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Meera Hasty had always maintained, with a conviction that bordered on the theatrical, that her aversion toward Lyonel had begun the very moment the boy had the audacity to ruin her body.
Before that, she could tolerate him as an abstract idea, a distant possibility that did not interfere too greatly with the image she had of herself. The pregnancy, in its first months, had been little more than an elegant inconvenience, something she could conceal beneath carefully chosen fabrics and excuse with gentle smiles and delicate caresses over her belly. Even then, there were those who looked upon her with admiration, for she still appeared beautiful and radiant, blessed.
Meera had known how to maintain that role, but the body...
The change came slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, and then all at once, as is so often the way with everything truly offensive. The swelling, the weight, the constant discomfort, the feeling of no longer belonging entirely to herself... and, above all, the loss of control. Her reflection ceased to obey her, her dresses no longer fit as they ought, and her figure, once her greatest weapon, began to betray her.
And all because of him.
She could not blame Symeon, not entirely, for he had been proper, even kind, in his distant way, and they had built something that, if not love, was at least functional, a tolerable alliance, but Lyonel... Lyonel was the living proof that she had lost. When he was born, Meera looked upon him with a coldness that would have scandalized anyone bold enough to describe it, and it was not that the baby had anything wrong with him, he had nothing objectively amiss; in truth, that was the problem.
He was... perfect, too perfect. Large and strong for a newborn, brimming with life in an almost sinful way, with lungs that worked far too well, his crying far too powerful, and as though from the very first moment he demanded space, attention, presence.
And he received it, he always received it.
At first, Meera thought the rejection would fade, that it was a temporary reaction, a passing annoyance that would disappear once her body was hers again, once the stronghold returned to its usual rhythm and she could once more occupy the place at its center that belonged to her, but Lyonel did not fade away, he grew, and with every month, with every year, he became more difficult to ignore.
He was a cheerful child, something Meera found particularly unbearable. He laughed easily, without a second thought, without restraint, as though the world were inherently good and worthy of being enjoyed. His laughter filled the corridors, slipped beneath the doors, interrupted conversations, shattered carefully constructed silences, and Meera watched him from afar—always from afar—wondering when he would finally break.
At first, she tried to correct him, but not openly, not in so clumsy a manner, rather through small gestures, biting remarks wrapped in sweetness, glances that sought to teach without seeming to do so, and she ignored him when he sought her attention, praised him with measured coldness, and corrected him with a precision that bordered on the unnecessary. Nothing worked, for Lyonel never stopped smiling, nor laughing, nor being a little monster, and that, more than anything else, slowly transformed into hatred.
The entire stronghold seemed to revolve around him with exasperating ease.
The servants adored him, not out of obligation, but for something worse: genuine affection. Lyonel knew their names, listened to them, even helped them when he had no reason to do so. He knew when to impose his authority and when it was unnecessary, and that ease with which he moved between those two extremes... that was the kind of power Meera had never managed to master, not without money as an intermediary. And Symeon was of no help either, for he loved the brat with a silent yet unshakable devotion that required no grand displays to make itself evident. There was a tenderness in him that surfaced only in Lyonel's presence, a patience Meera knew belonged to no one else.
And Lyonel responded as though it were only natural for an heir to behave that way, he loved him, respected him, and looked at his father as though Symeon had handed him the moon merely by speaking to him. Meera, by contrast, never managed to provoke in him anything beyond distant courtesy. Neither fear nor need, not even that childish desire for approval that so many other children offered with such ease, Lyonel simply ignored her with an elegance that was deeply insulting, and that enraged her more than any direct confrontation.
In time, she found new reasons to hate him, there were always new reasons, such as, for instance, when he presented as an alpha. Meera had watched the scene with restrained tension, waiting—perhaps for the first time—for a crack or a mistake, an imperfection in that flawless image Lyonel projected without effort even while still so young, but there was none, he was... the perfect heir, the storm made flesh.
Meanwhile, her other children... Her children, because those were hers, in a way Lyonel never would be. She had loved them from the very beginning, with a possessive intensity, and they were her comfort, her vindication, the proof that she could still create something valuable, something that belonged to her beyond all doubt, that she could still make her own choices, have children with whomever she wished.
