Chapter Text
As soon as the doors to the Great Hall close, King Aerion Targaryen, first of his name, sighs and slumps down on the Iron Throne. The black crown upon his head, the Conqueror’s crown, sits heavy, and for one savage moment in time, he imagines tearing it off and hurling it across the hall. He can practically hear the tink, tink, tink as it bounced across the marble floors.
He doesn’t, though, a testament to his own restraint. Kings aren’t supposed to be petulant children, that’s what Maekar had said. Back when Aerion was forced to choose his lesser crown as heir apparent, when his wretched older brother got himself killed from inside a whore’s cunt. Aerion hadn’t hated the idea of becoming Prince of Dragonstone, but he had refused the throne, and Maekar had told him it was high time he become a man. He’d ixnayed Aerion’s refusal, and made him Crown Prince of Westeros.
It makes Aerion wrinkle his nose even now. After his father had fallen in battle and the crown passed to Aerion, after the coronation ceremony and parades and feasts and fake joy were all said and done, Aerion still didn’t want to be King.
He isn’t made to sit the throne and listen to the squabbles of the small folk. He could care less about the farmer’s sheep slaughtered by wolves, or the baker’s shop that had been upturned by rogue gold cloaks, or the merchants who have issues on the import tax raising. None of it concerns him. None of these insignificant happenings or people are enough to warrant being brought before him.
Because, no matter the decidedly level-headed outcomes he gives them–sending a party of hired hands to find and kill the wolves, calling for the discipline of the gold cloaks who thought themselves to be on Aerion’s level, and agreement to negotiate on lowered taxes for the ships arriving daily to Blackwater Bay–he knows what they see. He knows what they whisper despite getting what they want.
Omega.
The first omega King to sit the Iron Throne. It is, perhaps, just one more of Maekar’s many cruelties that Aerion was named heir after Daeron died. After Matarys died. After Valarr died. Not Aemon in the citadel. Not Aegon the boy wonder. No, one by one the easier choices were stripped away until the realm lay bare at Aerion’s feet.
Unheard of. That’s what it is. It is unheard of to place an omega in power. What was Maekar thinking? How could he appoint an heir whose very nature it was to submit? How could he appoint someone who had once been no more than a womb to raise royal whelps?
As if Aerion hasn’t proven time and time again that he is not the docile, soft thing omegas are supposed to be. As if he hasn’t spat on the very idea of watching himself swell with some filthy, underclassed Lord’s child.
But omegas in Westeros are a rare commodity, especially in the Targaryen line, which made the new king something of a spectacle. A prince born to be nothing more than a broodmare, become king of all those who would look down on him. Who still do, in disguise. No one really knew what to do with him.
Looking over, he can’t help the distasteful scowl that twists his lips when he finds Bloodraven, his Hand, looking back with that unsettling red eye. The beta never wanted Aerion in power. In fact, he’d implored Maekar to think differently about his choice, a declaration that Aerion upheld steadfastly. But no matter the cause, his father would not budge.
And so, Brynden Rivers, displeased with Aerion’s ascension, reluctantly guided him through kinghood.
“You know it wouldn’t kill you to show some compassion to your people.” Brynden says after a moment, which makes Aerion seeth, “They wish to leave here feeling heard, not treated as unruly children.”
“Have I not done just that?” Aerion asks coolly, “I presented them with remedies to the best of my ability. If they do not like them, they can find their own. The realm cannot halt for one farmer’s troubles.”
“That one farmer is your realm.” Brynden says, “He is the backbone of your food supply. If one farmer strikes, the rest will follow suit. If one feels incensed, they all do. If they stand against you, you starve. Same for the small folk in the city, and the merchants who bring your goods. Treat the small folk like cockroaches, and they will eventually swarm you like carrion. Ignore the concerns of the merchants, and watch your realm suffer with no trade. See how fast it turns on you.”
“I am not braindead, Brynden, I know politics. I’ve played them my entire life.” Aerion gives him a cool look, “Just because I am an omega does not mean I don’t know how to command.”
Brynden sighs, “You know I am all too familiar with people doubting you for something beyond your control.”
“The difference is that you are merely repulsive-looking. I am less than even you in their eyes.” Aerion leans back against the throne, not bothering to look at his Hand, “To many of them, you should be the king on designation alone. Perhaps I could be consort. Imagine what kind of children we’d make. Half with your dreadful face, and half with mine.”
