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Duncan didn’t know the reason for it; maybe it was his alpha instincts, or something like that. But when Aerion hit the fourth month—well, weeks, really; he still didn’t quite grasp how that worked—that’s when a primitive hunger settled into his bones. He couldn’t explain it, especially because that’s when Aerion truly started to show, and it wasn’t just a slight curve anymore; it was like a watermelon, or a dragon egg, as Aerion liked to say, joking about his own ancestors. It was a big baby—thanks to those genes—much larger than a typical four-month pregnancy, so it needed more room, and there Duncan was, haunted by these nagging instincts he couldn't shake. He didn't know if it was because Aerion was constantly walking around the apartment with his belly on display, but while Duncan had always loved touching him, now it was an obsession. He needed to be touching that belly at all times: when they slept, when Duncan stood behind him... his hand was always there. Before the bump even showed, he’d been all over him, hovering like a guard protecting a prince. But, damn—Duncan really, really loved touching Aerion’s belly. He wasn’t sure if it was a new kink yet, but for now, he was just enjoying the view, especially when Aerion’s clothes stopped fitting like they used to.
He watched from the edge of the bed as the blond struggled with a pair of tight jeans, the curve of his stomach making it impossible to close them; Aerion was huffing, hopping slightly as he tried to force the button into the hole.
“Seriously, this is your fault,” Aerion muttered finally, giving up on the hopping and trying to push the button manually. “I’m serious. I’m barely twenty weeks. I shouldn’t be showing like this, idiot.”
Duncan did feel a little guilty. Just a little.
He knew Aerion liked being pregnant—he’d admitted it more than once—but Duncan hadn’t expected his own genes to be quite this enthusiastic about the process. His gaze followed as Aerion lifted his shirt, revealing the full curve of his stomach; the skin there looked soft and smooth. No stretch marks yet—because Aerion insisted on those oils Duncan had to massage into his stomach every night—but the sight of it still did something strange to Duncan’s chest.
It was… adorable.
He didn’t say that out loud. Instead, the big man pushed himself off the bed and stepped closer, and without thinking, his hand came up and settled over Aerion’s stomach, his palm easily spanning the curve. It still amazed him how small Aerion seemed beneath his hands.
“Seriously,” Duncan said, voice mild, “how many times am I supposed to apologize for this?”
Aerion glared.
“And besides,” Duncan continued, gesturing vaguely toward the enormous wardrobe, “you have hundreds of jeans. I literally built you a bigger closet.”
Aerion’s glare turned into a thin grimace. “But I want these, idiot. I like these.” He paused, giving Duncan a once-over. “Maybe you’ll understand when you learn something about fashion.”
Duncan snorted quietly.
“Besides,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave, “whatever. I’ll wear them anyway.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow. “Is that easy?”
Aerion immediately punched him in the shoulder. Hard. “If you keep that up, I’m not letting you touch it anymore. I’m serious.” He pointed accusingly at Duncan’s hand. “Especially since we’ll have events soon and you’ll start doing that in public.”
Duncan made a face. They had agreed not to tell anyone yet; Aerion wanted to announce the pregnancy in his own way—something dramatic, probably. Duncan had seen those ridiculous announcement parties online with colored smoke and fireworks and environmental disasters waiting to happen, so hopefully, Aerion had something less explosive in mind. Still, they’d passed the first three months. The usual risks were behind them. But Duncan couldn’t help himself; he took photos of Aerion every week. Sometimes every day.
“You’re not innocent either,” Duncan said, a small grin tugging at his mouth.
Aerion looked up suspiciously, frowning.
“You’re always touching it too,” Duncan continued. “During meetings. On video calls. When we’re eating. When we’re watching movies.” His grin widened. “Your hand just goes there automatically.”
Aerion said nothing. But the silence gave him away.
Duncan bent slightly and pressed a kiss to Aerion’s cheek; catching him like that—over something small—was always satisfying. Aerion hated being called out. It was Aerion who usually sent Duncan pictures during the day while he worked at the shop; sometimes random selfies, sometimes photos of nothing in particular. Aerion had been born into obscene wealth; Duncan had not. Even so, Aerion constantly told him the same thing: Don’t work. Come stay with me. Just be with me. But Duncan liked working; he liked the grease on his hands, the calluses on his palms, and the feeling that something belonged to him. And when Aerion got bored, he sent pictures. Lately, they were mirror photos from the massive closet Duncan had built in their apartment, where Aerion would lift his shirt just enough to reveal the growing curve.
