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It had been raining since they left Hayford, his cloak soaked as it stuck to his riding clothes, draping over the back of his steed. They'd been riding day and night, stopping only for a few hours of sleep in various inns and deserted villages. The air around them is thick, quietness eery in their ears, taste of smoke still present on their tongues even months after what had come of this place.
The Realm watched with bated breath as the Riverlands burned, rogue Prince Aemond Targaryen engulfing the lands in his path of rage on the back of his war dragon. The war had taken its toll on many noble houses within the Seven Kingdoms, yet none had felt the Targaryen wrath quite like the former seat of Harren the Black, the walls of Harrenhal and House Strong drowning in flames thrice over.
It had been months since Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, had stormed King's Landing alongside her husband; five large dragons circling the rooftops of the Red Keep, Knights of the Vale surrounding the walls of the Targaryen seat, the entire force of Velaryon Fleet cutting off any escape along Blackwater Bay. The greens had no choice but to surrender the throne, their strongest means of defence inexplicably vanished. History books would long continue writing about the happenings within the Throne Room; Usurper King Aegon II Targaryen, on his knees, alongside his mother and sister-wife, pledging his fealty to the rightful queen in exchange for her benevolence. The same sentiment would not be extended to Otto Hightower or Ser Criston Cole, however; both executed without trial.
The reason for the usurper's hasty surrender would become painfully clear; Prince Aemond Targaryen, along with his fearsome beast, were not in King's Landing. It would shatter Queen Rhaenyra's darkened and deadened heart when the news from Rhaena Targaryen would reach her - Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the sole, cherished omega of the royal family, had been abducted under the covers of the night despite seemingly impenetrable security of Dragonstone walls, sightings of a beast resembling the likeness of Vhagar spreading through the Realm like wildfire. Nothing had been left of the prince's small dragon, the letter had said, only traces of crimson blood and burned pieces of flesh found in the caves of Dragonmount.
The Black Queen, upon the insistence of the Rogue Prince, had considered it wise at first, keeping her omega son and his dragon out of the fight until the victory would be secured; none, however, could fathom the lengths the one-eyed prince would go to get his revenge on the measly boy who had taken his eye when they were children. They had underestimated him, of course, a mistake none would make ever again. There had been no sightings of the Queen's second son, nor his traitorous uncle since. Only baseless rumours.
Until a fortnight ago.
They move through the last of the greenery of the dark forest, storm rumbling in the skies above them as they finally ride onto the shores of God's Eye, ghostly remains of charred Harrenhal looming in the distance. The oppressing towers of the gargantuan castle are shattered at their core, jagged rocks and broken down walls the only reminders of the once believed impregnable keep.
"We should set up camp here. Lead the horses to the water and feed the men," the man instructs, "I will ride forth to inspect the castle myself."
"You shouldn't go alone, my Lord," whispers Ser Raynard, out of the earshot of the rest of their group lest he embarrasses the young lord. "The Targaryen prince may be isolated in his cause, but he is no fool, and a formidable foe."
"What do you see before you, Ser Raynard?" Lord Rodderick asks, "aside from the ruins of Harrenhal, of course."
There is a look of confusion on the knight's face. "Forgive me, my Lord?"
"Do you see the traitor's great, ugly beast?" the lord continues then. "Aemond Targaryen is not here. Neither is the royal omega, I would wager, but we must heed the sighting rumours nonetheless. I had promised the Queen personally."
A blatant lie, Ser Raynard knows, but he does not let it show on his face. Queen Rhaenyra had no knowledge of their travels; she had lost her child, her innocent boy, the most torturous casualty of the needless war. These days, none of the royal members dared bring up the subject of the prince's disappearance before the grieving mother, let alone some small lord from the far ends of the Stormlands. Desire for eternal glory and limitless riches is the true reason for this quest, an opportunity to ask for the royal omega's hand in marriage if the young alpha is successful.