And yet... They were not him.
They were smaller, slimmer, with Baratheon features softened, diluted by her own blood. Beautiful, yes, but in a more delicate way, less imposing, but above all... Betas, the word had settled in her mind with a bitterness she could not entirely conceal. While Lyonel grew in size, strength, and reputation, the other two... were simply adequate, proper but insufficient.
Meera would never have admitted it aloud, but she knew it, and she saw it every time they shared the same space, every time the gazes turned inevitably toward the eldest, every time praise became veiled comparisons that no one dared to voice. And that only fed her resentment, because she had not lost only once.
She had lost twice.
The years softened nothing; on the contrary, they sharpened every rough edge of that initial rejection, turning it into something far more precise and deliberate. Lyonel grew taller and stronger, more certain of himself, moving through the world as though he had always known exactly where he belonged. He took part in tournaments and battles, returning wrapped in stories that the stronghold repeated with enthusiasm, feeding a reputation that seemed to grow almost of its own accord.
A nickname began to circulate—first in whispers, then in open admiration—one that made even the most battle-hardened men lower their voices when speaking it, and he wore it as though it meant nothing, as though it had always belonged to him by right, and Meera watched him walk through the corridors, the halls, or the courtyard, all tall and imposing, utterly certain of himself, and what she felt could no longer be disguised as mere aversion.
It was hatred, pure and absolute, yet, for the first time in the twenty-five years Lyonel had devoted to ruining her life, something else joined that hatred: Fear.
She had been forced to cut short her journey—an inconvenience in itself—because her son's omega had given birth again, and failing to appear to meet her own grandchildren would have been looked upon poorly. And though Meera did not truly care what people might whisper about her, she returned, and the moment she crossed the inner courtyard of Storm's End, the very air seemed to change.
There was Symeon, laughing as Meera had never seen with any of her children, bent without stiffness, holding two children in his arms who squealed with laughter while he rocked them as though they weighed nothing at all. The scene was so incongruous that she stopped for a moment, watching despite herself, and a single glance was enough to recognize the dark, unruly curls, the sturdy build even at such a young age... and those eyes—not Symeon's—which somehow made it even more irritating.
She looked away coldly and continued on, refusing to grant the image any more attention than was strictly necessary. The chill from outside vanished the instant she crossed the threshold, but it was immediately replaced by something worse. Lyonel's scent: dense, present, steeped in satisfaction and pride, and woven into it, softer yet just as persistent, that of his omega.
The fire in Meera's chest flared at once.
How dared he? How dared that little monster fill the stronghold with his presence, mark every corner as though it belonged to him, bind his line to something she refused to consider worthy?
She would not admit—even to herself—that part of her irritation came from something even more uncomfortable: that she had done everything properly for her children, had secured alliances, positions... had guaranteed them a future that now hung by a thread with every passing year, with neither of the two having heirs, while Lyonel had managed to have twins without even doing it on purpose. It had been an accident, but, as always with that cursed boy, a perfect accident, and now it had happened again, with another pair of twins scarcely two years later.
Her teeth ached from clenching them when a wet nurse passed beside her, carrying a small bundle wrapped in fine golden cloth, and one fleeting glance was enough for Meera to recognize yet another face she already hated: another replica, another constant reminder of everything she could not control.
She quickened her pace, seeking the safety of her chambers, but before reaching them, she found them.
Lyonel and his omega were walking down the corridor in the opposite direction, Lyonel's arm encircled his mate firmly, almost possessively, though it scarcely seemed necessary; the omega walked with a steady stride, showing none of the weariness expected after a recent pregnancy, which, in a way, was profoundly offensive. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the way Lyonel did not even look at her, as though her presence did not deserve to be acknowledged in the slightest, while the omega's courteous gesture, by contrast, was enough for something to finally break.
—So you have managed to keep staining the family name.
Lyonel stopped, turned slowly, and looked at her.
—If that is how you see it, Lady Baratheon, it is a pity —he replied calmly—. I see it as securing the succession line with strong and healthy children. Is that not what is expected of me as heir?
Meera stepped forward, wrinkling her nose as she looked upon them with contempt.