“Your son hasn’t stopped giving me heartburn. Bring pickles, chili, and the spiciest food you can find. I’m serious.”
Duncan grinned like an idiot. His gallery was full of their life: first, the early days of their relationship; then Aerion’s tattoos—especially the beautiful dragon that stretched across his back—and now the child growing between them, week by week. It was stupid how much he loved it.
“Looking at your phone during work?” Raymun’s voice cut in. His coworker stood nearby with a wrench in hand, glaring toward the half-finished car in the garage. “I thought we were finishing this one today.”
Duncan slipped the phone into his pocket, still smiling faintly. “It’s Aerion,” he said. “He’s bored.”
Raymun rolled his eyes. “And when isn’t he? Maybe if he got off his ass once in his life and—”
“Raymun,” Duncan said quietly.
The other man sighed. Raymun had never liked Duncan’s relationship with Aerion; the rumors around the Targaryen family, Aerion’s personality, and the wealth—none of it sat well with him. The only member of that family he seemed to respect was Baelor Targaryen, one of the few politicians people actually trusted.
Raymun shrugged. “I’m just saying. Shouldn’t he be on his fifth vacation of the year or something?”
“Actually, he’s freelancing right now,” Duncan replied calmly. “You know he runs social media accounts and does photography.”
Aerion could defend himself perfectly well, Duncan knew that. But lately, something in him insisted on stepping in anyway—alpha instincts.
“Whatever,” Raymun muttered.
Duncan wiped his hands on a rag. “Why don’t you check the Jeep that just came in?”
Raymun grumbled but eventually walked away. Duncan headed upstairs to his small office overlooking the garage; through the large windows, he could see the entire shop floor below. He sat down, pulled out his phone, and typed a reply.
“I’ll bring everything you want and more. Get some rest. Yesterday, you said the baby was exhausting you. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
The reply came almost immediately.
A photo. Aerion sat on the floor of their bedroom, surrounded by baby clothes they had started buying, and with one hand rested protectively over the round curve of his belly. Duncan’s heart sped up in his chest. Yeah.
He really loved this.
Duncan had fallen in love with Aerion because he was a force of nature. Aerion had never been like the omegas Duncan had known before. He was sharp-edged, difficult, sarcastic, and quick to snap when someone annoyed him. Half the world seemed convinced he was unbearable. Maybe some of his own family believed that too. But Duncan knew better. If anyone truly knew Aerion, it was him. Especially now. There were moments, lately, when the cold mask Aerion wore around everyone else simply… slipped away.
Like tonight. Aerion was stretched across the couch in their apartment, wearing loose sweatpants and one of Duncan’s old rugby shirts. The fabric hung oversized on him, sliding up just enough that the curve of his belly was clearly visible. One hand rested there automatically, fingers spread over the warm roundness, while the hem of the shirt stayed bunched high enough to expose a strip of pale skin. The bump was impossible to miss now. Duncan watched him from the other end of the couch, the television murmuring in the background. Some show was playing, something Aerion had chosen earlier, but neither of them was really paying attention anymore.
Aerion had changed since the pregnancy. Not entirely—he was still terrifying when he wanted to be, still capable of ruining someone’s entire day with a single comment—but there was something softer underneath it now. Something quieter. He has spent more time at home lately. Sometimes he would sit for hours scrolling through baby things online. Other times, he complained about those pregnancy apps that compared the baby’s size to fruit.
“A banana?” he scoffed once. “The baby is definitely bigger than a banana.”
Considering the doctor had mentioned their baby was already measuring slightly ahead, Duncan suspected Aerion might be right. Duncan shifted closer across the couch until the space between them disappeared. He slipped his arm around Aerion’s shoulders without thinking, pulling him in. Aerion leaned into him automatically, resting his head against Duncan’s shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Valarr’s wedding is soon,” Aerion said after a moment, sounding bored, as though family weddings happened every other week. For the Targaryens, though, that wasn’t far from the truth. Their events always turned into spectacles, the kind the world wanted to watch. “I’m choosing what you’ll wear,” Aerion added casually.
Duncan glanced down at him. “You always choose what I wear.”
