Chapter Text
Aemond had been looking forward to a quiet, emptier castle once Rhaenyra and her older children had departed for their respective duties to the realm. But as he stands on the docks by the Dragonfin , the three-masted crayer set to sail Lucerys and Rhaena across the short distance between Dragonstone and Driftmark, he feels an aching sort of pang in his chest.
Arrax flies in circles overhead, trilling in impatience. Lucerys had decided to accompany Rhaena on the ship as her dragon, Morning, is still too young to make even the brief trip between the isles, let alone to ride. The hound-sized dragonling travels in an iron crate on the ship while Arrax will follow his rider from the skies.
Aemond chews his lower lip as he watches Lucerys aboard the ship, coordinating with the captain and crew regarding their journey. The alpha looks every bit the princely sailor with his embroidered Velaryon-blue jerkin over a loose tunic tucked into leather trousers, pointing out sails and arranging the placements of cargo.
Aemond waits as Lucerys steps back onto the docks to say his goodbyes to his stepfather and younger brothers. (Daemon was supposed to go on a state visit to Pentos, but the Pentoshi Prince that once hosted him and his late wife in his city years ago had recently been dethroned and a new election is taking place. The visit has been postponed to a later date.)
Lucerys approaches Aemond last. The morning wind is whipping through his thick, dark curls, making him look unruly despite his fine sailing attire. Aemond rather hates how only Luke can make such dishevelment look so charming. Luke is smiling and that’s also a maddeningly charming thing.
“I will miss you,” Luke says. The words sound honest and the ache in Aemond’s chest pulses.
I will miss you too , Aemond thinks. But he says, “I can write to you. If you’d like.”
Luke brightens, competing with the sun behind him. “I would love that. I look forward to receiving them.”
That makes Aemond smile. “Already? You haven’t even left.”
Luke takes Aemond’s hand. “I’m finding it difficult to do so, if I’m being honest.”
Aemond feels his face burn. It’s so bright this morning. Arrax sings above, casting brief, occasional shadows over them. Rhaena has boarded the ship, and the crew stands by for their young lord.
“They are waiting for you,” Aemond says quietly.
Luke just nods. He lifts Aemond’s hand and presses his lips against the omega’s knuckles. “Goodbye for now, Qӯbor. I count the days ‘til I return.”
It’s so maudlin that a part of Aemond instinctually wishes to snatch his hand back and either challenge Luke to a duel or shove the alpha into the bay like they’re children once more. But he does neither, too busy quelling the other part of himself that wishes to lean up on his tiptoes and kiss the alpha on the cheek. Too many people on the docks. Aemond's nerves fail him. He only nods in acknowledgment.
Later, Aemond flies on Vhagar and watches until Luke’s ship is but a speck in the distance.
Aemond sits at the vanity in his chambers and absently turns the seahorse hairpin Luke gifted him over and over in his hands.
It’s rather disgusting how much Aemond thinks of Luke now that the alpha isn’t around.
Aemond hadn’t realized just how much of his day-to-day in Dragonstone is spent in Luke’s company until he’s left. He’s gotten used to Luke’s presence knelt by his side in the sept that the alpha’s absence distracts him from the words of his habitual prayers. In the library, Aemond finds his thoughts straying from the ancient history texts to memories of them dancing in the tavern, walking under the moonlight in town, Luke’s lips on his cheek by the doors of his chambers.
Luke had kissed him on the cheek, then again on his hand. The ache in Aemond’s chest is almost painful whenever he thinks about it.
Aemond knows what this is. He’s read enough stories, heard enough songs to know what is happening. Lucerys is courting him. Him , of all people. And it’s Lucerys courting him. For an alpha to choose to court an omega he had maimed in childhood… Was Luke's guilt so deep that he would stoop so low?
Yet somehow, deep in his bones, Aemond knows it isn’t the case. Pity can only take one so far. The memory of Luke’s eyes, his actions, the feel of his lips… They speak a truth that Aemond can’t quite yet openly come to terms with.
And the worst part is that… Aemond is allowing it. How masochistic must he be that he would welcome being courted by an alpha who had caused him so much pain.
Aemond isn’t wearing his eyepatch in the privacy of his bedroom. He scrutinizes his reflection in the looking-glass, the scarred face looking back at him. The raised skin of his healed gash is a darker colour than the rest of his face, borne from repeated infections and chronic inflammation in the first few moons after the initial injury. Aemond had once tried to use the pigment his mother likes to use under her eyes to hide her dark circles. It doesn’t work quite as well on his scar. It only brings attention to the fact that he feels pathetically insecure enough to try and hide it.
The sapphire is Aemond’s way of taking back the control of how he looks. It may not have been his choice to be so scarred, but it is his decision to look unnatural and monstrous with the sapphire. No one else may find it comely, but admittedly, Aemond likes the way he looks with it. As though beneath his skin lies not the vulnerable squish of blood and viscera of mortal men, but the unyielding facets of stone and the fathomless mystery of stars. As though his ripped open eye socket is a peek into his true, otherworldly form. He is beautiful the way his Vhagar is beautiful, the way a dragon is beautiful. Fearsome to behold, nothing to simper and coo over.
