Chapter Text
Aerion strode through the large wooden double doors, up the few steps and down the corridor as usual. The entire castle was abuzz and it seemed only he was unaffected. Valarr’s name-day. His twenty-first. Even his father had spent the better part of a week, muttering about what to give him. He stomped through another set of doors. His own birthday hadn’t caused such an uproar. Aerion finally stormed through the last set of doors that stood between him and his breakfast. He was hungry. The smell of honeyed bread and roasted apples reached him before the sound did. Laughter, goblets striking wood, a snatch of harp-song clumsily played too early in the morning. Aerion paused only long enough to sneer.
The hall was decorated neatly, it was dressed in banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red silk catching the pale light that slanted through the narrow windows. Servants hurried like ants. A spit crackled at the far hearth.
All for Valarr.
Aerion descended the steps into the hall with deliberate slowness, boots ringing against stone. He crossed the hall and dropped into his seat with a scrape loud enough to draw his father’s gaze.
“You are late,” Maekar said.
Aerion shrugged, not bothering to reply. Instead he speared a sausage and snatched a bread roll. Two roast potatoes and several tomatoes made it onto his plate as well. He gestured and a servant hastened to fill his goblet. Not too much. He reminded himself. A grand tourney had been arranged for Valarr’s name day and if he was going to win, which he would, he would need his wits about him. Many nobles had been invited and he knew that they had even invited the royal family from the island kingdom of Meltarys. Shockingly, the crown prince had returned their letter and was actually going to visit. He wasn’t sure why he would bother. Surely a crown prince had better things to do then turn up to Valarr’s name-day celebrations?
With a crown prince arriving from another kingdom that afternoon, the entire castle was even more abuzz than it should be. Aerion stabbed a tomato with more force than necessary. At least he would get to compete. A five day tourney. Excessive, perhaps, but Aerion loved a good tourney.The chance to knock knights off of their horses, to shed some blood, and win his fathers approval.
Five days. Five. All to celebrate Valarr. Stupidly perfect Valarr. The perfect son, charming and handsome and honorable. And an alpha. How was Aerion supposed to compete with that? He shot a glare towards his cousin, Valarr didn’t notice. He was too busy engaged in conversation with Baelor. Aerion looked back at his own father, Maekar. Maekar caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. Aerion looked away. Beside him, his brother Daeron, was already on his third cup of wine and eyeing the jug.
“You’ll fall from the saddle before the first tilt,” Aerion muttered without looking at him.
Daeron only grinned. “Then you may dedicate your victory to me.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. Victory needed no dedication. It would be his because he would take it. He would unhorse them all.
Across the hall, Valarr laughed at something Baelor had said. The sound carried easily, warm and bright. Even the servants seemed to smile wider when he spoke. Aerion tore into his bread as if it had offended him.
A servant burst into the room and hurried to Baelor’s side, whispering frantically.
Baelor rose, “They are early.” He announced,
Aerion rose as his father did, following him as they made their way to the throne room, where they would receive their honoured guests. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Some prince from a small island. At least they were of the blood of Valyria, same as him. Another dragon to enter the fray. No matter. Aerion would unhorse him too. As far as he knew, it was just the crown prince and his personal guard.
Aerion took his place beside his father at the base of the dais. The great doors opened. Aerion felt the weight of the hall tilt toward the newcomer.
Sunlight spilled in behind a small procession clad in dark purple and silver, their cloaks bore a sigil unfamiliar to many in the hall; a silver dragon entwined around a crown. At their head walked a young man with hair dark as the night and eyes sharp as drawn steel.
The crown prince of Meltarys.
“Your grace,” Baelor greeted him, “You are most welcome here.”
The prince moved with effortless confidence, offering a courtly bow first to Baelor, then to Maekar. His voice carried cleanly.
“On behalf of my mother, Queen of Meltarys, I bring felicitations to Prince Valarr on his twenty-first name day. May your victories be worthy of song.”
Valarr answered with that easy grace that made men love him and women sigh. “You honor us with your presence, Your Highness.”
Aerion watched every movement, every measured word. The prince’s gaze swept the hall, assessing and curious in equal measures. For a heartbeat it landed on Aerion anf flickered with interest.
Aerion did not look away. The prince’s mouth curved faintly, as if he had discovered something unexpected.
Maekar’s voice cut through the moment. “You arrive in good time. The tourney begins on the morrow.”
“I would not have missed it,” the prince replied. “I have heard the knights of Westeros ride fiercely.”
“Indeed they do,” Baelor agreed, easy smile on his face, “I hope you came prepared for a challenge.”
The prince smiled, “I look forward to it.”
They returned to the hall to continue their breakfast. Valarr resumed his seat amid a fresh swell of conversation, already drawing the prince into easy discourse. Aerion felt the familiar heat in his chest, envy, yes, but sharper. Hunger. He leant back in his chair, observing the prince from afar. He did not remember his name. Doubtless some maester would have told him, years ago, but time had wiped it from memory. He turned to Daeron, his brother already gulping down more wine.
