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Gwayne Hightower’s scent was strange.
It had always been so, from what Criston remembered of the tourney many years ago. Yet he had been young, and paid little mind to the scent of the Hand’s son and the peculiar sour tinge that accompanied his plain, beta scent. His attention had been directed at Prince Daemon, the beta brother of the beta king, and at Princess Rhaenyra, scarcely more than a girl but already an alpha and a dragonrider.
They had all been so young then.
Somehow, despite all the time that had passed, Criston remembered enough to know that Gwayne’s scent remained unchanged. Unbonded, then, he thought, as Alicent introduced them. It was not entirely unsurprising, as Otto’s power had always been tied to his position as Hand rather than that of his birth. The son of a second son, only a knight, without lands of his own; no lords would be eager to marry their daughters to such a man.
Gwayne’s scent was bitter in Criston’s nose as he turned to mount his horse. The sharpness of Gwayne’s disapproval was apparent in his scent alone, should he have intended to keep it from his voice. It was enough to tell Criston that Gwayne liked him little, and Criston liked him less. He knew Gwayne was yet unblooded, as green as the Hightower banners and likely not ready for the long, cold nights that lay ahead.
Alicent gave Criston her favour, pressing it to Criston’s palm under her brother’s watchful gaze. Criston resisted the urge to press it to his nose and breathe in the sweet scent of her perfume that mingled with her warm omega scent. She would never be his, he knew, but he could have this part of her. He could carry her scent with her and he could pretend that, one day, it would mean something more.
He tucked the favour into the empty coin purse at his hip, where it would be spared the scents of blood and sweat and steel that would surely soon smother Criston’s own scent. He wished to preserve what he could.
Gwayne’s station as the brother of the Queen Dowager meant that the men saw him as a source of command, though Criston did his utmost to divest them of such thoughts. He would not have his army pulled in two directions, should Gwayne disagree with his methods.
Gwayne himself was yet more troublesome. Criston had suspected, of course, that Alicent wished for her brother to watch over him. Suspecting was one thing, though, and experiencing it was another. Gwayne rode beside him during the day, talking as though he believed Criston gave worth to a single word that left his mouth.
Criston’s responses were curt and bland, but Gwayne seemed not to notice. His own companions, knights sworn to the Hightowers, rode not far away, but Gwayne seemed to prefer talking to Criston. Talking at was perhaps more accurate, and Criston suspected it was so because Gwayne was trying to learn something incriminating about him on Alicent’s behalf.
Criston would not have minded quite so much if Gwayne had not proven himself an utter idiot by leaving their host behind and taking his men in the direction of an inn. The dragon that had chased them, that had nearly caught them, was puny compared to Vhagar or even to Sunfyre, but it was more than capable of killing a group of men.
Only then, with winged death chasing them down, had Gwayne seemed to grasp the full reality of their situation. His scent had spiked with terror, though his watering eyes and bone-white face told Criston plainer still of his fear.
“No fucking inns,” Criston told him, putting all his authority as Hand and as an alpha into the command. He would not risk this happening again. The fact that it had happened once was enough to send hot fury pulsing through his veins, but he held back his rage. Gwayne would surely tell his sister if Criston struck him for his foolishness.
Gwayne wilted. His scent wilted with him, softening from sharp fear into something fainter, duller. There remained an edge to it that prickled at Criston’s nostrils and made him want to sneeze. Still trembling, Gwayne spurred his horse slowly after Criston’s.
They saw no more dragons in the skies above them as they marched through the nights that followed. The makeshift camps in the forests of the Crownlands kept them hidden during the day, and Gwayne never attempted to lead his companions to an inn.
He was quieter, too, though he continued to ride alongside Criston. He seemed to spend more of his time thinking, contemplating what he had seen and what his fate had nearly been. More than once, Criston saw him staring into the cookfires with distant horror in his eyes.
Their near-death at the talons of a dragon had changed Gwayne in more ways than that. He was more timid around Criston, certainly, but he threw himself into battle at Duskendale with a passion that took Criston by surprise. Perhaps Gwayne’s glimpse at death had given him more reason to fight to survive. Or perhaps he wished for new nightmares, ones that did not involve burning flesh and melting steel.
