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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

– Aeron –

Aeron kneels at the Warrior’s altar. 

Beams of refracted light slant through the crystal pyramid above him and bend through churning clouds of incense, pooling on each of the Seven’s aspects below. They stand frontal-facing and rigid. Carved from dark, red-speckled granite.  

Rainbows gather at the Warrior’s brow. His weathered face is bowed and dutiful and his weight leans heavily on the burden of his sword. The blade sinks into its plinth, as if he’s thrust it there himself.

Aeron shifts his weight on the prayer cushion beneath him. Coarse fiber bites into his knees. 

He uses a wooden taper to light a candle and mouths a quick prayer. Then blows out the flame, waving the tendrils of smoke away as the acrid scent of sulfur curls around him. 

The Fellows Sept is huge. Rows of stark, functional wooden-pews fan out from the center of the sanctuary like a spider web. Whatever scattered light manages to reach the floor melts instantly into large, oily black stones – cut in the shape of a seven-pointed star. The walls are plain sandstone, unadorned. And thick lead cames seem to almost swallow the garish stained-glass panes set within them. 

While austere compared to the Starry Sept’s ornate finishes and lavish architecture, this place has its own brutal sense of gravity. Built almost seventy years ago now, when the pious spilled, overflowing, from the humble castle sept and cramped row-buildings housing the city’s disparate congregations. Desperate, fervent, and pleading for merciful Gods to turn their gazes in on the dark corners and dirty shadows of the city. 

Riverrun has long been poisoned by corruption.

Wood creaks. A foot shuffles on stone, catching. The sudden scrape of oak echoes across the hard floor, but the muted weight of silence in the room prevails. 

Aeron stands. At the end of the pew, he carefully collects his academy duffel bag and circles the chamber. Back to the Father. 

Those shrewd granite eyes pry into him, despite his downcast gaze. He stares at the floor with clammy hands folded neatly in front of him. 

Heavy robes drape around The Father’s shoulders. His beard is long and braided fastidiously down his chest, lending him the appearance of age. Wisdom. 

Aeron drops his bag with a soft thud and crosses the star of the Seven above his chest. He kneels. Lights a candle. Reaffirms his vows. 

He swears to defer to the Gods’ justice and to let the Father’s judgement lead him. He begs wisdom to recognize the Father’s will in the choices put before him. He renews his oath to be patient in the face of suffering, to safeguard the innocent before himself. To deliver the wicked into light. To remain humble To show charity To be always steadfast, in his pursuit of—

—

Aeron blinks at the bright light outside as he pushes through the Sept’s heavy front doors. 

A panhandler shakes a cup of coins at him. He averts his eyes and hikes his duffel a little higher on his shoulder, shrugging the man off. Then descends the long stairs into the plaza below. 

As Aeron leaves, he looks up into the stern eyes of Lucinda Tully’s statue. She looks down her long nose back at him. 

This was the sept that Riverrun needed. No frills, or marble, or sparkling crystal censors. This was the grim sept of a city at war. 

He shuffles through the crowded square. Back to the bus stop he arrived at, where his uncle should be waiting for him. 

It had been too long since he’d sat among the pews of his childhood home and paid penance. He would atone for that now.

—

Rain runs in thick tracks down the Bentley’s windows. 

“Betha turned your old bedroom into an office. Sorry man.” Raylon turns to him with a sympathetic grin, one hand on the steering wheel. “The staff made up a guest bed for you, though.” 

Aeron shoots him a small smile and nods. 

It’s been almost a year since he last saw his uncle, and Raylon seems to have hit that second wave of puberty men get in their late twenties. His jaw is sharper, his mustache has filled in, and he’s got his wiry, straw-colored hair tied back in a neat ponytail. 

A twinge of self-consciousness tightens in Aeron’s chest. 

Looking at Raylon has always felt like looking in a mirror at the more masculine version of himself. Aeron’s been in Oldtown since he was eleven. He’s grown up a lot in his near-decade away. But being back in the Riverlands, in his uncle’s passenger seat…makes him feel like a boy again.

“I don’t plan to stay long at Stone Hedge anyway.”

Raylon shrugs. He sends Aeron a knowing grin. “Big job ahead of you, huh?”

Aeron laughs nervously. 

Raylon stares out at the road. His smile fades to something bittersweet. 

“We’ll miss you, you know? Losing you so soon, after you’ve already been gone so long.” He shakes his head. “It’s really important work you’re doing, though. Fulfilling stuff.”

Aeron nods. “Well, I’m still gonna see you around. Maybe. Sometimes…” 

He shoots Raylon a reassuring smile. His uncle always felt more like a cousin to him, anyway. 

“Just from the other side,” Aeron teases.

Raylon throws his head back and laughs. “Just don’t get into too much trouble.” 

He leans over and ruffles Aeron’s hair. Just like when he was a little kid. 

Wet soil crunches under the Bentley’s wheels as they pull into the large, circular drive in front of Stone Hedge. Aeron yanks his door open and the gentle roar of rain wraps around him. 

He’s never seen a greener place than the Riverlands – especially when it rains. Already, the beginnings of new growth paint the hills a lush, almost-neon green. 

Aeron pops the trunk and slings his duffel bag over his shoulder.

Rain hisses softly around him, soaking into the neatly trimmed hedges of pink roses and dampening his wool collar. He tugs at the fabric where it scratches uncomfortably against his neck. 

Then slams the trunk shut with a dampened thump. 

The manor’s ancient gray stones tower over them as they approach. As the massive doors clank open, Raylon’s hand falls heavily on Aeron’s shoulder. The familiar smell of damp plaster drifts from somewhere deep within. 

Home sweet home. 

—

Aeron adjusts his collar in the mirror, studying his appearance under the guest-bathroom’s cool, fluorescent lights. 

His button-down shirt is freshly starched and tucked into khaki slacks. His shoes are polished leather. A functional, digital-watch is strapped to his wrist. 

