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When they tell him his hand’s been promised without him knowing about it, Tony swears he can feel his blood boiling under his skin. His hands, now turned into fists, tremble violently as he looks at his father. His father, the man that assured him time and time again the choice would be his to make. The man that now refuses to meet his gaze.
Then his eyes move on from his father to the man beside him. Obie doesn’t shy away from his omega godson’s gaze; if anything, he meets it with something that resembles contempt. He tries to hide it behind a mask of understanding, but doesn’t quite manage to; it’s not the kind of gaze that makes Tony feel like his rage makes sense. Instead, it feels like the kind of patronizing gaze that’s meant to tell him this is for his own sake.
The kind meant to tell him it’s fine if he doesn’t see it now, because he doesn’t expect Tony to understand anything.
He just expects him to obey.
“I won’t marry him! You can’t do this,” Tony says, each word accentuated by a step toward his father and his loyal advisor. He feels his father’s men’s eyes follow his every movement, just as he feels that alpha’s gaze on him. “You can’t just sell me out like I’m some kind of cheap cattle, only worth whatever money can get out of parting with it. I won’t stand by it!”
He sees a flash of understanding in his father’s gaze, one that vanishes with the same speed it appears. He sees how Obie’s hand over his father’s shoulder tightens ever so slightly when his godfather speaks, voice deceivingly soft, “ of course you’re worth more than that, Tony. It’s not money that you're bringing to this kingdom by marrying their clan’s leader. It’s security , a peace treaty that couldn’t be achieved any other way. That’s what’s at stake here. Would you really want to put that at risk, Tony, when the solution is so simple?”
His eyes inevitably drift off his father and towards the groups of people that are facing his father’s men at the other side of the tent the meeting is being held in. Where his people wear bright, light clothes, made to live a life near the sea, the Avengers Clan’s men and women wear dark, heavy clothes. Clothes made of animal fur, made to endure the cruel weather that’s natural where they hail from.
His eyes scan them quickly, only to finally fall on their leader, who stands in front of his people, head slightly tilted towards his interpreter. Even as he listens to that man translate his every word, his piercing blue eyes stay fixed on him.
He’s six feet of pure muscle, towering even over his own people. With hair so blond and clear it reminds Tony of snow and a pair of piercing blue eyes that feel like they can see into his very soul, Tony finds it hard to meet his eye for too long.
The North Star is every inch the powerful, intimidating alpha the stories paint him to be.
It only started three years ago: suddenly, a clan that had seemed pacific started moving. Everyone knew better than to enter their land, but no one anticipated them expanding it. Suddenly, stories of whole villages being taken over by force started reaching their shores. And amidst all those stories, always the same protagonist. A man so powerful he didn’t need to wield a blade to win a battle.
His shield became a legend just as quickly as the man that wields it became the protagonist of the cautionary tales mothers told their children.
Everyone‘s heard of his stories, and yet, no one anticipated him reaching the shore so quickly. And now he’s there, standing barely a few steps away from him. His men and women’s weapons shine at the hearth’s light, a promise of what’s to come, of how easy it would be for them to turn all those stories into their reality.
Of what could happen if Tony refuses to do his godfather’s bidding.
Tony knows what Obie’s doing by putting it like that, by announcing the deal while they’re here, their threat as present as them: he’s making him seem like the childish omega heir he’s been trying everyone to see him as. He’s trying to paint him like the selfish brat he’s always treated him like.
And his father is standing there, listening to Obie and refusing to look at his son.
“I refuse to believe this is the only way we can make peace with their clan!” Tony protests, but his own words sound weak to his ears. He can feel it already: his shoulders shrinking under everyone’s stares, the raging tremble of his own hands turning into an afraid one, his words going from demanding to desperate pleadings.
He feels himself shrinking under everyone’s gazes —under Obie’s gaze— and he hates himself for it.
Once again, he sees Obie’s claw close over his father’s shoulders. Then, his clan’s leader —his father, the man that swore to never take that choice from him— says, with a tone that carries the weight of a death sentence:
“It is decided,” Howard declares, his gaze fixed on a point to Tony’s right. Never meeting his son’s eyes. “From today, you’re no longer part of the Stark’s Clan. Tomorrow, you’ll part with the Avengers' Clan.”