—At least there are no doubts about the origin of the first ones, and much less of h-
She could not finish.
Lyonel’s hand closed around her throat and, in the same motion, he slammed her against the stone wall with a force that left her breathless. The impact was dry, brutal, and for an instant her mind could only comprehend how impossible it was: a man of that size should not have moved so quickly.
His fingers tightened just enough to hurt her, just enough to make clear that this was not a loss of control, but a deliberate decision, and then he looked at her, truly looked at her. The golden-green eyes that had once fascinated her in Symeon were now completely devoid of affection in his son, there was only contempt: cold and absolute.
—You can hate me —he said in a low voice, with a dangerous calm—, you can ignore me and say whatever you want about me, but do not speak of my omega again.
He pressed her gently against the stone once more, reinforcing his hold without increasing the force.
—And do not even look at my children, do not speak to them or come near them.
The second impact against the wall knocked the air from her lungs, leaving her unable to react immediately.
—I only need an excuse, Meera Hasty, do not give me one.
Then fear came, clear and undeniable, and yet she clung to the only thing she had.
—You would not hurt me —she managed to say—. I am your mother.
The smile that appeared on Lyonel’s face was worse than any threat.
—And what does that change?
His voice softened even further, carrying a calm infinitely more dangerous than anger.
—There is nothing interesting in harming you directly.
—Come, Stag… Ormund and Durran are waiting for us.
The omega’s voice was soft, but firm, and to Meera’s absolute disgust, that was enough. Lyonel released her without saying another word, and she barely managed to remain standing, realizing far too late that she had been held up, forced to stand on her toes to avoid suffocating.
Lyonel moved away from her as though she no longer deserved even his attention and returned to his companion naturally, as if nothing had happened. Meera turned her head slightly and found that the omega was watching her, in his eyes, normally kind and warm, there was no trace of tenderness, only a warning equally or more dangerous than Lyonel’s threat.
Meera did not move immediately.
The corridor fell silent once more after Lyonel and his omega departed, but the echo of what had happened still vibrated in her bones, in her still-sensitive throat, in the sensation that the air was colder than she remembered. Slowly, she brought a hand to her neck, brushing her skin with the tips of her fingers as if expecting to find visible marks, something tangible that justified what had just occurred.
There was nothing, not a bruise or sign, and only because of that, the humiliation was even worse.
She exhaled slowly, straightening herself carefully, forcing her posture to recover the elegance she had never been allowed to lose entirely. No one had seen her, no one, except them, and yet the feeling of being reduced—of being put in her place as if she were irrelevant—clung to her with unbearable persistence.
She had felt fear, yes, but not the kind that paralyzes, rather the kind that demands compensation. Her lips tightened slightly, and something changed in her gaze: now it was sharper, more calculating, because if there was something Meera Hasty had never tolerated, it was losing control of her own story, and Lyonel… Lyonel had taken it from her with insulting ease.
She could not allow it, not again.
Finally, she turned and walked toward her chambers, each step firmer than the last, as if with every movement she rebuilt something that had cracked. She closed the door softly, without a trace of the violence burning within her, and went directly to the mirror, looking at herself in silence.
Pale skin, untouched, her hair perfectly arranged and her features still delicate, still worthy of admiration, there was no trace of what had happened… except in her eyes, and that was unacceptable. She lifted her chin slightly, softening her expression until she recovered that flawless mask she had perfected throughout the years. The same one she had used to survive, to manipulate, to obtain what she wanted even when the world refused to give it to her.
Lyonel was no different, only… more irritating, more persistent, but not invulnerable.
The thought came to her mind with an almost comforting clarity, because he could be strong, he could be loved, he could fill any place with his presence without even trying… but he was not alone, he had never been there, and that, finally, was a weakness.
Her other children.
The smile that appeared this time was slow, deliberate; barely a slight curve of the lips that did nothing to soften the coldness in her eyes.
She had always protected them, in her own way, and had kept them away from direct comparisons as much as possible, she had avoided conversations, softened criticisms, and created spaces where they could be themselves without constantly standing in the shadow of their older brother. Perhaps that had been her mistake, perhaps she had been… too indulgent.
