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Daeron is irritated by the arrogance of his uncle, Ormund Hightower. The man is always too conceited and haughty. He reads other people easily and anticipates their actions. He knows exactly what his little nephew of House Targaryen is thinking, so he always laughs at him and prods him, just to see a reaction. Daeron understands perfectly well that he is not special, not "the one." He is not even a person in his uncle's eyes, merely a tool with which Ormund can seize even more power. Ormund never does anything without a reason—he calculates everything in advance, ten steps ahead. Daeron knows this very well and has been convinced more than once of his uncle's high intellect and strategic talents, yet it still makes him sick that Tessarion no longer recognizes him. He is not allowed to get too close—it would attract unwanted attention—so he observes his she-dragon from inside the tent. She is beautiful, her scales gleaming like tanzanite, as deep as the sea at sunset. Daeron does not like to share, so he watches jealously every time the bastard approaches her. The boy is younger than him, and they have hardly ever exchanged a word. Ormund oversaw his upbringing, and if he were being honest, he did a fine job. A straight posture, a head held high with an impudent gaze, as if he owned the place, and that insolent smirk that spreads across his lips the moment Ormund appears nearby.
The boy stands in the middle of the training circle, drenched in sweat, his silver-gold hair tied in a knot at the nape of his neck, watching Lord Hightower with that very smirk. The very one that makes Daeron's jaw clench with indignation. Ormund lays a hand on his shoulder—on the shoulder of a commoner, a bastard whelp from the gutters—and says:
"Good. Very good. You are making progress."
And there is not a trace of mockery in his voice. Only satisfaction.
Daeron watches them from the side, lurking at the edge of the tent with a jug of watered wine he was ordered to bring. A squire's duty. His fingers grip the clay handle so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He hates himself for the trembling in his legs. For the way his gaze fixes on his uncle's hand, on the way Ormund's thumb strokes the fabric on the bastard's shoulder before withdrawing.
The boy—he has no name, Daeron refuses to remember it—turns and notices him. And smirks wider. As if he knows. As if he sees right through Daeron.
Daeron wants to cut off his head.
"Squire," Ormund's voice reaches him through the afternoon swelter, "come. Fill our young prince's cup."
Our young prince. Daeron freezes. For a moment, he thinks they are addressing him, that the masquerade is over, that his uncle will now laugh and say—there, you see, my boy, I was only testing your loyalty, now come here, come to me. But Ormund is not looking at him. He is looking at the bastard.
Daeron tastes bitterness in his mouth. He approaches, pours the wine. The boy accepts the cup without even a glance at him, as if he truly were a servant. Their fingers nearly touch. Daeron pulls his hand back faster than he should have.
"Leave the jug and go," Ormund throws out, without looking.
And Daeron leaves. Leaves, feeling heat rising up his neck, something angry, childish, shameful pulsing in his temples. He walks to the edge of the camp, where the field stretches beyond the stockade and where, on a distant hill, barely visible in the haze, Tessarion slumbers. She is coiled in rings, vast and beautiful. And Daeron wants to scream at her—I am here, I am your rider, do not forget me.
But she does not look. She does not recognize him from afar. He smells of horses and another man's wine. Not of dragon. Not of the sky.
At night, he does not sleep.
Ormund did not summon him. The tent is quiet, only the leather chair creaks under the weight of the lord sorting his correspondence. Daeron lies on his campaign mat behind the screen, staring at the canvas ceiling and thinking. Thinking about how the bastard stands too close. How Ormund adjusts his collar before they go out, how he leans to his ear, whispering something that makes him laugh. Their closeness is a complicity into which Daeron is not initiated.
He knows it is foolish. He knows Ormund is merely training a puppet. That it is a farce. But why, then, does it ache so beneath his ribs?
He remembers how his uncle taught him to fence. The same words. "Good, boy. Getting better." But when addressed to Daeron, they always sounded different. Dryer. As if Ormund did not want to praise him. And now that praise is given to a stranger.
The next day, he sees them by the stream.
It is beyond the camp, a half-hour's walk, where the trees close their crowns and create a green twilight, cool even in the midday heat. Daeron went there for water for the horses but froze behind the trunk of an old oak. Ormund and the bastard were talking again.