“As flattered as I am at the sentiment, I will refrain from thinking of it.” Brynden mutters, standing, “If you wish the realm to respect your rule, you must give them a reason to. Being respectful of your people while still maintaining authority is a good start.”
“You would have a dragon heel like a dog?”
“I would have a king who understands perception.”
“Oh I understand perception just fine, Cousin.” Aerion spits the word, still sitting lax upon his throne as Brynden gazes down at him, “Especially when it comes to Hands whose cunning has been mistaken for wisdom for far too long. Do you think me too soft and unassuming to feel your dagger at my throat even now?”
Brynden smiles, an unsettling sight with his ghastly birthmark and missing eye, “Certainly not, Aerion. For I feel yours just the same.”
Aerion watches him descend the stairs to the throne and make his way across the Great Hall. It is only once he, too, is gone from the room, that Aerion sighs and sags against the back of his throne. His head hurts, it feels as though the pressure of the day has filled it beyond capacity, pressing against his skull until it cracked open wide.
It’s happened before, the fissures of his patience and common sense rupturing until they split too wide. That had resulted in his moniker, the Monstrous, in his reputation as a mad Prince, and now, a mad King. A sickly, disgusting thing born inside a beautiful body made to allure.
An abomination.
Even still, he suffers the hungry looks, the wretched things he’s heard said about him. Every alpha thought themselves capable of taming him, of being the one who fucked him into complacency.
Because despite being the wrong kind of omega, he still had holes and a womb to fill.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?”
The sound of his voice sends a jolt down Aerion’s spine, just before the scent of the forest and open air, of a sunlit autumn day, washes over him. It soothes the ache in his head, eating away at the foul thoughts racing through it.
Aerion opens his eyes to look up at Ser Duncan, standing next to the throne with one hand resting on it. His cerulean eyes are bright even from behind his helm, gazing down at him in knowing rather than concern.
Because this alpha, this different sort of monster, had never once spoken of him like he was merely a piece of meat.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He snaps.
Duncan shrugs his shoulders, “You look tired, Your Grace.”
Aerion gazes up at him, the pressure in his head returning by the second, and he has the visceral urge to step on this man. To break him as he had been broken under those hands once. To make him feel small as he had been made to.
To hear him whimper under his touch.
He looks away and waves his hand, “The Kingsguard is dismissed.”
The white cloaks start moving to the door, but Duncan remains gazing down at him, and Aerion allows it for just one moment more of that scent. With a minute deflate of his shoulders, Duncan angles his body toward the exit, and starts to descend the stairs.
“Not you, Ser Duncan.” The words leave his lips before he truly knows they do. Before he’s decided what he plans to do with him.
The knight pauses, turning to look back at Aerion, and waits for his brothers to be gone. When they are alone, he takes off his helm and holds it in the crook of his elbow, retaking the few steps until he’s stood before his king.
Aerion regards him indifferently, still reclined back on the throne with his legs splayed lazily apart. The knight’s hair is grown to his shoulders, pulled back out of his face in a half-up bun. His beard is trimmed neatly, the same color as his hair. It makes him look more a man now, rather than the boy who’d defeated Aerion in Ashford Meadow that he remembers most fondly.
Sometimes he thinks back to that day, rolling around in the mud and trying desperately to kill this very alpha. He thinks of his blades sinking into that flesh, of his Morningstar battering itself against that big body. He thinks about the alpha’s body on top of his, weighing him down, pinning him to the dirt in an animalistic rage. He thinks about his bared teeth, and how close they’d come to his throat. And then he thinks of what it would be like if his teeth were the ones splitting his skin, instead.
The only alpha to have ever occupied his thoughts further than necessity.
“My father was the one who employed you as a member of the Kingsguard.” Aerion says, resting an elbow on the arm of the throne, “Now that I am King, I must consider where your loyalties lie.”
Duncan blinks, shifting his weight to one foot, “Your Grace?”
“Tell me, Ser Duncan. Are you capable of looking past our history if my life were in danger?” Aerion asks, fixing him with a severe look, “How can I trust you knowing that I once tried to kill you?”
“Only once, Your Grace?” Duncan asks boldly, which makes one of Aerion’s eyebrows arch, “So all those mercenaries who attempted to kill me for years weren’t sent by you from Lys?”