“Remind me,” Aerion murmured, keen for their father not to overhear, “His name?”
Daeron looked up at him and snorted, “Really?” He asked, putting down his cup.
Aerion continued to look at him.
“Vaelon.” Daeron prompted, “Vaelon Meltalor, heir to Meltarys, blood of old Valyria and-”
“Yes.” Aerion cut in, “I got it.” He turned back to his food.
Aerion ate slowly, keeping one eye on Vaelon the entire time. The crown prince carried himself as he would expect. Slyly, Aerion eyed him, wanting to keep his observation quiet. Vaelon was handsome, he could admit that. The prince was well muscled, had a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes looked dark unless you really looked, and then Aerion could see they were a dark violet. Old Valyria indeed.
Aerion told himself he was merely assessing the competition.
A prince did not cross the Narrow Sea without reason. A crown prince, especially. Vaelon would ride. He would fight. He would seek glory for his own house and carry tales of Westeros back to his island court. Aerion would not be caught unawares by a rival simply because that rival happened to possess a pleasing face.
Pleasing.
Aerion’s jaw tightened.
Vaelon tilted his head as Valarr spoke, listening with an attentiveness that did not seem feigned. He did not interrupt. When he did speak, it was measured, low enough to invite leaning closer, loud enough to command attention. His hands were ungloved now, long fingers wrapped around a goblet, knuckles faintly scarred. A swordsman’s hands.
Aerion’s gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Vaelon laughed, quieter than Valarr, but richer. The sound slid along Aerion’s spine in a way that felt distinctly inconvenient.
It was nothing, he told himself. He appreciated strength. He appreciated beauty in its proper form; steel well-forged, a horse well-bred, a blade well-balanced. Vaelon simply happened to be… well-formed. There was no shame in observing symmetry.
And yet.
When a servant leaned in to refill Vaelon’s cup, the prince looked up and again found Aerion watching him.
This time the eye contact did not break quickly.
Dark violet met pale lilac.
There was no embarrassment in Vaelon’s gaze. No flustered lowering of lashes like some court maiden. Instead, curiosity sharpened there. Recognition, almost. As if Vaelon saw the appraisal for what it was and welcomed it.
Aerion felt heat crawl up his neck.
He broke the stare first.
Ridiculous.
He stabbed another tomato and chewed without tasting it.
He disliked Valarr because Valarr was perfect. He disliked Baelor for doting. He disliked Daeron for being careless. He disliked most of the court for breathing too loudly.
He did not-could not-like Vaelon.
Across the table, Valarr gestured animatedly as he described some past tilt. Vaelon’s attention remained fixed on him… until Valarr’s hand brushed the prince’s sleeve.
Aerion’s fingers tightened around his goblet. Possessiveness flared so suddenly it startled him. He stabbed another tomato. Aerion imagined the morrow: the crash of lances, splintering wood, the roar of the crowd. He imagined Vaelon across the lists, helm glinting, violet eyes hidden behind steel. He imagined driving him from the saddle. Forcing him into the dirt before half the realm.
The image should have satisfied him.
Instead his mind betrayed him with another.
Vaelon without helm or armor. Dark hair unbound. Those sharp eyes close enough that Aerion would not have to search for their color. Close enough to see the pulse at his throat.
Aerion inhaled sharply and forced the thought away.
This was absurd.
He did not want Vaelon.
He wanted to defeat him.
To conquer.
To prove himself superior in every way.
And if, in the proving, he felt the urge to press that strong jaw upward with his thumb, to test whether the prince’s composure would fracture beneath pressure-
Aerion drained his goblet in a single swallow. He couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered back to the prince. The way they caught on Vaelon’s fingers. He swallowed, hard. He wanted. He wanted… everything. He wondered if the prince was married, or betrothed. He hadn’t heard of either. Which meant, he could marry him. Not for love, of course. If he married the crown prince, he would be the Queen of Meltarys, when the time came. The thought pleased him immensely. When he was younger he had believed he would marry Valarr. When he had presented as an omega, it had solidified the thought. Valarr would be king, he would be his queen and together they would rule.
His dreams of sitting in a throne, of hanging off the arm of the most powerful in all seven kingdoms and of ruling alongside him, had been dashed when Valarr had been betrothed to Kiera. It had ruined his plans. Here though, was a second chance. Yes, that was it. He wasn’t attracted to the man, just the position he offered.
“Is he married?” he asked Daeron, faux casually.
Daeron spluttered, choking on his drink and in doing so drawing a few eyes. Maekar raised a brow, Aerion thumped Daeron as hard as he could on the back. His brother heaved in a breath and spluttered a few more times before gathering himself.
For a moment everyone stared at him, then Daeron waved them off, “Went down the wrong pipe.” He explained and people returned to their conversations.
Daeron turned back at him, wide eyed, “I wasn’t aware you were in the market for a husband,” he whispered, “Haven’t you turned down every suitor father has put before you since you were thirteen?”
