Chapter Text
The city smelled of smoke and salt when they rode back through the gates.
King’s Landing had not changed for their blood.
It rarely did.
Duncan sat stiff in the saddle, one hand wrapped thick in linen, the other holding the reins loosely. His left eye was swollen half-shut, bruised deep violet beneath the skin. Each movement of the horse jarred through ribs that had not yet decided whether they were broken or merely cracked.
He did not complain.
He had stood in a Trial of Seven.
Complaining would be foolish now.
Prince Baelor rode ahead, armour remove long go, dark hair tied back though dried blood still marked the temple where Maekar’s mace had nearly claimed him. The wound had been cleaned, stitched, wrapped. It was not deep. It was not fatal.
It was enough.
The Red Keep loomed ahead, red stone glowing in the late sun like banked embers.
Beside Duncan, Egg or prince Aegon rode in silence.
He had not spoken much since the trial. Not of Aerion. Not of Maekar. Not of the way blood looked when it soaked through white silk.
Duncan did not press him.
The boy’s hatred for his brother had only sharpened then.
Inside the Keep, servants moved quietly.
There was no celebration nor was it necessary.
Only the careful murmur of recovery.
Baelor dismounted without assistance despite the stiffness in his movements. When Duncan tried to follow without aid, his injured hand betrayed him and he nearly lost balance.
Aegon was there before he struck the ground.
“Need help, Ser?” the boy muttered, bracing him.
Duncan grunted.
“I’ve had worse.”
“You look worse.”
Baelor glanced back at them, a faint smile touching his mouth before fading again.
“Rest,” he said simply. “All of you. The realm will not mend tonight.”
The chambers given to Duncan were modest but clean.
A maester rewrapped his hand. Reset two fingers that had not sat right. Pressed along his ribs until Duncan’s breath left him in a harsh exhale.
“Three weeks before you lift a blade,” the maester said.
Duncan gave no answer.
He would lift one sooner.
He always did.
He had rested enough at Ashford, laid flat and useless while others decided the shape of his future.
He was no longer merely a hedge knight.
He was under Prince Baelor’s service now—whether as sworn sword, trainee, or something in between remained unclear. The title had not yet settled.
It felt heavier than the stick in his hand.
By dusk he was permitted to walk the outer yard. Slowly.
Egg kept pace beside him, hands clasped behind his back in an imitation of princely dignity that did not survive long.
“Father is still at Summerhall,” the boy said. “With Daeron. And Aerion.”
Duncan did not comment.
Egg noticed that too.
“They’ll judge him,” Egg added, tone sharpening. “They must. What he did at Ashford—”
“He fought,” Duncan said evenly.
“He almost killed you.”
Duncan shrugged once. The movement tugged at bruised ribs.
“As men in battle.”
Egg frowned.
“He’s an omega,” the boy continued, as though that explained something. “He should know better.”
Duncan stopped walking.
Egg nearly collided with him.
“Should he?” Duncan asked quietly.
Egg hesitated.
The royal family did not often speak plainly of such things, but the truth sat between them regardless — there were few omegas born to House Targaryen. Fewer still among its princes. They were guarded. Watched. Managed carefully, as much for politics as for protection.
Egg scowled faintly.
“He thinks himself untouchable, Ser”
Duncan resumed walking.
“Most princes do.”
Summerhall had not come back with them.
Prince Maekar had returned there instead, taking Aerion and Daeron with him. To recover, it was said. To consider, it was meant.
Maekar was not a soft man, but where his sons were concerned—especially Aerion—his protectiveness ran deep. He had spoiled the boy in ways both subtle and obvious. Strength training. Sword drills. Tutors. Indulgence.
And now this.
Baelor sent for Maekar within the week.
Duncan did not witness their meeting — but the Red Keep had walls thin enough for rumor, and he stood outside the solar afterward long enough to see the door open.
Maekar entered first.
He looked carved from something harder than stone. His expression was controlled, but not calm. There was no blood upon him now, no dust — only dark fabric and the quiet severity that had marked him even on the field.
Baelor followed shortly after, closing the door behind them.
Voices did not rise.
They did not need to.
Duncan stood down the corridor on pretense of waiting for a servant. He did not move.
Inside, Baelor spoke first.
Measured. Steady.
The words carried faintly when the wind shifted.
“…no public condemnation.”
A pause.
Maekar’s voice answered — low, tighter.
“…he endangered—”
“He is your son,” Baelor said, not louder, but firmer. “And my nephew.”
Silence.
Duncan imagined Maekar standing rigid, jaw set. He had seen that posture on the field.
“He will not be paraded before lords hungry for spectacle,” Baelor continued. “There will be discipline. Clear. But private.”
Maekar’s reply came after a long moment.
“He must answer.”
“He will.”
Another silence, heavier this time.
Then Baelor again.
“Braavos.”
The word landed even through stone.