“My case in point.” Aerion lets a small, arrogant smile play over his lips, holding his hands out in example as his blood suddenly burns hot, “How do I trust you, Ser Duncan?”
“My oath may have been made under a different king, Your Grace, but it holds the same nonetheless. I will protect you with my life, history or not.” Duncan nods in certainty.
Aerion hums, his eyes traversing the knight’s body head to toe in appraisal, “Despite all I have done to you?”
“What happened was…well, they were actions done by boys, Your Grace.” Duncan says, the blue of his eyes alluring in the candlelight, “We are men now, capable of thinking beyond our emotions. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it.”
“You are loyal to me?”
“I am, Your Grace.”
“I would implore you not to lie, Ser. I need men faithful to me and not the realm.”
“And you think me capable of that despite your concerns?”
Aerion sighs long and slow through his nose, “Am I wrong?”
Duncan takes an equally long time to respond, staring at him all the while warring with something behind his eyes. It feeds into the fire crawling up Aerion’s throat, scorching him inside out. Finally, he says, “No.”
“Do remember I said I need you to be loyal to me and no one else.” Aerion says, “I need a man I can trust beyond his duty to Westeros. Who cannot be bought by those who would see me dead.”
“My oath is to you, Your Grace, not Westeros, and certainly not fools who would go against you.”
“Really? An alpha pledging fealty to an omega?”
“Dynamics don’t matter to me. You are my King, and I am your servant. I go where you command.”
Aerion hums again, his stomach burning with insatiable hunger. The image comes unbiddenly, of Duncan on one knee, head bowed low, the picture of obedience. Oh how he wants it, how it would please him to see this man kneeling for him.
And for just a fleeting moment, he imagines Duncan’s fury aimed down at him against a grey sky, and Aerion wants much more than submission.
As if reading his mind, Duncan’s throat bobs as he swallows harshly. His eyes go a darker shade of blue as they expand, and a flush the color of red falls leaves paints his ears as his scent spikes.
It pulls at something in Aerion’s chest, and his own scent rises to meet it.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?” Duncan asks again, breaking the tension that had fallen thickly between them, “You were tense all throughout court.”
“Listening to peasants whine for hours tends to do that to a man.”
“It is more than that.”
Aerion huffs, “What would you know about me?”
“One learns a lot by watching the man they are sworn to protect.”
“You watch me often?”
“You make it hard not to. You did back at that dining hall in Ashford Meadow when you called for a trial of seven. You do even now.” Duncan says, the flush in his ears spreading down into his face, “I can see how heavy the crown weighs on you.”
“You have no idea–”
“I can see that you are alone.”
Aerion pauses in his annoyance at being interrupted, frowning. His hands tighten on the sliver of non-bladed space of the throne.
“I have always been alone, this is nothing new.”
“You–” Duncan takes a slight step forward before remembering himself, “You asked if I am loyal to you. If I could refrain from being bought.”
Aerion tips his head in acknowledgement.
“I meant what I said. I am loyal. You do not need to sit the throne alone.” Duncan says.
“And who will stand with me? You?”
“Yes.”
Aerion raises his brows, “You think me incapable of ruling on my own? Don’t tell me you’re like the rest. An omega couldn’t possibly see sense through their own emotions, right?”
“If you were listening to a word I’ve just said, you would know the answer to that.” Duncan says, his scent wrapping around them again. And despite himself, despite their positions and their history, Aerion’s body reacts to it.
“Then prove it.” Aerion says, “If you are my man, you will bend the knee to me.”
Duncan does so with no hesitations, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Aerion watches him, watches the way his shoulders lower and his spine bends. Satisfaction coils tightly through him, this display of power so incredibly different than normal.
He’s had plenty of alphas bow for him, but this alpha meant it.
“Come to me.”
Duncan looks up, right into Aerion’s pale gaze, and draws a shallow breath. Before the omega king’s very eyes, the alpha before him leans forward to put a hand to the floor, then the other, shifting his knees to crawl across the stone.
Before he can even try to stop it, Aerion’s scent rolls off of him, and he knows exactly when it hits Duncan by the sharp inhale through his nose, and the tensing of his body. And, beyond his control, Aerion can feel himself getting wet at the sight, slick slowly leaking from his traitorous cunt.
