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“Aerion!” His father's thunderous voice rang heavy across the jousting field. He was on his war horse, clad in black armor that carries his own Targaryen symbol. To why his sire was battle ready, the Brightflame cares not for the reason.
The bastards who decided to face the wrath of the dragon in the tourney wafts their pheromones freely, seeking the white-haired prince among the crowd. Aerion sneered as he dismounted his horse, a squire immediately came to him and sent the horse to the royal stable. The land of Ashford is just as what's its named after— ashy, dreary, and bleak. It was rarely a tourney worthy of a royal.
Aerion would've terrorized the Kingslanding freely if not for his drunken, weak brother missing alongside his pathetic, wimp of a little brother. He had to joust in the honor of some brat, though he wouldn't pass the opportunity to breathe flame among men.
Aerion strides with heavy steps, as if carrying the weight of his name and its history. His smoke and cedar trails behind, leaving a few alphas stunned and appalled. The Brightflame Prince is infamously unbearable omega with equally unbearable stench, leaving every alpha to deter his presence. His grandfather and father thought it catastrophic that no one offers up to even court him— he is a dragon, he's to pick his rider and none of these fools deserve that privilege.
Aerion followed his father inside the heir's quarters— his Uncle Baelon “The Breakspear” is a man of his own forte, the best, the wisest. He's a Targaryen in every sense of the name, one that Aerion wants to be. The will-be king and he will be his dragon.
Lord Ashford and his retinues with his uncle and Valarr. His uncle wore the colors of their house, in smoke black doublet and a red sash with the red sigil near his shoulder. His mismatched eyes of violet and brown darted to him with exhaustive expression— as if he had done something horrible already. Unlike his father, Valarr's attention wasn't on his but a stranger. A mountainous man though unremarkable in any other sense, he's clad with the heavy pelt of some thick furred animal, simple and dirty clothing, his eyes were soft and honestly pathetic but its blueness were like the sky reflected on the waters of God's Eye. His hair is ashen blonde, cut short, and he's clean shaven.
He looks like a pup.
“Aerion.” His uncle called, behind him was his ever-frowning father. “Was your journey safe? I've received a letter from Lord Tyrell of your short visit… it's quite a letter.”
Aerion hissed, “It was, Your Highness. Highgarden remains lush and green, such a shame if a dragon unintentionally smears red on its path. If only Lord Tyrell taught his son that no gardener had ever dreamed of claiming a dragon.”
Maekar and Baelon's faces look unreadable, they're often like that when he's around for some reason.
Valarr cleared his throat, “Cousin, come— let me introduce you to Ser Duncan.” He practically pushed forward the giant.
“It's a pleasure to meet you… Your, err— Ser… Grace?”
Great, he's not only a giant, he's a dunce.
“Ser Duncan the Tall— he's from the north. He serves Lord Cerwyn and sends him as the knight representing their house at the tourney.” His uncle spoke. Aerion raised his eyebrow. What does a northerner care about a tourney for a young lady?
Aerion's suspicion grew larger.
“Aerion, why not tour our northerner friend at the jousting grounds, he's to fight for his and Miss Gwyn Ashford's honor afterall. And maybe if he wins, I would be persuaded to accept the man as my knight.” Valarr spoke as if the two of them were on friendly terms.
“I've just arrived.” Aerion squinted at his father's stony face. He felt like he just stepped right into a trap.
“Perhaps you two could discover the jousting grounds!” Uncle Baelor happily suggested.
Aerion snarled, it takes one glimpse to tell that man is an alpha in his prime. It's once again a trick to lock him in a marriage potential— one suitor more offensive than the other. He just dealt with a Tyrell who's more promiscuous than a Flea Bottom whore, now a nameless knight in some lonesome part of the northern territory.
“My prince…” The giant spoke, his voice gentle and light, his tone more familiar than it was supposed to. “I've heard the great tales of the dragons of the past. And Ser— Prince Valarr here told me you're most passionate about the fascinating creatures.”
Like a dragon shivering its scales, Aerion's spine swam in warmth. Daft as he is, the alpha certainly made efforts to flatter him.
Well… Dragons are amenable when they're presented with sheep.
Aerion turned his back, “Come on, you oaf. Let's discover what Ashford had for a tourney that no one had seen before.”
He can always shoo them away with his scent.
Aerion's smoke and cedar burned into one destructive smell of fire and blood that makes anyone along— alphas or not— gagged in immediate response. No one had seen the prince this murderous through scent. The kingsguard assigned to him even took a meter back as he suffocated from the scent.
Aerion intended it so, he wanted to drive the wretchedly tall man beside him who was seemingly unaffected. His stories of dragons go from one ear to another as the alpha was too busy gawking at such a boring gathering.