"As you wish, Lord Rodderick. I shall ensure the men are fed and the horses are well rested," Ser Raynard concedes, instructing the rest of their men to follow him down the shores of the silent lake.
Dismounting his steed, Lord Rodderick continues his quest on foot; in its prime, Harrenhal's gatehouse could rival that of Winterfell's Great Keep in the cold North. The structure is no longer as impressive, however, its stone discoloured and fissured. It was said that a man could only see the tops of the immense towers from outside the gatehouse, for the walls were of such height as to obscure them from the view. All five towers now stand bent, lumped and cracked from the melting of the stone during the castle's burning by the Black Dread.
Flowstone Yard by the Wailing Tower is dark and empty, broken rubble littered on the grounds as Lord Rodderick moves through the former training yard of House Strong. He passes a charred sept by the Tower of Ghosts, instinctively lowering his head in a small prayer to the Seven. As war raged on, many had found Faith to be their only saviour in the time of uncertainty and dread.
Lord Rodderick had never believed the castle to be haunted by ghosts of the past; the maids' tales, he'd always told himself. His flaming torch, the only source of light in the swallowing darkness of Harrenhal, does little to bring him comfort. He would never admit to being fearful, even as the ghostly shadows dancing atop the charred walls and a quiet sound of naked feet pattering on the ground make his insides twist in uneasiness.
Reaching the end of the stone bridge from the Widow's Tower, he looks upon the gargantuan staircase leading to the very top of the Kingspyre Tower. It had been the only one of the five to remain intact following the multitude of assaults the keep had to withstand through time. Taking the first step up the stairs, and then another, Lord Rodderick is eventually met with massive carved doors, any pattern inscribed in the material long lost to time and fire. The doors are different to any other chambers Lord Rodderick had traveled through, and so he concludes that these must be the castellan's bedchambers. If the royal omega would be kept somewhere, he would wager this would be the place.
A prince, locked away in the highest room of the tallest tower.
The chamber doors part before him with a light creak, giving in to the slight force of his hand; the room is dark, deserted, save for the scuffed four poster bed placed by the far wall. He takes a hesitant step forward, then another, a light sound of a small whimper barely registering in his ears. The castle lives a life of its own, after all. The weeping sounds grow louder, however, the closer he gets to the featherbed, harder to ignore.
The torch in his hand illuminates more of the room before him until Lord Rodderick can make out a small lump on the dirty sheets, one with likeness to a small, malnourished child. His breath is caught in his lungs in disbelief. Countless knights and lords have been lost in attempts to find the royal omega, not a single one to return from their quests. And yet here the prince was, right in front of him, within his reach. A lost son, to return to his broken mother.
With bated breath he reaches out for the whimpering bundle of torn blankets on the sullied mattress, his own hands shaking traitorously, cravenly. An ear-piercing scream shatters the intense silence of the darkness as a small body springs out of the bed the moment his fingers touch the rough fabrics, Lord Rodderick taken aback by the sudden outburst. His senses are flooded by the smell of utter distress and fear, the small omega cowering in the dark corner of the bedchambers, his thin arms wrapped shakily around his scuffed knees.
"No, please, no more" the boy pleads, his sniffling turning into choked sobs as the crown of his dark curls trembles in the light of orange flames, "everything hurts, it hurts!"
The lord takes a hesitant step towards the shaking omega on the ground, his inner alpha growling at him to pull the snivelling boy into his embrace, protect him, alleviate his fears, comfort him in his distress. It is improper, he curbs himself; the omega is of royal blood, young and unmated, pure. His fist tightens before he reaches for a touch, lowering his hand back to his side instead.
"Prince Lucerys?" he asks softly, afraid to upset the young prince further.
"Tell him I'll do as he says, I promise," Lucerys brings his knees closer to his chest, refusing to meet Lord Rodderick's gaze head on, "please, tell my uncle I won't fight anymore!"