A small pause. “Since we started dating,” Duncan continued, amused, “I’ve noticed you tend to throw away any shirt that has grease on it.”
Aerion made a face. His hand was still resting on his stomach, but suddenly his expression tightened. Duncan straightened immediately. “Are you okay?”
Aerion shook his head lightly. “He’s just moving.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Duncan’s hand moved to Aerion’s belly, covering the place where Aerion’s palm had been. “Do you feel that?” Aerion murmured, glancing down. “He’s starting to move more.”
Duncan smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. “Maybe he knows he’s going to a party soon,” Duncan said lightly. “Trying to make an entrance.”
Aerion looked up at him with a glare that only made Duncan grin wider. A few years ago, that glare might have intimidated him. Now it mostly reminded him of an angry rabbit—nose wrinkling slightly, irritation flashing across his face. A thought Duncan wisely kept to himself.
“Idiot,” Aerion muttered, looking back down at his stomach. “The baby knows I’ll introduce him properly when the time comes. And he knows I plan to wear my best pants to that event.”
Duncan laughed softly, leaning down to kiss Aerion’s cheek before standing up. “Yeah,” he said. “That’ll be fun to watch.” He glanced pointedly at the round curve of Aerion’s stomach. “I think the baby has other plans.”
Aerion placed both hands over his belly now, lifting his gaze slowly. “You’re becoming very annoying,” he said flatly. “If you keep that up, you won’t be sleeping with me tonight.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow. “In fact,” Aerion continued coolly, “I could easily make sure you don’t sleep with me for the rest of this pregnancy.”
Duncan shook his head, unconvinced. Years ago, he might have believed that threat. Now he knew better. These days, Aerion clung to him at night like an octopus. “That would be interesting to see,” Duncan said mildly. Then he added, “Although if you do that, I might stop making those midnight snacks you keep craving.”
Aerion immediately grabbed a nearby pillow and threw it at him. Duncan only laughed. Truthfully, Aerion wasn’t unbearable during the pregnancy. If anything, he’d grown more affectionate—though he’d never admit it out loud. The symptoms were more noticeable now, though. Sometimes Aerion would fall asleep out of nowhere. Certain smells made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, and his back often hurt, especially at night. Duncan took care of every craving, every complaint, every request. Partly because he was excited about the baby, and partly because when Aerion winced and rubbed his lower back, Duncan couldn’t help feeling responsible somehow. Even when Aerion grumbled about it, there was usually a small smile hiding somewhere.
The wedding was being held at one of the Targaryen countryside estates that had recently been renovated. Technically, it was a small wedding. At least by Targaryen standards. Duncan had known the family long before he ever started dating Aerion. Years ago, he’d coached rugby for several of them. Back then, they had already been famous—controversial, powerful, whispered about all across Europe. There weren’t many Targaryens left. But the rumors about them were endless. Duncan had always stayed far away from gossip and celebrity circles.
Yet somehow,w he had still fallen in love with one of them. Ironically, with the one everyone seemed to dislike the most. But nobody understood Aerion the way Duncan did. “You’ll have to drink for me,” Aerion said seriously. They were in their room at the estate, surrounded by the chaos of unpacked suitcases and scattered clothes. The kind of mess that only two people getting ready for a wedding could create. “I’m serious, Duncan.”
Duncan sat on the edge of the bed in dress pants and a white shirt, watching Aerion carefully. Aerion was trying to get dressed—and failing. He wore elegant trousers that no longer closed properly, along with a sheer black shirt that also refused to cooperate. The dragon tattoo across his back was still visible through the fabric, but the curve of his belly was even more obvious tonight.
Duncan was fairly certain Aerion looked more pregnant now than he ever had. Duncan grimaced. “Aerion… gods. You can’t even get your rings on anymore,” he said gently. “And when you sit down, your belly barely fits under the table.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell them?”
Aerion placed his hands on his hips. “Now? Seriously?” He scoffed. “Valarr isn’t exactly my favorite person, but my father and uncle would murder me if I stole this moment from them.” He paused thoughtfully. “Not that I haven’t considered it,” he added. Duncan laughed. “But if we ever get married,” Aerion continued, “I would absolutely hate someone announcing a pregnancy during my big moment.”
Duncan’s smile turned softer at the word married. Aerion rarely said things like that out loud, but they both understood the future they were building.