Lord Darklyn was defeated easily with the added strength of Houses Rosby and Stokeworth, and he died at Criston’s hand. Criston felt Gwayne watching him as he wiped the lord’s blood from his sword and he wondered, not for the first time, if Gwayne wanted him dead.
Gwayne’s face was covered in blood from a number of wounds. The stench of blood, mostly not his own, drowned out his own scent. Criston was surprised at his disappointment; Gwayne never smelled particularly pleasant, but his scent was familiar, and familiar things were in short order on the march to war. The most obvious of these wounds was on his lip, where someone had struck him full in the mouth and left him bleeding. Criston eyed that wound for a moment before they set off in the direction of Rook’s Rest.
The Sack of Duskendale seemed to restore some of Gwayne’s former confidence, as though proving himself on the field of battle had reminded him that he could challenge Criston. With words, anyway; Criston doubted Gwayne would last long should they draw swords against each other.
The battle at Rook’s Rest was far worse. From what little Criston saw of Gwayne there, he fought just as fiercely, leading the charge through the broken wall after Princess Rhaenys and her dragon fell. Criston wondered, then, if Gwayne threw himself into battle not hoping for survival, but for something else. There was something Criston knew well.
Still, even after Rook’s Rest, after leaving King’s Landing once more to set out for Harrenhal, Gwayne questioned his decisions, challenged him when he could, even in front of the men. The worst was when Gwayne slipped into Criston’s tent in the middle of the day, when Criston wished to rest, and attempted to pester him in private.
“I must sleep, Ser Gwayne,” Criston reminded him coldly. “You must rest, too.”
“Why did you not tell me about your plan for Rook’s Rest?” Gwayne asked for perhaps the hundredth time, ignoring Criston’s words. His scent was even stranger than usual today, filling the small space within the tent until Criston wished he could press Alicent’s favour to his face and drive out her brother’s bitter scent. There was a peculiar tinge to it that made Criston strangely nervous, one that was strong for a beta.
“Some plans must remain secret to all,” Criston said, after his silent contemplation of Gwayne’s scent had gone on long enough that Gwayne shifted uncomfortably. “Especially you.”
Gwayne’s face reddened, but he set his jaw. “What do you mean, especially me?” he asked. “Do you not trust me, my Lord Hand?”
“You talk too much,” Criston said. He swept his gaze over Gwayne’s body. It was a rare thing for Criston to see Gwayne out of his armour, wearing only a jerkin over his green doublet. He looked thin; slimmer than Criston expected from knights. He wondered if Gwayne was eating enough.
Gwayne folded his arms across his chest, anger flickering over his features. “You think,” he said, “that I would tell the men of your plans? Have you so little faith in me?”
Criston only looked at him. He breathed shallowly, refusing to let the turbulent spikes of Gwayne’s scent affect him, and finally Gwayne spun on his heel and stormed out of the tent.
Criston exhaled heavily and sat down on the pallet that served as his bed. Even after he left, Gwayne’s scent lingered in the air. Criston doubted it would fade until long after he went to sleep.
He made an effort anyway, tucking his nose beneath the thin blanket and using it as a barrier, but Gwayne’s cloying scent seemed stuck to the inside of his mouth and to the back of his throat. He could not be rid of it so easily.
Gwayne avoided him that night. Though he rode close by, ever dutiful to his sister’s command, he was careful to keep men between his horse and Criston’s. He spoke little even to his own companions. Criston barely realized how used he had grown to the sound of Gwayne’s voice on the march, and it surprised him to know that he had come to expect it.
It surprised him more to know that he missed it.
He did not miss it because Gwayne had anything particularly interesting to say, but because it offered a distraction from the long march through the dark. It was a reminder, too, that all the men who marched behind him had lives of their own, all with hopes and dreams and fears and things to lose. With families, Criston supposed, thinking of Gwayne’s family. Of Otto, the father who had left him behind, and of Alicent, who loved him but knew him little.
Do you fight for them? Criston thought, looking at the sharp, delicate lines of Gwayne’s profile. It was not a question he could ask. Rather, it was not a question Gwayne would answer, not with his anger at Criston’s secret-keeping so fresh. Criston dismissed it, even as thoughts of the Hightowers and Gwayne’s strange distance from them simmered inside him.