What a curious thing it is to not feel so resentful at Luke for it. There’s something… honest, Aemond supposes, about leaving a scar so visible for all to see. All know of this alpha’s transgression, for it is plainly written on Aemond’s face. Other Alphas leave scars so well-hidden, so unknown to all, so vehemently denied by some, that Aemond feels himself a madman for bearing it, for feeling the ghostly weight of it every waking moment.
Such is the privilege of alphas. Even Lucerys was exempt from any real consequence of maiming Aemond. For all that he behaves like the most perfect alpha Aemond has ever met, he is still an alpha at the end of the day.
It’s confusing for Aemond to fear his own lack of fear. He should know what alphas are capable of. He has experienced it firsthand. Why do his thoughts keep straying back to Luke? Why do his idle daydreams conjure up fanciful scenarios where their futures are entwined?
Is Luke truly the exception to the rule of alphas?
Remarkably, Aemond finds himself bored after a few days. He barely held out for a single sunset before he is taking out some parchment and penning a letter to Luke.
Little Aegon and Viserys find him in the sitting room like that and they announce that they should like to write their older brothers some letters too. Aemond spends a good part of that day looking over the boys’ penmanship and indulging the doodles Viserys has scribbled onto the margins. At some point, Billy the cat had jumped onto the table and spilled the pot of ink everywhere. Viserys had very much encouraged the behaviour and let Billy sign his scratchy letters with an inky paw print. Then afterwards, the boys insisted on accompanying Aemond to the rookery where Maester Gerardys helped them select ravens for their letters.
Both Aegon and Viserys make a habit of seeking Aemond out every day once they’re out of their lessons. It’s become such a point of distraction for them that Aemond would occasionally drop in to observe the children’s education, just so they’re not constantly trying to escape the maesters to chase Aemond down.
Aemond is reading on a bench near the training yard where Ser Harrold is overseeing Aegon and Viserys whack at straw dummies with a wooden sword. The boys must not be taking the lessons too seriously for their instructor to let out a loud, cross voice that rings out across the yard, “ah, perhaps Prince Daemon should like to know why his sons are behaving so unbefittingly of young princes!”
Aemond looks up and sees Daemon passing by down the steps from the Sea Dragon Tower.
Daemon appears to be in a jolly mood as he chuckles at the blatant summons and indulges the master-at-arms. “Is this true, then? My boys are no longer princes and must be thrown out onto the streets?”
Both Aegon and Viserys run to their father with noisy protests.
For all the stories Aemond has grown up hearing about the Rogue Prince – his bloodlust and temerity in battle, the iron fist with which he led the gold cloaks in King’s Landing, the constant challenge towards his own King brother’s authority – Daemon as a father is not quite what he expected at all. Not that Aemond is an expert on fathers by any means. King Viserys is a distant, inaccessible figure even back when he wasn’t too sick to spend time with his children by his second wife. Aemond did not see the use of fathers beyond the bestowal of a name.
Daemon’s young sons tug at his sleeves and talk over each other in competition for their father’s attention. Daemon gives Ser Harrold some reprieve and picks up a wooden sword himself, taking over the lesson for the moment. Aegon and Viserys find their enthusiasm for training returning and they’re swinging their wooden swords around in a manner that is highly inadvisable had they been steel.
The rhythmic click-clacking of wood-on-wood lulls Aemond back into the collection of old Valyrian poetry he’s reading. It’s a nice, peaceful sort of atmosphere. The chatter of people all around, the familiar sounds of training spars, and the weather is pleasant enough with only light clouds and not too stifling humidity. Even Luke’s absence isn’t niggling his thoughts too annoyingly this day, just a comfortable presence in the back of his mind.
Then Aemond hears Daemon call his name.
“What?”
“I asked if you’d like to show these rascals a thing or two. They are so preoccupied with cocking about, wanting to impress you. Perhaps you could give them a good cuff on their rears and knock them down a few pegs.”
Before Aemond could respond, Aegon protests. “I will not fight an omega, Kepus! It isn’t chivalrous!”
Daemon raises an eyebrow at him. “Is it not? And why is that?”
Aegon hesitates, furrowing his brows. “I… I don’t know. I heard Ser Glendon say it, so…”
“Do you even know what chivalrous means?”
“Oh! I know!” Viserys pipes up. “It means if you have a dragon, and you can have it breathe fire on people who don’t have dragons, but you choose not to even though you can, because you are chivalrous!”
Daemon laughs but nods. “So, you are choosing not to swordfight an omega because you think you can best the omega – your Uncle Aemond – is that it?”
Both Aegon and Viserys glance at Aemond, who has now set his book aside and is watching Daemon’s parenting lesson with some amusement. Aemond tilts his head and grins at the two young boys.
“Uhh…” Aegon says, uncertainly.
“Come, Aemond,” Daemon calls out. “Spar with me, since my son is too ‘chivalrous’ for you.”