“Then just say you’re not drinking,” Duncan suggested, gently pulling Aerion closer. Aerion stepped between Duncan’s knees automatically as Duncan’s hands settled at his waist. “That’s probably the easiest solution.”
Aerion made a skeptical face. “Right. Because that would be believable.” He snorted. “That’s like when Daeron says he’s quitting alcohol for a few days. Do you really think anyone will believe me?”
Duncan winced. “Okay… fair point.”
Then he sighed softly. “Still,” he said quietly, “maybe we should’ve told them already.”
Aerion’s hands slid up to Duncan’s shoulders. “Not yet.”
He paused. “Now help me with my shoes. I think this baby is making his presence very clear tonight.”
It took them far too long to actually leave the room. Aerion fought with half his wardrobe. Nothing fits properly anymore. The shirt wouldn’t close, the boots were tight, and his rings refused to slide onto swollen fingers. At one point, he complained about sensitivity in his chest. At another, he nearly demanded sex, something Duncan refused with heroic restraint. They were at a wedding, for god’s sake. Still, Duncan couldn’t keep his hands entirely to himself. He kissed Aerion’s neck. Ran his fingers along his waist. Brushed his palm over the curve of his stomach again and again like an instinct he couldn’t control. An alpha marked what was his.
Not that Aerion was any better. They had been marking each other for years. Later, seated beside Aerion during the ceremony in the private garden, Duncan barely paid attention to the vows. The estate was beautiful, hidden from photographers, filled only with the remaining Targaryens and a few close friends. Aerion looked unimpressed by the whole spectacle. Duncan, however, rested his hand quietly over the curve of Aerion’s belly.
His partner. His soulmate. The baby shifted faintly beneath his palm.
And Duncan smiled to himself, thinking that one day—maybe not too far from now—it might be their turn to stand there and promise each other forever. Talking to Aegon was… complicated now. Duncan knew it the moment he approached him. The kid wasn’t a kid anymore—not the ten-year-old he had met years ago, full of curiosity and awkward energy. Now, Aegon was a teenager, loud, restless, brimming with ideas and emotions that seemed to spill out faster than he could contain them. Duncan mostly nodded, chuckled at the right moments, letting Aegon talk.
He moved through the reception like that—through conversations, through clusters of familiar names and faces. He spoke with Daeron, who still held a drink like it was an extension of his hand; with Aemond, who had made an appearance despite everything; with distant relatives and family friends. He even managed to congratulate the newlyweds again when he caught a brief moment with them.
Too many names. Too many important people.
Lannisters. Starks. Others from the same tight, suffocating social circle that always seemed to orbit the Targaryens. But eventually, Duncan found his way back to Aerion. And the moment he did, the concern hit him fully. He had been drinking most of the glasses meant for Aerion—keeping up appearances, accepting whatever was handed to them—but now, standing close, one arm settling instinctively around Aerion’s waist, he could see it clearly.
Aerion looked exhausted.
He had been trying to hide it all night—pulling his posture straight, keeping his movements controlled, subtly holding his stomach in whenever someone looked too closely. Duncan had noticed every single attempt, but he hadn’t called him out on it.
Not here.
Not when Aerion already looked like he was pushing himself too far.
“I told you…” Duncan muttered, shaking his head as he grabbed two drinks from a passing tray, keeping up the act. “If we had told them a few days ago, this wouldn’t be happening.”
Aerion turned his head slowly. That look—the one that could kill. Duncan swallowed the rest of his sentence without argument. He watched, though, how Aerion resisted the urge to rest a hand over his belly, and he watched how his shoulders slumped for just a second too long between conversations.
“You know,” Aerion said, voice edged with irritation, “if you had come earlier, you could’ve helped with Maekar.” He exhaled sharply and dropped into one of the carefully arranged chairs, posture losing some of its rigid control. “When did Father start wearing such a terrible cologne?” Aerion added, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Everything smells awful here.”
Duncan didn’t hesitate. He pulled a chair closer and sat beside him, closing the distance entirely.
“Aerion…” His voice softened, concerned, slipping through more clearly now. He reached for Aerion’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re twenty-three weeks,” Duncan said quietly. “You were falling asleep during the ceremony, and now the smells are getting to you.”
His thumb brushed over Aerion’s knuckles. “Do you want to leave?”