[ 5:23 AM ]

Usually, Aeron lets his reddish-gold hair fall naturally across his shoulders. Today, he’s tied it back with a simple leather-thong.

Satisfactory, he thinks and frowns. 

He’d hoped to begin his first day on the Riverrun Police Force feeling like a proper man. Someone his kin would hardly recognize. 

But Aeron was not as changed as one would hope. 

Androgynous features stare back at him in the mirror. High cheekbones and large, hazel eyes… His cousins used to tease him for looking so ‘girlish.’ Even now, he still has that pretty look to him. His build is athletic, but slim. His bone structure is defined, but delicate. His skin is fair. Unblemished from any action in the field, or long days on the job under the hot sun. 

All traits that Amos had assured him he’d grow out of by now. The thought of confronting his uncle this morning, with so little to show for himself…

But the training makes up for all of it.  

Six years of military school under his belt. And now, accreditation from Swords and Stars Police Academy. The country’s top institute. 

Amos was thrilled when he heard the news. Participation in the justice system has been a storied tradition and rite of passage in the Bracken house since the end of feudalism. 

Aeron sighs.

The door clicks shut behind him as he slips into the hallway and makes his way downstairs. 

At least he’s taller than his cousins. 

—

The rich smell of bacon floods his senses as he shuffles into the kitchen. 

Everything is exactly as he remembers. Low, barrel-vaulted ceilings sweep overhead and bits of masonry poke out from under patchy plaster. He thinks it’s meant to look like the original stonework, buried somewhere deep within the walls. However, the irregular fieldstones proudly on display were all laid ten years ago. When his aunt chose a modern farmhouse finish for her multi-million dollar kitchen reno, complete with limed oak cabinetry.

Aeron’s stomach grumbles. 

A greasy frying pan lays out on a massive, vintage-looking gas range that cost as much as a car. It’s nestled into what was once the castle kitchen’s ancient fireplace. A plate piled high in bacon sits on the counter next to it. 

He snags a slice and shoves it in his mouth. 

Also sprawled across the counter is Amos’s badge. Aeron picks it up and examines it as he chews. 

His uncle touts a seven-pointed star in yellow-gold – much fancier than the one he just received. ‘Chief of Police’ is proudly emblazoned across the banner. 

When Aeron first left home, that badge had belonged to his grandfather. Now, Humfrey’s own was more of a ceremonial gesture. Police Commissioner. It sits in a glass case on his desk, inlaid with the faces of the Seven in jade and pearl. That too will one day belong to Amos. And then Jerrel after him, following in his father’s footsteps. And so it goes. 

“Aeron, dear,” A warm voice rings through the kitchen. “There you are.”

Aunt Betha’s heels clack across the hardwood as she bustles through the room. She pulls him into a tight hug, standing on her tiptoes to peck his cheek. 

“The coffee’s just finished, sweetie. Take a cup with you before you go,” she tuts. “Your uncle is in the barn. We’ve got a mare down – the old girl started foaling at dawn.”

His aunt pushes a heavy, stoneware mug into his hands. The type of glaze-dripped pottery she likes to buy at local craft stores to fill her ‘rustic’ mansion with. 

Aeron smiles warmly and dips outside. 

—

His coffee steams in the chill air. 

The mug is a welcome warmth on his hands as he plods across packed hay and manure to the foaling barn. 

At this hour, muted quiet wraps the grounds. The air cuts crisp through Aeron’s lungs and carries with it the warm smell of heated earth and grass, drying beneath the rising sun. 

There’s a special kind of beauty in this dusty-blue, early-morning light. It drapes across the horizon like a blanket, dampening the world as she slowly wakes and pulls herself from beneath its weight. 

Appropriate, Aeron thinks, for new beginnings.

He dips into the barn. 

The building is long and low and paneled in dark wood. Aeron smiles when the heavy animal smell of hay and iodine hits him.

He’s always loved the horses. 

If only the lifestyle didn’t start so early in the morning. Aeron’s sure he would have been a more serious rider by now if he’d been allowed to sleep in as a kid. But by the time he was working on his first coffee, Jerrel and Raylon would already be out in the paddock, exercising their horses. They always surpassed him in skill.  

He makes his way down the aisle, following the commotion coming from the foaling stall ahead of him.

Sadie lies on her side within, coat slick with sweat. Dim red bulbs hum with a quiet intimacy above them. 

The whites of the mare’s eyes peek out at him warily as he approaches. She’s been in the family since Aeron was a toddler. If he’d known she was foaling, he would’ve brought some of her favorite sugar cubes.

Amos kneels in front of her in a heavy cargo jacket and well-worn jeans. His service pistol is still strapped to his belt – forgotten in this unexpected morning detour. An empty bucket and clean towel are already staged at his side. 

He gently strokes Sadie’s stomach with gloved hands. 

Aeron smiles. Two tiny hooves stick from her womb. Still slick with amniotic fluid. 

She huffs as he takes a step closer, tail swishing anxiously. 

“Don’t spook her now,” Amos murmurs. “The foal’s coming.”

Aeron nods and carefully circles the mare. He forgets his pristine clothes and crouches in the soft bedding next to her, running calming hands down her neck. 

“Shhh,” he whispers. “That’s it girl, you’re doing so good.”

Amos glances at Aeron with a warm smile. “It’s good to have you back, son. You look well.”

The mare’s warm breath puffs against Aeron’s legs. He gives her neck a gentle pat and tuts reassuringly.

“Thank you, uncle.”

Sadie snorts and Amos’s attention drops back to his work. The foal’s legs poke out just far enough for him to grasp. Carefully, he begins to guide it out in time with the mother’s contractions. 

“Your request has kept me up these last nights,” he mutters softly. “It’s no easy decision to send your own family into the line of fire.”

Aeron’s heart skips a beat. He nods stiffly. “Of course.”

A dark, greyish muzzle emerges from Sadie’s womb. The film stretched taut across its head gleams almost blue under the dim lights.  