The boy sits on a flat stone, his bare feet dangling in the water. His hair is loose, silvering in the patches of sunlight breaking through the foliage. Ormund stands beside him, arms crossed, saying something—quietly, measuredly. The bastard listens, his head tilted back, and smiles. Not insolently. Softly. Almost tenderly.
Daeron feels something inside him snap.
Ormund bends down. Takes a strand of his hair—false silver, pathetic, possibly even dyed—and runs it through his fingers. Just as he did with Daeron's real hair back in the tent, by candlelight. The same gesture. The same slow, almost reverent motion. And then his palm rests on the boy's cheek.
And the boy does not pull away. Does not flinch. Closes his eyes.
Daeron feels sick. He steps back, his cloak catches on a branch, the crack echoes through the forest. Ormund turns instantly, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. But upon seeing his nephew, he relaxes. The corner of his mouth curls upward.
"Ah, my squire," he drawls. "Decided to take a bath? The water is warm today."
"I came for water, my lord," Daeron's voice sounds wooden.
"Go on. Fill the waterskins and return to camp. You still have duties."
Duties. He always has duties. He is not a person, he is a tool. But the bastard—should not the bastard be a tool? Why, then, does Ormund look at him differently? Why does his hand linger on another's shoulder, why does he smile at him constantly?
Daeron walks to the stream further downstream so as not to see them. The water is icy, the current swift, he scoops it with a wooden ladle, and his fingers tremble. He imagines the bastard looking at Tessarion. How Ormund will one day say, "Perhaps the boy should try getting closer to her. For authenticity's sake." And the she-dragon, scenting a stranger, will roar. Or she will not roar. Or, worst of all, she will let him approach.
By evening, he cannot take it anymore.
He waits until the camp goes quiet, until the fires burn out and the guard is changed, and he goes to Ormund's tent. Not to the bastard. To his uncle. His steps are quick and soundless—the result of years of training that Ormund himself gave him. The flap is thrown back sharply, the canvas snapping against the pole, and Daeron enters boldly, without warning, past the guards, as he used to enter as a boy, knowing neither shame nor fear.
Ormund stands by the campaign table, still in his armor. The cuirass gleams in the light of a single candle, the vambraces are not removed, the buckles fastened.
Daeron crosses the space of the tent in three strides and shoves him. With both palms, with all his strength, to the chest, against the cold metal of the cuirass that he, Daeron, should have removed an hour ago. Ormund staggers slightly—just a little—but does not step back, does not retreat a single pace.
Instead of words—a slap. A ringing, lashing slap, his palm across the cheek, so that Ormund's head jerks to the side. The skin beneath Daeron's fingers burns, and he sees a red mark blooming on his uncle's cheekbone. Good. Let him. Let him know.
"I am Daeron Targaryen," he hammers out, and each word falls like a stone into water. "Prince of Dragonstone. Your king, if the gods will it. Do not dare treat me like a stable boy."
Ormund slowly turns his head back. The candle casts shadows on his face, and in those shadows, a smile emerges more clearly than Daeron would like. Calm. Sated. As if he had been waiting for this. As if he had calculated everything.
Subconsciously, Daeron had always seen a father figure in him. Not Viserys—he was far away, in the Red Keep, surrounded by maesters, fading, unreachable. But Ormund. The one who taught him to hold a sword, who put him in the saddle, who corrected his fingers on the reins and scolded him for laziness, but never abandoned him. Ormund, who was there. Who was his. And now he is not his. Now there is the bastard. And Daeron does not wish to share his uncle.
Jealousy—burning, shameful, childish—eats him from within. He is so ashamed. Ashamed to be jealous. Ormund should be obeying him. Ormund should be seeking his gaze. Not the other way around.
The man does not move. Only watches. And smirks.
"Is that all?" he asks, almost lazily.
And then he grabs Daeron by the chin. His fingers squeeze hard, to the point of pain, to the point of a crunch, forcing the prince to tilt his head back. Ormund leans closer, and his eyes—dark, deep, all-knowing—scrutinize Daeron's face.
"My squire is out of sorts tonight," he says quietly, almost intimately. "Perhaps he has not been flogged enough? Perhaps he needs to be reminded of his place?"
The words strike harder than the slap. Daeron jerks, tries to break free, but the grip is iron. He feels the flush of shame flood his face, feels the tips of his ears burning, feels his lips begin to tremble traitorously. Squire. Squire again. Even now. Even after everything he said.