The last thing Tony ever does in his father’s presence is spit on his shoes.
Then, he turns around and doesn’t look back.
He’d rather die than let them see his tears.
***
When he arrives at his tent, he’s seething. His whole body trembles with rage, with frustration. He’s been banished from his clan, the one he was supposed to lead one day, in the worst way possible. Everything he once took for granted, he no longer can count on.
When he hears someone step into his tent, he’s sitting on his cot, sharpening a small dagger.
He could’ve tried to hide it, but he doesn’t bother. Not even when he sees Steven of the Avengers' Clan step inside, followed by the lean man that’s his interpreter.
“I might already be yours,” Tony grunts, continuing to sharpen his weapon with precise moves. “But you’re deluding yourself if you think you’ll be taking anything from me tonight.”
He hears a hushed whisper he suspects is the interpreter translating his words, and then there’s a shadow towering over him. He wills himself not to look up, not to allow his gaze to stray from the dagger in his hands. But when those calloused fingers trap his chin between them, softly lifting it, he doesn’t oppose resistance.
He expects to find the same severe expression the warlord displayed in the meeting, so no one can blame him for the shock that is to find softness in his mate’s face. His lips no longer curl in that threatening way; instead, Tony meets an amused expression he never expected to see in the face of such an infamous man.
The man says something in a low voice, his guttural language turning his words into a deep rumble. “Du er modig, mer enn jeg forventet. Jeg liker det.”
“What did he say?” Tony asks, unable to take his eyes from his.
“You’re surprisingly brave, talking to him like that,” the interpreter says, the uncomfortableness clear as water in his voice. “He, um. He likes it.”
Tony’s grip on his weapon tightens ever so slightly. “I’m armed,” Tony says, searching for anger in the warlord’s amused gaze as the interpreter relays his words. “It’d be prudent of him not to forget that.”
The warlord’s amused expression blooms into a grin. Not a cruel one, but an amused one. He seems to be on the brink of laughter, and yet, his soft snort doesn’t offend him as Tony feels it should. He lets go of his chin as he mutters something under his breath.
Something the interpreter translates as, “so brave, even now.”
Tony frowns, not knowing what to make of this man.
“What are you doing here?” He demands to know, lifting his chin.
The man says something, and the interpreter translates every word carefully: “If you don’t want to come, I won’t force you.”
“That’s no longer my decision to make,” Tony says, frowning. “I’ve already been cast aside by my clan. What else is there for me, other than to go wherever you go?”
There’s something about his words that the warlord doesn’t seem to like, something that darkens his piercing blue eyes and casts a shadow over his expression.
He grunts.
“I’m giving your decision back to you,” the interpreter translates. “I was lied to, told you were willing. It’s clear to me you are not.” There’s a pause, one the interpreter mimics when he translates his next words: “As much as I wish to take care of you, I won’t if that’s not your will. I’ll go tomorrow with the first light: it’s your choice if you want to ride with me, or stay with those who don’t respect your word.”
“Will you massacre them if I refuse?” Tony asks when the man already has a foot outside his tent.
There’s a brief silence after the interpreter relays Tony’s words, one that makes Tony fear the worst.
And yet, that man manages to shock him once again: “There are many reasons to kill a man, but revenge on an omega for not wanting me as their alpha will never be one.”
When he leaves, he takes with him every ability Tony had of speaking until then.
***
Tony doesn’t sleep that night. He’s restless, thrashing and turning under his smooth bed sheets, his gaze inevitably drifting off towards the small bag he’s prepared that same afternoon, pondering on all his choices.
Suddenly, he has a choice to make, and as easy as it might have felt in the beginning, it isn’t until the sun has set and the shadows have gained ground that he realizes it isn’t easy at all.
On one hand, he faces everything he’s ever known: his people, his friends, his father.
His godfather, the man that seems to want to get rid of him as soon as possible. He faces everything he knows, and as much as it hurts to admit it to himself, familiarity doesn’t equal safety any longer. If his father has consented to sell his only son to the first threat that has presented itself in decades, what’s keeping him from making the same decision in the future?
Nothing, not with Obie still hoarding his father’s attention. Not with him being so fixated on getting rid of him.
He might have the choice to stay now, but in doing so he’d be giving away a reality where his voice is heard. If he stays, he won't even be able to lie to himself about it: his home is no longer a home, but rather a place that lacks any promise of security.