“We’ve already collected data on available channels into the Blackwood organization,” Amos continues. 

The foal's body slips out further. He eases its progress with steady hands. 

“We think we can get you a foothold.”

Aeron sighs in relief. 

A smile quirks at the edge of his lips, but he pushes it down. Remains professional.

This is good. This is very good. 

“I want to prepare you, though, son,” Amos’s smile tightens. “The circumstances of your entry will not be pleasant.”

Aeron shifts on his knees to get his blood moving. His toes prickle and coarse straw pokes at his skin through his slacks. 

His uncle suddenly seems less than eager to hold eye contact. 

“The Blackwoods welcome few outsiders with open arms. There will be…sacrifices.” 

Right. 

Aeron’s not stupid. He knows what undercover work entails. He can use his imagination.

“I’m prepared for sacrifice, uncle. I’m prepared for risk.” He shrugs and tries to exude confidence. “I can handle it.”

“Mm,” Amos’s lips press into a tight line. He offers Aeron a waxy smile. “Yes, your psych eval came back normal. You’re cleared.” 

Another contraction wracks through the mare’s body. Amos guides the foal’s torso out. 

“When men are ‘made’ in this organization, Aeron, they demand more than just an oath,” he chuckles darkly. “Honor is not enough for honorless men.” 

Aeron swallows, throat thick. 

His uncle’s gaze is stern. “They’ll put a gun in your hands. Ask you to kill for them.”

At that, the foal spills out in a rush of fluids. It writhes on the ground. Wet and slippery and smelling of iron.

Steam rises off the mare's heated skin as she gulps down cool air in steadying breaths. Straw dampens. Humidity thickens the room, heady with the scent of musk and sweat. 

The amniotic sac glistens like wet silk. Sadie jerks and the umbilical cord tears free. 

Fresh life, released into the world. 

Aeron slowly nods. “I’ve been in military school most of my life,” he assures his uncle. “I’ll do what’s necessary. For the city, you know? I want to help these people. My people. My family –” 

He cuts himself off before his rambling gets away from him. 

The foal’s nostrils flare and its eyes blink open. With practiced care, Amos tears away what remains of the membrane from its head and uses the towel to wipe at mucus around its mouth and nose. 

He smiles, pleased. “A colt.”

Then rubs vigorously at its ribs. The foal’s chest begins to rise and fall as he stimulates its first wet, rattling breaths in life.

“Grab that, Aeron,” Amos nods towards a leather briefcase propped against the wall. He lifts messy hands as apology. 

Aeron stands and dusts straw from his pants. He crosses the stall and unlatches the briefcase, pulling a dossier from inside. 

“Officially, we can’t acquit you of murder,” Amos says. “But if we didn’t turn our heads the other way every once in a while…”

Aeron nods. “...I know. We’d never get anything on them.”

The colt struggles in the straw. It attempts to prop itself up on spindly legs, wobbling precariously before stumbling back down to the earth.

“The Gods forgive, Aeron. All men fall short before the grace of the Gods.”

Aeron swallows hard. 

Nobody’s perfect. 

Not even Brackens. 

His uncle Raylon’s face flashes briefly through his mind – one of his grandfather’s many infidelities. Aeron shakes his head slightly and lets the briefcase fall to the ground. 

Faces fly by as he flips through the brief. Most are unfamiliar, but he recognizes a few. 

Samwell Blackwood. Forty four years old and longtime Don of the organization. The man is huge. Six foot six and powerfully built – more like a Bracken than a Blackwood. But there could be no mistaking the raven-black ringlets framing his face, shorn short and neat. 

Pale, deep-set grey eyes bore into Aeron from under dark, heavy brows. His face is handsome, but sharpened by an aquiline nose. A surprising amount of smile lines crease his tanned, weathered skin. 

The man's image weaves through many of the brief’s pages. However, the focus is clearly centered on another. 

Davos Blackwood. Twenty two years old. Samwell’s youngest brother and eldest, adopted son. The boy’s long been groomed as the family’s underboss, with a reputation for violence. Quick to anger. Quick to draw blood. 

Aeron’s heard Amos complain about him often over the years. Samwell put the kid to work young, as a hitman. Davos barely even made it to high school before the police started connecting the dots between his involvement in high profile murders. 

A child slips more easily through the cracks, Aeron figures. 

Amos busies himself with the foal. He examines the stump of its umbilical cord and dabs at it carefully with iodine. Slowly, it successfully pulls itself up onto long, quivering legs. Hay sticks in clumps to the damp coat plastered against its body.

Aeron leafs through more pages. Photos of Davos at clubs, in expensive cars, out at restaurants with beautiful arm candy draped against his side… Men and women alike. 

The guy isn’t bad looking himself, in a rough around the edges kind of way. He reminds Aeron a bit of a bulldog. Muscular, with well-made but brutish features. His blunt nose has been smashed in and reset more than a few times, and a harelip scar tugs faintly on his mouth when he sneers. High, sharp cheekbones frame his face, and straight, blunt teeth somehow look dangerously sharp in his mouth. 

Davos is tall and strong, but leaner than Samwell. Like most of his family, he bears the signature unruly raven-locks that could probably be curls if he took any type of care of them. His hair is worn short in some sort of fuckass pageboy haircut that would have looked ridiculous on anyone less frightening.

Aeron looks to Amos with raised brows. “Davos Blackwood. I take it he’s our way in?”

Amos nods curtly. “He is.”

“What’s the angle here?”

Sadie rolls and rises. She snorts and noses at her foal, sniffing and nuzzling him. 

Amos watches with sympathetic eyes. Hesitant, almost. Not a quality Aeron’s used to seeing in his uncle. But Amos has been a father to him since he was six. Of course he would feel responsible. 

“You may notice that Blackwood is often seen with prostitutes,” he says. “It’s been four years since he last had a known romantic partner. He seems to prefer it that way.”

Aeron’s blood chills. 