Aerion was telling the stories of Meleys the Red Queen when he noticed it at first. The man slouched too much for a trained knight, perhaps compensating for his ridiculous height that makes Aerion's neck ache. His short responses just hit the hardest that the bastard truly lied and cared not for the creatures of their great house and instead was more fascinated by that hedonist in flesh Lyonel Baratheon!
“Are you truly an alpha?” Aerion immediately got the attention of the man.
“Of course I am, my lord. I presented when I was six.” His pathetic blue eyes bore to him.
“How come you cannot smell it?”
The knight looked more confused. “What smell, my lord? The air drafts just beneath my nose and I can only smell faints of what the wind carries.”
There was a hidden rope inside his head that snapped as soon as he heard it. He's been putting effort on deter this giant and this whole time their heights’ too far apart for that mountain to smell! His anger exploded Aerion immediately drew his dagger and eagerly pointed it at the man's chest. His scent became more pungent yet the alpha was more reactive with the blade than his scent. Everyone around either ran or pretended not to be anywhere near them. Squires and stable boys all retched as their untrained noses wrinkled.
“My prince!” The knight took a step back. “What'd I do wrong?”
“Ha!” Aerion's laugh was dry. “Fuck you to the seven hells! You are worse than that promiscuous gardener! Can't you smell I'm driving you away! You oaf, are you truly listening to my tales! My feet hurts from following your strides, my neck will break soon enough to kill me, and my voice are getting harsher by the a minute and all you care about is Lyonel fucking Baratheon!”
“Fo— forgive me, my lord! I was only fascinated by their practices. I was truly listening! About Balerion, Maris, and the others—!”
“Enough!” He retreated with the knife— his arms were tiring. “We'll come to my tent— I shall have the truth no matter what.”
The man knelt in front of him, looking like a child ready to be scolded. Finally he was just tall enough to smell that pungent odor from him. It seems even the giant would run away from that rotten smell coming off him.
“What's your name again?”
“Dunk… Duncan, my lord. But Dunk is what they call me.”
“And you serve what house, Duncan?”
Duncan the oaf looks conflicted, his face contorts into a whole mess of guilt and heaviness that Aerion cannot help but be intrigued. Perhaps his intuition is correct.
“You're no true northerner nor you are a true knight, are you?” Aerion spoke in cold truth, though surprisingly no sharpness in it. “Tell me the truth before I had your tongue in a silver plate for lying to me.”
“‘Tis true I'm no northerner, milord. I'm a child from Flea Bottom but I am a knight— though a hedge knight, but knight nonetheless.” Duncan whimpered, surely his nose must've been burning for a while now. “I was knighted by Ser Arlan of Pennytree who died here in the Reach. I was to join the tourney to find myself a lord to serve but they did not allow me.”
“So you con my uncle and Lord Ashford?” At that point, Aerion's anger wilted and the space in his head was taken over by entertaining curiosity. How come a dumb brute decided to con the dragons to make a name for himself at some tourney?
“I did not know the con would work well, milord. I helped a conman on the way here, and he handed me that letter of commendation from Lord Cerwyn. I refused to con my way for it's not the knightly way but I've exhausted my options.” Duncan finished his tale with a sad face. He looked as if he kicked an innocent pup that he didn't see. Aerion was pissed, he was angry at the oaf for having such an earnest mouth. He didn't even deny at first and gave in all he had! He wished to be a knight yet he can't even lie for himself.
Aerion looked at him deeply, the man with a burly body and a face of an innocent pup.
“Forgive me, mi’lord, if I had offended you earlier. I truly cannot smell your scent as the air doesn't bring it high enough to my nose.” Duncan said. “But I did listen to your stories, one would definitely do when you speak of them so passionately. I can imagine those great creatures soaring in the sky with your excellent tales.”
“You…” Aerion visibly looked surprised. His face etched an image of one likened to a child.
“Forgive me, my prince.” Duncan looked so small in that way that Aerion found it offensive.
Aerion sneered. “It isn't your fault— I assume. Perhaps my uncle knows you're not a knight really. You're just some dumb man who dared to tell lies, and just a convenient alpha to throw in my way.”
“So… Are you not angry, mi’lord?” Duncan looked at him with hopeful doe eyes, it's disgusting.
“Of course, I'm angry! ‘Tis why you shall joust in my honor and win your way into the top, you will crown me the Queen of Love and Beauty! In exchange, I shall employ you as my knight.” Aerion threw the shrub ornament sitting at the table at the floor near the hedge knight.
“Mi'lord?”
“You shall win in my honor, Ser Duncan. If you dare lose or die, I'll have your head and send it to my father so he'll know not to send another hedge knight in my way.” Aerion stood in his chair, he flickered his fingers to motion for the giant to stand.
He grabbed and pulled the red ribbon that goes across his body, “Tie this to your lance lest you forget who you serve now.”
The brute absentmindedly grabbed the ribbon tightly. Unknowingly tying his fate on to the dragon's.