fear still rings in the deepest corners of his mind.
“My brother is a fool,” Aemond speaks sharply, and Lucerys can see the way he clenches his jaw to hold back what he wants to say. He is careful still, even after everything. “He will learn to regret what he has done.”
Lucerys feels his throat tighten, his heart quicken. He bites back the smile that threatens to break across his lips. “Aegon is a danger to you— to us. He means to—” Lucerys chokes on his words with a sob, allowing his frustrations to sink into his fabricated tears. His body wracks in a tremble, eyes tightening shut.
Aemond digs his hand further into his curls, almost soothing, loving—Lucerys feels illness stirring in his stomach. “He means to?” Though Aemond’s words are meant to be encouraging, quiet rage weaves tightly in between each syllable he speaks. Lucerys knows then that he’s got his teeth sunken deep into the man above him. Aemond is at his mercy.
Without another second, Lucerys allows the words to fall from his mouth, shaky and broken by soft, uncontrollable sniffles.
“He means to revive the old way of the conquerors once the war in the North is ended,” Lucerys stalls, allowing the words to simmer in Aemond’s conscience, “He means to take me as a second bride. To wed me, to claim me. Please Aemond, don’t let him do this.” His voice is desperate now, tears blurring his vision as he lets them run shamelessly down his ruined face.
Lucerys feels the way Aemond’s hand tightens around him, it is unintentional, but he gasps as his cascade of curls are gripped with rising anger. Aemond forces himself to unhand him, instead tracing his fingers along the edge of his face, following the wet paths his tears leave behind. He places his thumb along his split lower lip, caressing it with a certain affection lost in his eye.
“I will not allow him to take you away from me so easily,” Aemond soothes him, shushing him as if he were an inconsolable child. It is clear that he wishes not to, wishes to break something perhaps, but he keeps his composure steady. “He may face me, at his own peril.”
The words excite him. Lucerys can feel a strange buzz filling his stomach, though it isn’t pleasure. More like satisfaction. Like justice.
“It- It will not matter if you challenge him, he is still king. He can take me away as easily as he bestowed me upon you.” Lucerys says, hopeless.
Aemond hums. Thinks for a long second. It is terribly long, the way the silence drags on. Lucerys almost fears that this will be the end of it. Settled without solution. But then, Aemond speaks again, with that eerie calmness that Lucerys despises so deeply. “My brother will face me at my challenge, and when he does, he shall meet his demise.” Aemond pauses again, considers this with a fond smile, as if he has been fantasizing about it for years. “The crown has always been far more fitting for me, anyway.” Aemond whispers this under his breath like it is his salvation.
Lucerys presses his face against Aemond’s leg, hiding away his growing smile. He breathes against him softly, allowing his eyes to flutter shut for a second as he thinks. He brings his voice to a low whisper, all while staring up at the cruel man. “You mean to kill Aegon and take the throne?”
He wants Aemond to say it. To say it out loud. To confirm his victory.
“I mean to take the throne and have you as the Gods intended.” Aemond looks down upon him, something akin to possession behind his eye. Lucerys cannot help but squirm.
Aemond is growing hard, he notes distantly, his cock tightening against the leather trousers he wears. Lucerys swallows thickly. The alpha catches him staring and a smirk pulls at the corners of his lips, encouraging.
Lucerys huffs hotly, shaky hands coming out to unlace Aemond’s breeches. He doesn’t need to be told what to do. This night’s ending was inevitable no matter what he did.
He dips his hand inside, wrapping a hand around the heavy length. Already leaking, he guides his uncle to his lips, slipping his tongue past his mouth to lap at the pearling pre-come against Aemond’s cock slit. The alpha hisses above him, and Lucerys feels the way his hold around his head tightens as he steadily sinks his length into the warmth of his mouth.
He hums as the head pops past his lips, tasting Aemond on his tongue. Rarely, he has done this. His uncle was always hesitant on allowing him to use his mouth. He had a few ideas on why, and as he considered them, Lucerys decided they were not beyond him. His teeth grazed the underside of Aemond’s cock, the man above him grunting as he rolled his hips forward to chase the feeling.
Suppressing a gag, Lucerys fluttered his eyes shut. It wouldn’t take much effort to do it. Less than a second, it would take. He could clamp his teeth around the base of it, bite down hard enough until his mouth was filled with nothing but the taste of blood. It would be disgusting, but a mouthful of it didn’t nearly sound as good as justice.