Taking a deep inhale, the young lord lowers to his knees, his arm outstretched before him in attempts to quell the boy's fear. His other arm continues trembling traitorously from the sudden heaviness of the torch in his hand.
"I'm not here to hurt you, my Prince," he attempts to soothe the distressed omega with his pheromones, the boy scrunching up his button nose from visible unease. "My name is Lord Rodderick Buckler of Bronzegate. I am to take you back to your mother, the Queen."
There is an immediate shift in the air of the room as the boy stills, quietness settling in uncomfortably between them. Lord Rodderick watches the omega lift his head from his knees, his eyes big and brown, filled with crystal tears flowing down his flushed cheeks. Neither of them speaks for a moment, the young prince studying the lord's face for any sign of deception. Then, he is up on his feet, eyes squinted, gaze heavy with heat so foreign for a prim and proper omega of his caliber.
It is only now that Lord Rodderick notices the omega's dressing; the boy has been kept only in a silk robe, his nakedness barely concealed by the sheer fabric and a loosely tied knot around his middle. Like a whore in a high class brothel. The amalgamation of hungered need to claim and wrath at utter impropriety of omega's keeping battle within the young lord with overpowering fervour.
"Usurper King Aegon sits the Iron Throne," the prince spits, his small hands curled into fists at his sides. Fighting the oncoming flow of wetness on his face, the boy straightens his shoulders and tilts his head slightly upwards, a defiant glint in his eyes, "I will not fall for my uncle's tricks."
"No tricks, I give you my word," the young alpha utters evenly, keeping his eyes on the boy before him as he rises to one knee. The young prince is silent, unreadable expression on his face as Lord Rodderick pulls his longsword out of its sheath and places it at omega's naked feet. "Prince Lucerys Velaryon, if you'll have me, I would swear to always heed your call, never to turn my back on you beseeching for aid. Swear to instill hope, be a beacon of strength no matter the challenges I must overcome. Be a saviour and keep my duty to shield you from all evils in this world.”
The prince stares at him blankly, his soft lips parted in a breathless gasp. He is quiet for a moment, his small hands grasping for the soft fabrics of his dressing robe. The omega is hesitant, Lord Rodderick understands, though he notices the moment when hope flashes through those beautiful brown orbs. The boy takes a nervous step towards him, keeping a safe distance still.
"Is my mother truly Queen now?" he whispers, his voice almost inaudible even in the ghostly silence of his prison. "What of my brothers?"
"Queen Rhaenyra sits upon the Iron Throne, Prince Daemon Targaryen as her Royal Consort. Your brothers are well and healthy, my Prince."
All at once, the walls around them start to shake, dust coming off the charred stone as a monstrous vibration reverberates through the chambers. They hear it then, her bellows. The beast. She is here. He is here.
"We must leave immediately," Lord Rodderick scrambles to his feet, placing his sword back in its sheath. The omega's face is stricken with fear and hesitation when young alpha offers him his hand. "I promise to answer any questions your Royal Highness may have once we reach safety, but we must leave."
The omega’s small nod is the sole sign the lord needs before he is ushering the boy towards the doors and down the stairwell. They almost reach the stone bridge between the gargantuan towers when he feels the prince suddenly pull on his sleeve, slowing them both to a stop. The boy is silent momentarily, his soft brown curls blowing with the cold air around them.
"I accept," he finally utters, his eyes pleading silently, placing his trust in a stranger. Mistaking Lord Rodderick’s silence for confusion, the boy adds with more confidence, his head raised high, "your oath, I accept it."
Giving the prince a curt nod, the young lord leads them over the bridge, rushing down the stairs of the Widow's Tower as the bellows of the war dragon get closer. His mind is occupied with omega's safety, as well as that of his men, coming face to face with the traitorous prince. For most, Aemond Targaryen had been naught but a ghost story; a faceless warrior as formidable as the Rogue Prince himself, his hair as bright as moon, an outlandish gem in his hollow socket as blue as the seas washing the shores of High Tide. Protector of the Realm, they dubbed him, an iron fist around the Seven Kingdoms. Until it all came crashing down, the one-eyed prince lashing out with a promise of fire and blood. And so it came to be.