Aerion closed his eyes for a moment. He took a slow breath, then another, grounding himself. His hands rested on his thighs as he steadied his breathing. Duncan’s hand moved to his back, rubbing slow, firm circles, the way he had learned helped when the aches started. His other hand drifted—almost unconsciously—to Aerion’s stomach, resting there lightly.
The contact was instinct now. Even if Duncan hated seeing him like this. He had been there for all of it—the first dizzy spells, the nausea, the sudden exhaustion, the way Aerion’s body had started to change in ways neither of them could ignore. Aerion exhaled and reached down, pushing Duncan’s hand off his belly with a small glare.
“I’m not giving up that easily,” he said. “I still have twenty weeks left. I’m barely halfway through this.”
Then, as if to prove his point, he stood up. Too fast. Duncan saw the slight sway immediately and was on his feet in the next second, hand hovering near him.
“Aerion—”
“I’m fine,” Aerion cut him off, though his balance took a second to settle. “You’re acting like I’m fragile.” He shot him a look. “You know I can still kick your ass.”
Duncan huffed a quiet laugh, glancing around. Everyone else was wrapped up in their own conversations, their own drinks, their own worlds. For a moment, it felt like the two of them were in their own separate space.
“I know,” Duncan said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “But I think I’m allowed to worry when my partner gets dizzy and suddenly develops a superpower for smelling everything in the room.”
Aerion rolled his eyes.
“You’ll just have to keep drinking for me,” he said, stepping away slightly. “And don’t get handsy. You turn into an octopus when you’re drunk.” A beat. “That’s how we ended up like this the first time,” he added dryly. “You get very romantic with alcohol.”
Duncan made a face, then leaned in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You like me like that,” he murmured. Then, more seriously, “If you feel worse, tell me. We can leave, and we’ll make something up.”
Aerion waved him off with a small scoff, nudging his shoulder. “Relax, giant. I can handle a party. A baby isn’t going to defeat me.”
After that, the night blurred. Even for Duncan. Conversations overlapped. Drinks kept appearing in his hands—mojitos, gin and tonics, things he barely registered before swallowing. Aerion passed him glasses when people weren’t looking, pretending to drink while Duncan took them instead. Duncan stayed close. Always close. Closer, maybe, than he should have been.
Because now that Aerion was actively hiding the curve of his belly, Duncan could see the effort it took. The way he held himself. The way he endured the discomfort without complaint. And it made something restless rise in Duncan’s chest. By the time they ended up talking with Daeron again, Duncan knew he was at least a little drunk.
Not gone—but warm, loose, his cheeks flushed. His hands refused to stay still. They kept settling at Aerion’s waist, pulling him closer, holding him there longer than necessary. Aerion looked good. Too good. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the heat, his outfit straining just enough to make Duncan’s thoughts drift in dangerous directions. The urge to drag him somewhere private, to touch him without restraint, to—
“I think you should tell Valarr I’m leaving,” Aerion said suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. He had one arm loosely around Duncan’s waist, steadying him as much as holding him close. “And I’ll take this one with me,” he added, nodding toward Duncan. “He’s clearly had enough.”
Daeron looked between them, unimpressed.
“Right. Because our dear cousin has definitely noticed we’re even here,” he said dryly, taking a sip of his drink. “Last I saw, he was too busy dancing with Kiara to care.”
He shrugged. “I doubt our father or our uncle will notice either. They look… suspiciously happy for once.”
Aerion made a face. “Just say it,” he muttered. “I’m leaving before he makes a scene.” He paused. “And if my father asks, tell him I wasn’t feeling like socializing. He’s already suspicious that I've been skipping family events.”
Daeron snorted. “I’ll tell him you left to fuck your partner,” he said bluntly. “Seems more believable.”
Aerion rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable. Go flirt with someone and leave me alone,” he shot back. “Even our younger brother is doing better than you. I saw him talking to Betha Blackwood.”
Daeron only waved him off, already turning back to his drink. By the time they made it back to their room, the shift from noise to silence felt almost unreal. Duncan barely made it to the bed before dropping onto it, completely spent, and Aerion lingered for a moment, watching him. The irritation from earlier had softened into something quieter. He stepped closer, sitting beside him, and reached out—fingers brushing gently along Duncan’s cheek.
There was a pause.
A small one. Then his hand drifted down, almost unconsciously, resting over his own stomach again. The baby shifted faintly beneath his palm. Aerion exhaled.