Aemond rises from the bench readily enough. He hasn’t held a sword since the Velaryon princes left, finding training rather boring when he doesn’t have Luke to boss around. Ser Harrold and the other knights are little challenge for him. He’d never turn down on opportunity to clash swords with the Rogue Prince, though.
“Must we use these wooden toys?”
“Help yourself to the steel,” Daemon says, putting away the wooden one he was holding.
Aemond selects his favoured longsword and twirls it around, letting its familiar weight warm up the joints of his wrist.
“Hits are restricted to below the collar, and with the flat only,” Daemon iterates the rules as he paces a circle of space within the training yard, etching an invisible border for their spar. Around them, idle knights and passing servants seem to catch on what is about to happen and pause their activity to watch. “What say, the first hit to land is the victor?”
Aemond hums in agreement. “Acceptable. I understand how a prolonged spar can be taxing on those aged knees.”
Daemon shoots him an unimpressed look. The man doesn’t actually look that old, Aemond must admit. He is only four years younger than Aemond’s father, though he looks infinitely more spry and youthful than the fragile, bed-ridden man that is his elder brother. Daemon must be nearing fifty years in age now, but he still looks every bit the knight that once commanded the City Watch and conquered the Stepstones.
Aemond takes his position before the older alpha, shifting lightly from one foot to the other.
Daemon raises a pale eyebrow. “Well? Whenever you’re ready.”
Aemond smirks. “Age before beauty.”
Daemon moves with a speed that belies the years under his belt. Steel rings on steel as Aemond quickly lifts his blade to block. A series of thrusts and parries follow, a dance of steps that take them to all corners of the space they’ve carved out.
It’s unexpected how predictable Daemon’s moves are. It feels like a typical spar Aemond would have with any nameless knight, where they begin any session with a bog-standard set of moves to parse the skill level of their opponent. Admittedly, Aemond is the type with little patience for such. It feels too much like pleasantry, like the small-talk one must endure in courtly conversation before finally arriving at the point. Aemond prefers to charge in swinging, take the offensive stance immediately and make quick work of his fool of an opponent.
It’s something Cole often chided Aemond for, advising the merit of calm restraint and letting one’s opponent reveal their own weakness. It’s a strategy that took the decorated knight far in tourneys. That was how Cole famously defeated the Rogue Prince in a tournament many years ago before Aemond was born. But Aemond never had any interest in tourney-style fighting. It isn’t about winning. It’s about power .
Daemon Targaryen should know all about power. Knighted at six and ten, fought a war at five and twenty. For this spar with him, Aemond has set aside his penchant for what his old mentor liked to call recklessness and opted for his advised caution and observation. The Rogue Prince would be a formidable foe, Aemond had thought for certain. Yet here he is clashing swords with Aemond with all the staleness of a green, summer knight.
Daemon delivers another swing that Aemond easily parries, and it makes the younger man frown. Is this farce meant to be some sort of sanitized demonstration for the sake of his little sons? Aegon and Viserys seem entertained enough with all their ooh-ing and aah-ing from the sidelines. Or is Daemon doing this for Aemond’s sake?
Bristling, Aemond switches up the tempo. He side-steps, light on his feet, weaving under another one of Daemon’s underwhelming sword-swings, and bodychecks the older man with his shoulder. The hard shove makes Daemon stumble in surprise.
Aemond could have easily used the opening to land his blade flat on Daemon’s exposed flank, but he doesn’t. Instead, he bends into a mockery of a curtsy. “Ah, apologies, Kepus, I lost my delicate footing. These darned omega -shoes and omega -trousers. Very unfitting for sword-fighting.”
Daemon tilts his head dangerously. There’s a spark lighting up the pale violet of his eyes that Aemond finds he likes very much.
There are murmurs from the gathered crowd. Aegon and Viserys are cheering on for them to continue.
Aemond blinks at the older man innocently. “Shall we start again?”
Daemon grins, lifting his sword once more. “Wilfulness before wisdom.”
Aemond swings his weapon and is immensely pleased to feel more of that fire he expected from a parry by Daemon Targaryen. The spar is much livelier now, forcing Aemond into sharp focus, ignoring the way the crowd also seems to come alive with louder gasps and cheers with every clash of their swords.
It’s exciting. The most challenging bout of sword-fighting Aemond has done in a long time. His muscles are singing with a long-forgotten burn. Sweat is building below his collarbones and the pits of his arms. He’s delighted to see that Daemon is beginning to be in a similar state as well. Short of breath and exuding a faint scent of spice and smoke. No more toying with the omega, the older man is fighting as he would with any alpha.
They dance around each other trading hard clashes and evading wild swings. Every time Aemond thinks he’s about to finally land a winning hit, Daemon twists his blade in a way he’s never seen and blocks it. It’s thrilling to get a glimpse of what a younger Rogue Prince must have been like in battle. The Warrior himself, come to life.
The fight is so gratifying that Aemond feels no sense of defeat when he suddenly feels the flat of Daemon’s blade tap his thigh.
Daemon smirks as he withdraws. “It must have been the trousers,” he says in mock sympathy.