She walked slowly through the room, allowing the thought to develop without haste, as if savoring every possibility before choosing which one to take, because this was not about confronting Lyonel directly; that much was clear… This was something far more delicate, more effective.
Not open hatred—that would be crude, easy to detect, and beneath her—but something more subtle, barely implied comparisons and seemingly innocent comments, questions that sought no answers, only discomfort. Do you not find it curious...? Have you ever wondered...? It is a pity that… Small cracks and doubts, because no matter how much they loved Lyonel, no matter how much they respected or admired him, all—absolutely all—were susceptible to constant comparison. To the feeling of not being enough and that silent unease that settled in when someone shone too brightly nearby.
And she knew exactly how to feed that, she always had. She stopped beside the window, observing the courtyard where, not long before, she had seen Symeon. Another mistake, another piece that could have been used, because if anything caused excessive affection, it was unbalancing things, and imbalance… always found a way to break something.
Meera gently brought her hands together before her, and her expression softened until it acquired an almost absolute serenity. The rage was still present, but now it had direction, shape, purpose.
Lyonel could keep his strength, his reputation, that exasperatingly perfect omega, and his growing brood of children. She needed none of that, she only needed time, only—
The thought fractured, and at first it was subtle, almost imperceptible, a pull inward, a fissure that did not fit within the calm she attempted to maintain. Her fingers tightened slightly where they were intertwined, and her breathing became a little shorter, more irregular.
Time… For what? To see how everything continues revolving around him? To see even her own children compare themselves to a shadow they could never surpass? The calm shattered.
—No —she murmured, barely audible at first.
Her reflection in the mirror showed the same expression, but it was no longer perfect. There was something broken in the way she pressed her lips together, in the rigidity of her jaw.
—No.
The sound echoed with greater force this time, filled with frustration accumulated over years without release. She stepped back as if the image before her were the cause of everything, as if it could be solved simply… by disappearing.
But it was not so, it remained there, always there. Lyonel in every gesture, every memory, every comparison.
The first object to fall was a small glass vial, she did not throw it with uncontrolled fury, but with deliberate precision, as if she needed to see something break exactly where she wanted it to, and the sound as it struck the wall was dry, satisfying only for a fleeting instant.
It was not enough… The next was larger, a cup, then another, and the impact against the floor, the glass breaking, the echo filling the room.
—Everything! —she snapped, her voice growing louder and increasingly without control—. Everything belongs to him!
The nearby table absorbed the force of her hands; the objects slid, fell, and shattered without her being able to stop them. Her breathing became irregular, her movements less elegant, more frantic, more childish in their fury.
—Always! Always him!
There was something grotesque in the scene, in a woman of her age and position, falling apart in a tantrum stripped of dignity, but Meera did not see it that way, she could not, because in her opinion, this was not a loss of control.
It was an injustice.
—I had… —The words broke into a strangled sound, more like a sob than speech—. I was going to…
She did not finish, she never did, because even she knew that what she had lost could not be named without revealing too much. Her hands found another object and she threw it without looking, hearing the impact without truly realizing it. The chaos around her grew: fragments of glass, wrinkled fabric, displaced furniture… and at the center of it all, her.
She breathed with difficulty, trembled with fury, and deep down, she was completely incapable of accepting that the world had not stopped to satisfy her desires.
—It should have been mine —she finally whispered, her voice broken but firm in her conviction—. Everything.
The word floated in the air. Everything, the future, the attention, and the perfection.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, the storm had not disappeared, it had simply been contained, as always and as it had to be. She slowly straightened herself, ignoring the destruction around her, allowing her breathing to become more controlled, although the tension still marked every line of her body. Her fingers smoothed her dress automatically, rebuilding an appearance that no longer matched what lay beneath.
Because the tantrum had passed, but Meera Hasty was not a child. Not truly, children shouted, broke things… and then forgot, she did not, she remembered and learned.
Her gaze shifted toward the door, as if she could see beyond it, beyond the corridors, toward those who still did not know they were about to be used: Her children.
This time, the smile that appeared had nothing elegant about it. It was small, cruel, and certain, because if she could not destroy Lyonel directly… then she would ensure that everything around him began to crack from within.