"Do not," he rasps, "do not dare call me that."
"And what should I call you? Prince?" Ormund tilts his head, studying him with mocking curiosity. "A prince does not come in a fury in the middle of the night to throw a tantrum at his subject. A prince does not get jealous."
Daeron freezes. The word is spoken aloud. Turned inside out like a rotten lining. Ormund sees. He always sees everything. And Daeron can no longer hold back.
"Did you find him in a brothel?" he spits out.
Ormund raises an eyebrow. But does not interrupt.
"This bastard of yours. Where did you find him? In some filthy hole in Oldtown, where boys sell themselves for coppers? Or maybe, even now..." Daeron chokes, the words flying faster than he can think, "you're fucking him, aren't you?"
The slap lands on him before he can finish. The sound—sharp, dry, like a snapping branch—fills the tent. Daeron's head whips to the side, and for a moment he feels nothing at all, only a ringing in his ears and a hot wave spreading across his left cheekbone. He lifts a hand to his face, his fingers touch the burning skin, and in his eyes is—not pain, no. Astonishment. Disbelief. His uncle had never hit him. Not once. Not in childhood, when Daeron was petulant during training, not later, when he was impertinent and refused to obey. Never. And now he had hit him. For words. For the truth.
"You…" Daeron's voice breaks, and he hears a treacherous tremor in it himself. "You struck me? You—who swore me fealty?"
Ormund looks down at him. He does not move from his spot, does not rub his palm, shows not a shadow of remorse. Only calm. And a faint smile plays on his lips—not evil, not cruel, but almost tender, as if he were looking at a misbehaving puppy that bit its master's finger.
"Squires should not speak to their lords in such a manner," Ormund says evenly, and every word falls like a drop of molten lead. "They should show more respect. Especially when the lord shows them leniency."
Squire. Not a prince. Not a nephew. Not the heir to the Iron Throne. Just a boy who must remove his armor and pour his wine. Just a boy who can be humiliated, and then stroked on the cheek as if nothing happened.
Daeron sees it clearly, no matter how Ormund tries to hide it. In the dark grey eyes of his uncle, sparks of excitement dance. Not anger. Not offended dignity. Excitement. He enjoys this game. This shift of power. He enjoys Daeron, who can be brought to his knees with a single flick of a finger.
And from this realization, an even greater fury washes over Daeron. It boils in his throat, rising like bile, and he clenches his fists so tightly that his nails dig into his palms. He wants to strike back. He wants to shatter that calm face, to wipe away that smirk. But he does not move. Shame and anger have bound his arms and legs like ropes.
"Do not treat me like this!"
Meanwhile, Ormund comes closer. Slowly, smoothly, like a predator who knows the prey has nowhere to run. He reaches out—the boy involuntarily flinches, expecting another blow—but instead, fingers touch his cheek. Gently. Almost reverently. The thumb glides over the very spot where the blow landed, and from this touch, the skin begins to burn differently. Not from pain. From something else.
"You forget yourself, my boy," Ormund says quietly, and his voice wraps around him like warm honey. "You forget yourself completely. Do you think you are a prince here? Do you think anyone knows your face? That anyone would recognize you without the silver hair, without the family crest, without the seal of House Targaryen?"
He lifts his other hand and takes a stray lock of red hair—the very hair he himself dyed a week ago, dipping a brush into the caustic mixture. He tucks it behind Daeron's ear with a gesture that is careful, intimate, almost maternal. His fingers linger on the temple, slide lower, to the neck, and Daeron feels his pulse hammering beneath them, fast and frantic as a caught bird's.
Daeron is silent. Because it is the truth. A humiliating, gut-wrenching truth. Besides Tessarion, he has no one.
"It does not matter; no bastard will ever compare to a pure-blooded prince of the ruling dynasty. Do not forget that, Uncle. You may fuck him, but do not dare betray me."
Ormund withdraws his hand but does not step back. He stands too close, invading a space that should remain inviolable. And his smile grows wider. Deeper. Something hungry appears in it.
"You accuse me of betrayal. But tell me, Daeron, what does my betrayal consist of? That I found a way to bring you to the throne while keeping you out of danger? Or that I dared pay attention to someone else?"
The fury that had just been boiling in his throat suddenly recedes. A void remains. Cold, ringing. Because if his rebellion is not a defense of honor, but merely a whim, then who is he? What is he doing here?