They made camp before daybreak and Criston resolved to speak with Gwayne. He would not tell him everything, but he could not afford to have the man everyone saw as his second to be at odds with him. Should Gwayne challenge his authority, really challenge him, Criston would have to kill him. He did not want to execute Alicent’s brother.
The first sign that something was amiss was that Gwayne had pitched his tent far from the main body of the army. It took almost an hour for Criston to find his tent, half-hidden in a grove of trees and shrubs of honeysuckle. The heady scent of honeysuckle made Criston choke back a sneeze.
Two men in green Hightower cloaks stopped Criston as he approached Gwayne’s tent. Both of them looked equally nervous to be accosting their commander, and the anxiety in their scents tickled the back of Criston’s throat even more than the honeysuckle.
“Apologies, my lord,” one of the men, the alpha, said. His stammering was unbecoming of his status. “Ser Gwayne left orders that he was not to be disturbed.”
“I must speak with him,” Criston said. The other knight, a beta like Gwayne, winced when Criston swept a stern gaze over them both. “I am in command here, not Ser Gwayne.”
“Yes, my lord,” agreed the same man who had spoken before. “It’s just—”
Criston brushed past them without further arguments.
“He’s at the river!” the beta called after him, perhaps one final pathetic attempt to make Criston stop. “He wished to wash in private.”
“Then I will wait in his tent,” Criston tossed over his shoulder. “He will not be long, I’m sure.”
He squeezed through a gap in the honeysuckle and entered Gwayne’s tent. It was empty; the man must have told the truth about Gwayne’s plan to bathe. Still, his absence was not entirely a bad thing. It would give Criston a chance to look around Gwayne’s tent without interruption.
There was little enough to see. Gwayne kept his small space orderly, with a corner reserved for his armour and weapons and another for his bedding. His pallet was the same as Criston’s, but for the thick woollen blanket that lay atop it. The blanket, unlike the rest of the tent, had been tossed back haphazardly as if Gwayne had leaped out of bed in a rush.
That made no sense, though. They had only just made camp, so Gwayne would surely not have had time to sleep before going to bathe. Criston frowned, stepping closer to the bed. He could smell Gwayne’s usual scent, as bitter as ever, but there was something else. It was deeper, more powerful, not unlike the way Alicent’s scent layered beneath her perfume.
This was a new scent, though, rich and warm and ripe. Criston parted his lips and tasted the sweetness of peaches and apples. It was not a scent he knew, but it was a scent he recognized.
Criston fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Ser Gwayne, it seemed, had been entertaining an omega.
He decided he would wait anyway. The scent was fairly fresh—no older than that very morning—but not so fresh that Criston expected Gwayne to return with the omega in tow. That was surely why Gwayne wished to be left alone while he washed: he did not want to be caught rolling in the sheets with an omega camp follower.
Criston sat in Gwayne’s chair, eyeing the empty cup that sat upon the table and smelled of wine. He fingered the pommel of his dagger. He was a patient man, but Gwayne was taking a long time to simply bathe. Mayhaps his leal men had warned him of Criston’s presence, granting him the opportunity to go elsewhere and leaving Criston waiting like a fool.
Time soon revealed this was not so. Criston heard Gwayne’s footsteps outside, though the honeysuckle masked his scent as he approached. Gwayne opened the tent flap and ducked inside, letting the flap close behind him.
Gwayne was dressed in little more than smallclothes. A loose white shirt hung from his shoulders, and his feet were bare. He flinched when he saw Criston waiting for him, taking a half-step back. And was that fear that flickered across his face like a shadow?
“Ser Criston,” Gwayne said. His voice was hoarse.
Criston stood. “Gwayne.” He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “Is something wrong?”
Gwayne shook his head quickly—too quickly. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen. “No,” he said. “Nothing is wrong. I only wish to rest.” Even as he spoke, as Criston approached, Gwayne shuffled backward until his shoulders pressed against the soft wall of the tent. His throat worked.