Tony scoffs, turning in his bed one more time. How have they reached a point where parting with a complete stranger makes him feel safer than staying in the only home he’s ever known?
Tony doesn’t sleep that night. Instead, he lies to himself.
He spends the whole night telling himself he’s got a decision to make, when in truth he’s already made it.
***
When the first rays of sunshine start scaring away the shadows, Tony’s already standing in front of his tent, his bag hanging off his left shoulder as he looks at the Avengers' Clan get ready to part. He watches them saddle their horses in silence, save for the brief whispers they exchange with the animals. It’s one of the many details that reached the south in the form of stories: the way the barbarians seem to be able to communicate with their horses, more like friends than like masters, as is the way of the southerners.
Tony watches them in silence, not making a single move to approach.
Instead, it’s their leader, Steven, who approaches him once everyone is ready. He guides his horse toward Tony, barely having to move the reins for the animal to move. Then, sitting on his horse with the same elegance and might one would sit on a throne, he looks down at him, that softness he displayed in his expression the previous afternoon barely noticeable in his eyes. Still, it’s there. He didn't imagine it.
It’s there when he offers Tony his hand. And right then there’s no need for words, for interpreters of any kind. Because Tony’s nod is universal, just as him refusing the hand offered to him and climbing the horse on his own conveys a message itself.
A small smile tugs at the edge of the Avengers' Clan leader as he lifts his hand and guides his people back home.
***
They ride for days on end. At first, Tony’s fine with it. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he stays still behind Steve, his arms surrounding the warlord’s abdomen out of necessity. Everything is fine, he tells himself the first night, as he lays in bed with him, still as the man beside him snores softly.
At one point —between the third and fifth day of riding without any other break than the six hours they devote to sleep— everything stops being fine.
Spending so many hours riding the horse is killing him, just as the silence is.
There isn’t silence as they travel, of course, but it’s just as if there was, since not a single word said in the seven days of travel belongs to his tongue. He doesn’t understand what the people around him say. He can only guess, judging by their gestures. And even that proves to be difficult at times.
He spends seven days barely talking, and by the time he sits on his mate’s horse for the eighth day in a row, he’s had enough.
So he starts talking.
“This is the first time I get what cold actually means,” he mutters under his breath one morning as he snuggles up inside the thick furs his mate has handed him. He can feel everyone within ear reach turning to look at him, his alpha included, as he squints. “And this is definitely the first time I get to see my own breath. I'm not sure I like it.”
He can tell how, at first, the riders that surround him are confused. He's speaking, but he isn't looking at anyone specifically. So they must be wondering who he is speaking to, what is it that he wants. He sees the man that acted as translator, whose name he found out a couple of days ago is Bruce, snort softly and shake his head. He says something in that guttural language and everyone goes back to their business.
After three hours of listening to him talk randomly, they seem to have grown used to his voice.
He talks about the cold for some time, wondering out loud whether he'll get to see actual snow. He's never seen snow in his life, but knows how it happens, so he suspects he'll get to. The forest is starting to change around them, the leaves becoming scarcer by the minute.
“My mother used to tell me stories about the snow,” he says at one point cheerily. “The clan where she hailed from was in the north, although not as in the north as yours. She said it would snow in the winters and they'd make warm cocoa and sit by the windows to watch the snow fall.” He frowns, looking down. He blinks quickly, scaring the tears away as he whispers: “She said she'd take me there one day, that she'd make me cocoa and we’d watch the snow together.”
He feels the alpha turn between his arms, but he refuses to meet his gaze, focused instead on a point in the sky.
He's silent that night, but the next morning he's back to chatting randomly about everything and anything that comes to his mind.
That morning, his mind focuses on everyone's weapons around him. They're sturdy, too much so for his taste.
“You can't convince me those weapons are easy to wield,” he declares, frowning in the direction of a brunet man that rides a few meters away. He has a long, heavy sword hanging off his waist, and looks at him with his head tilted in clear curiosity. “You can be as strong as you want: there's just no way that sword provides you with enough stability to deliver accurate swings.” He huffs. “I'd make better swords than that one. I already have.” He bites his lip, sighing. “I’d love to do it again.”