They almost make it past the courtyard when the little omega yelps in surprise, his soft chest colliding with Lord Rodderick's strong back. Lucerys stands on his tip toes, peering over the alpha's shoulder, his doe eyes widening with horror.
She is here. He is here.
Prince Aemond stands before them, donned in royal Targaryen armour, a long crimson cloak draped over his chest and back, a longsword in his hand. Valyrian steel, Lord Rodderick concludes in utter bewilderment. Behind him, his great ugly beast. The Queen of All Dragons. The monstrous Vhagar, the heat from her flaming nostrils reaching them from a great distance.
The prince stands tall, regal, a royal alpha. His gaze is heavy as it shifts between the young lord and the cowering omega behind him, his leather eyepatch covering the jagged scar pulling from the split in his right brow down to the soft of his cheek. His lips curl slightly upwards before he finally settles on the fellow alpha; his scent is sour, putrid, hungry for blood.
"I believe you have something of mine," the prince shouts, his tone mocking the young lord with an obvious lack of shame, "the boy is not yours to take."
“Stand behind me, my Prince. I shall protect you from this viper, I swear on my life,” he promises, keeping the whimpering boy hidden with the wide expanse of his cloaked back, attempting to soothe the omega with his calming pheromones. Focusing his gaze on the Targaryen prince before him, he straightens his shoulders, his voice loud and commanding, "You are surrounded by my men, traitor! Lay down your sword and command your beast-"
"Are those the men you speak of?" the silver prince gestures behind him towards a pile of ravaged, mangled bodies, smoke still coming off the charred pieces of flesh, spreading over the calm waters of God's Eye. “Quite the formidable army you have assembled, my Lord.”
There is a pang of sharp pain in his chest as he looks in the direction of their burning camp; Ser Raynard, twenty of their men, good and loyal stormlanders - all dead, lost to yet another mad Targaryen. Lord Rodderick feels his blood sizzling in his veins, anger rising from deep within his chest, his hand reaching for the pommel of his sword.
"You shall pay for their blood with yours, usurper."
There is a sudden guffaw coming from behind him before he can even unsheath his longsword, Prince Lucerys bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The sound of it so sharp, bright, sincere. A cold shiver runs down the lord's spine, an inexplicable wave of apprehension crashing into him like a wild tide.
"My Prince?" he questions quietly.
Half turning towards the little omega behind him, Lord Rodderick studies him for the first time. The robe Prince Lucerys is dressed in is made of the most expensive of fabrics, not a single stain or tear on the garment. The boy's hair is clean and combed through, his brown curls scented with fresh oils wafting in the air around them. There is not a single bruise on the young prince's skin, where it's exposed to the slight chill. The young lord's eyes widen when his gaze finally zeroes in on the omega's lithe neck, gears turning ever so slowly in his head - a freshly healed mating bite gracing his smooth skin.
It happens all too hastily for Lord Rodderick to fully comprehend or anticipate; one moment Prince Lucerys is smiling at him with the most saccharine of smiles, next he is reaching for the dagger sheathed in alpha's thigh holster. There is a sudden burst of sizzling pain as the knife slashes through the back of his legs, young lord collapsing to the ground onto his knees with a guttural cry of pain.
Dizziness crashes over him almost immediately, the omega severing multiple arteries in one swift movement of the blade, thick blood soaking the rough fabrics of his breeches too quickly. Lord Rodderick is lightheaded, his movements uncoordinated as he attempts to reach for the longsword in its sheath. The ground shakes beneath them before his fingers can even brush against the pommel of his blade, Vhagar's monstrous bellow forcing him to the ground once more.