Aemond laughs. He hasn’t felt such satisfaction in a spar since Cole.
Aegon and Viserys run to them with excited shouts. Daemon quickly hands over his steel sword to Ser Harrold out of the children’s reach. Aemond does the same just in time for Aegon to tug insistently on his sleeves.
“Wow, Qӯbor! That was amazing !” Aegon exclaims. “When Kepus swung the sword like-” he makes a whooshing sound with a wild swing of his arms, “and then you stepped out like- hah !” He mimes a dramatic hop while he slashes the air with his hand.
“Uncle Aemond, I want to be like you someday!” Viserys proclaims.
Aemond blinks, surprised. His chest feels an odd pang at the sentiment.
Daemon ruffles his youngest son’s hair. “You will only get to be as skilled if you practice and listen to what Ser Harrold says. So will you promise me that?”
Both Aegon and Viserys dutifully affirm their vows to behave from now on.
Such is the attachment Aegon and Viserys have on Aemond that even when he was feeling slightly under the weather, the boys had barrelled into his chambers and insisted that he join them for afternoon tea.
“They made your favourite strawberry tarts, Qӯbor!” Viserys says, bouncing excitedly. “I told the cooks to make extra just for you!”
“It was my idea,” Aegon insisted. “I thought of it. I thought it would make you feel better!”
The thoughtfulness is touching to Aemond. And perhaps some tea will do him some good. He’s been having a headache all day and there’s a slight cramping in his stomach. It may have been the fatty cut of fish he was served for lunch. He doesn’t always agree with foods that are too rich.
Aemond relents to the children’s needling. He allows them to take each of his hands and they walk to the castle’s drawing room like that, hands swinging playfully between them. Despite his headache, Aemond can’t help but feel a little better from their antics.
Daemon is seated at the main table of the drawing room, reading a letter with a cup of tea by him. He looks up when they enter, and an amused smile graces his face.
“I see the little monsters have terrorized you into joining us,” Daemon comments. The letter in his hand has the red Targaryen seal on it, likely from Rhaenyra in King’s Landing.
“They did make some very compelling arguments,” Aemond says, leaning over the table to take some strawberry tarts from the tiered cake-stand.
Daemon blinks, nose flaring. Then he shakes his head minutely, takes a sip of his tea, and returns to his letter.
Aegon and Viserys are chattering about the lessons on sums they had earlier that day, the one Aemond had missed because he hadn’t been feeling well. They keep bickering on which of them were superior at the subject.
Aemond keeps glancing at Daemon. The older man is squinting at his letter, holding it slightly away from himself as though the small lettering appears clearer to him at that distance. His scent is strong today, stronger than it had been when they were at the training yard and he was sweating from exertion, oddly enough. It’s rather unpleasant.
Aemond tries to give the children his full attention but the scent wafting from the older alpha across from him is distracting. It’s making Aemond’s headache worse, all that sharp pepper and clove, and something cloying and indolic like overripe flowers. No one else seems to notice, as the children are unpresented, and their nursemaids are betas.
Aemond chances another glance at Daemon. The alpha is frowning deeply as he reaches the end of his letter, then looks up sharply, catching Aemond’s gaze. Aemond quickly looks away. He reaches over for his tea and takes a sip, but as soon as he does, he is hit with a wave of nausea, twisting low in his stomach.
“ Gods be good ,” Aemond gasps, setting his teacup down with a clatter then immediately hunching over, clutching his stomach.
“Uncle Aemond, are you alright?” Viserys is leaning in and peering up at him. He is gently steered away by his father, who takes a deep whiff from Aemond’s direction.
Aemond’s stomach gives a cruel twist at the alpha’s proximity and intense scent. He feels a tell-tale dampness in the juncture between his thighs.
“You’re in heat,” Daemon says, surprised.
Dread courses through Aemond’s body. No, he can’t be. “I’m not due for another-” he’s cut off as another wave of cramping wracks through his lower belly. He curls up, holding himself, groaning. Could it be the scent-blockers – or lack thereof? He’s been taking them for over a year, and this is the first cycle since he’s stopped. Scent-blockers do have heat-regulating properties, and having stopped it so suddenly- but he’s only been taking the topical preparations, could the effects be so-
Aemond makes a low pained sound as his stomach twists, and he feels the dampness seeping down into his braies.
Daemon chuckles. “You think I don’t know what an omega in heat smells like?”
Oh Gods, his scent . He must reek with it by now. And with an alpha in the room. Oh Gods, no- It’s happening again. He should have known. All the signs were there, the headaches, the cramping, just the overall unwell feeling. It’s his fault. He should have known what was going on. He should have known better. It’s his fault.
“What’s wrong with Uncle Aemond, Kepus?” That’s Aegon’s voice, concerned.
“It’s alright, son. He’s just in heat.”
Aemond recoils at the thought of the children witnessing such an inappropriate thing. And that Daemon would actually tell them the truth of what’s happening.
“Oh, like Muña does?” Viserys says.
“Yes, exactly like Muña. Well done, Viserys,” Daemon praises. “Now what do we do for omegas when they’re in heat?”