Maybe… soon. Soon, they could finally tell everyone.
Aerion’s belly kept growing. Day by day, week by week, it stretched further, rounder, fuller—more than what anyone would call typical for this stage. And Duncan… Duncan found it almost unbearably endearing. In a way that made something instinctive and possessive stir under his skin. He wanted to touch him. Always. To keep him close, to press his hands there, to guard him from everything. Aerion had always been beautiful to him, sharp, untouchable, dangerous, but now there was something else layered over it.
Something softer. Something that made Duncan want to bite, to hold, to stay.
Aerion would hate the word adorable. He always had. But Duncan had never stopped thinking about it. And now? Now it was impossible to ignore. He stepped into the apartment and found him in the living room, sprawled across the couch like he owned the place—as usual. His shirt was pushed up, his belly fully on display, round and firm and unmistakably large, and balanced right on top of it…A cupcake.
Duncan dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room without hesitation, leaning down to kiss him properly before he could even comment. When he pulled back, his hand immediately settled over Aerion’s stomach, thumb brushing along the curve.
“Seriously?” Duncan asked, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Are you using it as a tray now?”
Aerion gave him a flat look. The kind that warned him not to push too far. Duncan knew these weeks hadn’t been easy. He’d heard every complaint—hips aching, back sore, the baby too big, too active, too restless at night. He’d been there for all of it, massaging, fetching, dealing with cravings that made no sense. And still, Aerion refused to tell anyone. They were closing in on thirty weeks, and the secret was still theirs alone.
“You know what your baby did today?” Aerion muttered, irritation laced through his voice as he took another bite of the cupcake—still balanced on his belly. “This baby of yours is causing chaos.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, now it’s my baby?” he said lightly. “When they kick and keep you up, it's mine. But when it lets you sleep, suddenly it's yours?”
Aerion nodded without hesitation, continuing to eat. “Yes. That’s exactly how this works now.”
Then, after a second, his expression shifted. “…Do you feel that?” Carefully, he took Duncan’s hand and guided it lower, pressing it against a different spot on his stomach. There it was. Movement. Small, insistent kicks—stronger than before, more deliberate. Like the baby was stretching, pushing, making space where there wasn’t enough. Duncan’s smile softened instantly.
He never got used to it. Not really. “Hasn’t stopped for two hours,” Aerion said, frowning slightly as he shifted Duncan’s hand again. “Just kicking and moving. It feels like he’s trying to rearrange everything in there.” He exhaled sharply. “Definitely your rugby genes.”
Duncan laughed—full, genuine, the sound rumbling out of him before he could stop it. “Hey,” he said, still smiling, “you like those rugby genes. Or did you forget how we ended up together?” He tilted his head, teasing. “I’m pretty sure you were the one saying we had to celebrate after I won that game—”
Aerion smacked his arm. “Duncan.”
Duncan winced, rubbing the spot. Aerion rolled his eyes, finally lifting the cupcake off his stomach and setting it aside. Then, with a small huff, he pulled his shirt higher. The sight made Duncan pause. Twenty-seven weeks. And Aerion looked… more. The belly was bigger than expected, stretching the skin smooth and tight. The shape was prominent, heavy, the kind that made it obvious even without context. His body had changed around it—his chest fuller, his posture subtly adjusted to carry the extra weight.
Duncan had heard the comments at every appointment.
Bigger than average. Measuring ahead.
And he’d heard Aerion’s quiet irritation every single time. I know I’m big. You don’t have to say it every visit.
“Aerion—what am I supposed to be looking at?” Duncan asked gently.
“Look at my damn navel,” Aerion snapped, pointing.
Duncan leaned in slightly, frowning. It had changed. Flattened, pushed outward more than before.
“I had to take the piercing out,” Aerion continued, clearly annoyed. “It looks weird.”
Duncan tilted his head. “The doctor told you that would happen,” he reminded him. “She literally said it would change as the weeks go on.”
He caught Aerion’s hand when he started scratching at the skin. “Hey. Don’t.”