Duncan’s nostrils flare when he comes to a stop in front of Aerion, and the king arches a fair brow, curling a finger, “Further.”
Hesitantly, Duncan closes the distance, his shoulders pressing Aerion’s legs wider as he settles between them, still on his hands and knees. Aerion’s natural scent, mixed with the even stronger smell of slick, seems to lull him into a dazed state, and he rests his cheek against Aerion’s thigh.
“Good.” Aerion says, threading his elegant fingers through that dark hair. The knight shudders, but whether it’s from his touch, his praise, or both, he can’t be sure.
“I am loyal.” Duncan murmurs, “I would do anything you asked.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Duncan says, eyes tipping to Aerion’s, “you are my king.”
“Wrong. Why are you really?”
Duncan swallows, “You nearly killed me.”
“And?”
“And that…” Duncan blinks, his eyes focusing and unfocusing, “They say you aren’t the way an omega should be.”
Aerion doesn’t react, “They do.”
“Well I am not the way an alpha should be.” Duncan says, “At least not when you are concerned.”
“Explain this to me.” He scrapes his nails against Dunk’s scalp.
“You nearly killed me. I felt every single one of your blows.” Duncan’s face opens in wonder, “And gods help me, I’ve wanted to feel them again ever since. I have yet to feel even a fraction of what I did when you were besting me.”
The admission makes his cunt clench, and more slick pours forth. Duncan does his best not to notice, but his eyelids flutter, lashes dark against his cheeks.
“An alpha wishing to be an omega? What an oddity indeed.” Aerion drawls.
“I don’t wish to be an omega.” Duncan says, his cheek still nuzzled into Aerion’s thighs, slowly creeping toward his groin, “I only wish to…please you, Your Grace. In whatever way you need.”
“And if I told you to spread my legs and eat my cunt right here?” Aerion asks, and Duncan’s aroused scent, musked with petrichor, floods his senses.
“I would make it a feast.” He says.
Aerion sneers, “Listen to you. Another alpha who thinks they can fuck me to better sense.”
“Never, Your Grace.” Duncan says, eyebrows pitched up in innocence, “Just an alpha who wants to please his king.”
“Even if his king would have his way with him?”
“Especially then.”
“And if I told you to indeed spread my legs and hold still while I took what I needed from you?”
“I would do so willingly, Your Grace.”
“Mm.” Aerion hums, cunt throbbing more slick into his smallclothes at the thought of pushing Duncan around a bit, “Then get to it, mutt.”
Duncan’s pupils blow wide, and his lips part in surprise, “My king?”
“You want to prove your loyalty to me? Show me your worth.” Aerion shifts his hips, “Please me.”
“How?”
“I already told you how.” Aerion says, giving a meaningful look down to his groin, “Let us see if you are capable of taming me, hm?”
Duncan’s eyes widen, still blown and glassy, and his lips glisten with saliva at the prospect of what his king is suggesting, “I…here?”
“Where better than my throne?”
“You want me to?” Duncan sits up straight, still seeming to hesitate touching him.
“Cold feet already?” Aerion sneers.
With a frown contorting his admittedly handsome features, Duncan reaches for the laces of Aerion’s trousers. The king smirks when they make eye contact, letting his legs fall wider, and settles back against the throne with an elbow propped against the arm, and his head resting on his hand. Outward, he is the picture of calm and bored. Inward, he’s melting alive. His scent admits as much.
When the laces are undone, Duncan sits back, delicately running his hand up the length of Aerion’s calf to the top of his boot. With care, he pulls the boot down his leg, and then the sock from his foot. He undresses the next foot with the same reverence, thumbs pressing into the arches of Aerion’s bare feet before his hands slowly skim up to his ankles, his calves, his thighs. The conquest of his fingers ends with them hooking themselves into the loosened band of his trousers and smallclothes, and Duncan pulls them down from his hips.
They land in a heap somewhere to Duncan’s left, leaving Aerion completely exposed before him, thighs spread wide to reveal his naked and glistening cunt. Slick already coats his thighs, already drips down onto the Iron Throne beneath him. A thick wave of arousal ripples through him at the sight of Duncan’s light eyes drinking him in, going darker with his own hunger.
He makes no move toward it, just hovers over Aerion on his knees, not even touching him. The balls of Aerion’s feet perch on the edge of the throne, and he shifts his hips closer to the knight hoping he’ll gather the wit to begin. Still, he only stares.