Criston inhaled deeply. Instead of tasting the usual bitter, unpleasant beta scent that Gwayne always exuded, he smelled cool river water and honeysuckle. And something else, something heady that hooked itself into Criston’s gut. He smelled peaches and apples, the sweet scents of the Reach in summer.
Omega.
Criston snapped his gaze to Gwayne’s, unable to speak. He could not find the words. What could he say, now that he knew? This truth that Gwayne, that the Hightowers themselves, had hidden for years, was known to him now.
Gwayne Hightower was not a beta at all. He had never been entertaining a camp follower here in his tent. The scent of omega all over his blankets had been his alone.
And now Criston knew.
The pale terror on Gwayne’s face said plainly that he knew Criston knew. “Please,” he started. “Please, you mustn’t tell anyone.”
Part of Criston balked at the idea of an omega telling him what he must do. He had much to gain by revealing Gwayne’s secret to the men, mostly because Gwayne had everything to lose. Should Criston reveal the truth, the men who devoted themselves to Gwayne would turn their loyalty to Criston. But then, Alicent was an omega, too, and Criston had always obeyed her. Gwayne had proven himself a skilled warrior, worthy to share the field with Criston despite his early missteps.
“Who would I tell?” Criston asked.
Gwayne sagged, tension leaving his body like the severing of a taut rope. “Do you mean it?” he asked. “You won’t?”
“Only if you tell me why,” Criston said, “and how you did it.”
Gwayne looked at him helplessly, blue eyes wide and glossy with unshed tears. “I…” He hesitated, but Criston only returned his gaze steadily. “My father would not have me as I am,” he blurted. “I could not be a knight. The maester, he—I have tonics to change my scent.”
“Who else knows?” Criston asked. Careful not to attract Gwayne’s attention, he breathed in. Gwayne’s true scent was so deliciously sweet that Criston had not the faintest idea how even the strongest tonics had masked it. Alicent smelled not entirely unlike her brother, but Gwayne’s scent carried another layer to it, a layer of steel and violence, that Alicent could never share.
“My father,” Gwayne said. “Alicent. The maesters who have served in the Hightower. All sworn to secrecy.” He looked down, voice growing tight. “And you.”
Criston took another step forward, unconsciously drawn to Gwayne’s scent. Unbonded, Criston remembered. Only his family knew, and his maesters. Gwayne was not only unbonded, but untouched altogether. It was all the more obvious now that Criston could smell him properly. His throat was all white, unblemished skin, in contrast to the bruises and scrapes still raw on his pretty face.
“Ser Criston,” Gwayne said, “you should leave.” His scent said otherwise, growing richer with every inch Criston drew closer.
Criston halted, remembering himself. He nodded shortly, then thought of another question. “Your tonics,” he said. “Do they stop your heats?”
Gwayne’s face flushed red. His mouth opened, then closed, like the question was too shameful to answer. He shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I am…” He glanced down at himself, then closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of himself. “They do not.”
Criston nodded again. “Will you take more today?” he asked. He ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, tasting the sweet ripeness of peaches.
“I must,” Gwayne said. He folded his hands together before him. With his secret revealed and no armour to protect his body, he looked suddenly very small, like his sister. Criston briefly thought to touch him, to take Gwayne into his arms as he had done so many times with Alicent.
He did not reach out, but stepped back instead. One last thing escaped his lips before he could leave the tent. “It’s a shame,” he said. Warmth crept up the back of his neck. At Gwayne’s puzzled look, he added, “That you must take more. Your scent is most… pleasing.”
Gwayne’s eyes widened. His scent flared, warm and inviting, and Criston forced himself out of the tent.
He stood just outside the tent flap for a long moment, considering the merits of burying his face into a honeysuckle bush until Gwayne’s scent was erased from his memory, before stumbling out of the grove and back to his own tent.
He did not sleep. He could not sleep. Gwayne’s scent clung to his very skin, or so he felt. Changing his clothes could not remove the scent of omega, something he had not smelled since King’s Landing, from each breath he took. He forced himself to crawl beneath his blankets lest he do something foolish like return to Gwayne’s tent. Eventually, he slipped into a restless doze.
He dreamed of summer warmth, sunlight on bare skin and the taut skin of a peach breaking beneath his teeth. He dreamed of sinking his teeth into pale, unmarked flesh and tasting hot blood on his tongue.