Aerion frowned deeper. “You don’t get it. It itches—constantly,” he muttered, already trying to scratch again. “First the nipple piercings, then this one, and now my skin won’t stop…”
Duncan didn’t argue. He just moved closer and replaced Aerion’s hand with his own, palm warm and steady as he smoothed it over the stretched skin. Slow. Careful. He felt it immediately, the way Aerion’s body eased under his touch, just slightly. Not enough to erase the irritation, but enough to soften it. Aerion still looked annoyed, still scrunched his nose the way he always did when something bothered him. But he didn’t pull away.
“You know,” Duncan said after a moment, tone lighter, “we could always solve this by telling people.” Aerion glanced at him. “We’re going to have a baby,” Duncan added, almost teasing. “Your father is going to start suspecting something. Your uncle and aunt were already looking at you strangely at the wedding.”
Aerion held his gaze for a second. Then, deliberately, he pulled his shirt back down—though it barely covered everything now—and pushed himself up from the couch. Duncan was already there, steadying him without making it obvious.
“No,” Aerion said simply. He placed his hands behind his back, posture straight despite the weight he carried. “We’ll tell them when I decide it’s time.” A pause. “And right now? You just made my mood worse.” He turned, walking slowly toward the room they had been preparing for the baby. Duncan watched the slight shift in his steps, the careful pace. Aerion stopped at the doorway and glanced back. “You’ve lost your touching privileges,” he added flatly. “Idiot.”
Duncan didn’t even hesitate. He followed. Of course he did.
He caught up quickly, slipping his arms around Aerion from behind, hands settling right back where they always seemed to belong—over the curve of his stomach. He lifted him slightly, just enough to pull him closer.
“Come on,” Duncan murmured near his ear, voice low, softer now. “We could do something nice. Tell them properly. It’s the first baby in the family.”
His lips brushed against Aerion’s neck, careful, unhurried.
“Your father would be happy. Your brothers, too.” He felt the way Aerion inhaled, then exhaled slowly, his body reacting despite himself. “Just think about it,” Duncan added quietly.
Aerion didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t push him off either.
And for now— That was enough.
Twenty-nine weeks arrived faster than either of them expected. Duncan felt it in everything—the way time suddenly mattered. He pushed through work harder than usual, closing projects early, leaving things organized so he could step away when the baby came. He wanted time. Real-time. With Aerion, with their child. And at home, everything was changing too. The nursery was half-finished, a mix of soft neutrals and small bursts of color that Aerion insisted didn’t count as “overly sentimental.” Plants sat by the window, fabrics were draped over the crib Duncan still had to assemble, and boxes of baby things were stacked in corners.
For now, they still called the baby little flame, but Aerion…Aerion looked like he was about to burst. He hadn’t even reached thirty-two weeks, and already he moved more slowly, one hand often braced at the small of his back, the other resting low on his stomach like he needed the support. Walking left him breathless. He barely left the apartment anymore, inventing excuses for every invitation.
Duncan watched him now, truly watched him. Aerion’s face had softened, rounding out in a way that made him look younger yet more fragile. He had effectively declared war on his own wardrobe, commandeering Duncan’s largest t-shirts because nothing else fit. Duncan secretly loved it—seeing his omega swallowed in his clothes, scenting them, weaving them into the elaborate "nest" of pillows that now occupied three-quarters of their bed.
Even that ridiculous pregnancy pillow. Duncan hated it. Because somehow, it had become a competition.
“Now he’s going to move,” Aerion muttered beside him.
They were sitting in the clinic, surrounded by other omegas and their partners. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sweet, and Duncan could feel the occasional glance drifting their way. Aerion shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting the belt wrapped under his belly, his fingers pressing briefly into the fabric as if testing the support.
“I’m tired of not being able to buy anything I like,” he added, irritation slipping through. “Everything is rabbits and pastel nonsense.”
Duncan’s hand rested over his stomach, steady and familiar. He had taken the entire day off for this. After the appointment, they were supposed to look at more baby things. Not that Duncan minded. He found all of it quietly endearing.
“You know,” Duncan said, thumb brushing over the curve, “right now he’s about the size of a broccoli.”
Aerion turned his head slowly. “A broccoli?” he repeated flatly. “More like a watermelon.”
His nose scrunched slightly. “I’ve been eating spicy food just to get him to move.”
Duncan laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, and that’s definitely helping your heartburn.” His hand didn’t stop moving, slow, grounding circles against Aerion’s stomach. “And for the record,” he added, glancing at him, “the clothes you picked are good. Really good.”
Aerion made a face.