“Lots of water and soft pillows and blankets!” Aegon says quickly, like he’s in his lessons with the maester.
“And rest!” Viserys adds, not to be outdone.
“Good. Very good. Now I need you two to be good boys and go find the Ladies Lanna and Mysaria, inform them that Aemond has gone into heat, and to prepare all the things that you just said,” Daemon says. Then he addresses his sons’ nursemaids. “See it done, will you? I will escort Prince Aemond to his chambers.”
Fear grips Aemond’s heart. He sees Daemon approach him and he tries to scramble away, almost falling out of his seat in the process. He throws a dismayed glance towards the children and their nursemaids rushing to leave the room. They’re leaving him all alone with an alpha.
Daemon makes low shushing noises. “Peace, lēkio trēsy ,” he says, a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. The touch burns even through the thick velvet of his dress.
Aemond can feel his body responding to the proximity of the alpha, the scent and touch sending him spiralling, all without his leave. He hates it. He hates the feeling.
Daemon is trying to help Aemond up and out of his chair. He’s taken the omega’s arm and slung it over his shoulder. As he stands, he takes Aemond’s weight with him. It puts Aemond’s face close, too close to Daemon’s neck, where his scent is thickest. He wants to bury his face in it. He wants to retch his breakfast all over the stone floors.
Aemond instinctively pushes the alpha away with a weak “no!”, snatching his arm back. But the lack of support makes his knees buckle. He would’ve crumpled to the floor if Daemon hadn’t caught him around the waist. The looming weight of the alpha half on top of him is as terrifying as the alpha’s hold around him is enticing. Nausea wracks through Aemond’s body and he yearns to flee, but his legs feel like lead.
Daemon huffs impatiently as Aemond continues to struggle. “Just let me help you to your rooms then I’ll leave you alone.” His grip on the omega is tight now, not allowing him to push him away. “Come on. That’s it. That’s a good omega. Just a few more minutes.”
The words make it through the disorientation of Aemond’s panic. The alpha said he’d leave him alone. Yes, he would like to be alone. He will be in full-blown heat soon, a poison to all. He can’t weather it in the castle’s drawing room. He needs to be locked away.
Aemond allows Daemon to lead him from room, down the hall and up the steps towards the royal apartments.
The walk feels endless. His legs feel shaky but Daemon’s hold on him helps.
Until it doesn’t.
Another wave of cramps hits him, the most painful one yet, and Aemond feels his small-clothes truly soaking now. If he doesn’t reach his chambers soon, he will start dripping onto the hallway floors. But his legs have gone so weak that he can scarcely stand, let alone walk.
“Alright, I’ve had enough,” he hears Daemon mutter irritably. The next thing he knows, his legs have been swept from under him and he’s lifted bodily into the older alpha’s arms.
Aemond is too weak to struggle at this point. Curse his helpless, useless body. The sharp spice of Daemon’s scent is singing to him, drawing him in without mercy. Aemond’s body knows this to be a strong alpha, a worthy alpha, while Aemond’s higher functions provide his base instincts with memories of Daemon as a man, as a father, dashing and capable. Aemond’s entire being is screaming for him to surrender. But he doesn’t want to . He doesn’t want Daemon .
They are moving faster now that the alpha has taken over. They are in Aemond’s bedroom before he knows it. Aemond feels the alpha lower him onto the bed.
A sharp sense-memory cuts through him like a knife, sudden as lightning.
A heat, a room, an alpha.
The air is suddenly too thick to breathe in. He’s in heat and there’s an alpha in the room. The heavy cramps have settled into a pulsing throb in his groin, and he’s slicking freely now. If a touch meets him, his body will betray him, seeking the touch without his leave. If a hand finds its way under his clothes to divest him of them, his skin will welcome the escape from their scratchy confinement. All memory of strength has left his muscles. If his mind screams at his own limbs to kick, to punch, to fight, they will not listen.
He’s in heat and there is Alpha in the room.
The touch he expects doesn’t come. Aemond claws at his bed sheets and scrambles to curl up beneath them. When he was a small child, he believed the monsters in the dark wouldn’t be able to see him if he’s under the blankets.
Aemond trembles beneath the heavy sheets until the alpha goes away.
At some point, two omega ladies find Aemond in his room. One is tall with sleek, jet-black hair, while the other is shorter with mousy-brown ringlets. They must be Rhaenyra’s ladies who hadn’t joined their princess in King’s Landing. They found Aemond still curled up in bed, shaking and panting, using all his willpower to ignore the cramping in his stomach and the throbbing between his slick thighs.
It's always like this. Other people forced to tend to his disgusting self, trembling like a newborn calf, covered in his own bodily fluids. The stern words of Aemond’s old septa ring in his ear.
Heats are a taste of the First of the Seven Hells. It is a test from the Stranger, who will bring you to the brink of sin and see if you will jump. It is the privilege of omegas to withstand such trials, for the Gods bestow only their most blessed of children with the hardest adversity. Chaste, virtuous omegas do not succumb to the temptation, for that way lies corruption and wickedness and the gateways to all the hells.