"I'm not..." he tries to say, but Ormund interrupts him.
"You," he raises a hand and touches a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You came here in the middle of the night. You insulted me. You struck me. Because of what? Because I patted some boy on the head?"
He falls silent, letting the question hang in the air. The pause lasts an eternity. Daeron feels the flush of shame flooding his face. Not an indignant, outraged shame—but the naked shame of being caught red-handed. Ormund looks at him and waits. And from this waiting, from this silent demand for a confession, Daeron wants to sink into the earth.
"You are mine," it breaks out of Daeron, and his voice cracks, sounds pitiful, childish. "You are my uncle. You are mine. Not his."
He says it, and in that same second, he understands the full wretchedness of his confession. It is not the speech of a prince. It is the whining of a child. A squire begging his lord for attention. He has put his own head in the noose.
Ormund freezes. For a moment, the mask slips, and Daeron sees something in his eyes—not triumph, no. Something more complex. Something akin to a dark, perverse tenderness. He reaches for Daeron's face again, this time with both hands, takes his face in his palms like a precious chalice. Strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs, wiping away non-existent tears.
"Jealous boy," he whispers, and in his voice there is not a drop of mockery. Only a strange, almost paternal satisfaction. "My jealous, foolish, beautiful boy."
Daeron wants to push him away. He wants to strike again, to shatter this face, to wipe off this expression of possessive tenderness. But his hands do not obey. Instead, he stands and allows Ormund to touch him, and from every touch, something ignites inside—shame, anger, desire. Everything mixed into one tight knot beneath his ribs.
"You haven't answered," he rasps, clinging to the remnants of his anger like a drowning man to a piece of wreckage.
Ormund tilts his head to the side. Studies him. And Daeron knows this look—it is how one looks at a particularly successful move in a chess game. How one looks at a card that has been dealt the exact suit needed.
"You are jealous of a boy I bought for a few silver coins?" he asks, genuinely.
Daeron does not know what burns him more: revulsion or arousal.
His uncle's words burrow under his skin, leaving burns there. He wants to scream that no, it is not jealousy, it is hatred for how Ormund treats the bastard, how he adjusts his collar, how he looks at him with that soft pride Daeron remembers from childhood. But the words stick in his throat because he knows the truth. He is jealous. He is so jealous he is ready to burn the entire camp to ashes just to wipe the smirk off that baseborn boy's face.
"Yes"—he does not say it aloud, but Ormund reads it clearly in his displeased face. He leans in and presses his lips to Daeron's temple—lightly, almost chastely, but from this touch, a tremor runs through his body. His hands slide lower, onto his shoulders, squeezing them through the fabric of the rough doublet Daeron now wears instead of velvet and silk.
Gods, how beautiful he is in his fall.
Before—back in King's Landing, before the war, before all this madness—Ormund looked at him and saw a Targaryen. Silver hair falling to his shoulders, violet eyes, the haughty curve of his lips. He was foreign. He was theirs. Every time Daeron called him uncle, that word rang with the chasm between them—a chasm of blood, of which the boy had more from the Targaryens than from the Hightowers. Ormund hated him for that resemblance. Hated and loved him at the same time, because even then, even in his damned Targaryen beauty, there was something that responded within him with a dark, forbidden tremor.
Now everything has changed.
The red hair—the color of flame and autumn leaves—has altered Daeron beyond recognition. The rough squire's doublet hides a body Ormund remembers clad in silk and velvet. He no longer smells of Dragonstone and incense—he smells of sweat, leather, road dust. He is no longer a prince. Just a simple boy serving his lord. His squire. His boy.
Daeron will destroy them both. Ormund knows this as surely as he knows the sun rises in the east. He was a husband, a warrior, Lord of Oldtown, and he should not desire what he desires. But when Daeron looks at him with those big, hurt eyes, all vows fly into the abyss.
"Then show me that you are my boy."
Daeron clenches his teeth. He hates this. He hates how Ormund spits it out with particular pleasure, stretching the syllables, tasting them. But even more, he hates how these words resonate within him—a hot wave, shameful and desired all at once. He is no longer a prince. He is no longer the heir. He is just a boy, kneeling before his uncle, wanting to prove he is worthy.
