Chapter Text
The Maidenvault was a long keep with a slate roof, located behind the royal sept. From the north tower, one can look out to a little courtyard, where congregations gather before prayer. His aunts, though they were not exactly his aunts, older cousins, though he calls them aunts, were confined here for ten years under their brother's orders. The sisters Daena, Rhaena, and Elaena, daughters of Dragonbane, granddaughters of the Dragon Queen, who should've had winged mounts of their own. They were allowed to keep households and ladies-in-waiting, they had the entire keep to themselves, just not allowed to leave.
He was not given such privilege. He was given a single set of chambers. Circular, round and smooth, a constant reminder of exactly what he should aspire to.
Aerion mapped it with his bare-feet.
The main room was fifteen paces across from the door to the window, and fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed. The window was a thin sliver of a thing, built high, close to the ceiling, and enclosed with iron bars. The only way to reach it was to scrabble onto the ledge and hoist himself up, and even then he could only keep his head level to it, and all he could see was blue sky and the rare passing cloud. He would've preferred Maegor's Holdfast, had he given a choice. At least then he could entertain himself counting the pikes in the dry moat below.
Fifteen paces from the door to the window. Fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed.
The main room was paved with rugs, one big square slotting neatly after another, threads of gold in intricate patterns embroidered around maroon edges, thick enough to prevent chills from biting his bare-feet. There was no table, nor chairs. There was, however, a variety of cushions scattered about, some had patterns of the sun, some had stars of the Seven. No dragons.
Fifteen paces from the door to the window. Fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed.
The door was red oak. Thick as a castle wall. There was no knob that Aerion could see nor feel. It was sturdy enough to produce shaving when his nails broke upon it, but it was soft enough that when he tried to smash his head in, all it produced was a great headache.
Fifteen paces from the door to the window. Fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed.
If Aerion faces the window, on his left were two rooms, on his right, one.
The room with the bed was on the left, next to it, the room with the books.
The doorways were circular, carved cleanly and sanded down, open, with not even curtains allowed to separate them. The bed was truly massive, even by his standards, the mattress was thick and stuffed with goosedown. The frame was iron, bolted into the walls and the floor. Blankets and quilts piled upon it, numerous enough to count as a veritable mountain. It was illuminated with a skylight, etched high and high on ceiling. This one had glass, though, again, with no draperies.
Curtains demanded a rod to hang it from. A rod could be used to hang other things.
The room with the books was right next to it and of equal size. The shelves reached from floor to ceiling, and was bolted so securely that Aerion could feasibly climb them like stairs. They were made of larch, or perhaps pine. Black velvet, stuffed with wool and feathers, padded every inch of it, making the leather tomes look like pillowed jewels being out on display. More books scattered the floor, so much so that there was honestly no space left for him to sit. Baelor certainly spared no expense. The both of them. There were no windows, however, so if he had to read, he'll have to take it to the main room or the bedroom.
Fifteen paces from the door to the window. Fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed.
There was a book about every and any subject here. If Aerion was feeling pedantic, he would say he has his own library. Botany, geography, history. Embroidery patterns, weaving techniques, sewing methods. How to play harps, how to use looms, how to make paper. Plays, poems, songs transcribed by this septon or the other. Fictions, collections of myths and grant tales, giants spliting open the heaven and eath, about gallant knights and swooning maidens. Larger books of drawings, with careful renditions of Targaryen dragons, long buried.
Fifteen paces from the door to the window. Fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed.
The room with the tub served as his latrines. There were a dozen small slits on the walls, three uniform rows, barely wider than his thumbs, that might be ventilation or a subtle reminder that the winds still exist and was no longer for him. His chamber pot was stuffed in an alcove in one corner. On the other side, a large bathtub, bolted again to the floor, the edges smoother than a spoon. It was made of copper, or maybe even gold, softer metals to better keep heat. It's not hard enough to split open your head if you run headlong into it, but again, the room was smaller than his library and thus wasn't big enough for the start you'll need anyway.
Fifteen paces from the door to the window. Fourteen paces from the room with the tub to the room with the bed.
-
Aerion had not forgotten what day it was.
Dawn, when it came, shone directly onto his face. He would reach over, open the book he hid under his pillow, and dog-ear a single page. He would stuff it back under before the maids came in, right as the light was turning to pink to orange.
There would be four of them, always, dressed in the black and yellow and crimson of his uncle, veiled and so were indistinguishable from one another. Female betas, he always presumed, as they only smelled of clean linen and medicinal herbs. One would have a basin of water, one would have his clothes for the day, one would have his tray of meals, and one would have his bridle. They would stare patiently at his lying form, until the silence became unbearable, until he knew he would get a mark for it, until he'd finally had enough of them and gets up from the bed. They would wash his face first, brush his hair, and wipe down his body. They would dress him in whichever gown his father or his uncle saw fit to give him for the day.