He spends the rest of the morning talking about the art of smithy, recounting everything he's created since his mother interceded for him and earned him access to a forge. He remembers everything he's created, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget everything he's been forced to leave behind.
He spends the rest of the day in silence.
Five more days go on. Five days of talking to himself, of finding comfort and pain in equal ways in his own words, before they arrive at their destiny.
Then, he stops speaking.
***
He’s not sure what he expected to happen once they arrived at the Avengers' Clan, but he’s sure of one thing he didn’t expect: for everything to be the same as when they were traveling.
Yet, that’s what happens.
They arrive at the clan’s territory on a winter afternoon, and the people welcome their leader with screams of joy and wide smiles. It’s not the kind of welcoming Tony’s used to seeing, with tight smiles and afraid gazes. His people respected his father, just as much as they respected his loyal advisor, but it isn’t until Tony sees true joy in the Avengers' citizens that he realizes they never loved their leader.
There’s a feast that night in the biggest edification, where Tony learns they usually hold these kinds of events, as well as some receptions Steve usually holds for his people to approach him and ask anything they want.
Tony sits by his mate’s side at the main table, watching him laugh at what a man at his left says. He realizes that night how much that wide smile fits his alpha, just as how easygoing he is when surrounded by the people he cares about. It creates a great contrast between the man he projects to others, and how he really is when he’s at home.
Tony doesn’t know what to think about it. He just stays silent, watching everything that happens around them as he slowly eats the food that’s put in front of him.
“So, how are you liking our parties?” Says a kind voice next to him. When he looks to his left, he finds Bruce giving him a small smile as he takes the seat next to him and starts eating too.
“They’re… nothing like what I had imagined,” Tony says, careful with his words. “Everyone seems so happy here.”
Bruce tilts his head before asking, not unkindly, “is this now how parties were back home?”
Tony shrugs, remembering how rigid everything was back home. Feasts were scarce, and when they were hosted there wasn’t this sense of joy, but rather ominous silence. Those who sat at the main table did laugh, but not even those laughs were as honest as those he’s hearing here. As for his father’s people… They didn’t treat their leaders with such familiarity, as if they were part of their family.
“No,” he says, watching how Steve smiles encouragingly at a mother and a young boy of no more than six years old who seems to preen under his gaze. “Not at all.”
***
A few days later, when Tony’s still trying to find his footing in his new clan, one of his alpha’s warriors surprises him. It’s the redheaded warrior, a lean omega woman of his height. Tony’s walking around the city with Bruce by his side, making small talk with the man as he tries to understand how things work around here.
They’re talking about trying to learn the northern tongue when she approaches them. Or, more accurately, when she appears in front of them. It seems to be one of her specialties, to move around with such deft.
“Toh-nee,” she says with a small smile, making it clear she’s talking to him. Tony blinks, and he still hasn’t overcome his surprise at being addressed by her when she says something else. Tony doesn’t understand anything, so he looks at Bruce, who’s looking at Nat with a suspicious gaze as he says, “Natasha wants to, um. She wants to ask you a favor.”
“Me?” Tony asks, surprised.
She says something else, and Bruce translates: “Yes. She’d like to know if you could forge a few daggers for her. Like the one you carry around.”
Tony’s hand itches to check if his weapon is still inside his boot, where he’s been hiding it. He contemplates denying he’s carrying any weapons at all, but the smile Natasha’s giving him is a sweet one, one that invites him to trust her.
He bites his lip. “I mean, I could. But I don’t know if I have permission to go to the forge—”
Bruce’s translating his words, but Natasha cuts him off quickly, a knowing smile on her lips. “Oh,” the interpreter says. “She says the North Star gave you permission.”
“She asked him?” Tony asks, surprised. Bruce and Nat exchange some quick words, but Tony doesn’t get an answer to that question.
Instead, Bruce asks: “So, would you want to do it?”
***
That night he enters their room with a smile on his lips, humming to himself. He’s spent the whole day in the clan’s forge, where there happened to be a free station for him to work on. He had missed how it felt to work in such a place, with the heat clinging to his shirt and beads of sweat falling off his forehead. It feels good, after having spent so much time away from it since his mother passed away two years ago.