“I’m tired of calling him the baby,” he said after a moment, his hand sliding over his belly again, fingers splaying as if he could feel every shift inside. “It’s boring. I want to start calling them—”
“Don’t,” Duncan cut in quickly, glancing around out of habit. “Not that name.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Especially not that one. The one from your great-uncle with all those insane stories.” His hand slipped under the edge of Aerion’s shirt, calloused palm pressing directly against warm, stretched skin. “I told you I don’t like it.”
Aerion exhaled sharply. “Of course you don’t,” he snapped. “You’re not the one carrying him, are you? You’re not the one gaining weight, or running to the bathroom every thirty minutes, or dealing with—”
“I know,” Duncan interrupted, softer this time. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against Aerion’s cheek, lingering just a second. “I know,” he repeated quietly. “But… Can we think about it a little more? Just in case.” A pause. “What if it’s a girl?”
Aerion didn’t hesitate. “No.”
His voice was firm, decisive. “When you carry a baby, alpha, you can name it,” he said, eyes sharp. “Right now? I’m carrying your giant child. So I decide.”
Duncan let it go. Because at that moment, a nurse called their name.
It was a boy.
A strong one.
After weeks of him hiding during scans—turning away, crossing his legs, refusing to cooperate—he finally showed himself. Aerion lay back on the examination table, one hand gripping Duncan’s tightly, the other resting protectively over the side of his belly. The gel was cold against his skin, the machine humming softly as the doctor moved the probe. And then—There he was.
Clear. Unmistakable.
The sound of the heartbeat filled the room, loud and steady, like a drum echoing through Duncan’s chest.
“So… it’s a boy?” Duncan asked again, his voice a little rougher than he expected. His grip tightened around Aerion’s hand. “No mistake?”
The doctor smiled. “A strong, healthy boy,” she confirmed. “A bit big for his stage—but perfectly fine.”
She adjusted the angle slightly. “And apparently stubborn,” she added with a small laugh. “He only decided to cooperate now.”
On the screen, the baby shifted. "Then…“Look,” she said. “He’s yawning.”
Duncan stared. Completely still. That was his son, with Aerion. For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the whispers, not the looks, not the world outside that room. Just this. Without thinking, he leaned down, cupping Aerion’s face and kissing him—slow, deep, full of something that sat somewhere between relief and awe. When he pulled back, their foreheads rested together.
“A boy,” Duncan murmured, breathing warm against his lips. “We’re having a boy.”
Aerion nodded, eyes still locked on the screen. “Maegor,” he said simply.
And somehow, this time, Duncan didn’t argue. They announced it in the family group chat. An ultrasound image. Maegor mid-yawn, unmistakable. Duncan sent his own version too—to friends, to the shop, eventually even posting it. The same photo, paired with another: Aerion standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted just enough to reveal the full curve of his belly, Duncan’s hand spread protectively over it.
The message Aerion wrote was short:
Maegor Targaryen. 29 weeks.
He’ll be here soon.
Yes, that’s why I didn’t drink at Valarr’s wedding. You’re welcome for not stealing your moment.
Duncan laughed when he read it.
That night, they lay in bed, the apartment quiet around them. Duncan wore only sweatpants. Aerion was wrapped in one of his oversized shirts, half-buried in pillows, propped slightly on his side. Carefully, Duncan lifted the fabric, exposing the curve of his stomach again. He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss against it. “I think everyone knows about you now, Maegor,” he murmured, voice softer, warmer. “Like a proper Targaryen.”
Another kiss. Slower this time. “You took your time getting here.”
Aerion laughed quietly, fingers threading through Duncan’s hair, nails grazing his scalp in a way that made him hum low in his chest.
“A prince,” Aerion said, glancing at his phone, reading the flood of messages. “I think he likes the attention.”
Duncan smiled against his skin, pressing another kiss just below his navel, lingering there. “Then he should let his mother sleep,” he added, voice dipping, teasing but soft. “Tomorrow everyone’s going to want to meet him.”
Aerion’s hand tightened slightly in his hair, not pulling—just holding. Grounding. Duncan’s hand slid higher, spanning the curve of his belly, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded patterns as he stayed there, close, warm.
Aerion shifted under him, just enough to press into the touch. They laughed quietly, the sound soft, shared.
And for a while, nothing else existed. Just them. And the life they had made together.