Chapter Text
Following the passing of Lord Arlan of Pennytree, Mayfair’s high society seemed to be set ablaze by an unceasing fire of gossip. Rumors spread swifter than a spring breeze through a manicured garden, centered primarily on the dubious succession of the Viscountcy.
To the shock of the ton, the prestigious title had been bestowed upon a young man with no direct blue blood in his veins.
Though the late Lord Arlan had two sons, they had unfortunately been disinherited due to a dark, scandalous affair that no soul dared mention in polite company. Thus, the opulent mantle fell to Duncan, a ward whom Lord Arlan had nurtured, raised, and refined until his manners were as flawless as any gentleman of ancient lineage.
Yet, the haut ton would not let such a peculiarity pass unnoticed. The most cutting accusations were traded behind the fluttering of silken fans: that Duncan was but a 'bastard son' of Sir Arlan himself.
Despite a lack of evidence, the tongues of men and women are boneless and difficult to silence. The whispers traveled from candlelit ballrooms down to the dimness of the servants' kitchens.
However, the man in question seemed entirely unruffled by the fallout of these slanders. Viscount Duncan maintained his duties with a stoic, polite, and formidable integrity.
This only served to make him more of a spectacle. It was not merely his towering stature, standing taller than any man in the room, but his impeccable grace, deep voice, and surprisingly elegant dancing that captivated the guests. His alpha scent was warm and grounding, like a winter forest, causing many a lady’s heart to flutter beyond her control.
He was so tall that his interlocutors were often forced to look upward; yet, he always inclined his head slightly, a gesture of profound respect for others.
Amidst the ambitious mothers thrusting their daughters into his orbit, the young Viscount offered only polite smiles and rejections so gentle that the sting of dismissal was barely felt.
“My sincerest apologies, Lady. For this season, my intentions are firmly set upon my duties. Your daughter is indeed radiant and full of charm; I am certain a fitting gentleman will seek her hand in no time.”
Where society finds a paragon to praise, it must also find one to cast into the shadows of critique. Aerion Targaryen, heir to a house as infamous as it was ancient, lived like a storm that blew according to its own whims. He frequented gentlemen's clubs and festivities with a blatant disregard for the ton’s rigid decrees. He sought to please no one, refused to feign interest, and, most significantly, he was a male Omega.
In a world where the path for a male Omega was narrow, limited to a marriage of convenience or a hidden life of patronage, Aerion chose to hold his head high and defy destiny.
“Fix your expression, Aerion,” Maekar, his father, muttered in a low, pressing tone. “I brought you here to consider a worthy match, not to scowl at the guests.”
Aerion merely let out a long sigh, making no effort to hide his boredom. His gaze swept over the ballroom, a room full of people who looked like clockwork dolls, before snagging on a tall figure standing near the refreshment table. The man stood still, yet he possessed an aura that commanded the eye.
“Who is that man?” Aerion asked, tilting his head with burgeoning curiosity.
“Viscount Duncan,” his father replied curtly. “The name on everyone’s lips this season.”
Aerion lingered on the sight a moment longer. “And the lady by his side... is she a hidden betrothed, or merely the latest prey to be courted?”
Maekar raised an eyebrow at his son. “That is Lady Tanselle. She seems quite determined to become a most elegant spinster. A pity... considering she possesses such a fine countenance.”
———— ··•••✤•••·· ————
Across the ballroom, Tanselle gestured subtly toward the striking Omega. “I have seen him watching you for quite some time, Lord Viscount.”
Duncan nearly choked on the lemonade he had been sipping with such quiet joy. He coughed, flustered. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” Tanselle stifled a laugh, “that Lord Aerion has been staring as if he intends to devour you. You ought to gather your courage and go greet him.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “And why should I go looking for trouble? Besides... he looks as though he might bite my head off at any moment.”
He swallowed hard. It wasn't that he feared the man himself, but the weight of the Targaryen name made a shiver run down his spine.
“Are you quite serious?” Tanselle looked at him with disbelief. Duncan frowned. “What? Have I said something incorrect?”
Tanselle sighed in exasperation.
“I find the two of you to be... remarkably well-matched.”
“Are you satisfied, Tanselle? You must be out of your mind.”
“Are you truly that afraid of society’s gaze?” she challenged.
Society. The meddling ton that judged from behind their fans.
Duncan stood rigid.
“I do not fear society. I merely believe it would be... improper to seek his acquaintance at this moment.”
Tanselle rolled her eyes. “It is but a conversation, Duncan, not a marriage contract! And now, I am leaving. This ball has become dreadfully dull.”
With that, she left him standing alone in the middle of the social battlefield.
The stifling atmosphere finally became too much for Duncan to bear.
He craved fresh air to quell his rising agitation. The music and the hollow laughter drove him to seek refuge in the manor’s rear gardens.
────··•••✤•••·────
There, bathed in moonlight, stood Aerion Targaryen. He hadn't planned on the garden, but boredom was a powerful motivator. Aerion was contemplating how to flee for home when a heavy, rhythmic footstep reached his ears.
“Are you following me, My Lord?” Aerion asked without turning. He expected a voice trembling with nerves, but what he received was a startling silence.
“Certainly not, Lord Aerion,” Duncan replied, struggling to keep his voice level.
“Then why have you ventured into the shadows?” Aerion turned to face him.
Duncan’s height forced Aerion to strain his neck, it was bad for his posture, and even worse for his heart. “I merely required some fresh air. The ballroom was becoming a trifle... suffocating.”
Aerion let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You? Bored of a ballroom where everyone is clamoring for your attention?”
“Is there a problem with that?” Duncan countered, his eyes locking onto Aerion’s.
“Nothing... I simply thought a ‘perfect’ gentleman like yourself would prefer the limelight to the dark.”
Aerion looked up at him. The man truly did look like a sculpture carved from the finest marble.
Noticing the flicker in Aerion's gaze, Duncan couldn't help but let a smile slip. “Is there something you're looking at, My Lord?”
Aerion blinked rapidly, clearing his throat. “You have... uh...” He stammered, a rare loss for words. “I must go. It is dreadfully sweltering in this garden!”
“Sweltering?” Duncan raised an eyebrow. “I find the air quite cool and pleasant, Lord Aerion.”
“It is a private heat! Until we meet again... should fate be cruel enough!” Aerion turned to make his escape, but Duncan would not let the encounter end so abruptly.
“Wait!” Duncan reached out, his hand closing around Aerion’s arm before he could think.
Aerion startled, his eyes wide with shock. “You! How dare you lay hands on me?!” Yet, curiously, he did not pull away.
“I... apologize.” Duncan immediately released him, stepping back. “I only wished to know... at which ball might we meet again?”
Aerion sighed, the fire in his eyes softening. “I do not know. I have little taste for these artificial social displays.”
“What do you mean?”
“You might find me in the places where men go to hide from the chaos... clubs or corners where a high-born gentleman ought not tread. It depends on whether a ‘gentleman’ such as yourself is willing to get his boots muddy to find me.”
Aerion swept his gaze over Duncan from head to toe before delivering his final blow. “If you can figure out where... then come and find me.”
He left the Viscount with a heavy riddle. Duncan knew exactly what places Aerion meant,the dens of spirits, gambling, and the raw edges of London hidden beneath its polite facade.
He let out a long breath, rubbing his face to steady his pulse before returning to the ball.
Tonight, he had learned one thing for certain: Aerion Targaryen was not merely a willful Omega, but the most intoxicating challenge he had ever encountered.