Sometimes it was a velvet kirtle in a deep plum, favored by his Aunt Jena, laced up from the front and with a square neckline and skirts gathered at the waist seam. Sometimes it was the sun-bright yellow robes of his grandmother, a wrap of gold thread and a weft of silk layered artfully over each other to give the illusion of undulating sand dunes. Sometimes it was the transparent slips of Tyrosh, the jewels and chains taken out. Sometimes, they brought him the light lavender gowns of his mother, threaded with white, that fitted thin over his hips and tight over his shoulders. He was never given any stockings or belts or shoes.
Stockings could be ripped and spun into ropes, shoes could be broken apart and swallowed, but he could never bring himself to tear his mother's gowns.
After the dressing, he would take his first meal, usually standing. It was an indulgence to eat sitting on the bed and will get him a tally. The maids will stand with him, heads slightly lowered. He never knew where they were looking at, or if they were septas or squires or silent sisters. In his most bored and contemplative moments, he would wonder how much his uncle was paying them, or if they are getting paid at all. He hoped it was worth it.
His first meal was usually porridge with plenty of fruit on the side, the hard-boiled eggs cut neatly in half and blood-sausages, diced into little pieces. No wine or beer, no longer. He was required to finish everything, and the maids will stare until he did. His luncheon was brought along with his morning meal, set down in the main room, usually some form of bread and smoked fish, with more fruit — apricots and plums and pears, sliced neatly into quarters. His evening meal will come when the sun sets, when he will be washed again and his gowns taken away. Come winter, they will have to give him a wool smock for nights, but it's the height of summer now, so he's been made to sleep naked.
When he finished eating his morning meal, the maids would brush his teeth with paste, wash his hands and face again, and put on his hood for him. It was a flat, white, cotton thing, something washerwomen or innkeepers would wear. They would place it carefully over his head, draw the strings under his chin, and carefully tuck all his hair underneath. It was unseemly for omegas to have loose hair. He was not allowed hairpins in the vault, yet his hair grew long all the same. It was also unseemly for omegas to have short hair, like he did before.
Then the ties, usually in the same material as his gown, thicker, sometimes. Cloth, it was merely cloth. The maids would wait, staring with their silent eyes and veiled faces, until he finally lifts his arms, in a gesture of mercy or supplication or rejection, with his hands held together, asking for them to tie him up.
And they would come, with that long length of cloth the same color as his gown. One of them would wrap it gently around his wrists, her deft fingers unnaturally cold. Aerion could never remember this part. It always felt as if between one blink and the next, she had finished her job and was pulling away again.
The bindings were tight enough that he could not turn his wrists, but loose enough that he did not feel any discomfort.
Finally, the bridle. The only thing made of leather in the room. He always flinched when the maid approached, though he knew he was not supposed to. It will be another tally, noted and passed on later, as did everything else he did. They would wait for him to turn his back to them, to open his mouth, to accept his silence.
The bridle had the shape of a waning crescent moon. It had some give, stretching from his nose to under his chin, from cheek to cheek, trapping the strings of his hood beneath it, digging slightly into his ears. Where it pressed onto his lips, there was a curb-plate, no wider than three fingers, that was slid into his mouth and pressed down on his tongue, so that when he bit, all he could taste was metal and wool thread. It had two straps that would go over his head, and the maid clasped it securely over his hood, the rings pushing only slightly against his temples. It would not do to damage his silver hair.
Afterwards, the maids would curtsy, take the dregs of his morning meal and the wash cloth and the basin, leave his luncheon, and slowly back out of the room. They would never turn their backs to him. They always kept their eyes bowed low to the ground, and the red oak door would click shut with a muted finality that often felt like a slap on his soul.
And Aerion would stand there for a time, in the room with the bed, staring at the wall, until his legs become too fatigued to stand any longer, and he would walk, barely ten paces, to the main room. He would reach upon his tip-toes, scrabbling with his tied hands onto the ledge, breathing harshly through his gag, and reach his face out of the window, as much as he could, towards the sun. He would bask in it, until his face burned or his arms could not hold his weight any longer, then he would collapse into a heap onto the thick crimson rugs, and lie there until his shoulder starts to hurt. Sometimes he took the moment to sob. He hadn't been doing much of that lately, unable to see the point. The plate in his mouth wasn't long enough that he could puncture it into his throat, and was attached too securely for him to bite through the threads to swallow it. He couldn't even bite his own tongue off and choke on his blood.