What would happen to him afterward? Would Aemond have the strength to put a knife through his heart? Would he even wish to, when he was carrying his heir and the possibility of creating another had just been ended by his teeth? If Aemond bled out on his chamber floorboards, surely they would know it was him who created such a mess. One of the guards stationed outside his room would be bound to hear, if Aemond chose to scream. Would his pride even allow that? Lucerys tried not to think about it too hard, the thought bubbling another fit of hysterics in his chest.
What a pathetic way to face your end, having your cock bitten off. That would be one for the history books, if the Maester’s would even dare to include such an obscene thing. Perhaps they would most likely say that he took a knife to the neck instead, allowing him to die a warrior’s death. The thought stilled his satisfaction, the fire inside of him flickering.
Aegon would have him killed, if not for his own selfish desires, then certainly for the pride of his bloodline. It wouldn’t be worth it, for all that he has suffered.
He feels as Aemond pushes his head further down a few more inches. Lucerys doesn’t fight it, only forces himself to accommodate the feeling of something poking at the back of his throat with brute force. There are tears spilling from him again, his vision becoming a mess of colored blurs. He nearly gags again, but he digs his fingernails into the palm of his hands so that the pain is enough to drag him from it.
Aemond finishes deep in his throat with a throaty groan. Lucerys has no choice but to gulp down what he can, bringing his hand forward to shakily wipe away the excess that threatens to spill past his mouth. He wishes only to spit out what he was not forced to swallow, but he forces back the nausea that hits him and does what Aemond expects of him. The alpha touches his lips, pressing down the bruises that are beginning to form. It brings him back to reality, grounds him, reminds him that there is only one thing he wishes to achieve.
Lucerys cleans his teeth with his tongue from what is left of Aemond’s seed as he stares up at him through clouded eyes. He plants his hand along his uncle’s calf, breathing heavily through the silence. Then, he speaks through that broken voice of his.
“Aegon could never please me as you do.” Lucerys sniffles against him, rubbing his scent all over the alpha. His way of claiming him, however insignificant. “I need you, uncle.”
Something inside Aemond cracks, at that. Shifts, molds, breaks apart and rebuilds.
Before Lucerys can even register that he is being picked up, Aemond hauls him over his shoulder in one swift movement. He cannot help the little gasp that escapes past him, and he holds onto his uncle until Aemond drops him on the small cot in the corner of his room. Aemond is lifting his torn dress with such a ferocity that the fabric falls apart in his hands, spilling beneath him.
Lucerys latches his arm around his neck, bringing Aemond closer to him. Drowning in his metallic scent, fire consuming him. He resists the urge to pull away, like his life depends on it, fights it because it does.
Aemond slips two of his fingers deep into his cunt, still loosened and wet from being defiled only moments ago. Lucerys winces at the heated discomfort it brings, hates the way the mixed seed spills out of him with ease.
Cheap whore, Aegon had called him. Perhaps he was not entirely wrong.
He hears Aemond growl in his ear, scooping out the evidence of what Aegon and his dog had done to him with his fingers. Lucerys should be disgusted, he is, but he is also sort of amused. Death by hysterics also wouldn’t be one for the history books, Lucerys reminds himself.
The man violates his neck with teeth marks, grazing the skin until it breaks like eggshells, painting the milky white expanse of it in crimson. Lucerys pants and catches Aemond in his mouth, redirecting him from where the alpha wishes to bite and claim him.
Lucerys savors the taste of his own blood, Aemond’s fingers pumping in and out of him at such a speed that makes him grimace. There is no pleasure there, not even the slightest hint of arousal. He hopes what is left over in his scent from earlier still lingers on him, or else Aemond will be able to see right through his act.
Bringing both hands to cup his uncle’s face, Lucerys caresses the unevenness in Aemond’s face. The alpha doesn’t flinch back, instead he leans forward into the careful touch. This nearly surprises him, but there is a softness in Aemond’s gaze as he stares up at him that makes his stomach twist in every direction. He slips his finger beneath the strap that keeps the leather eyepatch in place. Lucerys watches Aemond’s expression shift to something he cannot name, something like lustful hunger, only it is more depraved than usual. It is filled with longing.
Lucerys strips him of it. Of the barrier that Aemond uses to conceal his weakness, his vulnerability. He feels the breath catch at his throat, as Aemond tenses beneath him. He has stopped all movement inside of him, his fingers still deep in his quim.