“Lord Hand!” A voice cut through Criston’s dreams and he sat upright, startled. The light inside the tent had changed little; he had slept for two hours, at the very most. One of his men had poked his head inside Criston’s tent. “Apologies, my lord,” he said. “Ser Gwayne says he is unwell. He says he must speak with you at once.”
Criston frowned. At once? Gwayne must have restored his scent to its unnatural state—for now Criston could recognize it as such—and now wished to speak with him. Why not wait until they were both well-rested?
“My lord?” the soldier prompted.
“Yes, thank you,” Criston said. “I will go to him.” He stood, straightening his rumpled clothes, and stepped out of his tent. He retraced his steps toward the river and the honeysuckle grove where Gwayne had pitched his tent.
The Hightower knights who had stopped Criston earlier had been replaced by two others. These men made no move to delay Criston as he strode past.
“Gwayne,” Criston began as he pushed the tent flap aside and stepped through, “what—” He stopped, nearly choking on his own tongue.
The honeysuckle had done its job too well. It had masked the cloying scent rolling off of Gwayne and filling his tent. It had smothered the scent of heat.
Criston put a hand to his face and sucked in a shallow, stuttering breath. “Gwayne,” he said, his voice strangled. He curled his other hand into a tight fist, forcing his fingernails into his palm so the bright, sharp pain cut through the fog of arousal in his head.
Gwayne lay sprawled on his pallet, dressed only in his breeches. His torso was bare, and his pale skin was flushed a warm, appealing pink. His toes, curled, were buried in the rumpled blanket. His face was sweaty and red, his eyes dark with desperation, and one hand rested motionless between his thighs.
“Criston,” Gwayne breathed. “I need—I need your help. Please.”
“Help?” Criston echoed. “How…” He trailed off. His own cock stirred in his breeches, taking interest at the scent that swirled around him. He had never taken an omega in heat before; Alicent would never have permitted it, and there had never been another for him. But Gwayne, here in the wilderness so far from King’s Landing, far from the deadly game of thrones and from the prying eyes of cold-hearted noblemen—perhaps Criston could have him. Here, at least, if nowhere else.
He swallowed hard. The memory of his vows, of his white cloak, dangled just out of reach.
“You have already broken your vows,” Gwayne said. “With my sister, I know it.” He tipped his chin back, flaunting his throat. “Do not deny it,” he added, though Criston had not tried. “You did this to me.”
Criston stepped closer to the bed. “If I do not help you,” he started, though his gaze was already fixed on Gwayne’s hand, pressed to the laces of his breeches.
“This will last days,” Gwayne finished for him. “With an alpha, with you, I can travel on the morrow.” His eyelashes fluttered and his fingers moved against himself even through the fabric. “Please,” he whispered.
Criston’s resolve cracked. He would break his vows again; not for a woman, this time, but for Otto Hightower’s omega son, the disappointment who had been left behind by his family for the error of his birth.
Gwayne sighed when Criston laid a hand on his chest, tension shivering out of his limbs as if the promise of an alpha was almost enough. Criston swept his hand down and unlaced Gwayne’s breeches. The action forced Gwayne’s hand aside and he whined through his teeth, but Criston ignored his complaint.
He hooked his fingers into Gwayne’s breeches and pulled them, along with his smallclothes, down his legs. He discarded them in a heap on the floor, forgetting them the moment they left his grasp.
Gwayne was naked, his pale skin illuminated by what sunlight shone through the fabric of the tent. He arched into Criston’s touch when Criston placed his palm flat on his belly. Between Gwayne’s legs, his small omega cock was hard and slick at the tip. And just behind it, where an alpha or a beta would have had balls, his cunt glistened wetly.
Criston’s mouth flooded with spit. He gripped Gwayne’s thighs and pushed them apart, breathing deep as the dizzying scent of Gwayne’s arousal flooded his senses. He could think of nothing, of no-one else. He stared at Gwayne’s core, at the sweet, slick opening between his legs.
Gwayne put one hand over his mouth. The other, he placed in Criston’s hair. “Please,” he whispered. Criston wondered if he had ever begged for anything before. His thighs were shaking. “Please.”