The omega ladies help him into a robe of thin, breathable linen, for comfort in the sweaty days ahead. They make sure he drinks ample water as servants leave a large pewter jug of it nearby along with a plate of sliced bread, cheese, and sweet berries, easy-to-eat sustenance during heat. They ask if he’d like a bath drawn but he doesn’t feel quite up to the task of leaving the bed at this moment. Then they leave, assuring him that they are just a call away should he need them, simply notify the beta knight stationed at his door.
Aemond hates what a spectacle heats always are. Just like in the Red Keep, Aemond knows that the whole castle knows he’s in his room, reeking of lust, soaking into his clothes and sheets, writhing like a mindless animal. It isn’t enough that the Mother and Maiden bear witness to his shame, his weakness. Handmaidens, knights, and servants must dedicate their time to endure the indignities of tending to an omega in heat. Aemond wishes he could run away, confine himself in a cave somewhere in the ways of the holy sisters of ancient Andalos, to spare everyone the poison of an omega in heat.
The sin of heat is the omega’s alone to bear , his septa’s voice reminds him. It is a sin in itself to inflict such temptation on others. Chaste, virtuous omegas do not seek to seduce alphas of faith. Salvation lies in the lawful husband and the beget of progeny. An honourably wed omega is an absolved omega.
Aemond spends the night in and out of consciousness, hand moving frantically between his legs every time he wakes aching and burning with a repulsive need. His fingers are little comfort, barely worth the sin of succumbing to his lust. He wants an alpha. He needs an alpha.
The Alpha comes for him in his dreams, as though hearing his pleas. He takes him, again and again.
“It will be alright, sweet thing. I’ll make you feel better.”
Aemond wakes, thrashing in horror, blinking in the low light of the candles he leaves on at all times. His eye darts around the room to make sure he is alone, that no one is here to see him, to catch his scent.
What a horrid, monstrous thing Aemond’s body is. That’s what he had done that day, without even realizing. The wicked darkness of the Stranger had taken root in his body, and he unknowingly sought out an alpha to sate his needs. The Alpha would not have taken him if he hadn’t been within reach to take.
Aemond muffles a scream into his pillow. Something else. Something else. Think of something else, anything else.
Aemond wants to cut off his own hands so they don’t try to reach between his legs. He doesn’t want to touch himself. He doesn’t want to a feel a hand down there. But his body is screaming for it, burning for it. He aches and he’s so wet and it’s so difficult not to-
In all Aemond’s thrashing on the bed, the sheets have tangled themselves around his thighs, bunching up to press against where he’s soaked and throbbing. Oh, that’s... that’s adequate. He grinds his hips, rubbing against the sheets. He’s not really touching himself, he’s just...
Aemond manages to quell the fire in him that way, at least for the moment. He passes out in exhaustion once again.
There’s shouting right outside his doors that wakes Aemond from his fitful sleep. The sky is light outside, though likely still quite early in the morning judging from the feel of the breeze through one of the open windows.
Aemond winces at the cooling sweat that covers his entire bedding. His thighs feel sticky with drying slick. The throbbing in his nethers is at a low simmer at present, and he yearns for that bath now. He reaches over to his bedside table and drinks water straight from the jug until it’s empty. He is parched from the night’s loss of fluids. He puts on his linen robe and fastens the eyepatch over his empty socket, planning to summon the ladies tasked to him.
Who on earth is making that racket right outside his rooms? Is his guard not there?
Just as Aemond reaches it, the doors open to admit the Ladies Lanna and Mysaria along with a handful of beta- and omega-servants carrying fresh bed linen, trays of food, and warm bathing water. It takes a while for all of them to pass through the doorway, and through the space, Aemond catches a glimpse of the men standing right outside.
There’s Daemon, standing with his back to him, speaking in harsh, irritable tones to...
Lucerys.
Aemond’s eye widens in surprise. What is he doing here? He sees the moment Lucerys catches his scent, the younger alpha’s expression transforming from the puzzling anger aimed at Daemon to one of astonishment when his eyes lock with Aemond’s.
“Aemond-” he hears Lucerys say, taking a step towards him.
Aemond hastily slams his doors shut as soon as the last of the servants walk through. He’s breathing hard, clutching at his robe, pressing his back against the wood of his door as though he expects Lucerys to try and break it down from the outside.
There are more raised voices from beyond his doors. Lucerys and Daemon are arguing about something, Aemond can’t quite hear. After a few moments, the voices recede as though they are continuing the argument as they walk away. Aemond hadn’t realized his heart was racing so fast until it starts to calm the moment he stops hearing Lucerys’s voice.
Aemond hears Lady Lanna in his bedroom supervising the servants in the tending of his sheets and the preparation of his bath. He feels a wave of embarrassment remembering the state of the bed he’s left. Servants gossip, Aemond knows that. Would such gossip reach Luke now that he’s inexplicably back in Dragonstone?