Inside their room, he finds Steve’s already there. He’s standing in front of a table with some scrolls opened on it. He seems to be focused on them, but as soon as he listens to his steps on the floor he turns around with a soft smile in place. It’s been almost two weeks since they met, but his alpha’s smile still manages to surprise him every single time.
The alpha offers Tony his hand, which the omega takes with curiosity. Slowly, he’s gotten more and more comfortable around Steve. The first few nights on the road were hard, just as the first night they spent here, in his new home. But since he realized his alpha doesn’t have any intention of touching him, he’s found himself feeling more comfortable being close to him.
He tilts his head as the alpha looks at him with that smile of his. Then, the alpha asks with a soft voice, “good?”
Tony blinks, surprised by hearing a word from his own language rolling out of Steve’s mouth. He squints, curious, “you’ve been trying to learn my language?”
The alpha blinks at him, his soft smile morphing into a slightly confused one. It makes Tony giggle, which the alpha seems to like.
“Yes,” he ends up saying, accompanying his answer with a nod and a soft smile. “Today’s been a good day.”
The alpha bits his lip, seeming a bit doubtful before he tries a new word: “Happy?”
Tony widens his eyes, even more surprised by that question. Is this man really worried about his happiness? It’s not a question he’s been asked frequently in the past, so it takes him a bit of effort to think of an answer.
Then, he gives him a small smile and nods, “I think so. I— it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this.”
This answer seems to please the alpha even more. It’s like he’s preening under his gaze, as if he feels responsible for Tony’s happiness in a way he finds endearing. It confuses him a bit, until he finally realizes what’s going on.
“Wait— Nat wasn’t the one to ask you permission for me to forge a weapon for her, wasn’t she? It was all you,” Tony squints when Steve’s proud smile widens a bit more. He doesn’t seem to actually understand every word Tony’s saying, but he seems to get the actual meaning behind them. Tony tilts his head, “but why?” he asks, softly. “And how did you know?”
He doesn’t expect Steve to answer, but the alpha tries, and says, “Bruce” as if it explains everything. Tony squints, thoughtful. Then, he starts flushing.
“He— he told you? He– he actually translated what I said?” He asks, confused and a bit ashamed by the idea of him actually knowing what Tony spoke about during those days. He had thought they had been ignoring him, and he wouldn’t have blamed them for it.
Steve’s frowning a bit, trying to find a way to explain. In the end, this is the best he comes up with: “Tony happy,” he says. Then, he touches his own chest and says, “happy.”
That night, Tony scoots a bit closer to Steve in bed. The alpha surrounds his waist with his arm, tentatively, and Tony sighs, resting his head against his warm chest.
***
“He asked me to,” Bruce explains himself when Tony asks the next morning. They’re back in the forge. Tony’s working on the second dagger for Natasha, and Bruce is sitting next to him, watching him work with curiosity as he tells him. “The night after the first day you spoke, he came to my tent and asked me what you had been talking about. He– Um, he wanted to know every possible detail I remembered.”
Tony hums, “he did?”
“Yes,” Bruce says. Then, he laughs nervously. “The next day, when you started speaking again, he gave me this look, and I knew he’d visit me once again. And he did. He did so every night since then.”
The way that information warms Tony’s heart makes him smile the whole day.
***
Slowly but surely, Tony starts getting used to his new life in the Avengers' Clan. He manages to finish three daggers for Natasha, and feels really proud when more warriors start approaching him whenever he’s walking around the village. They smile at him tentatively and ask him to craft new things for them: it starts being just weapons —more daggers, a few swords, a couple of shields—, but soon enough he finds himself working on other things. Things that challenge him and make him spend his days having fun.
Slowly, as he works on the forge, Bruce tries to teach him their language. It’s difficult at first, with their languages not even sharing the same roots, but he’s motivated enough.
He still remembers the night after his first lesson: he arrived at their tent after having spent the whole day working on the forge, sweaty and smiling like he hadn't smiled in a long time, and Steve was there, hands resting on the table as he loomed over some scrolls. As soon as Tony entered, Steve turned around and gave him a small, curious smile.
The way Steve's expression lightened up when Tony said "everything was good today" in their guttural language was priceless.
That marked the start of a small tradition between them: every night, when they returned to their tent, both of them said something new in each other's language.