His fingers still tremble as he unfastens the belt buckle—not from fear, but from tension, from the impossibility of believing what he is doing. The metal is cold against his skin. The leather creaks under his hands. Ormund does not help. He stands motionless, only looking down, and Daeron feels that gaze with every cell of his body. Studying. Assessing.
Comparing.
The thought spurs him on like a whip. He manages the fastenings quicker than he should, pulls the fabric aside, and Ormund's cock is right in front of his face. Hard. Heavy-looking. Already fully aroused, with a glistening drop at the tip. Daeron smells it—masculine, musky, with a hint of sweat after a long day in armor. The scent makes his head spin. He has never been this close to another man's cock before. Never thought his first would be his own uncle's.
"Come on," Ormund's voice sounds from above, low, enveloping. "I'm waiting."
Daeron wraps his fingers around the shaft. The skin beneath them is hot, velvety, and he feels the pulse of a vein on the underside. The organ seems enormous in his hand—or is it just fear distorting his perception? He shuffles closer, his knees scraping on the rough carpet, the bristles scratching his skin even through the fabric. He sticks out his tongue—a timid, uncertain motion—and touches the head.
The taste. Salty. Slightly bitter. Foreign, but not repulsive. He runs his tongue over the slit, collecting the pre-seminal fluid, and hears Ormund's breathing change—becoming deeper, heavier. The sound spurs him on. He wants to hear it again. He wants to know that it is he who makes his uncle breathe like that.
He parts his lips wider and takes the head into his mouth.
The first thing he feels is the size. The head fills his mouth, stretching his lips, pressing against the roof of his mouth. He tries to go further, but the cock hits the back of his throat, and Daeron gags—suddenly, sharply, the gag reflex surging up. He pulls back, coughing, a string of saliva breaking from his lip. His cheeks burn with shame.
"He didn't gag," Ormund remarks from above, and his voice holds no sympathy. Only a cold statement of fact.
Daeron looks up. Meets his uncle's gaze. And in that gaze, he reads a challenge. Keep going. Show me you are better.
He leans in again. Slower this time. He takes the cock into his mouth and does not rush to swallow deep—instead, he focuses on the head. His tongue circles it, glides along the frenulum, presses against the slit. He tries to memorize what elicits a reaction from his uncle—here, when he touches the underside, his thighs twitch slightly. Here, when he hollows his cheeks, creating suction, Ormund's breathing becomes ragged.
A hand settles on the back of his head. Does not press. Just lies there. Fingers run through the red locks—the dyed ones. And from this touch, from this possessive caress, Daeron feels his own cock, trapped in his tight breeches, pulsing with arousal.
"Deeper," Ormund commands.
Daeron obeys. He opens his jaw wider—he can already feel the muscles aching—and moves forward. The cock slides along his tongue, touches his palate, presses against the back of his throat. He tries to suppress the gag reflex, tries to breathe through his nose, but there is not enough air. He feels the head go deeper—to where his throat clenches, unwilling to let it pass further.
And then Ormund presses on the back of his head. Not hard. But enough for Daeron to understand: there is no going back.
"Breathe through your nose," he says in the same tone he once used to teach him how to hold a sword. Calm. Patient. Almost fatherly.
Daeron tries. He inhales through his nose, but the air mixes with the smell of male skin and his own saliva, and it is not enough. His lungs burn. His eyes begin to water. He feels the cock fill his mouth completely, feels the head push into his throat, and for a moment he thinks he will suffocate—truly, to the point of losing consciousness.
Panic rises from within. He tries to pull back, but Ormund's hand holds firm. Fingers tighten on the back of his head, preventing retreat. Daeron makes a sound—something between a moan and a sob—and the vibration travels along the cock. Ormund exhales sharply through his teeth.
"That's it," he says, and his voice sounds lower, hoarser. "Good."
Daeron does not know exactly what is "good." He does not know how much longer he can last. His throat clenches around the cock, he feels every vein, every pulse. Saliva runs down his chin, drips onto his doublet, but he does not care. All that matters is the weight on his tongue, the hand in his hair, the voice of his uncle finally sounding pleased.
Ormund starts to move. Slowly, letting him adjust. His hips push forward—shallowly, a couple of inches—and the cock slides in Daeron's mouth, stretching his lips, touching his tongue. Daeron tries to match him. He wraps a hand around the base, strokes what does not fit in his mouth, tries to synchronize his breathing with his uncle's movements.
"Good boy," Ormund whispers, and a shiver runs through Daeron's body at the word.