There were no mirrors in this place and the wash basins always held by someone else. He wondered what he looked like now. A male omega in his mother's and aunts and grandmother's opulent dresses, with a laundress cap and a scold's bridle, an unnatural thing made even more unnatural. He had been beautiful once, proud, sharp-tongued and vain. His uncle's bannermen would whisper that he could start wars with a word alone, his father's retinue begging for him to be humble. Well, what could never be done by entreaty was finally done through stone and leather. He hoped they were proud of what they accomplished. He hoped they drown in the shits of Flea Bottom. He hoped they would finally see sense and put him out of his misery, or give him the chance to do it himself. Dragonbane's first little queen had the right of it when she tossed herself down onto the pikes, truly, the most sensible idea anyone has ever had in their family.
And when he finally thought that, when his thoughts finally arrived at its usual spiraling conclusion, he would slowly drag himself up to go pick up a book. The hardest part was in the getting up.
It was not a terribly difficult maneuver to wriggle one from the shelves, even less so when he's getting one off the floor. He was always in the middle of a dozens of books, never quite finishing any of them, still too mercurial for such a dedicated pastime. In the times before, Aerion much preferred sparring in the yard or fishing, or weaving tapestries next to his mother and her loom, the only leisure he had that was considered properly omega. He did not have anything of that here, now, or for the foreseeable future.
He would pick the closest book, go back to the main room, prop it against a cushion and read until he couldn't anymore. This time it was Grandmaester Munkun's The Dance of the Dragons, a True Telling. He was already halfway through this one as well: Lucerys Velaryon, the only omega princeling of the Blacks had just been killed.
Mornings would pass like this, reading, swallowing the excessive saliva made by his gag, more reading. Until the sun from the window crested slowly across the walls, and the red oak door creaked open.
He would set his book aside, carefully, and stand. He would hold his hands close to his stomach, without any attempts to fidget, and keep his eyes lowered to the corner of the far wall. There would be shuffling, some sort of heaving, the clanking of armor. There would be scents, suddenly, reminding him that what was normal, reminding him that other people exist who were less confined than he. A table would appear in the corner of his eyes, then two chairs. It would be a round and brown and small, to be more easily fitted through the door. There would be maids, veiled in red and black and yellow again, flitting around. His luncheon would be brought from the floor, smoked fish and bread and fruit that had not yet time to rot. Legs, clad in boots, in trousers and the tails of pourpointes, would step into it all, sit itself down, and it would speak.
"Aerion," it would say.
He would keep his eyes lowered, grasp the front of his gown, and curtsy, deep, into the ground.
He would wait, sometimes for a breath, sometimes for ages.
It would make its assessments, of his gowns, of his spine, of his eyes. He would wait for it to finish. It would make a judgment. Aerion learnt to accept the judgement, whatever it may be.
After a time, or after a blink, it would say, "Rise."
And Aerion would rise. He would keep his gaze low, his spine straight, his chin pointed to the ground. He would not say anything. He could not say anything.
"Come," it would say. "Eat with me."
He would nod, take the skirts of his gown, and slowly, measuredly, walk to the table. The legs would inch closer, or he would inch closer to the legs, until they become thighs, then a waist, usually wrapped in crimson and tied with a real leather belt.
He would kneel, on both knees this time, and let his gown pool around him and mingle with its black tails. He would bow his head. He would not look up. He knew not to look up. A hand would come up, sometimes two of them, sometimes adorned with rings and sometimes not, and it would reach around his head and unclasp his bridle.
He would bite the curb-plate tight, until the hands snaked back, pressed against his mouth - that was when he knew he had permission to let go - and slowly, pull the bridle out.
He would not inhale sharply. He would not gulp big gasping mouthful of air. He would not start gagging or vomiting onto the floor. He would breathe, deeply and silently, and keep his eyes to the floor.
He learnt.
"Come," the shins and thighs and waist would say, touching his shoulder or his scent gland or his cheeks, and he would rise, to back away slowly, and sit gingerly on the chair remaining.
There would be fingers, waving, or tapping, or making some sort of small command, and he would reach for his midday meal. He would eat it with his hands still tied together, and he would make it graceful.
By now, the shins and thighs and waist have turned to a torso, and a chest, and tiny sliver of shoulders.
It would speak, of things that concerned him. His brothers, his sisters. The state of the city, the peacocks of Summerhall, a tourney that occurred or was about to occur and who participated or was going to participate in it. Aerion could never remember exactly what was told to him. His brothers are well. Two of them went missing and was quickly found. His sisters are well. One of them brewed a potion and the other tossed it into the river. The tourney was in good preparation, or has already happened and was a triumph. He was not allowed to speak, he was here to be present, be grateful, and eat his luncheon. All of it.