“You have an omega’s cunt in your face, bared for you. The King’s no less.” Aerion finally says through his teeth, “And you’re just going to sit there and stare?”
Duncan swallows, taking a great deal of effort to tear his gaze away from between Aerion’s legs, “Sorry. Sorry, Your Grace, I just…”
“Just?” Aerion arches a brow.
“If you saw yourself right now, you would understand.” Duncan’s hands find the backs of his knees, pushing them to spread his legs wider, “I don’t want to forget the moment I got to have you like this.”
The soft words, intimate in their own way, have a blush creeping high into Aerion’s cheeks. Something odd and featherlight tickles its way through his chest. He opens his mouth to give some sort of scathing remark back, if only to chase away that vulnerable feeling, when Duncan’s face finally buries itself into his cunt.
His tongue slides between Aerion’s slick-soaked folds, wasting no time before delving into him. Whatever sharp remark had lingered on the tip of his tongue vanishes as quickly as it had come, replaced by a startled groan at the feel of a wet tongue on his bareness.
Duncan’s hands force his knees apart until they press against the jagged sides of the throne. Calloused fingers drag up the sensitive, unblemished skin of Aerion’s thighs. His tongue curls inside him while those broad hands come to settle at the creases of his hips, right over the old, jagged scar Duncan himself had left behind, and he hauls the king closer against his mouth.
The movement drags Aerion lower against the throne, but the gasp torn from him comes from the way Duncan’s nose grinds against his clit. From the way his tongue slips out of him only to plunge back inside with greedy insistence. Aerion’s jaw tightens, brows pinching as he struggles not to give Duncan the satisfaction of seeing how easily he is unraveling.
But he has not been touched in months. Not like this.
The last time anyone had eased him through a heat, he had still been a prince, and even then it had never been like this.
The alphas Aerion had offered himself to had all been the same breed of beast with just as sharp of fangs. None of them had cared to please him, no matter what honeyed lies they whispered beforehand. None would kneel. None would bury themselves between his thighs simply to taste him. They only wanted to force themselves inside him and rut until their knots swelled heavy. And when Aerion denied them that, when he invoked both his own title and his father’s authority to keep gluttonous hands from taking what they thought they deserved, they had snarled at him instead.
Ungrateful, bitch, unnatural. He had heard every variation of it.
Yet here was Duncan.
Duncan with Aerion’s legs thrown over his shoulders. Duncan with his hands hooked around his thighs to keep him spread and helpless. Duncan devouring him to his heart’s content, unconcerned with dignity or pride or the way an alpha should act.
For the first time in his life, Aerion thinks he may have found someone as unnatural as himself.
Duncan drags his tongue upward, slow and sensual, savoring the taste and feel, and Aerion cannot smother the moan that escapes him this time. It escapes from low in his throat despite the way he presses his lips together. The knight’s tongue curls around his clit, and Aerion writhes in his grip, a thin whimper slipping free now that the floodgates had been opened.
A low laugh rumbles from Duncan at the sound. The vibration against his cunt, mixed with the low, raspy chuckle, sends another rush of slick spilling into the knight’s mouth.
“Is that what you like then, my king?” Duncan asks, voice low and breath warm against his cunt, “Right here?”
He emphasizes by firming the tip of his tongue, and swiping it across the bundle of nerves that has him arching his back.
No one knew. That spot, the one Duncan was now sucking against gently and rolling into his tongue, was one Aerion had found on his own. It’s the spot his fingers would please when he was alone, writhing against his sheets as he whimpered up into his cold, lonely room.
And yet, Duncan had discovered it so easily. The only alpha who had ever touched him like this. The only one who had ever looked at him as King and not omega.
The thought shatters what little restraint Aerion had left. His fingers thread through the long, smooth strands of Duncan’s hair, over the top of his scalp, until they reach the crown of his head.
The knight’s blue gaze lifts to Aerion’s pale one, and the king pulls him closer into his cunt. He slumps down further on the throne, until he’s able to plant his feet against Duncan’s broad back, and helplessly grinds his hips into the knight’s face in search of release.
Duncan groans, the sound reverberating into Aerion’s cunt. He sighs in answer, his scent thickening in the cavernous hall. Duncan’s is just as intoxicating, though the sharpness of his arousal is dampened by the slick coating his mouth and dripping down his chin. But the knight seems to savor every drop, if the wet, obscene slurping has anything to say.