“The Blackwoods recruit from family. And, sometimes, from long-established affiliates. But Davos Blackwood is unique. He seems to have a soft spot for those who –” Amos clears his throat softly, “–please him.” 

Aeron’s clammy hands dampen the edges of the dossier. 

Amos brushes his hands together and stands with some difficulty. He extends his leg, hissing as he shakes the stiffness from his bad knee.

“He doesn’t hold onto his paramours for long. Picks them up in dark places and then dumps them a few days later. The lucky ones,” Amos shoots Aeron a pointed glance, “who win his favor…he sets up in various areas of the business. Low level work, obviously. Nothing glamorous. But a few managed to climb quite successfully in the organization. Carved out a modest place for themselves.”

He approaches Aeron. Then taps a slimy finger on the document, pointing out photos. 

“This is Jace Waters. Blackwood first set him up at the strip club down on Tumblestone Ave. Running the bar. Answering phones. Now he has his own club down on Mudd Street. Hip place for young people. He’s a known associate.” 

Amos flips a couple more pages. “And Baela Targaryen, his girlfriend. Blackwood started her at the Kneeling Man. Upscale brothel on the Red fork. She’s running the place now, for Melony Piper.”

Sweat pricks at the back of Aeron’s neck. “So what are you saying? You want me to be his prostitute?” 

Aeron knows exactly what he’s saying. Shame coils in his stomach. 

A wet thump hits the ground behind them. 

The mare’s afterbirth steams in the hay. A folded mass of glistening, red and brown tissue.  

Amos seems grateful for the distraction. He pulls the bucket to her hindquarters and carefully stretches out the placenta, checking for tears. 

“It will only be to start,” he says. “We’re confident you’ll be one he likes.”

Aeron can’t help but scoff. He shakes his head faintly.

“Blackwood’s been seen with both men and women, Aeron. But he has a clear inclination for pretty boys. With long hair,” Amos coughs subtly and glances back to him. “Strawberry blondes…”

He dumps the placenta in the bucket. Aeron’s eyes flick shut for a moment at the sick squelch of wet tissue hitting plastic. 

Great. He sees everything Aeron does in the mirror, then. So much for coming home a man. 

This is what nine years of training was worth to his uncle. Not respect. Not value, or belonging. No – Amos just wants him to bend over. Aeron wraps his arms protectively across his chest. 

He feels sick. His cousins would never be picked for a job like this.  

“Amos, I want to serve my city, I do. But… I don’t know.” Aeron’s voice cracks at the end. He shakes his head vigorously. “I’ve not been with a man before. I mean, obviously.” 

He lowers his gaze. Heat burns at his cheeks. 

The full truth had been on his tongue for a moment, before catching in his throat. Aeron’s not been with anyone before. He tries not to think about those things. Not until marriage, at least. He’s done his duty. He’s been good. 

Amos strips his gloves off and tosses them in the bucket. 

Aeron’s eyes track every movement like a caged animal. His body feels wound tight, primed for attack. 

His uncle crosses the stall. Reaches for him.

Aeron flinches back, but Amos catches his arm and holds him firmly in place. “Of course you haven’t. I know this isn’t what you want. But that’s what undercover work is. Dirty work. You don’t get to pick and choose your sacrifices.” 

His fingers dig into Aeron’s arm. “Do you really think I enjoy taking up this mantle?” 

Amos gestures expansively at the sky. 

Then releases him and turns back to the colt. A distant chill blossoms across Aeron’s skin in the absence of blood-warm fingerprints. He hardly registers it. 

A bittersweet smile softens Amos’s face as he observes his creation. “No. Justice is rewarding work. But exhausting. There is so much evil in the world, Aeron. To stand against that is a moral calling. A burden the Gods put on men like you and I to bear, so others don’t have to.”

Aeron stares at the floor. He’s still listening, but his mind feels detached. The words slip too easily off of him and his body feels light. Fragile. Like if he breathes too heavily he’ll shatter. So he sits still. 

“If I wished to only serve myself, you’d find me here every day,” Amos nods to the colt. “Racing horses.” 

He hauls the bucket up and carts the afterbirth to the aisle. Then returns with two pitchforks. 

Amos thrusts one into Aeron’s hand. He starts shoveling soiled hay out of the stall with the other.

“You’ll only have to endure him a few times,” His uncle works as he speaks. “Then he’ll move you somewhere else. Anywhere else. You’ll check in with your handlers and we’ll move forward from there.”

Aeron exhales through his teeth – half hysterical laugh, half sob. He sets the dossier down and mechanically thrusts his pitchfork into the hay.

Too many questions race through his mind. 

“And if he moves me to the Kneeling Man?” Aeron asks. “Or some other brothel?”

Amos says nothing. 

And if he hurts me?

Aeron isn’t brave enough to ask. 

Amos sprinkles a pitchfork of fresh hay across the ground. His demeanor becomes dismissive. 

This meeting is wrapping up. 

“No one in this city remembers you, Aeron. You’ve been gone a long time. A fresh face as far as the Blackwoods are concerned. And we’re taking extreme measures to keep it that way.” 

He straightens and surveys his work. Then heaves a satisfied sigh and props his pitchfork against the stall. 

 “You’ll be introduced to a small team of handlers. Outside of them, only your grandfather and I know who you are and the details of your assignment –”

Suddenly, Sadie stumbles, interrupting him mid-sentence. Her breath comes in ragged gasps and sweat beads along the back of her coat. 

 “Fuck,” Aeron hisses. He throws his pitchfork to the side. 

She staggers and sinks to her knees, trembling.

Amos approaches her gently and places a steadying hand against her neck. He offers a soothing pat before pulling her lips back and exposing the insides of her mouth. 

Deathly pale gums peak out. She’s already gone.

Aeron’s gaze darts around urgently. “I’ll call the vet –”

“Don’t.” Amos holds up a hand. 