Sometimes the shins and thighs and waist and torso and shoulders would eat along with him, depending if there was rings on its fingers, depending if it were busy or not, depending if it smelled of sandalwood or roses or figs. There was no rhyme or reason to it.
After he finished or after they finished, the maids would change the plates to a flagon of water and a clear glass. The shins and thighs and torso and shoulders would command with another wave of his hand, and the maids would bring a book, any book, from his rooms, and set it in front of him, and silently bow out of the room.
A wave of fingers, and Aerion would flip it open, to a random page, the shins and thighs and torso and shoulders were not picky, even when Aerion knew it had preferences.
Another wave, and he would begin to read, out loud. Read, until his throat burned and he took a glass of water, and another, and another, until he cleared the whole pitcher. By then, the window would've turned blue, and the shins and thighs and waist and torso cloaked in black velvet and metal would indicate him to stop.
It would rise, he would rise along with it.
He would keep his eyes on its chest.
Sometimes there would be a pin shaped like a hand there, sometimes there would be silver chains stitched across the doublet, sometimes there would just be intricate red embroidery splashed from nave to chaps.
"How are you?" it would ask.
And he would reply, "I am well, my lord."
It would shift, perhaps a nod, perhaps a shrug. Aerion would not be able to see it fully.
Here is where it differed. Sometimes it would ask further, sometimes it would not.
It would ask, "Is there anything I should take to your siblings?"
"No, my lord," would be the answer to that.
It would ask, "Is there anything you need?"
And even when he wanted ink and paper to write, even when he wanted a harp or a loom, even when he wanted his mother, or be untied and unchained and restored to his previous state of unbrokenness, he would say, as he was only permitted to say, "More books, my lord, if I may."
It would say, "I am doing this for your own good."
There's no answer to that one. It was best to stay silent.
Then finally, the shins and thighs and waist and torso would move closer, and extend its arms. Aerion would feel himself go stiff and tamp down a flinch. He learnt his lesson. The arms would cross over him, wrap around his back, and pull him into an embrace. The torso would change, depending on the day. Sometimes it was thick and firm, sometimes it was hard and flinty, sometimes it was wiry and thin. There would be a kiss pressed upon his cheek, sometimes another, over his temple. Then the shins and thighs and waist and torso would release him, turn on its heel, and this is where Aerion would curtsy again, hands bound and bunched in his skirts.
He would not rise until he heard the door shut and lock.
By the end of it, it all blurred in his mind. Who was who and what was what. Sandalwood mixing with roses mixing with figs. He used to be able to tell them apart, teasing out the subtler notes with ease and pleasure. Figs were not just figs, it was the green freshness of the leaves, the milky flavor of the fruits, the sun-baked density of the bark. Roses were not just roses, there would be the honey accents of camomile, and a green, vegetal accord of artichoke. Sandalwood were not flat, it was suppose to taste creamy, velvety and sweet, something still preserved and safe from childhood. Now, it all smelt the same.
He would have the rest of the afternoon bridle-free. A reward, of sorts, for a good performance. His hands would still be tied, but he would feel lighter. Sometimes he would spin in the middle of the sitting room, arms above his head, until he felt dizzy enough to hurl. Sometimes he would climb up to the window again and try to catch the winds with his eyelids. Sometimes he would spit into his chamber pot until his lips were cracked, for no other reason than because he finally could. More often than not, he would just sit back down and start reading again.
Then the sun would set, and the maids would come in once more. Four of them, as always, different ones from the morning, though he could never tell anyway. They would untie his wrists and take off his gown, lace by lace and layer by layer. Every two days they would fill the tub with hot water and wash his hair and body with soap and oil and perfume. Everyday they would wash his face and legs and arms. They would pat down his body and dry his hair. It would be the only time in the day where he could feel his hair with his fingers, with his neck, with his forehead.
They would bring him his final meal for the day, usually rabbit stew with cabbage and pease, something small so he could go to bed hungry. While he eats on the floor, naked and silent, ignoring and being ignored, the maids would go around and tidy up his rooms. They would change the sheets on the bed, fold the blankets, fluff up his pillows. They would take out his chamber pot and swap it with a clean one. They would take some cushions to change for others, for reasons he could not decipher. They would try to stack as many books as they can back on the shelves, and leave a pitcher of water next to the door. They would clean his teeth with paste once more, and dab drops of iris oil onto his cheeks.