Aerion gives up on dignity then. His moans echo off the walls as he rocks himself against Duncan’s face, thighs tightening around his shoulders as he holds him steady by the hair. For a moment he entertains the idea of controlling himself. Beyond the doors of that hall, guards still stood watch, but the notion barely survives before Duncan’s tongue slips lower, teasing at his hole before dragging back up to his clit.
And when one of Duncan’s thick fingers pushes into him, Aerion cries out and arches violently. He just barely manages to catch himself with his free hand, propping himself up to gaze down at the knight between his legs. Duncan is already looking back at him, watching him come undone, and that sets him even further aflame.
What a sight they must be, the two of them. Aerion sprawled across the Iron Throne in utter disarray, while Duncan kneels between his legs like a knight come to worship at the alter. Aerion’s pale thighs are spread and draped shamelessly around Duncan’s shoulders, heels digging into the small of his back for leverage. Sweat glistens along Aerion’s brow and dampens the fair strands clinging to his temples, his expression drawn tight with pleasure as gasps spill endlessly from his parted lips.
His grip tightens in Duncan’s hair as the knight slides his finger deeper, and he tilts his hips to meet it. It slides back out before pushing back in, so tantalizingly slow that Aerion curses under his breath.
Duncan’s tongue still laps at his clit, pressing flat and firm to it as his finger continues its thrust. Aerion’s thighs quiver on either side of his head, his toes curling as that coil of pleasure goes taut. His breathing turns ragged, and the hold he has on Duncan’s hair has to be borderline painful, but the alpha doesn’t so much as wince.
“Such a loyal dog.” Aerion breathes, voice quivering, “On your knees for me, like a good boy. Tell me, Ser Duncan, you swore yourself to my crown, but it’s me you obey. Say it.”
“I obey you, my king.” Duncan says, voice muffled by his cunt.
“Only me.”
“Only you.”
“Yes.”
Duncan curls the finger inside him, and Aerion lunches upright with a cry. His head falls back, legs locking around Duncan’s neck to crush his head into his cunt. The knight groans, stroking along his walls yet again, and Aerion feels himself fraying at the seams.
“Again.” He breathes, and Duncan curls his finger, which is fantastic, honestly, but not what he meant, “Say it again. You are mine to command.”
“I am, Your Grace.” Duncan says, sucking against his clit, “I am yours to command. You are mine to obey.”
Pleasure spikes when Duncan adds another thick finger, pumping them faster. The wet noises from Aerion’s slick echoing through the hall is nothing short of obscene, but Duncan doesn’t shy away from it.
“You taste so sweet, my king.” He murmurs, pulling away just enough to watch his fingers burying themselves inside him, “So good.”
He delves back in, tongue circling his clit as his fingers stroke alone that spot that had specks dotting his vision. Aerion’s stomach flexes with his every breath, thighs clenching and unclenching as pleasure races to the surface.
But something else courses right along with it, something he’s never felt before in his life. Duncan strokes his finger again, and Aerion gasps at the feeling it causes between his legs. It is an intense pressure, building and building.
Almost like he was going to—
“Ah! W-wait, Duncan–” He tries to say, shoving a hand between them, but the knight curls his finger one more time before he can stop him, and Aerion comes.
The sheer force of it takes him by surprise, whiting out his head until it is clear of anything and everything that isn’t this moment with Duncan. His entire body locks up in ecstasy, his muscles tensing so harshly that he can’t even moan. He trembles viciously, thighs squeezing Duncan’s head between them, but the alpha looks like there’s no place he’d rather be with his eyes turned up to watch his king.
That building pressure crests, and Aerion feels the warmth well up inside him, expanding until he can no longer hold it back. A whimper leaves him just as a hot, clear gush of slick sprays from him, soaking Duncan’s face and gorget. The sensation of being filled one moment, and suddenly emptying the next sends him spiraling.
He watches, eyes wide and dazed, as his slick continues to stream down his thighs and coat the Iron Throne, creating a spreading pool that now drips to the floor. Duncan’s hand is completely wet with his release, along with his beard and the rest of his face, and that visual alone is enough to send him over the edge into a second, even harsher climax.