Criston needed Gwayne ready to march by nightfall. That was what he told himself as he leaned in, as he dragged his tongue over Gwayne’s short, hard length, as he bent his head lower and swept his tongue over Gwayne’s opening.
“Aah,” Gwayne gasped, his fingers flexing in Criston’s hair. His voice was muffled by the palm pressed to his lips, but not enough. “Fuck.”
Criston licked him again, tasting apples and peaches and Gwayne, and he pressed a finger against Gwayne’s hole. He petted over it, following the path of his tongue, and Gwayne squirmed and arched his back in desperation.
“Shhh,” Criston said, nonsensical, and pushed his finger inside.
“Oh.” Gwayne shuddered, his entire body convulsing. His cunt rippled around Criston’s finger. Seed, thin and clear, spilled from his cock.
Criston gave him another finger to clench around as he came down from his climax. He massaged Gwayne’s inner walls, feeling slick drip down his hand to his wrist. Gwayne sobbed, his scent blooming ever-stronger, as Criston gave him a third finger.
Criston watched his face, twisted with pleasure but still desperate for more. There was only one thing that would soothe the ache inside him tonight. Criston knew that much, despite his lack of experience with omegas in heat. He knew enough.
Keeping his three fingers tucked inside Gwayne’s cunt, Criston leaned over Gwayne and looked down at his face. They were bare inches apart. It would have been as easy as anything to lean down and press their mouths together, to slip his tongue into Gwayne’s mouth and share the flavour of his own body.
Instead, Criston tucked his face into the crook of Gwayne’s throat and breathed in where his scent was strongest. He dragged his tongue over the warm flesh there, tasting as much as scenting, and Gwayne moaned. He fisted a hand in the back of Criston’s shirt, holding on tight, and rocked his hips down onto Criston’s hand.
“Criston,” he panted, sounding near-delirious. “Criston,” he said again, like an incantation. Like a prayer. “Criston, Criston.”
Criston fumbled one-handed with the laces of his breeches and he pulled his cock out. He was achingly hard already, from Gwayne’s scent and the touch of his skin. He needed no touch to help himself prepare. He needed no oil, either, with Gwayne’s heat-slick cunt dripping down his wrist.
Gwayne choked on a deprived whimper when Criston pulled his fingers out. “No,” he groaned. “No, put—”
Criston put his hand over Gwayne’s mouth and Gwayne’s eyes went huge with shock. Criston’s fingers were sticky-wet with the slick of Gwayne’s own body where they covered his mouth, and Criston teased them over his lips until Gwayne parted them. His eyelashes fluttered as Criston pushed his fingers into his mouth. Gwayne sucked, tasting his own body on Criston’s fingers, and tears trickled from beneath his golden eyelashes.
Criston took himself in hand. He shuddered when the head of his cock grazed the slick, hot flesh between Gwayne’s thighs. He adjusted, notching the tip against Gwayne’s opening, and Gwayne’s teeth scraped over his knuckles. Criston rocked his hips, pushing the head of his cock the barest inch inside.
“Ungh,” Gwayne choked out, unable to speak with Criston’s fingers in his mouth. His eyes rolled back. He was drooling around Criston’s fingers.
Even with only part of his cock inside Gwayne, Criston felt the difference from Alicent. He was unsure if it was because Gwayne was in heat, or because Gwayne was a male omega, or because Gwayne had never been bedded before. Perhaps all three were true, or perhaps none. Criston did not care for the whys, not with his cock sinking deeper into Gwayne’s cunt with every breath they shared.
Gwayne hitched his hips, winding his legs tightly around Criston’s waist and squeezing until their hips were flush. Criston’s cock was buried fully inside Gwayne, then, and the hot, wet squeeze forced Criston to bow his head and think of mundane things like latrine pits until he was sure he would not embarrass himself.
Gwayne had no such compunctions. Even as Criston settled, he felt the now-familiar clutch of Gwayne’s body as he shuddered through another orgasm.
“Nnh,” Gwayne managed. “Mmmh.” He must have been sensitive, but he rocked his hips against Criston’s nonetheless, seeking friction, motion, more.