He pulls his service pistol from his belt and shakes his head. “This would’ve been her last season anyway. A bullet’s cheaper.”

Aeron swallows down the bile in his throat.

“Take the colt,” Amos gestures to the corner. “Keep him clear.”

Aeron carefully herds the foal into the corner of the stall, wrapping his arms around it to hold it in place.

“From now on, you’ll do your business out of a series of safehouses in the city. And if all goes well – if we can plant you – you may be out there for at least a year. Several years, maybe.” 

The foal pushes its head over Aeron’s shoulder towards its mother. It bleats softly. 

Amos signs a seven-pointed star across his chest. He nestles the pistol in Sadie’s ear. 

“From now on, I don’t know you.”

The gunshot cracks across the room. 

Aeron squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, stunned. The foal nickers and thrashes in his arms. 

Sadie collapses to the ground. She twitches a few times, before her chest finally goes still. Her eyes glaze over. 

You could hear a pin drop in the heavy silence that follows. 

Amos slides his pistol back into its holster. Then swipes roughly at damp eyes with the back of his hand. 

He chokes on half a sob when he finally speaks. “She was a good old girl.”

Aeron stands carefully. He swallows back the feeling of betrayal. 

His uncle wouldn’t ask this of him unless it was the only option. 

Amos gestures to the mare. “I’ll clean all this up. Get some breakfast, son.”

Aeron quietly turns and heads for the door. As he lifts the latch, his uncle’s final words echo behind him. 

“Aeron –” he pauses, “The Gods forgive.”

The door swings shut.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

– Aeron –

Aeron sprawls across his bed, staring up at the plaster ceiling. 

“The Gods forgive.” 

Bile rises in his throat. 

Aeron lives his life well. He serves the Gods and the Gods serve him. He’s never gone hungry. He will never go cold. His cup is full. 

But the shame curls in his gut all the same. 

All men sin. All men are sinners. 

Temptation is just another part of life’s design. It’s normal to be tested and to choose to turn away. And sometimes…it’s normal to falter. To beg forgiveness. That’s what the Septons preach. 

Aeron remembers that in the moments when heat churns in his stomach at the brush of skin. When his heart flutters at warm breath too close, or hunger in the wrong person’s gaze. He pushes those feelings down. 

There’s no need to apologize for stray thoughts. Not to men at least. As long as he does exactly as the Septons say he should. And Aeron always does. 

But now…What would the Septons say? 

He doesn’t think he can ask. Not without receiving an answer he can’t bear to hear.

Aeron heaves a sigh. 

The Septons preach against violence, too. They denounce lying, cheating, stealing, murder. What does a man need to do to absolve himself of fornication anyway? A few Our Fathers? 

But to be absolved of sodomy… 

Aeron’s not sure. He’s never dared to ask. Once, he almost brought it up. Twice, maybe. When a Septa knelt beside him with a warm and compassionate smile. But their eyes were always too shrewd. It made his collar itch and his cheeks warm and he had forced his gaze down in shame. He promised himself he didn’t need to know such things. 

Surely, though, his penance costs less than the price of Blackwood sin. 

Aeron squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will himself to sleep. If he doesn’t move at all, how could he shatter? What could break? 

Dark eyes look back at him on the other side of his eyelids. So deep a blue they look almost black. Like the flat, still waters of the Red Fork on the hottest summer nights. Lit only by the faint glimmer of stars above. 

Aeron used to sneak out of these ancient and sprawling halls on nights like those. When the oppressive heat outmatched even his grandfather’s multi-million dollar air-conditioning system. Red loam would squish between his toes as his bare feet sank into the riverbank. 

The Red Fork was cool but pleasant in those months. Even the frigid waters winding down from the Western mountains were no match for the summer sun. Aeron would lie back in the shallow water on top of slick, moss-covered slabs of river-rock and let the current wash across his face. He could easily drift off like that. Pulled away, if he wasn’t careful… 

Those mild waters swell around him now. They lap at his fingers and toes and the sun’s heat beats gently against his eyelids. 

Warm hands slip beneath Aeron’s night shirt. They glide easily across chilled, wet skin, pushing fabric up his body as they go. The cloth tangles with the river reeds and billows softly around him. 

Calloused knuckles brush his ribs as they wander upwards. One hand finds his nipple and toys with it lazily. A soft moan spills from Aeron’s lips. The other drifts to the nape of his neck and a weight far heavier than the river settles over him. Like the Red Fork’s pulled him deep into its marshy reeds, until the rust-colored silt has settled over him completely. 

Those fingers wind into his hair and pull. Hard. 

Aeron gasps, eyes still closed, as heat rushes down his body. A strong thigh bullies its way between his legs and pushes them open. He clutches at the river reeds around him, tearing at the slick algae that slips between his fingers and swirls off into the current below. 

The river does little to quell the fire racing beneath his skin. Blunt teeth dig lightly into the flesh of Aeron’s shoulder – testing, without breaking. A hot tongue laves at the mark, a firm palm caresses his flank. Goosebumps startle across his skin beneath warm touch.

Aeron opens his eyes.

There is no sun above him at all. He stares into the flat, dark waters of the Red Fork. Eyes so deep a blue they’re almost black. His lover’s lips twist when he grins, and a scar pulls his mouth wide enough for the moonlight to glint off bright, evenly-set teeth. Bared at him like a hound. 

Aeron shoots up in bed. 

Damp hair clings to his face. He breathes heavily, desperately trying to collect himself. 

It was just a dream. 

Aeron angrily flicks the sheets off his sweaty skin. He shifts in bed and freezes. Then looks down between his legs. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. 

He’s hard as a rock. 

Aeron reels in shame. A lump forms in his throat and he pushes his palms hard against his eyelids to stem hot tears. 

This is nothing to be dramatic about. 

He exhales deeply and stands, padding softly to the bathroom. 

The glaring, sterile lights inside wither any remnants of the dream. Aeron foolishly hopes that this will be enough. But even as his eyes adjust to meet reddened cheeks and a bleary gaze in the mirror, his problem remains. 