“Is there anything in particular that you’d like eat for lunch later, Prince Aemond?” Lady Mysaria asks him. She has a melodic, accented voice. She sounds friendly enough, though her angular face gives her a stern aura. “I can make certain the kitchens will prepare them your liking.”
“Luke is here,” Aemond says instead of answering.
“Yes, the prince landed on his dragon early this morning.”
“... why?”
“I believe the prince was notified that you were in heat, and he flew here soon as he heard.”
Aemond frowns, clutching tighter at his robe. “Who notified him?” Why would he even need to know?
“Prince Daemon is likeliest. He had sent a raven to Princess Rhaena last evening. Perhaps he had mentioned it in passing.” Lady Mysaria seems to notice how discomfited Aemond is. “I don’t believe there was any untoward intent by it. Prince Daemon makes a habit of keeping in touch with his daughters when they are away. It was likely just a simple update of life in the castle.”
That does not comfort Aemond greatly. If Daemon regards an omega’s heats with such little discretion, he may have informed all his children of it, and news of Aemond’s heat will have reached far distances of the realm by now.
“Alphas can be insensitive,” Lady Mysaria says sympathetically. “Think nothing of it. Heats are a natural thing.”
“How does Rhaenyra tolerate him?” Aemond mutters, taking a seat at his table.
Lady Mysaria chuckles. She pours him a drink from a fresh jug of water. “The princess herself can be insensitive when it comes to her own omega-hood. She does not often care to cater to the sensibilities of others. So Prince Daemon tends to forget that not all omegas share the nonchalance of his mate.”
That still does not explain why Lucerys is here . So the alpha knows that Aemond is in heat. And what of it? Why did Luke feel the need to return? What is he expecting to-
A cold dread coils around Aemond’s chest as simultaneously, that familiar warmth returns to the ache between his thighs. Fear and arousal are at war inside him. His mind and body in conflict over the possibility that Luke would be here because- because he’d want to-
Aemond feels himself beginning to burn up once more. This short reprieve from the heat’s uncontrollable fire will end soon and he will return to being that mindless, lustful creature again. Unbidden, he imagines Luke in the room with him. Seeing him, scenting him. What would the alpha smell like in lust, Aemond wonders? Would the citrus in him grow sweeter, or would the undercurrent of woodsy oak in him grow deeper and richer?
“In my experience, heats are much more comfortable and quicker to pass when it is shared.” Lady Mysaria is regarding Aemond shrewdly with those dark eyes of hers. “If you should like me to send a message to Prince Lucerys, I can assure the utmost discretion. None but he and I would know. And I will personally prepare and deliver the moon tea.”
Aemond suddenly recoils at the idea. It feels like some cruel test from the Gods. A part of Aemond is carried away by the fantasy. Luke is simply here to help, to make things easier for Aemond, to take care of him because it is all just a part of the alpha’s gallantry. And the heathen part of Aemond’s omega nature knows that an alpha would make his heat so much easier, at least in the moment, and if he disregards the inevitable consequences. But here is Lady Mysaria, promising to take care of that too. She makes it sound so easy.
But that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s not the point. The point of having heats is to… is so that…
Gods, what is even the point of these gods-forsaken heats? It only leads to terrible, terrible things. He is a poison, a well of evil which corrupts all who drink from it. Good alphas don’t deserve such damnation.
Perhaps this is the Gods’ plans , a voice like the Stranger on Aemond’s left shoulder. Perhaps this is his atonement for your eye .
Aemond shakes his head before he can argue himself into agreeing.
“Are you certain?” Lady Mysaria seems to be able to see right through him and it makes him uncomfortable.
“I would like to be alone now,” Aemond says firmly, though it comes out in a small voice.
Lady Mysaria nods. “Send for me any time should you change your mind.”
Aemond takes that bath as soon as the ladies and servants leave his room.
Something in the comfort of the hot water reignites the heat in his body and he spends too much time in it with his eye screwed shut in shame as he frantically tries to soothe the ache between his legs. At a certain point it starts feeling like he’s soaking in his own filth and sin, so he dries himself off and returns to his bedchambers.
Aemond can’t stop thinking of Lady Mysaria’s offer. Irrationally, he rather hates her for opening this possibility for him. And he almost hates Luke for returning to Dragonstone to create this possibility in the first place. But most of all, Aemond hates himself for even considering the notion of sharing a heat with an alpha.
What is wrong with him? Hasn’t he learned his lesson? Is he so irreparably damaged that he would seek an alpha during his heat even after all that happened? Is his nature so inherently sinful?
Aemond muffles a pitiful groan into his pillow as he curls up in bed, soiling his clean, dry sheets with new waves of sweat and slick. He feels so swollen and aching between his legs, and there’s a painful emptiness in him, a gnawing hunger that he knows can only be sated with a knot.
He crosses his arms, pinning his hands beneath his armpits as he tries to breathe his way through his urges. There are prayers he is taught to recite during heat, so that he may endure it with the dignity befitting an omega of faith. It’s so difficult to remember them when his body is screaming like this. He is a dragon-rider and a master of the sword. It’s difficult to remember the strength he prides himself on when he’s constantly being pulled under the relentless waves of heat.