Slowly and patiently… As it should be.
The dinner unfolded with the tense and controlled calm that characterized Storm’s End when it was full. Argilac, along with his wife, and his sister Aelinor with her husband, had traveled there to meet the new members of the family, although the children were already close to reaching their first nameday. Even so, that did not seem to matter much; in Storm’s End, visits were never truly centered around children.
The sound of cutlery, the murmur of conversations, the crackling of the fire against the stone… everything fit into a familiar rhythm. Argilac had grown up among those sounds, between those walls, within that rigid structure where everyone occupied their place without questioning it, where there was no need to impose hierarchies because they were too deeply rooted.
However, every time he returned, it irritated him more because his place had never been the right one and, as always, Argilac spoke.
—It is curious —he commented, resting his elbow on the table with studied naturalness— how some men manage to forge themselves such a... disproportionate reputation in comparison to their true merits.
No one responded, not even with a glance. His smile tightened slightly, but he continued as if nothing had happened, because that was what he did: he persisted until someone was forced to pay attention to him. For years, that someone had been Lyonel, but even that had been taken from him because now his brother ignored him with the same cruel indifference with which he ignored his mother.
—I suppose it does not take much in the Stormlands —he added with a touch of amusement, fixing his gaze on Lyonel, waiting for a reaction, anything, but there was nothing.
Lyonel was completely absorbed in the baby sleeping on his chest, a small mass of dark curls breathing softly against the smooth sleeveless leather jerkin his brother wore, his eyes shining with a love and peace that twisted something in his stomach.
—Much noise, much strength… but little subtlety.
His brother’s omega’s squire did not lift his eyes from his cup; he simply sighed with exhaustion, and Argilac did not need to look at him to know that he had rolled his eyes, while Aelinor’s husband cleared his throat, uncomfortable, but did not intervene either. They were accustomed to it, for speaking about Lyonel—whether in his absence or in his presence—had become Argilac’s favorite pastime.
It was a constant noise, persistent, something that filled the space he had never been allowed to occupy in any other way, but the problem was that Duncan did not ignore him. Argilac could feel his gaze even before seeking it, cold and precise, like ice sliding down his back. He had heard what the omega’s squire had said about him in the corridors; comments that, in any other context, would have ended in a bloodbath, but the boy was protected.
They had always been protected and that made everything worse.
But that night, there was a strange and different tension in Duncan, something that vibrated beneath his skin, and Argilac quickly learned that the best way to tighten that thread was through Lyonel.
—Of course —he continued, leaning slightly forward, as if sharing a secret—, anyone can appear impressive when surrounded by people willing to admire him without question.
This time there was a response, for Duncan raised his gaze with a calm more dangerous than any outburst. His fingers tightened slightly over the table before relaxing, while his other hand slid, almost instinctively, toward his thigh, only a few inches from the dagger he always carried with him, even in a place as protected as this.
When he spoke, his voice was not loud.
—The hole you call a mouth looks a bit too empty right now, so shut it, or I’ll fill it with your own teeth?
Silence took hold of the dining hall immediately, and this time there were looks. Argilac blinked, more surprised that Duncan had spoken than by what had been said, and for an instant, his mind seemed to go blank, readjusting itself, trying to fit what had just happened into a logic that refused to hold.
And then he smiled, slowly and with an air of superiority.
—I did not know that I now had others speaking for him —he replied, tilting his head—. How… endearing.
Duncan did not look away.
—No —he said with the same calm— Lyonel can speak for himself, but he prefers not to waste his breath or words on piss-pots... I speak for myself; I am tired of hearing you spew nonsense for hours at every meal.
Argilac’s smile faltered slightly.
—Then you should remember your place, uncultured beast—
The movement was so fast that Argilac did not see it coming and barely felt the impact of the table against his hips, nor the pull at his jerkin when Duncan lifted him from the chair, dragging him forward, leaning over the table enough to invade his space without losing balance. There was no clumsiness or hesitation, something Argilac was accustomed to.
—My place —Duncan repeated, his voice now lower, closer, firmer— is beside my husband.
His fingers tightened slightly in the fabric, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make clear that he could.