The omega breaks out into pearls of laughter behind him, Lord Rodderick's soaked dagger suddenly at his throat, just below his Adam's apple.
"Lucerys," Prince Aemond gives the omega a stern look, not taking a step closer. "Must you draw out this misery every time? It bores me greatly."
“I like this one,” the younger prince chirps, his thin fingers buried deep in the young alpha's dark locks of choppy hair. He pulls back harshly, exposing Lord Rodderick's neck to the sharpness of his pearly white teeth. The boy whimpers at the guttural growl escaping his uncle's lips, his inner omega submitting involuntarily. Sheathing his fangs, Lucerys' plump lips shape into a small pout, insolence oozing from his pores like sweet honey. “Oh, can we keep him, raqiarzy?"
“Don’t play with your food, taoba,” barks Aemond, a clear warning in his tone, his patience wearing thin at omega's little games.
“Ah, you are no fun, qȳbor,” the boy huffs out, annoyed and irritated as a child denied his toy. Shoving the young lord forward and forcing him down on all fours, Lucerys takes a step back, and then another. Head lifted up to the dark skies, the omega's command reverberates through the crushed walls of the deserted training yard with full Targaryen force, "Dohaerās!"
There is a low rumble above them. Using the last of his strength and fleeting consciousness from the slashed arteries and crimson blood gushing out of his veins, Lord Rodderick tilts his head up to follow Lucerys' gaze. The eyes, golden as the sun, stare into the depths of his soul, seemingly moving closer towards him. He sees the outline of pearlescent wings coming into view under the moonlight, a smaller dragon crawling down the black stone of the Widow's Tower.
Nothing had been left of the prince's small dragon, the letter had said, only traces of crimson blood and burned pieces of flesh found in the caves of Dragonmount.
Before the lord can utter a single plea, beg the omega prince to spare his life, swear an oath of silence, Lucerys delivers his punishment. Swift and unwavering, a true Targaryen dragonlord.
"Dracarys, Arrax!”
Letting out a blood curdling shriek, the pearlescent dragon widens his maw, a bright ball of golden flame the last thing Lord Rodderick sees before he is engulfed, bathed in dragon fire.
The dying out of his ear-piercing screams is the only sound one can hear from the ruins of Harrenhal, a ghostly echo reverberating around the gargantuan towers. Perhaps there is some truth to the tales of their dark curse.
Or perhaps Lord Rodderick Buckler of Bronzegate had simply become yet another victim succumbed to Targaryen madness.
They stand there for a minute longer, scorching flames dancing in the reflection of Lucerys' bright eyes, his gaze never leaving the sight before him. He is mesmerised, his breath caught in his lungs as his pheromones take on an entirely different scent, his alpha picking up the smell of his unbridled arousal.
"Māzīs," Aemond commands, beckoning Lucerys with his hand to take his rightful place by his mate.
The boy finally raises his head, his awed expression meeting his alpha's expectant one. There is something about the glint in Lucerys' eyes that tells him his omega is not in the most submissive of moods. Aemond will simply have to remind him then. Flashing a dangerous smile, sharp canines peaking out between his plump pink lips, Lucerys swiftly turns around and bolts back deep into the ruins of the melted keep.
Huffing out an exasperated breath at his nephew's unbounded insolence, Aemond gives chase.
Never quite breaking into an outright run, an act so beneath him, Aemond takes confident strides as he moves through the dark, littered halls of Harrenhal. Turning corner after corner, he briefly catches sight of Lucerys' silks trailing behind him, his spoiled omega breaking into pearls of breathless laughter as he draws enjoyment from taunting him. Aemond grows irritated, his inner beast snarling at him to give chase, to force into submission, to claim what is rightfully his once more.
"You cannot hide from me, little omega," he growls, his patience wearing thin as the combined pheromones of his nephew's excitement and arousal send blood rushing straight to his cock, "I can smell the sweetness of your slick from a mile away."