Aerion shrugged, “I’m not interested in him for myself,” He lied, “Just curious.”
Daeron eyed him warily, “I don’t think he’s married.”
“Betrothed?” Aerion asked,
“I don’t know.” Daeron murmured, taking another swig, “Why do you care anyway? If you don’t want him, that is?”
“I don’t.” Aerion hissed.
Daeron leaned back in his chair, studying him over the rim of his cup with far too much interest for so early in the morning. “You look like you do.”
Aerion cut him with a warning look sharp enough to cut. Daeron only smirked and returned to his wine.
He looked back over. Vaelon was sitting close to Valarr. Too close. Aerion didn’t like it. In fact, they were close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed when they both leaned to examine something Baelor had placed upon the table -a carved dragon, some gift from the Free Cities. Valarr’s hand rested easy and open on the wood between them.
Vaelon did not lean away.
Aerion felt a flare of irritation so sudden it startled him.
Not because he cared.
Because Valarr took everything. Admiration. Loyalty. Betrothals arranged in his favor. Even now, Vaelon’s attention seemed drawn toward him. Of course it would be. Valarr was heir. Valarr would be king. If Vaelon sought alliance, it would be through him.
Aerion’s gaze sharpened.
Vaelon’s head tilted slightly, as if sensing the scrutiny again. His eyes flicked up.
Met Aerion’s.
Held.
This time there was no mistaking it. The prince’s gaze traveled, slowly, deliberately, over Aerion’s face, down the line of his throat, to where his collar lay open just enough to reveal the hollow at its base. Not crude. Not hurried.
Heat pooled low in Aerion’s belly. He straightened instinctively, chin lifting in challenge. If this was a game, he would not lose.
Vaelon’s mouth curved. Not at Valarr. At him.
Aerion’s pulse stuttered.
He told himself it was strategy. Meltarys was a small island kingdom, proud of its Valyrian blood. An alliance with House Targaryen would strengthen them. If Vaelon married into the family, he would secure Targaryen’s at his back. That meant power and influence.
And if Aerion were the one he married…
He would not be second to Valarr. Not in Meltarys. He would not stand in anyone’s shadow. He would rule beside a king. Sit a throne. Command a court that was his, not borrowed from his cousin’s glow. The thought unfurled inside him, rich and intoxicating.
It was ambition. Only ambition.
Not the way his breath caught when Vaelon laughed again. Not the way his eyes kept returning to the prince’s hands, broad and deft, the faint flex of muscle beneath dark silk as he gestured. Not the way Aerion imagined those hands at his waist, firm enough to bruise.
He shifted in his seat. Pushing back unwanted thoughts, even as he started to slick a little. He had to get himself under control.
This was foolishness.
He had refused suitor after suitor because none of them were worthy. None of them strong enough. None of them beautiful enough. None of them powerful enough to elevate him where he deserved to stand.
Vaelon was all of those things.
That did not mean Aerion wanted him. It meant he would use him.
“Yes,” Aerion murmured under his breath, as though convincing himself. “That is all.”
Daeron looked up at him, then snorted softly. “You’re staring again.”
Aerion snapped his gaze away at once. “Am not.”
“You are.”
“I am assessing him.”
“For what?” Daeron asked, amused. “The tilt or the marriage bed?”
Aerion’s hand closed around his goblet so tightly the metal groaned.
“I will unhorse him tomorrow,” he said coolly. “Before half the realm. Let him see what sort of spouse he would gain.”
Daeron blinked. “So you are in the market.”
Aerion shot him another glare, “I am in the market for victory,” he said stiffly.
And perhaps a crown.
Baelor rose abruptly, breaking Aerion out of his thoughts, “I should like to inspect the tourney grounds before the affairs on the morrow begin.” He announced, “Would you care to join?” He directed the last part at Vaelon, who smiled politely.
“I would be delighted.” Vaelon replied, already rising.
Valarr stood as well and the three of them descended the dias. Vaelon paused before Aerion, meeting his eyes with unbreakable calm.
“Will you be joining us?” He asked Aerion,
Aerion hesitated only a moment, “I will.” He decided, rising, “I would inspect them myself before I compete upon them.”
Vaelon’s brow rose, “You will be competing? It is most unusual for an omega to do so.” There was no judgement in his tone, only fact.
Aerion descended the dais slowly, stopping on the bottom step to allow himself some extra height. It made no difference. The prince was still taller than him.
“I am not an ordinary omega.” Aerion said, challenging.
Vaelon’s mouth quirked into a smile, “No.” He agreed, “You are not,”
Aerion’s heart pounded so hard he was certain it must be visible beneath his skin. This was dangerous. This was unwise. This was- He wanted. Not just the crown Vaelon would wear one day. Not just the throne beside him.
He wanted the man himself. The sharp mind behind those eyes. The controlled strength in his posture. The way his composure seemed carved from stone yet hinted, just hinted, at something fierce beneath. Aerion inhaled slowly, steadying himself.
Very well.
If he wanted him, he would have him.
He always got what he wanted.