It is the color of the sea, of its murky waters. Of the storm Lucerys flew through all those years ago, when things were still normal and his circumstances were not as they are now. Aemond wears the sapphire proudly. Not amethyst, nor ruby— not even a tacky emerald. Sapphire. The color of House Velaryon.
Aemond is his. Not even he could deny it.
A little smirk pulls at his lips, and Lucerys leans in to hide it away. Aemond melts above him, sinking into comfortability. It is rare for him to adapt to such a state, not when he has proven himself worthy of attack, of resisting. The trust had been rebuilt, as it always is. It takes only coddling to bring a man like Aemond Targaryen to his knees.
Like a loyal dog, Aemond would come crawling back.
He would, and he did.
Lucerys shifts their position so that he rests on top. Aemond allows him to straddle his hips, for the first time since his uncle had begun to bed him properly. They exchange not a single word, only looks of what he can hope is a mixture of intrigue and something akin to hope.
You are mine, as much as I am yours.
He reaches one of his hands beneath them, wrapping his hand around Aemond’s hard cock. “I wish for you to cleanse me, cleanse me of this abominable filth.” Lucerys whispers beneath his breath as he lines himself against the head of Aemond’s length. “Please.”
Aemond has his hands against his hips then, guiding him down. Lucerys feels as the cockhead splits him open with an ease, nearly numb to it. It is as if he were feeling it separately from his body, as if he wasn’t truly there, as if it wasn’t happening to him at all.
His legs burn with an ache, his cunt sore and sensitive. It is no use trying to ignore the feeling as he has taught himself to do, not when his body is ruined to a point where every little movement that Aemond gives feels like taking needles against his skin.
He buries his head against the crook of his uncle’s neck helpless as he bucks his hips up, chasing his heat like a dog in rut. Lucerys gives a whine, one that vibrates against Aemond’s skin as he forces himself to keep at a delicate pace.
How courteous of you, Lucerys thinks. His brows knit together as a new wave of pain washes over him, feeling how Aemond hits those bundle of nerves so perfectly inside of him that it nearly makes him cry. Delicate I will be too, when I decide to cut your throat open.
Lucerys sinks his fingernails against the exposure of Aemond's neck, pulling at the pale hair there, making sure it hurts. The alpha groans, stutters his rhythm into one that is sloppier, more erratic. The knot has begun to inflate, slapping against his cunt with each forceful thrust of Aemond’s hip.
There is no heat that coils in his stomach. Only sickness. Lucerys wishes this to be over.
The crown, the crown, the crown. You are the only man better fit to wear it. Lucerys reminds him through battered whispers, a particular thrust that Aemond gives making him throw his head back and moan in pain.
Aemond grunts against his shoulder. He is whispering something, Lucerys forces himself to listen. “I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin you so no one else can have you but me.” He laughs then, at the irony of it all. Lucerys holds Aemond’s face as his hips stutter against him, a signal, a warning.
“Is that not what you have done already?”
Aemond finishes inside with a depraved noise. The words are bitter, hatred seeping past the delicate mask he has curated for himself. It matters not, anyways, when Aemond is too busy making sure his spill is stuffed deep inside of Lucerys.
His uncle presses himself deeper inside, pushing his knot past his folds until it pops inside of him with a heavy, stuttered breath.
The bed is soft beneath him as Lucerys allows himself to collapse upon it, softer now that his entire body aches tenfold than it normally does. Running his fingertips along the edges of the ripped Hightower-green dress, Lucerys uses the scraps to cover what he can of himself. Away from Aemond’s predatory gaze. Out of everything, it is still the one thing Lucerys cannot force himself to get accustomed to.
The sapphire winks at him as the candlelight reflects off of it, Lucerys tilts his head down.
Aemond retires beside him, atop the cramped little cot that he is forced to call his bed. “I will rest here, for the night.” Aemond suggests– no, demands. He can feel the way his face crinkles with annoyance.
The bed is far too small to house the two of us, Lucerys wants to say, I don’t want your repulsive scent rubbing off more than it already does in this room. Fuck off. He bites his tongue, sighing in defeat as he rests back. It is not like Aemond can leave now that he has knotted him, damn him.