His weakness takes him back to thoughts of Luke. Just imagining the alpha’s physicality has Aemond clenching involuntarily with want. It’s overwhelming just how overcome with lust he feels at the mere thought of Luke’s broad shoulders and toned chest, to be able to see what he looks like beneath his fine clothes. Aemond wants him so badly that he feels himself, his very omega body gushing slick, pulsing out pheromones, desperately calling out to the alpha.
Luke is an alpha and Aemond is an omega in heat.
It’s in an alpha’s nature to take omegas in heat.
If Luke steps into this room and gets caught in the poison of Aemond’s heat-scent…
Aemond doesn’t want Luke to become like the Alpha.
Fresh meals and water are provided for Aemond in the chambers outside his bedroom. He isn’t particularly hungry, but he knows he should at least drink some water regularly.
Then Aemond catches a whiff of something mouthwatering. It isn’t the food. The kind of hunger that ignites in him is not one related to it. Fresh bergamot in the crisp salt air by the seaside. Sweet and familiar.
For a wild moment, Aemond thinks that Luke had snuck into his rooms. But the scent is fainter than it would be if the alpha had been here in person. He follows it to where an unfamiliar dark cloak lies folded on an armchair.
Aemond picks it up, taking in the fine leather and fur lining. Instinctively, he lifts it to his nose and breathes in. It’s unmistakably Luke’s riding cloak, with that characteristic citrus and seawater with a touch of cedar, and a slight acrid hint of smoke and ash that may be from his dragon. The fabric is soaked in his scent, particularly in the section that would have been wrapped around the alpha’s neck. Aemond buries his face in the cloak’s collar, feeling ravenous. He doesn’t think he’s ever breathed in a more delectable scent. He wants to drown in it.
Aemond wraps the cloak around himself, wearing it as Luke would have. It’s too large for him, but he likes the way he’s engulfed in it. Being surrounded by the alpha’s scent soothes the painful emptiness in Aemond and ignites his cravings in equal measure.
“You look so beautiful.”
Aemond’s heart aches. No one has ever made him feel this way before. It’s not just the sheer want that pulses in insistent waves from his cunt, throbbing in synchrony with his heartbeats. It’s also the pressure on his ribs, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to admit to anything else but what he shamefully feels.
There are kisses on his neck, touches on his body. His skin is on fire and the alpha’s hands are a soothing balm. Kissing the alpha’s mouth feels like breathing for the first time.
“I want you more than anything.” Everything Luke says sounds so earnest, like he doesn’t know how to lie. But even if he tried to, Aemond can feel the truth in the alpha’s touches, the scent that surrounds him. Oh, how heady it is to be wanted, to be desired.
“I want you too,” Aemond admits. What a dangerous thing to declare. To voice aloud the words that will validate all of an alpha’s actions. Not that a confession of desire is ever needed to an alpha, such things are assumed of all omegas. They are always asking for it.
But as terrifying as it is, it’s the truth. Aemond wants Luke.
“Don’t hurt me,” Aemond begs. It’s an unrealistic request. All alphas do is hurt. But in this dream world, Aemond is whole and perfect and desirable. He has both eyes.
“Never,” Luke vows. It’s an unrealistic promise, but in this dream world, Luke wants him for him. Not his treacherous omega body, not the toxic siren-call of his scent. This alpha is the one who holds his hand under the moonlight, who leaves his room taking nothing but a chaste kiss on the cheek.
Aemond wants more. To give more, to take more.
Aemond’s heat is a raging fire and Luke is the hearth that keeps him from spinning out of control. An inferno, contained. Luke’s scent is all around him, speaking words of belonging and comfort. Luke’s weight sinks into him in all the wonderful ways, filling the ache inside him, matching him lust for lust. A wondrously guiltless pleasure.
Aemond wakes slowly, feeling sated and oddly relaxed. His bedsheets are uncomfortable, soaked again from sweat and slick, but the scent and warmth he’s enveloped in makes him feel loath to leave the little nest he’s curled up in.
Aemond blinks. A nest? He shakes himself from the dreamy haze he had apparently woken up from. Nests are for mated omegas. A dutiful tribute for the alpha-mate tending to them.
Aemond had fallen asleep the previous night wearing Luke’s riding cloak. He is still wrapped in it, the marine and woodsy citrus of Luke’s scent mingling so deliciously with the powdery chestnut of Aemond’s own. It’s an entrancing contrast, a mouth-watering combination. Aemond wants to blame his heat-addled body for how his heart sings at how perfectly matched they are, how good they are together. But waking up like this, feeling almost like he’s back to his normal self with how calm and content he is, Aemond knows his heat isn’t addling him like it had been two nights ago.
Aemond picks up a handful of the sweet-smelling fabric and buries his face in it. It almost feels like he’s breathing in an aerated form of poppy-milk with how it releases all the tension in his body upon inhaling. He stretches his muscles luxuriantly as he continues to lie pliant and lazy in bed.
The idea of having Luke accompany his heat doesn’t sound like the worst thing he can imagine.