He speeds up. His head moves back and forth, his lips sliding along the shaft, holding tight. He no longer tries to swallow deep—instead, he concentrates on making it good. His tongue circles the head with each movement. His hand moves in time with his mouth. He looks up at his uncle, not taking his eyes off him, and sees him lowering his eyelids, sees his jaw tightening, sees the fingers on the back of Daeron's head clenching harder.
"Now deeper," Ormund's voice is no longer calm. Something animalistic, demanding creeps into it. "Take as much as you can."
Daeron obeys. He relaxes his throat—as much as is possible—and sinks his mouth down onto the cock. This time, the head goes deeper, past the tongue, into the throat, and he feels his airway completely blocked. Not a drop of air. Only cock. Only hot, pulsing flesh, filling him to the brim.
He cannot breathe.
At all.
His lungs constrict. His chest burns. Circles swim before his eyes. He feels his throat convulsively clench around the cock, trying to expel it, but Ormund holds firm. The fingers in his hair do not allow retreat. Daeron makes a choking sound—pitiful, wet, full of panic.
And yet, he does not truly try to break free.
Because through the panic, through the lack of air, through the burning in his lungs, he feels something else. He feels his own cock pressing against the fabric of his breeches, hard to the point of pain. Feels his entire body trembling with arousal mixed with asphyxiation. He is choking on his own uncle's cock, and it is the most humiliating, most shameful thing that has ever happened to him—and at the same time, the most arousing.
Ormund finally releases him. Daeron pulls back with a wet, obscene sound. The cock slips out of his mouth, still hard, glistening with saliva. Daeron gasps for air—greedily, convulsively, like a drowning man. His chest heaves. Tears stream down his cheeks—he had not even noticed when he started crying. A thick string of saliva, mixed with pre-seminal fluid, hangs from his lip.
Daeron looks at him. His eyes are still filled with tears, but through them, he sees his uncle's face—flushed, mouth slightly open, a dark, hungry gleam in his eyes.
"More," he rasps, and his voice cracks, breaks into a whisper. "I can do more."
Ormund raises an eyebrow.
"Can you?"
"Yes. Please, my lord."
The word slips from his lips before he can realize it. Please. The Prince of Dragonstone is begging. Pleading. But he no longer cares. He reaches for the man's cock again—this time on his own, without an order. He takes it into his mouth and swallows it deep, to the very base, and this time, when his throat clenches around the head, he does not pull back.
He allows himself to choke.
Allows his lungs to burn and his eyes to water. Allows saliva to run down his chin. Allows Ormund to hold him by the hair and set the rhythm—fast, hard, demanding. He no longer tries to be good. He simply surrenders to the process, allows his uncle to use his mouth.
Sounds fill the tent—wet, obscene. Ormund's ragged breathing. Daeron's choking sobs. The rhythmic slap of the scrotum against his chin. He feels the cock grow harder, the veins swelling, the man's movements becoming sharper, faster, more desperate. He is close. Daeron feels it in the way his thighs tremble, the way his fingers dig into the back of his head almost to the point of pain.
"Swallow," Ormund breathes out.
Daeron does not pull away. He tightens his lips and allows his uncle to come into his mouth. The first stream hits the roof of his mouth—hot, salty, thick. Then the second, the third. He tries to swallow, but there is too much seed. It fills his mouth, mixes with saliva, leaks from the corners of his lips. He gags, coughs, but continues to suck, drawing the last drops from the man.
When Ormund finally pulls back, Daeron slumps back onto his heels. His chest heaves. His face is wet with tears, saliva, and seed. He tries to catch his breath, but the air still seems unwilling to enter his lungs—or perhaps his body has simply forgotten how to breathe on its own.
Ormund looks down at him. Long. Silent. Then he leans down and takes his face in his hands. His thumbs wipe the tears from Daeron's cheeks—gruffly, but tenderly. He leans in and kisses his forehead. A long, almost reverent kiss.
"My boy," he whispers. And in his voice, there is not a trace of mockery. Only a strange, dark satisfaction. "Better than all the rest."
Daeron closes his eyes. He is still trembling. Still gasping. His throat is raw, as if he had been screaming for several hours straight. His cock is still hard, pressed against his stomach, pulsing with unsatisfied desire. But all of this fades into the background.
Because Ormund has paid him attention.