He leans over the cool granite of the bathroom vanity and thumps his forehead softly against the mirror. 

Then closes his eyes and grips the counter with one hand. The other reaches beneath his night shirt and strips his cock in rigid, efficient motions. He wills his mind not to wander. 

Think of nothing. Think of the way it feels. The sensations, and nothing else. That’s all we’re chasing. A physical sensation. 

Aeron’s breath grows ragged as he pumps himself furiously. His eyes squeeze shut and he chokes out a small sob as his pleasure finally peaks. Wet spurts of cum spill across his fingers. 

He exhales an unsteady, desperate sigh of relief. Then straightens. Numb.

Aeron reaches for the toilet paper and cleans up his mess. 

The gods give tests and men receive them. They had given him this one before. And they would give it to him again. Now, and a thousand times over. Maybe that was why he had been given this assignment. It was his cross to bear in life. The Smith had ensured it. 

—

Morning dew dampens Aeron’s pant-legs as he forges through a field of tall grass. 

The Bracken lichyard fans across the hills between the city’s limits and Stone Hedge’s soaring towers. His family’s remains had long overcrowded the crypts beneath their estate, and the burial grounds once used for distant relatives and castle servants had sprouted up ornate graves and regal monuments like a forest of felled trees. Their pale marble headstones shine under the sun like the bone-white stumps of Weirwoods, long-cleared from the property. 

Sunshine ghosts softly across the back of Aeron’s neck and raises goose bumps at his nape. He shudders as the gentle heat sparks fleeting memories of last night’s dream. 

But that’s over now.    

The wrought iron gate of his parent’s mausoleum creaks loudly as he unlocks it and pulls it open. It’s been a long time since anyone entered and the hinges have rusted over. 

Aeron coughs lightly on the dust that swirls inside. 

At the center of the room, recumbent effigies of his mother and father sleep peacefully. Cool stone sweats from the oppressive heat outside and urn cabinets line the walls – though few are in use. Those will be for him and his sister’s family. Someday. 

He approaches his mother’s sarcophagus on soft feet. 

Her carved face is exactly as he remembers it. Aeron was six when she passed, and mourns the memory of her voice that has long-since slipped away. Only jagged details of his life with her remain. Her kindness, her warmth. But most of it faded before he ever thought to write things down. Before he ever realized how impermanent memory could be. 

Aeron runs gentle fingers across her brow, smoothing away drops of condensation. He does remember that. The feeling of her hands carding through his hair as a boy. He wonders what she would think of him now. 

Jerrel Bracken’s tomb lies beyond hers – his cousin’s namesake. Aeron’s father was killed in police action when he was only a few years old, and he has no memory of the man at all. From what he’s heard, Jerrel was a stern man. Militant. But respected by his peers. 

Aeron thinks he’d certainly have something to say about this assignment. And about the type of man Aeron turned out to be. 

A shiver runs down his spine. 

His mother would forgive him. She would probably love him in spite of anything, surely. 

Aeron remembers that his mother was kind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

– Aeron –

A chill wind ruffles the hem of his slip dress. Aeron shudders.

The night isn’t particularly cold, but he’s unused to wearing so little clothing. Rust-colored satin rides high on his thighs as he holds himself in a pose meant to entice. He doubts it's working. 

Behind him, a bodega’s metal awning glows garish yellow, its graffitied grill finally pulled down for the night. Aeron takes another drag off his cigarette and forces himself not to cross his arms for cover. 

What’s he supposed to do with his hands anyway, though? 

It’s not like this dress has pockets, and he’s been standing awkwardly at the corner for over two hours. So he just keeps chain-smoking cigarettes. 

A Cadillac pulls up to the curb. He exhales smoke, trying for nonchalance. 

AX89002. 

Aeron’s been reciting the plate numbers in his head for the last hour like a mantra. He remembers them just fine at this point, but it’s a long time to stand around and he’s run out of other thoughts. Even nerves, for the most part. 

He opens the door and falls heavily into the passenger seat, batting seductive eyelashes at his company. Aeron flicks his cigarette onto the street and pulls the door shut behind him. 

It seems Ronnie Vance will be his date tonight. Early thirties, unremarkable, and of the Atranta branch, Aeron assumes. The other Vance line threw their lot in with the Blackwoods ages ago. 

Ronnie is one of three handlers in the operation, and he doesn’t waste any time in peeling out. 

Aeron sighs and slumps back in his seat. He savors these twenty-minute loops around the block with false Johns. They don’t say much anymore – much to his relief. A few stilted conversations were enough for him to almost feel more relieved getting out of the car than in. 

But the weeks passed, and they’ve all settled into a rhythm now. 

His team sends in a steady rotation behind tinted windows. Just enough variation to dissuade suspicion from anyone nosy enough to peer in and give a damn. 

Which is probably no one, Aeron thinks. 

People make a point to not dwell on the less than savory decor dumped along Riverrun’s streets. The broken bottles, the rats, the human feces… the whores and the homeless leaning in doorframes and panhandling at stop lights. He’s never felt so bare and he’s never been so invisible. People avert their eyes and look through him when they pass. 

Other than the Johns. 

Aeron shudders. 

Other than the Johns. 

But the real ones aren’t curious. They’re furtive and single-minded, and care little about his business outside the moments he could peddle them quick pleasures. Aeron doesn’t give them time to be ‘nice,’ lonely guys with delusions of rescuing him. When a car pulls up with plates off his list, he turns them away. Gives them a number he knows they won’t pay or just shrugs and says he’s not open. Taking a break. Keep it pushing. His team sends in enough ‘business’ to afford it. 

But Ronnie only shows up when he wants intel. Or has intel. 

Aeron glances back at him. He hates to break the lovely silence. 

“Yeah, well?” He prompts. “Nothing of note on my corner tonight. Doubt there will be.”