"Catch me, uncle," Lucerys singsongs, his distant voice akin to a siren leading to Aemond's impending day of reckoning, reminiscent of their past. "Find me and make me yours."
I will ask for her blessing, uncle. She is my mother, she would grant me this kindness.
The sound of naked feet pattering on the stone floors grows closer, Lucerys' giggles filling the dark halls of the ghostly monstrosity. Aemond picks up pace before the memories can drown him, their waves crashing harshly, crawling into the hidden crevices of his plagued mind.
My half-sister is hardly the kind soul you think her to be, ñuha perzītsos. Made less so towards her sworn enemy.
Reaching the thick oaken doors of The Hall of the Hundred Hearths, a beastlike smile creeps upon his sharp face. Aemond takes a deep inhale; the intense smell of his omega's exhilaration tickles his nostrils, heat spreading to his lower abdomen, his cock hard and heavy, pressing into the rough fabrics of his leather breeches. Aemond knows he's caught him. And so does Lucerys.
Then we shall run away. Take me away, Aemond. Make me yours.
He throws the doors open, heavy wood giving way to his force all too easily. The usually dark and quiet giant that is the host of Jahaerys' Great Council is seen come to life, all thirty-five of its hearths lit up in parallel lines leading up to Aemond's innocent prize of war. Upon the draped dais sits Lucerys, Harren's throne entirely too monstrous in size for his fragile frame. Although it never seemed to dissuade his wonton nephew before, Aemond grins to himself as he moves past the flames with heavy steps.
His little omega's silks are dropping off his shoulders, almost baring the softness of his small, plump breasts. His robes are hiked up to his belly, his luscious thighs spread wide open for Aemond to see the prize of his hunt, lithe fingers rubbing languidly against his pink clit.
Smallclothes were something Lucerys was no longer afforded these days; not that the omega ever minded in truth. His sopping quim always presented to welcome his big alpha into its tight embrace, Lucerys was naught but an obedient mate.
"You have caught me, Alpha," the boy is breathless, his voice breaking into soft whines as more slick seeps out of him at the sight of his hungry alpha stalking towards him like a wild animal would towards its helpless prey.
Aemond is a patient man on most days, soft and indulgent even. But Lucerys has riled him up, made his blood run hot with his little games and forced him to chase him through the broken down ruins of this godforsaken place. His temper is at its limit and it takes everything inside him not to tear the omega's robes into shreds and spear that insolent mouth on his throbbing cock.
Stepping onto the draped dais, Aemond carefully wraps his large hand around the omega's lithe throat, squeezing ever so slowly with just enough pressure to elicit a whorish moan out of his nephew’s shameless mouth. "What makes you think you can run from me? Have you forgotten your place?"
Lucerys can't suppress a small giggle at the perplexed look on Aemond's face when he bats the alpha's hand away from his slicked folds. Rising to his feet, Aemond's fingers still wrapped tightly around his throat, Lucerys slowly unties the loose knot around his silks, letting the fabric fall to the stone floors. The omega is completely bare underneath, the small buds on his plump breasts hardening at the cold air in the hall. Aemond's sole eye is hungry, predatory, impatient. Too close to the edge.
His alpha watches with bated breath as Lucerys carefully unwraps his fingers from his neck, their eyes never wavering from each other. Carefully stepping around him, Lucerys makes sure to move around his left side so as to stay within his line of vision. Aemond's injury is something they no longer speak of, but the omega has never stopped being penitent, his alpha more susceptible to his apologies whenever Lucerys got on his knees.
"I want to ride my dragon," he whispers behind him, taking both of Aemond's large wrists in his smaller hands and binding them together with the belt of his silk robe, "will my alpha let me?"
Aemond's violet eye is glazed over, his monstrous bulge bursting through the fabrics of his breeches when Lucerys presses into it with the flat of his palm. Suppressing a groan deep within his throat, the alpha nods curtly, allows himself to be pushed down onto the throne of their own making. He grunts in discomfort when his back hits the hard wooden surface, his hands tied tightly behind him. He's immobilised, giving Lucerys the free rein to do as he pleases with him, placing entirely too much trust into his nephew's delicate hands.