Criston would give him more. He began slowly, rocking his hips as he gauged the strength of the narrow pallet they shared, then faster as he grew confident that it would withstand the force of their coupling. Gwayne tossed his head on the thin pillow, mouth dropping open on a soundless wail with every thrust.
Criston wrapped his hands around Gwayne’s narrow waist and held him in place, using him, rutting into him like a dog even as Gwayne shook apart beneath him. Criston fucked him harder, wondering, half-wild, how Gwayne’s slim hips could ever accommodate a child.
Not mine, Criston reminded himself. He had broken some of his vows, but not that one. Never that one.
But part of him wondered at it, at having Gwayne as his omega, Criston’s child in his arms and his sweet scent never hidden. It could never be, but it was a pleasant, passing dream.
Criston felt his own climax approaching. He knew what would come with it, and so he pulled out and wrestled Gwayne onto his belly. Gwayne cursed him until he slid home once more, and then he melted into the picture of a sweet, docile omega. Gwayne knew what was next, even if he had never experienced it himself.
Criston gripped Gwayne’s hips and thrust in once, twice, and on the third thrust, his swollen knot sank into Gwayne’s cunt. He came with a groan, spilling inside Gwayne even as his knot tied them together. Gwayne shook and sobbed beneath him, reaching his own climax again. Criston had lost count of how many times Gwayne had come around his cock so far.
Spent, Gwayne slumped to the pallet. His breaths came in shaky pants, as if he had finished a hard sprint.
Instead of collapsing and crushing Gwayne into the narrow pallet, Criston hauled him onto his side and lay behind him, pressed close. His knot remained snug inside Gwayne and more seed spilled from his cock with each twitch of Gwayne’s body. He tucked his face into the back of Gwayne’s neck and inhaled, savouring Gwayne’s scent. He wondered how much longer he would have it.
Gwayne sighed, then tipped his head back to knock against Criston’s temple. “Thank you,” he murmured. He rolled his hips back lazily and exhaled a soft laugh when Criston flattened a hand over his belly to keep him still. It was a nice sound, without any of the well-sharpened courtly edges that had been drilled into him since birth.
Criston stroked his thumb over Gwayne’s belly button. He was flat and leanly-muscled there, but it was not such a difficult thing to pretend. “Is it finished?” Criston asked.
Gwayne shrugged in his arms. “Mayhaps,” he said, “but I do not think so. Not yet.”
“Mm.” Criston rocked his hips, listening to Gwayne’s soft gasp. “Very well.”
They did not leave the tent again as the afternoon slipped by. Gwayne’s heat crested and dwindled like waves on the sea, sometimes leaving him insatiable for Criston’s knot, other times granting him lucidity to share food and drink to restore his strength.
A light glowed in his eyes as the day went on, one that Criston had not seen before. It was entirely unfamiliar. Some parts of Gwayne, Criston recognized from Alicent’s mannerisms, her attitudes, her likes and dislikes. Other parts of him were entirely his own, and the peculiar gleam in his blue eyes was foremost among those. It was a hungry light, brightening whenever Criston laid hands upon him but never fading.
Criston fucked him again, and again, shifting from the pallet to the table, where Gwayne interrupted their meal to straddle Criston’s lap and sink down onto his cock. Gwayne buried his face in Criston’s shoulder as he rode his cock, whining quietly, and Criston gripped his hips and pulled him impossibly closer.
Criston knotted him like that, even as Gwayne shook apart in his lap. Gwayne mouthed at his throat, at the soft flesh beneath Criston’s ear, mindless with it.
He lost his words toward the end, unable to manage more than feeble moans as Criston fucked him. They found themselves on the floor, fucking on the rough rugs like wild beasts, and that was where Criston gave him his knot for the last time.
Gwayne sighed, melting into Criston’s arms. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back onto Criston’s shoulder. “That’s it,” he murmured. His voice was raw, ruined. “It’s finished now.”
Criston stayed where he was, not that he had a choice with his knot stuffed into Gwayne’s cunt. He dropped a hand to where they were joined, feeling Gwayne flinch at the touch to his red, aching flesh. He kept his fingers light as he traced that hot skin. Gwayne had been untouched before today, a maiden, though he was of an age with Criston. No longer. He had been thoroughly despoiled by Criston, carved open on his knot and filled with his seed.