He reaches into a fast-food takeout bag propped on the console and digs for his burger, unwrapping the foil and biting into it. Mustard instead of ketchup this time. Ronnie remembered.

“There was a call came in about a block from you,” Ronnie plucks a fry from the bag. “Drug-related conflict that got ugly. A woman says her son got stabbed in the leg. Guy was last seen in a red hoodie and jeans.”

“I can’t see a block away.”

“Said he headed East, down Mudd Ave. That’s your way.”

Aeron shoves a large bite into his mouth. These are short drives. 

He ponders as he chews. “What time?”

“9:17, the call came in.”

Aeron hums. 

“There was a guy in a hoodie around then. Might have been red.” He shrugs. “I was trying not to look, you know? The hospital’s a block that way, too. The people that come by…I’m not trying to make eye contact. I’m…” 

Aeron looks down at his exposed legs. He uses the back of his hand to clumsily smooth wrinkled fabric down his thighs.

Ronnie nods and shrugs. “Fair enough. Patrol’s problem anyway.”

Aeron nods. Eyes down. 

“Our mark is coming by again this evening. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” Ronnie winks at him. 

Aeron forces his food down with a heavy swallow. “I’ll keep my eyes open.” 

They round a corner. His humble curb appears on the horizon and the car slows.

Aeron shoves the last bite of burger into his mouth and crumples the foil into a ball, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Then slams the door shut behind him. 

The Cadillac’s taillights slowly blink out as it disappears into the night.  

—

Aeron did not get lucky. That night, or the next, or the next, or the next—

He slumps forward on an overstuffed floral sofa. Elbow propped against his knee and forehead cradled heavily in his palm. Ash slowly flutters to the carpet from the cigarette held loosely in his other hand. 

His team murmurs senselessly around him. 

The living room is dated – furnished with popcorn ceilings and grandma-ish dressings. Years of cigarette smoke have yellowed the carpets and lampshades. Perhaps even the air itself. Freshly brewed tea sits next to several dossiers on the coffee table, but there’s only two cups. 

No one moves to touch it.

This, Aeron’s been told, will be the primary safehouse they operate out of for the next several months. He’s had more comfortable accommodations, to say the least. 

The operation’s CO sits in a winged armchair across from him. 

Coryanne Wylde. In her forties, by Aeron’s guess, and pretty, despite the lines starting to show in her olive skin. Her dark hair is pulled back in a neat braid and the makeup she wears is understated, but well put together. A modest seven-pointed star necklace sits against her breast. 

Aeron stubs out his cigarette. He takes a deep breath and straightens. “I think I should be approaching him in more locations. Increase my exposure.”

Coryanne huffs, lips pressed into a thin line. “No. Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s been weeks,” Aeron protests. “Still nothing. That’s dangerous.”

“Aeron, a job like this requires patience,” she insists. “It could be years before you’re finished here. Let things happen in due course.”

Ronnie and Perrianne Mooton both nod, deferring to her without question. Aeron searches their faces briefly for support, but quickly drops it. He rolls his eyes. 

“I can’t keep doing this without my cover slipping. The fake Johns,” he throws his hands up in frustration. “Someone’s gonna notice if I keep turning real customers away. Something’s gotta give, Coryanne.”

She levels him with a pitying look. 

Aeron waits a moment for her to say something. Then barrels on. “What? That doesn’t matter to you? Should I just start whoring myself out for real now? Is that the solution?”

She sucks a breath in through her teeth. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But…Aeron,” her eyes soften. “It is a real possibility…If we come to it.”

His chest tightens. 

He should say something. He should really tell someone he’s a virgin. Get himself out of this. But his stomach lurches with shame at the thought. Maybe if he vomits on the table he’ll be dismissed. 

“No.” Aeron snaps. “I don’t accept that.”

Coryanne offers him a brittle smile. Then turns to the others. 

“That’s enough from the rest of the team for today. Ronnie, Perri, you’re dismissed.” She smiles at them as they leave. All professionalism. 

The door clicks shut behind them and Coryanne turns her attention back to Aeron. She leans forward and pours them both a cup of tea, pushing his across the table to him. 

Ah. An ambush. 

“Aeron, I think we should touch base directly about this assignment,” she folds careful hands in front of her. “You’ve been struggling. Your uncle told me that you had some reservations before going undercover.”

“No –” Aeron blurts. “It’s not that. I wanted to go undercover. It was my idea.” 

Coryanne pauses a moment. “But…” she prompts, gesturing to him with perfectly lacquered nails. 

Aeron swallows and doesn’t answer. 

She sighs and plucks her own cup from the table, taking a small sip. 

“I understand,” She starts. 

Aeron exhales a bitter laugh. He stares down at his lukewarm mug. Still untouched.

“I do,” She insists. “We have more in common than you think, Aeron. I walked in similar shoes when I was younger.” 

He glares up at her, challenging. “Yeah?”

“Paid to seduce a man?” Coryanne smiles tightly. “Sure. Far from my most grievous sin. I was quite…lost when I was young.” 

She thumbs absently at her seven-pointed star necklace. For a moment, some deeper emotion wells behind her eyes. Sadness? Regret? He can’t entirely pin it down before the composed smile is plastered back across her face. 

“The gods are meant to guide us, and to catch us when we stumble. And I–” she chuckles ruefully, “–needed a lot of saving.”

She sets her mug down.  

Aeron’s eyes narrow, reassessing her. 

“Look,” she offers him a placating smile. “It’s never too late to find yourself. To find your way back to the Gods. The position you’re in – it’s not easy. You’re right to struggle with it. The Faith would call this sin. And I suppose that’s what it is, really. But the Hells would be a crowded place if the Gods couldn’t spare forgiveness for...temporary lapses in judgement. Especially when the intentions in your heart were always good.”

Aeron’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. The ends justify the means. The needs of the many…I’m getting that.” 

A sharp breath hisses between his teeth.