—And yours —he continued, tilting his head slightly, his gaze fixed, hard in a way that did not fit with his usual gentleness or shyness— You seem to talk too much for someone who hasn't done anything worthy of being heard. In fact, the only notable thing you've done lately is detach yourself from your mother's skirts to take a piss… and dream of getting between my legs, though I'm certain you don't even have anything to please with, seeing how miserable your wife looks.
The atmosphere changed, and not only because of the words, but because of the scent. Lyonel’s fury grew, dense and electric, mixing with Duncan’s until it became almost unbearable, burning his nose and pressing against his chest.
That destroyed him, not the insult or the threat, but the recognition of his lowest desires that he did not even dare admit to himself. Argilac swallowed, feeling for the first time that something in his arrogance truly cracked; it did not disappear, but became unstable… wounded… and, therefore, more dangerous.
—Are you going to hit me? —he murmured, attempting to regain ground, clinging to the only thing he could still turn into a challenge—. In front of everyone?
Duncan held him for one more second, unmoving, impassive.
—If you do not shut up, yes —he finally replied, releasing him with the same calm with which he had grabbed him as he returned to his seat— And if you keep speaking about Lyonel… I will do more than that.
Duncan sat back down, but nothing truly returned to its place, and that was the first thing Argilac found unbearable because things did not work that way. They never had.
There had always been an order, an invisible structure that supported every interaction, every word, every gesture, even when no one mentioned it aloud. Someone crossed a limit, someone corrected them, and balance was restored. It was simple, natural, and correct, however, there was no correction, for no one spoke, no one intervened, no one did anything.
Argilac remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, still feeling the tension of his jerkin’s fabric, the echo of the contact against his chest, while something began to settle in an abnormal way inside him, like a piece forced into a place where it did not belong. It was not a new sensation, and that was precisely what irritated him most upon recognizing it.
It was the same, always the same, the same feeling he had experienced since childhood. That diffuse and persistent discomfort that appeared every time the world did not react as it should, every time he extended his hand expecting to find something—attention, recognition, response—and instead found silence.
It had always been this way.
He had always had to try a little harder, speak a little louder, insist a little more, because otherwise, there was nothing. He clenched his jaw, but this time he did not push the feeling away or reject it. He held it, analyzed it, examined it from another angle, searching—as always—for the correct way to understand it.
And he found it.
It was not that he was out of place; he never had been, it was that the others did not know how to see him, and his mother had explained it to him so many times that there was no longer any doubt. There were things that were given, yes, but only to those who did not know their value; the others had to take them. They had to claim them because no one willingly handed over what mattered, not without being pressured, not without being forced to recognize what was obvious.
And he… had always drawn attention, much more than Lyonel, although no one seemed to realize it.
Lyonel did nothing, he never had. He simply existed, and the world organized itself around him as if it had been designed to support him, and he did not have to strive, he did not have to demand, he did not have to fight for anything, because everything reached him even before he needed it.
The heir, the perfect alpha, the one who smiled and everyone responded, who spoke and everyone listened.
Argilac felt something harden in his chest as he looked at him now, sitting there, completely unaware of everything that had just happened, with the child sleeping against his body as if that were the center of the world and nothing else mattered. And the worst part was not that… The worst part was that everyone seemed to accept it as such.
His gaze then turned toward Duncan, more slowly, more deliberately, studying him without hurry, as if he needed to understand the exact point where everything had gone wrong because that was an error.
An omega did not do that, did not speak like that, did not move like that, did not occupy that space as if it belonged to him, and yet Duncan did, not because he could, but because he had been allowed to believe he could. The idea settled with an almost comforting clarity, arranging everything that moments before had seemed chaotic. It was not a real break, nor a loss of control; it was an illusion maintained for too long, a deviation that no one had corrected yet.
And that was all that was needed: correction and reminder, putting everything back in its place, because none of this was permanent.
None of it was fixed, neither Lyonel, nor that perfect world that seemed to have built itself around him without effort, and much less Duncan. No one truly belonged to a place like that unless someone else allowed it, and what was allowed could be taken away.
Always.