Lowering to his knees, Lucerys palms at his alpha's large cock through the rough fabrics, running over the outline of his length with the soft pads of his fingertips. His movements are light and careful, almost shy; a quality Aemond could never attribute to his headstrong omega. The older prince lets out a soft gasp when Lucerys' fingers wrap tightly around him, tracing the tip of his cock with his thumb, running over it in gentle circles. His hips jerk instinctively, pushing into his nephew's hand to chase the much needed friction.
Lucerys tuts, smacking his thighs with a trace of disapproval in his eyes. "Sit still, uncle."
Huffing out an exasperated breath Aemond obeys, his head thrown back to conceal the small smile across his lips.
Lucerys seems to be content with torturing his bedmate as he slowly unlaces his breeches, taking his time to untangle each string with careful precision. Aemond is almost at the end of his wits, his mouth parting to accost his insolent omega for his taunting when Lucerys wraps his lithe fingers around his girth, pulling his cock out of its confines. The alpha's breath is hitched, cold air licking at his heated flesh, his omega's hot breath on his tip spreading fire through his abdomen. Aemond can't help it, bucks up into his grip on pure instinct, encouraging Lucerys to move his hand.
The omega gives him a coy smile, his thumb tracing the underside of Aemond's cock, beads of precum already forming at its tip, spilling over. Aemond has to shut his eye when Lucerys swipes his slit with a finger, his tongue peaking out sheepishly to bring Aemond's taste into his mouth. The omega has the gall to moan; his whore nephew could survive on the sustenance of his cum alone. Setting a lazy pace, he strokes Aemond's length up and down, twisting his wrist as the flat of his tongue runs a wet line from his perineum up to the head of his cock.
Aemond's breathing is slowed, his chest rising and falling heavily as he watches his omega play with him, teasing him with his tongue, wrapping his plushy lips around his tip, suckling on it like a babe on his mother's teat. The only thing he wants more than to plunge into the warmth of Lucerys' throat is to slide his cock into the gushy wetness of his nephew's quim. Aemond is a patient man. On most days.
"Don't play with me, Lucerys," he growls, his little omega only grinning at him as he lets Aemond's length slip from his mouth, smacking against his soft cheek.
He rises from his knees, straddling his uncle's thighs, slowly. It delivers the desired effect, has Aemond snarling at him in hungered anticipation, his heady scent enveloping the walls of their ghostly keep. Lucerys is slicking, has been since he laid eyes on his lover donned in royal armour, defending his claim against the little lord who dared think himself worthy.
Wrapping his fingers around Aemond's girth, he slides his wet folds up and down his length, grinding on him slowly. The head of his alpha's cock rubs deliciously against his clit on every upslide, the omega mewling in pleasure as more slick drenches Aemond's dark breeches beneath them. It's wet, messy, improper, impure - as Lucerys wants it, craves it.
They both moan in mirror relief when Lucerys finally lines up the tip to his fluttering hole, sliding down on it too slow for anyone's liking. Lucerys loves it when Aemond ruts into him, fast and deep. Loves bouncing on his uncle's cock until his voice is hoarse from screaming, too fucked out to tease or jest. He moves leisurely, cockwarming his uncle more than riding him just to see how long it will take Aemond to snap.
Judging by the expression on his alpha's face, Lucerys is close. It makes his cunny slick in giddy anticipation. Just a little push.
"He'd said he would ask my mother for my hand in marriage," he moves closer to his uncle, whispering softly into his ear as if confessing his hidden devotion, "once he took me back to King's Landing."