One of the first things Steve learned to say in Tony’s tongue was: “Are you happy?” So it was only natural for Tony to make his best effort to learn how to answer with things like “I was happy today” or “How was your day?”
Slowly, both of them learn how to tell each other about their days, and that small ritual turns into a crucial part of their days without them realizing it.
***
A few months go by, with them slowly getting to know each other and Tony realizing he might be able to build a good life here. He’s slowly learning to trust those around him, just as he’s finding himself getting closer and closer to Steve in the nights. Still, there’s something that’s standing between them, some distance that their tentative smiles and their carefully chosen words don’t seem to be able to bridge.
It keeps like that until one night, when he arrives at their tent, a small, proud smile playing on his lips and his words of the night already chosen, he finds Steve sitting on their bed and not leaning over his table, as he’s gotten used to seeing him.
Steve has a neutral expression, but that does little to calm Tony when he sees the wound in the alpha’s shoulder. It’s recent, and it’s bleeding profusely.
When Tony realizes the alpha is trying to hide it from him, something in his mind snaps.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He growls as he approaches the bed and takes the bandage from the alpha, who’s looking at him with wide, surprised eyes. “That’s too deep for you to just cover it! Wait here. Don’t you dare move.”
He’s not sure if the alpha understands his every word, but he seems to get the meaning behind them, for when he returns to the tent —this time with water and thread and needle and some concoctions to prevent any infection— Steve’s still there, sitting on their bed. As he approaches him, the alpha gives him a small, confused smile. He also feints to grab the thread and needle, but Tony bats his hand away, shushing him.
Under the alpha’s amused gaze, he kneels on the bed behind him and gets to work on the wide wound as he mutters under his breath: “what on earth did you do to get this? This is no small wound, for God’s sake, what’s that shield of yours worth if it can’t prevent wounds like this one, huh?”
He keeps on muttering things like that for a while as he listens to the alpha hiss under his touch.
What he doesn’t expect is for him to try to explain himself: “Went… went hunt? Yes, hunt.”
“And what poor creature did you offend so much as to get this, huh?” Tony scoffs, even as his heart warms at the way Steve manages to say those words on his tongue. “No animal is worth this kind of wound, let me tell you that. No animal at all.”
“No animal,” the alpha says in a placating tone Tony finds amusing. It almost feels as if he, the omega, is the one holding the power there, and not the huge alpha. He likes that feeling. “Mammoth ivory worth it.”
Tony stops working for a second, his hand hovering over the alpha’s wound, before he restarts. “Ivory? What use do you have for ivory?”
The alpha shakes his head. “No. Me no. Toh-nee yes.”
Tony frowns for a couple of seconds before he realizes what the alpha has done. “You silly alpha! Did you risk your life just to get me ivory to work with?”
The alpha turns to look at him, his head tilted to the right. Tony doesn’t keep him from searching his eyes. Then, the alpha says, matter-of-factly: “Toh-nee want ivory. I get ivory.”
“It was a silly idea, for God’s sake,” Tony grunts, getting back to work. He feels the alpha’s gaze on him, soft; it doesn’t take too much to realize how the omega’s moves have turned softer, his voice lower and full of wonder as he whispers: “You didn’t need to put yourself in such a risky position for me.”
“I do,” Steve says, and when Tony lifts his gaze he finds the alpha looking at him with a solemn expression. “Toh-nee wants something, I prov— I give. I give. I make Toh-nee happy.”
“It’s—” Tony gulps, overcome with many emotions at once. When did the alpha get so adamant about making him happy? “It’s not necessary.”
“No. Not necessary,” Steve agrees. “Duty. My duty.”
Tony blinks, biting his lip. “Duty?”
Steve nods solemnly, and when Tony gets his hands back on his shoulder to keep working on his wound, Steve takes his hand softly and, without breaking eye contact, turns it ever so slightly so his lips are against Tony’s inner wrist. “Duty,” he whispers, leaving a kiss there.
Even after countless nights sharing a bed with him, this is the first time Tony feels truly close to the alpha.
“Okay,” he whispers, leaning closer until their foreheads are touching, their breaths merging between them. “I– I think I get it now. Just— no more danger for me, okay? If you’re hurt, I’m not happy.”
“Okay,” Steve says lightly, his eyes boring into Tony’s.
Their first kiss feels like the first of many adventures.