That thought calmed him, infiltrating his interior with a dangerous softness, replacing the initial discomfort with something much more stable, much more familiar. Control. That was what he had lost for an instant, and that was what he was recovering now.
Argilac leaned back in his seat as if nothing had happened, as if the brief lapse of minutes before had been nothing more than that: a momentary error in an order he understood better than anyone. His breathing calmed, his posture recovered that naturalness that always hid tension, and for an instant he seemed willing to leave it there.
But Argilac’s smile returned, just enough for the irritation to rise again with greater force, pushing him forward and forcing him to regain ground, because he could not lose, not against him and not in front of everyone.
—If it bothers you so much, then you should go eat in the kitchens, remember where you come from: the trash —he spat, and there he chose to cross the line, where he allowed the worst of himself, what his mother had fed for years without him ever naming it as such, to take control—. Or perhaps someone should teach your husband to control his bitch before she starts biting where she should not.
The world did not stop, but something in the room did, and this time, Lyonel reacted. Not with fury or immediate violence, but with something far worse, he raised his gaze toward Duncan, and in his eyes there was no anger or surprise, only a dark satisfaction, evident, almost… proud, animal, and hungry.
—Do not hold back, my beloved.
That was all that was needed.
What Argilac managed to see just before the world violently tilted away from him had nothing to do with the omega who had been sitting across from him during meals for weeks, it was something completely different.
The blow came quickly, dryly, and without the slightest warning, Duncan tore him from the chair with a single pull, slamming him against the floor with a force that emptied his lungs completely; an impact so brutal that his bones vibrated before he could process what was happening. There was not the slightest hint of hesitation nor a second of reprieve.
Argilac tried to rise, but the next blow caught him fully and split his brow against the edge of the table, flooding his mouth with the thick, metallic taste of his own blood, he wanted to react, but the situation was no longer in his hands.
Duncan did not fight like a noble, he did not seek to prove anything or maintain appearances. Each of his movements was pure instinct, efficient and devoid of embellishment, guided by something far darker than a simple tantrum. The fist crushed into his mouth and Argilac felt the crack before understanding it: a pair of teeth gave way beneath the impact while a blinding white flash exploded behind his eyes.
The air became heavy, reeking of iron, fury, and a much thicker and more dangerous scent: Pure Desire, and he did not need to look at his brother to know it came from him. Argilac felt it seep into his skin while his survival instinct screamed too late and fear finished breaking down all his defenses.
—Is that all? —he managed to spit through the blood, forcing a broken smile through the blows, clinging to the damned pride that refused to release him—. Is that what…?
A dry backhand left him dazed, and although it was not meant to crack his skull, it felt as though it had, though a part of him knew Duncan was only fulfilling his promise: shutting his mouth once and for all.
The floor tilted and Argilac’s thoughts drowned in a dull and suffocating buzzing, but then… he heard laughter.
Lyonel had not moved nor given a single order, he had not made the slightest attempt to stop what was happening and remained relaxed in his seat, comfortable, as if this was not absolute chaos, but the natural order of things.
Duncan was not finished with him, he lifted him by the neck only to strike him in the cheekbone, tearing the flesh open with a dry blow. Argilac knew he did not want to kill him, and that was the truly fucked part… He was marking him, leaving him a reminder on his face so that every time he looked in the mirror, he would remember exactly his place.
—I believe he understands the message now, Ser.
—Yes, my precious Doe… I believe Argilac will learn to swallow his words and smiles, perhaps then he will begin to listen.
When Duncan dropped him like a sack of garbage, Argilac could barely support his own weight, breathing in gasps, his face soaked in blood and his vision gone in one eye from the swelling of the cut, with a pair of his teeth adorning the dining hall stone while silence became deafening around him.
Argilac, staggering, forced his gaze upward, Lyonel was still smiling and observing the scene with eyes burning with pride and desire for his omega, yet wrapped in a terrifying calm: the absolute certainty of one who held total control of the situation.
And there on the floor, with his face destroyed and swallowing his own blood, Argilac collided head-on with a truth he could not twist, nor disguise, nor rewrite in his favor. For the first time in his life, as he looked at his older brother, he understood everything: It was not what Lyonel was… It was what he would never become, and that weight sank far deeper than any wound.