Any restraint Aemond seemed to hold onto with his sharp teeth is gone. The guttural growl escaping his lungs makes the little omega's blood sing as the soft fabric around the alpha's wrist is torn in half. Wrapping his large hands around Lucerys' small waist, almost encasing it entirely within his palms, he spears him down on his monstrous length. Lucerys can't contain the wail escaping his lips when he feels his insides split in half, moulding around the shape on his uncle's cock pressing into his womb.
"I told you not to play with me, taoba," he snarls, snapping his hips upwards while holding Lucerys down in a death grip of his calloused hands.
His sole eye is filled with dragonfire, the heat of his gaze burrowing deep into Lucerys' soft orbs, tears filling up the corners of his eyes as he chokes around his broken sobs. Aemond is fucking into him too hard, too deep, each stroke kissing his womb with a silent promise.
His alpha resembles a wild animal more than a man; a dragon, protecting what's his with sharpness of his claws and teeth. His inner beast can only respond to its basic instincts. To claim him, breed him, make him swell with his pups. And Lucerys would let him. Would welcome it.
"You killed those men for me," he cries, his thighs burning from strain, Aemond's fingers digging in painfully around his small waist. He knows there will be bruises tomorrow, knows Aemond will give him more when they start to fade. Lucerys wears them like armour, his own protection, traces of his formidable alpha always on him.
"And I would do it again," his uncle growls, mouthing around the pink nipple of Lucerys' plump breast. The little omega mewls in pleasure, imagines his teats swelling with milk, his alpha drinking from them when the pain would become too unbearable. He feels his release fast approaching, his slick easing the slide of Aemond's cock deeper into him with each stroke.
"I would burn the Seven Kingdoms twice over for you, Lucerys."
It pushes Lucerys over the edge, has him wailing at the top of his lungs as he comes clenching around his alpha's thick girth, his velvety inner walls gripping Aemond tight. The omega can't keep himself straight, his entire body wrecked and slacking against his uncle's, his forehead falling onto Aemond's shoulder.
Lucerys can do nothing but mouth at his alpha's skin, Aemond lifting and slamming down his hips as he chases his own rapture, his moans and grunts unrestrained as his thrusts become erratic.
"Give me your knot, alpha," the boy cries through the sounds of naked skin against skin, "make me a muña."
Letting out a beastlike growl, he is a man gone. It only takes the alpha a few more deep strokes before his swelling knot is caught in a tight embrace of Lucerys' spongy walls, spilling deep inside, omega's hungry cunt milking his cock for every drop of his hot spend with feverish need.
Aemond's sharp teeth sink into the omega's healed mating bite, the taste of his sweet blood filling his mouth like the first time, bright colours bursting behind his eyelid when he shuts his eye to savour it. Drink in the memories.
They will come for us, Lucerys. They will come to take you away from me.
"I love you," Lucerys whispers into his silver hair once the sharp pain of his bite subsides, the thickness of Aemond's knot locked in and filling him up, stretching him out.
I won’t let them, my love. We won’t let them.
_______________________________________________________________________
“What do they say beyond these walls, uncle?” Lucerys asks.
The omega is pliant, splayed comfortably across his alpha's strong chest; he runs his fingers through Aemond's soft silver locks, curling them around his slim digits. His uncle's gaze is soft, his touch tender against Lucerys' exposed skin in gentle strokes across his back. There’s a glint of Aemond’s sapphire in the darkly lit room, his leather eyepatch lost in the throes of their coupling.
“House Stark has once more pledged its loyalty to the Crown. Warden of the North is said to be riding south to rescue Queen Rhaenyra’s second son, the sweet and innocent omega, from the clutches of his monstrous captor.”
Hen lantoti ānogar, va sȳndroti vāedroma. Qēlossa ozūndesi. Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo.
(blood of two, joined as one. the stars stand witness. a vow spoken through time)
“Then we shall prepare to welcome him, valzȳrys,” the boy whispers into his lover’s lips, the velvety inner walls of his soaked quim fluttering around his alpha's heavy knot in giddy anticipation, “I’ve never had a Northerner before.”