Gwayne whimpered softly and Criston dropped his hand. Gwayne was filthy, his skin sticky with sweat and worse, and Criston was little better.
Criston pulled out as soon as his knot would allow him. Gwayne shivered at the loss, arching back for a moment as if to try keeping Criston inside before remembering himself. He rolled onto his back instead, then tilted his head to look at Criston.
“We must wash,” Criston said simply. “I doubt even your tonics can hide…” He gestured vaguely at Gwayne’s body, at his own.
Gwayne nodded weakly. “The river,” he said. “You must take me there.”
Criston hesitated for a moment, but Gwayne was in no state to go anywhere on his own. Criston rather doubted Gwayne’s ability to walk. “Very well,” he said, and he hauled Gwayne to his feet.
The two of them ducked out of the tent, half-dressed, into the darkening forest. Dusk approached and the noises of the main camp were muted by the trees. Criston kept an arm around Gwayne’s waist as they stumbled through the trees, following the sound of rushing water.
The river was bordered by willows, whose branches hung low and brushed the surface of the water. Clouds gathered overhead, heavy with the promise of rain.
Gwayne stripped off his clothes and waded into the water, wincing at the cold as it lapped around his knees, his thighs, his well-used cunt. He let himself sink, vanishing beneath the water before surfacing with a gasp, water dripping from his red hair.
Criston followed him into the river. The water was cold, but bracing rather than outright freezing. It soothed his overheated skin. He scrubbed rough fingers through his hair, regretting the fact that the makeshift bath would remove all traces of Gwayne’s scent from his body. For a long time, Criston had wished for the sweet scent of Alicent’s favour to steady him; now, he longed to hold onto Gwayne’s secret scent to linger just a little longer on the air.
Gwayne swam to him, then stood. The river flowed at their waists, leaving everything below hidden by dark water, but the fading light illuminated his pale torso. He was marked now with evidence of Criston’s mouth, his hands, and his pink nipples were pebbled with the cold. “Ser Criston,” Gwayne said, his voice low enough that Criston had to strain to hear over the rustle of wind in the willows and the steady rush of the river. “Thank you for your… assistance. And for your discretion.” He bit his lower lip, as though suddenly uncertain if Criston would abide by his promise.
Criston reached out, then, and brushed a lock of Gwayne’s hair behind his ear. It was a simple gesture, yet intimate, one he had never been so bold as to try with Alicent. Gwayne only watched him, his storm-blue eyes the colour of the river that flowed around them. “I will tell no-one,” Criston said, repeating his promise. “But you… If ever you become so indisposed again, you must tell me.”
Gwayne’s face flushed. “As you command.”
“I do not command you,” Criston said. He paused. “Not in this,” he amended. “I only ask you to trust me.”
“Oh, only that,” Gwayne said, his mouth twitching. He ducked his head. “Very well,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I will trust you, though you leave me little choice.” He gave Criston no chance to reply. He tipped his face up and, for the first time, pressed his lips to Criston’s. It was a light, chaste kiss, so different from all the touches they had shared during Gwayne’s heat that it startled Criston to know it came from the same person.
Gwayne stepped back, his lips parted. There was a look of regret on his face. Criston gave him no chance to apologize, taking Gwayne’s face between his hands and kissing him again. Gwayne’s breath stuttered in his chest as Criston kissed him, his hands faltering before settling on Criston’s shoulders.
Criston thought briefly of Alicent. Gwayne tasted different, even as he smelled different. He was unmistakably male, his body lean and hard against Criston’s front where Alicent was soft. And yet Criston wanted him just as much. At least as much.
They had endured fire and death and dragons fighting a thousand feet above the battlefield. They would endure more of it before the war ended, or mayhaps they would not. Mayhaps death would come for them sooner than late.
One way or another, that fate still lay ahead of them. Fire and blood could wait. For now, Criston could tuck his face into the crook of Gwayne’s neck and breathe in sweet peach and apple, and he could allow all those bright scents of summer to drown out the gathering storm of winter.