After all was done, they would curtsy and shuffle out the room, silent as graves. The big oak door would slam shut, lock, leaving him alone with only the blue light of darkness for company, waiting for dawn, waiting for the same day to begin again.
He would stare unblinking at the door until his eyes ached before finally climbing into bed. He would stay awake, holding his wrist by the thumb and forefinger, tracing how much weight he lost or gained by the knuckles, soothing the red marks left behind by the bindings. He would stare some more upon the open glass in the ceiling, and count stars until he fell asleep.
The moon always looked too full these days, like a bowstring pulled taught, about to snap.
-
There was a time before he learned. When he would scratch and bite and hit every person that came into the vault to treat him. He remembered taking a chunk out of someone's arm. He would scream, and flinch, and shriek. He would demand they speak to him. He would demand they let him out. He would call upon the gods to curse everyone and anyone who touched him. He would invoke blights and diseases and sicknesses and dragonfire. Oh how he wished for dragonfire.
His wrongs would tally, his infraction numerous and noted. Little tick marks, crimson red in a ledger he'd never seen, silently accumulating. A perfect Royal omega has distinct characteristics, and he did not fit into any of them. He was too strong. He fought too well. His hair was too short. He held no reverence for alphas or men. Tally upon tally, each translating to perhaps an hour, perhaps more.
He was threatened with punishment, and there was a time he did not fear that word. They could break his fingers, gouge out his eyes, whip him until he couldn't walk, slash his face, and that was all fine by him. And it still was. It was what he wanted anyway. For it to leave scars, for them to make him ugly, enough that no alpha in the realm would think to want him, enough so they could pretend he was no omega at all, and finally allow him to fight for the glory of his House. He resolved early to make sure nothing they could do would make him silent, or kind.
Then his uncle, or his father, or his cousin, he did not remember who. All of them, none of them, made knights hold him down, and shoved a rod into his cunt.
That had disabused his resolve relatively quickly.
It was almost amusing, thinking back on it.
Oh, how he screamed.
Those nights, when knights would tie his hands together and chain them to the floor, when knights would tie his legs apart and chain them as wide as they could go, and something, always something, would be jammed into his cunt, and he would scream. It would move, puncturing in and out of him relentlessly, unceasingly, and he would scream. Through his tears and snot and bile, through his utter helplessness, he would feel knuckles brushing his thighs, and nails brushing his hips. And he would scream.
They would fuck him through the night. Or rape him through the night. Could he even be raped? He was a male omega, the typical treacherous and spiteful sort of his kind, inherently diseased with licentiousness and impurity. Was it really rape, he sometimes wondered, if there were no flesh of man inside of him, not even fingers, and he could not even point to any person with real clarity and say, He was the one that hurt me, I'm sure of it . All of their faces were blurred by shadows and tears.
Sometimes the pain and the sleepless nights became too painful and exhausting that he could almost tune the puncturing out. He would sometimes even giggle, at the absurdity of what's happening, as a man twice his size and maybe twice his age put him chest to chest, and tried to make mincemeat of his insides. Where did they even get such a thing, he thought, as someone put their fingers inside his mouth to stop him from chewing through his tongue. Did Daenys bring them from Old Valyria when she fled? Did they buy it from Lys or Volantis or Tyrosh? What did they write in the account books? Was this even something allowed by the Faith? Did they shame the Seven anyway, by doing this, even while they tried to unshame him?
Sometimes the things put inside him would feel like it's made of leather, stuffed with wool or bits of cloth for some give. Sometimes it would feel like metal, bronze or iron perhaps, curving at the tip. Sometimes it even felt like glass, bulbous and blunt. All of them would be slick with oil, and with blood and slick by the end. All of them made him screamed the same.
He invoked so many gods, over so many moons. Syrax and Balerion. The Mother and the Maiden. He screamed, and cursed and called upon his dragon and the dragons of old, Vhagar and Caraxes and Vermithor, even little Arrax, to burn them, to burn them all, to save him.
They never came, of course, not for someone like him.
In the end, before every dawn, he gave in anyway. He would beg, he would sob, he would apologize over and over and over, for it to stop, for it to be over. He would promise he would be better. He will remember the rules. He will remember his prayers and what he's suppose to be, until whoever was holding him down took out the thing inside him, and let him be cleaned and bandaged and left alone. Until the maids would come in and start the tallies anew.
He learnt. It only took two moons' turn, but he learnt.
There were guards outside the door. He knew it from the corner of his eyes whenever it would open. From the little sliver he was allowed, he could sometimes hear them speaking.
He hadn't been allowed to wear smallclothes ever since he was put here.