The knight sits back on his haunches as Aerion comes back to himself after that second time, looking up at him in wonder. They both pant, Aerion slightly harder than Duncan, staring at each other with a mixed range of emotions about what just occurred.
Aerion, with a mortified shade of red swallowing his face, and Duncan, with a dopey pleased little smile.
“Did I prove my worth, Your Grace?” Duncan asks after a moment. He gently untangles Aerion’s legs from over his shoulders, setting them down until the king can righten himself on the throne. His limbs feel like gelatin, his nose wrinkling at the sheer amount of his slick underneath him.
Aerion holds Duncan’s gaze as he says, “I would make you my Lord Commander.”
“W-what?” Duncan looks caught off-guard, eyes going wide and clearing just slightly, “Lord…Commander?”
“You do what that is?”
“Of course I know what it is! But what do you mean you would make me it?”
Aerion rests back against the throne, still trying to get a grip on his trembling thighs, still trying to get a handle on himself. Will he even be able to walk at this rate? He hadn’t even been fucked for gods’ sake.
“I trust my Kingsguard with my life, but I trust you above them all.” Aerion explains, enjoying the way it makes Duncan look away with bashfulness, “My small council makes moves against me at every turn. My Hand once argued against my rule, wished me dead, and still does if he were smart. I do not know what sort of men surround me, but I know what kind of man you are, how your honor dictates your life. I am in need of someone such as you at my side.”
“As Lord Commander.” Duncan states, still in disbelief.
“As Lord Commander.” Aerion confirms.
“But I…I was not born a noble, Your Grace.” Duncan says, arguing against this gift that Aerion is so graciously giving, “I was a hedge knight until I met your brother. Are there not more…suitable men in the Kingsguard for this?”
Aerion lifts his brows arrogantly, “I am offering myself to you on a silver platter, and you do not want it?”
“Of course I want it.” Duncan says, swallowing thickly with a flustered flutter of his lashes, “I would be a fool not to, and a liar if I said I didn’t. I-I just…don’t understand why you do. With me.”
“I am keenly aware of your upbringing.” Aerion pushes himself to his feet, naked from the waist down, but Duncan doesn’t move away. A slim finger traces down the length of his jaw, before prodding it up to look his king in the eye, “Nobles bore me to death. Nobles think they know better than I. Nobles would not dare touch me in the way you just did.”
Duncan gazes up at him with those wide blue eyes, a faithful dog at his master’s feet.
“As my Lord Commander, I need you to keep me in line.” Aerion says, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth, “I tend to let myself get impatient with the small council’s lack of sense, which only leads to me being made out to be the mad one. I sometimes need reminding that they are looking for reasons to hate me beyond my designation. Outbursts from my predecessors were seen as the breaking point of the stress of rule. Mine are merely a sign of my inability to rein in my emotions.”
He does not tell him it is because someone on his council is conspiring against him. Already, attempts have been made on his life since succeeding his father, and Aerion believes the culprit to be one of his own. He just hasn’t figured out who.
“And how would you have me prevent these outbursts, Your Grace?” Duncan asks, brows furrowing in confusion.
“As you just demonstrated so enthusiasticly.”
A pretty blush settles over the bridge of the knight’s nose, “You…want me to…?”
“Yes. I respond best to physical touch, after all.” Aerion lets go of his chin, bending down to retrieve his trousers, “Do not think this isn’t a big ask of me. It is not easy to request a lowbred mutt fuck me into submission like everyone wants, but it is what must be done. And what better mutt than you?”
“With our history?”
“It is precisely that history that makes you perfect.” Aerion pulls the trousers back over his hips, cinching them tight at the waist, and Duncan looks slightly put-out by it, “I know I can trust that you will not have an emotional stamp on this.”
Don’t get attached.
“You have my word, then, Your Grace.” Duncan says, still on his knees, “I will help you to the best of my ability.”
“Good. Then rise as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan.” Aerion says, and watches his new confidante push himself to his feet, towering and massive compared to he, “Get some sleep. I expect you to be at my side come morning. There are things we must discuss now that your duties have changed.”
“Yes, my king.” Duncan bows.
It gives Aerion so much satisfaction.
“Oh, but before you go,” Aerion shoves his feet into his boots and looks down at the mess he’d made of the throne, “clean this up.”
And he brushes past the rapidly-blushing Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, smirking all the way to the door.