Maekar’s answer was immediate.
“No, no, baelor—”
“He will serve under strict watch,” Baelor said. “Assistants to the lords and ladies there are not idle positions. He will learn restraint. He will learn structure.”
“He is not to be sent away like cargo! Sent him to dorne or lys-”
“He is to be given distance,” Baelor replied then, and for the first time something sharper edged his tone. “You have guarded him fiercely, brother. And loved him so. But the realm cannot bend around one man’s temper.”
Duncan felt that.
Maekar did not speak at once.
When he did, it was quieter.
“You think exile will mend what pride has shaped?”
“I think,” Baelor said, “that discipline without humiliation gives a man room to become something better.”
The door open immediately after.
Maekar stepped out.
His face revealed nothing.
But his hands were tight at his sides.
Baelor followed. There was no triumph in him.
Only decision.
Later that evening, Baelor summoned Duncan and Aegon.
The prince stood near the window, light catching the edge of his bandage. The cut had begun to heal; a thin line marked his temple.
“You will remain here while you recover,” he told Duncan. “Training will begin when your hand is steady.”
Duncan inclined his head.
“As you command, your grace.”
Aegon stood rigid beside him.
“And Aerion?” the boy asked.
Baelor’s gaze shifted.
“He will go to Braavos,” he said. “In service. Under care.”
Aegon’s mouth hardened.
“He deserves harsher.”
Baelor regarded him calmly.
“Your brother deserves direction.”
There was no anger in the prince’s voice. Only certainty.
“He is omega,” Baelor added after a moment, quieter now. “As is your father. Our house does not cast its own to strangers. We correct. We do not destroy.”
That silenced the boy.
Duncan watched Baelor then—saw the weight he carried not as prince, but as more. Love for Maekar ran deep. It tempered judgment. It complicated it.
The realm would see firmness.
Only family would see the restraint beneath it.
“You stood well at Ashford,” Baelor said to Duncan before dismissing them. “Do not mistake this place for softness. It requires strength of another kind.”
Duncan thought of stone corridors and closed doors.
Of princes who loved fiercely and punished carefully.
Of a young man soon bound for Braavos.
He bowed once.
Strength, he understood.
It did not always wear armor.
The weeks after Ashford settled like dust.
Duncan healed slowly, the way large men often do — stubbornly, with impatience masked as endurance. The swelling faded from his eye, leaving yellowed skin beneath. His hand knit clumsily; he forced it to close around wood and leather before the maester would have allowed it. The staff followed him less often. Eventually, not at all.
He rose before dawn.
The yards of the Red Keep were colder than he expected at first light. Steel rang sharp in the morning air, breath fogging before helms and bare faces alike. Duncan trained apart at first — measured movements, rebuilding strength, testing balance. Bruised ribs reminded him when he overreached.
Aegon attended him still.
The boy had taken to silence like armor. He fetched water without being asked. Corrected Duncan’s grip when it faltered. Watched everything.
Sometimes they trained together — wood against wood, controlled strikes, no wasted motion. Egg had grown quicker. Anger sharpened him.
Other mornings, Duncan trained under the eye of the Kingsguard.
White cloaks moved differently than other men. Cleaner. Economical. They did not waste breath or strength. Ser Roland corrected Duncan’s footing with the flat of a blade. Ser Donnel forced him to repeat a sequence until sweat blurred his sight.
Duncan endured it.
He learned.
In the corners of the yard, squires whispered.
Braavos.
Discipline.
Prince Aerion shipped off across the Narrow Sea.
Some said exile. Others said mercy.
Duncan did not speak on it.
He had seen the look in Baelor’s eyes when the decision was made. Not cold. Not indifferent. Careful.
Careful decisions sometimes still bled.
The raven came before dawn.
Duncan was awake when the Keep shifted — that subtle change in the air when something moves through corridors faster than servants’ feet. He had learned to notice such things.
By midday, Baelor had summoned him.
The prince stood at a narrow table, a strip of parchment in his hand. The bandage at his temple was gone now; a thin red seam marked where Maekar’s mace had kissed him.
His face was different.
Stripped.
“There has been an attack,” Baelor said.
Duncan stood still.
“Aerion departed three days past from the Stepstones route. His escort was struck before reaching open water.”
The words were steady.
Too steady.
“One man survived long enough to reach Summerhall. He collapsed at the gates.”
Duncan felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
“The pirates took aerion.”
The room did not move for moment.
The prince’s bandage had been removed, leaving only the pale line of healing across his temple. His dark hair fell around it carelessly, and his eyes held that quiet, deliberate weight of a man who made decisions not lightly, nor quickly.
“Gather yourself,” Baelor said, voice low, steady. “We ride to Summerhall.”
“When do we ride?” Duncan asked.
Baelor’s eyes lifted to him.
“Now.”