The pillows are soft beneath him. Lucerys turns to look at him from where he lies pressed against him. Heated skin on heated skin. “That doesn’t sound like the best idea, uncle. I could pull out a knife and slit your throat while you sleep.”
Aemond laughs, a genuine, amused cackle– as if what he speaks of is nothing more than jest and not a very real threat. It makes Lucerys’ blood boil. He could, if he had a weapon with him.
“Might I remind you, you have already tried that once. It did not work in your favor.” Aemond speaks out into the air breathlessly, exhaustion already taking over him. Lucerys rubs at his wrist absentmindedly.
“You have me on your blind side. It would be different this time.”
Aemond turns his head to look at him then, his brows knitted together. “Then I suppose you act quickly, nephew. It is in poor taste to waste our evening bantering.”
Lucerys lays in silence for a moment, tracing the embroidery of the dress draped over him. He presses down against it, pretending it is Aemond’s one remaining-eye.
Silence dawns upon them like a weighted cover. Minutes pass in quiet once he finally manages to detach himself from his uncle, his cunt loose and leaking freely Aemond’s knot begins to deflate. It is deathly quiet, a blank of uncomfortable peace settled over and for a moment, Lucerys thinks Aemond has drifted off to sleep. Through the candlelight flickering in the opposite side of the room, he traces Aemond’s sharp features, less so now that he appears to be resting. Vulnerable. At his mercy.
His hand aches for a knife handle, a piece of broken glass– anything.
Perhaps he can make do with just his hands. His fingers, he could dig them into Aemond’s good remaining eye until he feels it pop beneath his touch. He cannot. He will not. Making such a foolish decision twice will surely only assert the death of both Vis and Egg. Still, he needs a distraction, something to steer him away from this venomous impulse.
“Valaenar, I was thinking.” The words slip past his lips without a second thought. They are stiff, unsure, hesitant in their own regard. Lucerys hates himself for his own uncertainty.
Aemond stirs besides him, confused. “What?”
“A name. For our son. Valaenar.” Lucerys caresses his stomach, feels the way the pressure there still does not fade. It should be a couple of moons now. He watches Aemond’s face grimace with disapproval, the tension in his shoulders blooming.
“No. It is too Velaryon.” Aemond spits the name as if it were an insult, and Lucerys shrinks into himself like it is.
I am Velaryon, you imbecile. Though I suppose not officially, not anymore. You have stripped me of that title too.
“Oh.” Is what he says instead, toying with the fabric beneath his fingertips. He tries to ignore the tears brimming in his eyes, at the dry ache of his throat. Of the feeling of rejection. “Then what?”
Aemond huffs in annoyance, “That shall be decided upon the birth of the boy. Not now.”
“You’re right, qȳbor. It should be a name fit for a future king.” His voice is strained as he says these words. He doesn’t know why he is even trying, now of all times. Aemond seems pleased at this, smug at the affirmation.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Lucerys will make sure of it.
He places a hand along his aching chest. Drifting off, his eyes become heavy. Sleep does not caress him as it usually does. He is stuck in an in-between, not quite conscious and not quite unconscious.
It is hours later when he turns to fix his position and readjust his pillow, Lucerys feels the slight pressure of his lower abdomen suddenly loosen— pop. Then, something trickles between his thighs, coating them in a wetness that is unfamiliar to him.
Besides him, Aemond still lays resting, quiet apart from the small breaths heavy with sleep that escape past him. Lucerys blinks once, twice, before kicking the thin covers off his body. His shaky hands trace the inner flesh of his thighs, coating himself in whatever had gushed out of him.
The liquid is clear, with a smidge of pink dabbled in with it. Blood. He has not pissed himself, that is for certain, and he was still two moons away from beginning his labors. The grand maester had told him so.
Lucerys reaches over to grab one of the many strips of fabric that had been torn from his dress, cleaning himself up the best he could.
It must have been from the vigor of activities. Surely. They had promised to be gentle and then they were not. They must’ve have torn something in him, it seemed the most plausible.
Turning over on his side, away from Aemond’s sleeping body, Lucerys does his best to get at least a few hours of rest. Tomorrow, the feasts and tourneys would begin in honor of Aegon.
Clutching the small of his stomach, Lucerys forces the growing ache down in favor of sleep. It does not come easy, then. The nightmares keep him feverish throughout the night, and when he is finally swept away, the early morning sun has begun to pour in from the gaps in between the veiled curtains in delicate shades of orange and yellow.