The ride was long, the roads of Westeros damp and slick after the rains. By the time Summerhall’s stone towers rose before them, pale in the late sun, Duncan’s muscles ached with the strain of training, but there was something heavier on his chest than fatigue.
Aerion. Captured. Stepstones. Pirates. Only one survivor.
He had been captured in the Stepstones on the way to Braavos. Pirates had struck, killing nearly every man who had traveled with him. One survived and fled to Summerhall to tell the tale. Aerion had been taken.
The survivor limped, bloodied and exhausted, recounting only enough to chill any man who had ever swung a sword. Aerion had tried to fight. And the men had fought for him. And then, in the hands of men who knew nothing but chaos, the omega had been taken.
By the time of their arrived, Summerhall had become a place of low firelight and higher tension. Guards moved silently, the wind outside carrying the salt from the sea and the faint smoke from the kitchens. Maekar waited inside, clothes loosened, sleeves rolled, but the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed panic.
Daeron lingered nearby, hands clasped, trying to keep calm, trying to calm others. But the prince before him, his father, trembled with it.
Maekar did not speak at first. His eyes were fixed on Duncan, and in that look there was no forgiveness. Only raw blame, protective fury, and a kind of disbelief that the world could allow this.
there was something more now. He leaned against the carved desk, fists clenched, jaw tight, his gaze swinging immediately to Duncan.
“Why the fuck is he here?” Maekar asked, voice low but shaking.
Duncan’s stomach tightened for a moment.
“Why?” Maekar’s voice was low, raw. “Why was he sent so far? Dorne would have been sufficient. Discipline could have been enforced there. At least he would have been… safe.”
Baelor’s face was calm, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a tightness that betrayed his own guilt. He approached Maekar slowly, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Duncan watched, noting the subtle way Baelor’s touch did more than comfort. It held affection, restraint, authority. Love deeper than brotherhood—Baelor’s love for Maekar was evident in the careful, steady pressure of his palm.
“I made the decision,” Baelor said, voice measured, though not without weight. “Aerion needed structure, distance, guidance. It was not meant to endanger him. You know that.”
Maekar’s hands fell, trembling slightly. “And yet he is in the hands of monsters. Do you fucking understand? He is an omega—and they are… men without conscience. They will see him as prey!”
Baelor stepped forward.
“I sent him to learn.”
“You sent him across open sea with a handful of men.”
“To Braavos under watch and guard.”
“To exile,” Maekar snapped. “You think pirates weigh intention!”
Daeron moved closer to his father.
“Father—”
Maekar shook him off, eyes never leaving Baelor.
“He is just of age,” Maekar continued, voice fraying now at the edges. “An omega and a prince sent into waters crawling with men who trade in flesh.”
The word hung there.
Flesh.
Baelor did not look away.
“I will bring him back,” he said.
“You will bring him back?” Maekar’s laugh was thin and sharp. “From the Stepstones? From pirates who leave no witness? Who knows what they will do to him, baelor!”
“There was a witness.”
“One dying man!” Maekar’s composure cracked then, voice rising at last. “He bled out on my floors trying to say my son’s name!”
Baelor’s hand rested lightly on his brother’s hands, firm but not gentle. “Maekar... I promise you, we will find hi—”
"Find him?" he spat, voice rough with panic. “He is in the hands of men who will not… they will not know mercy!”
Silence crashed down after that and the older omega's knees sank to the floor.
Daeron moved closer to Maekar, kneeling slightly beside him, hands resting lightly on the older prince’s knees. “Father,” he said softly. “We will bring him home. He will be safe. Breathe..”
Maekar’s hands relaxed fractionally, but only a fraction. His eyes darted toward the gates as though Aerion could be visible at any moment, battered and vulnerable. Duncan felt the pull in his chest, the responsibility, the need to act. He had trained for war, yes, but this… this was a storm of a different sort.
Baelor’s hand lingered against Maekar’s arm a moment longer. “I will pay for this choice,” he said quietly, “but we will also see it through. No harm will come to him while we live.”
The words were a promise. The silence that followed held the weight of fear, love, and inevitability. Duncan’s eyes swept over the courtyard, over the faces of those he trusted, over the stones that would soon bear the weight of a rescue.
Maekar’s eyes were wet now. He did not move. He did not speak. His rage and fear burned too deep.
Baelor’s own jaw set. “It is my fault as well,” he said. “I sent him away. It was meant to correct, not endanger. But the men who will go after him — I will choose them myself. They are experienced. They will not fail.”
Duncan understood the weight of that. Not just the rescue, but the expectation. Every man he selected would need to be precise. Fast. Relentless. Nothing left to chance.
Maekar finally looked up, eyes softening when Baelor drew him into a brief embrace, careful, but strong. Daeron pressed a hand to his father’s back as well, whispering words of comfort only the family could hear.
Baelor’s voice was quieter now. “We will bring him home,” he said, almost to himself. “I swear it.”
...