He grabs his mug and sips gingerly at the bitter liquid. Any excuse to put his head down and stifle the emotions he suspects are too transparent on his face. 

“What about the Myrish Bathhouse?” Aeron changes the subject, pointing to a photo on the table. 

He rifles through a folder of data they’d collected on Blackwood’s schedule. The clubs he frequents. The stops on his routes. The nights he works late. 

“He goes there often enough. And you said gay guys cruise there Thursday nights. I think I could work a prostitution angle. Make it work with my cover –”

“Aeron.” Coryanne interjects, voice sharp. 

“– I can offer men massages,” he continues. “Promise more outside for a price, if they’re interested. They won’t have their wallets on them in the sauna. I can get away with a bait and switch.”

Coryanne frowns down at the photographs, pondering. Then shakes her head. “You’ll keep working the corner. I’m sorry. But pushing this hard, this early in the game… It’s too dangerous.”

Her eyes soften with a compassion that makes Aeron’s blood boil. He refrains from rolling his eyes back at her. 

“There is a path for penitence,” she continues. “If needed. You can be born again, Aeron. Washed clean of sin. I was made new, myself. And look at me now.” She gestures to her person. “My job is to help people. To deliver the Father’s justice. And even you, in your darkest hour, can do the same.”

Aeron’s fingers clench around his cup. He stares at the wall behind her. “And after? When this is done?” he asks.

She smiles widely. Warmly. “You will be forgiven. The Gods will welcome you back with open arms.” Her palms spread up towards the ceiling above her. 

Praise be to the Gods, he thinks wryly. 

Aeron takes another sip of bitter tea, now gone cold. Then shrugs. 

He gets it. End of story. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

– Aeron –

“Sorry, men only on Thursday nights.” 

The front desk attendant barely even glances at Aeron before curling back around the phone. 

Terry, his name tag states. 

Terry has to practically shout down the line to be heard over all this racket.  

The lobby is in chaos. Customers crowd the desk from both directions, like they were born fucking yesterday. They weave and shove around each other in the cramped room, leaving the air hot and muggy under bright yellow lights. A sickly ambience, Aeron thinks, for a place that’s supposed to scream “spa.”

The attendant exhales heavily as he hangs up and turns to the next man in line. 

“Hello?” Aeron throws his hands up. 

Terry’s eyes widen in surprise as they round back to him and take a closer look. “Oh. Sorry, man. It’s $30 for the hours ‘til close.”

Aeron rolls his eyes and hands over his credit card. The skirt probably isn’t helping.

“You have a great time tonight, dude,” Terry calls after him.

Aeron turns and pushes deeper into the bathhouse, jaw clenching at the knowing laughter in those words. 

—

A locker slams shut next to his head. 

Aeron barely suppresses a flinch, eyes glancing wearily at the sweaty balding man who’s just stripped naked beside him. 

This is far from the first locker room he’s been in, but it is packed. He stands practically arm to arm with men in all states of undress, reeking of body odor and completely unabashed in their nudity. 

Aeron, on the other hand, feels suddenly aware of every muscle in his body. 

Rubber squelches beneath his feet. He somewhat gracelessly wriggles from his underwear while balancing on top of the sandals Terry gave him, avoiding lukewarm puddles pooling on the dirty tile below.

His mind insists it has the situation under control, but his skin must have other ideas, because he can’t help but bodily veer away from the oblivious men around him. Aeron practically glues himself to the wall as if he could melt through it and escape. 

Unbelievable, he thinks. That people come here to relax. But it’s not the saunas and the steam showers loosening them up tonight. 

He wraps a small towel around his waist and shuts the locker door. Then shoulders his way through the room and down the cramped, narrow stairs to the spa below.  

About ten different saunas line the hall – all set to different heats and humidities. Aeron enters one that looks just steamy enough for an intimate encounter but not steamy enough to get bent over in. He settles on an empty bench and casts his eyes around the room. 

Mostly older men. They lean back in their seats with heads tipped back and eyes closed. 

An exceptionally hairy man watches him, eyes lit with interest. Aeron smiles prettily back at him. 

—

He’s ten minutes into kneading a leathery back when, finally, opportunity strikes. The door pops open. A sharp laugh cracks through the sauna.

Blackwood breezes in with an unknown man and all the chaos of the hallway in tow, hot on his heels and washing in around him. 

“Shhh,” someone hisses.

He snorts and lets the foggy glass swing shut, smothering the clamor with a soft thump. 

Aeron tracks them from the corner of his eye. 

Blackwood has a small towel draped around his waist and a water bottle clutched loosely in his hand. He finds an empty bench and sprawls carelessly back across it, companion slumping at his side. 

Mystery man leans in with a toothy grin and murmurs something under his breath. Blackwood throws his head back and laughs, too loud, before remembering himself. He hides a bashful grin behind his hand as his eyes dart around the room. 

Aeron wracks his mind, trying to place the companion. He’s sure he recognizes him. 

The man has reddish-brown hair and a youthful smile. His green eyes are framed by blond lashes, and seem set in a permanent state of mirth. 

Aeron takes quick stock of his body. Toned, surprisingly tanned, and smattered in freckles, which fan across his shoulders and cheeks.  

He’s handsome. And he could very well be Blackwood’s type. 

Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps this is just some random guy Blackwood picked up for a quick fuck. 

“Let me help you out, Kerm.”

Tully. 

The name pops into Aeron’s mind. 

Kermit Tully. Blackwood’s best friend since childhood. 

Tully shifts to expose his back and Blackwood tosses his water bottle aside. He runs easy fingers up his friend’s neck and shoulders, working the muscles loose. 

Aeron’s throat goes dry. 

He swallows hard and refocuses on his own massage, digging bony fingers into a particularly ropy knot. The man in front of him groans. Aeron stifles a grimace and tunes his ears back into the conversation. 

“Dude, you would’ve loved this bitch,” Tully continues in a low voice. “Biggest fuckin’ titties I ever seen.” He grins back at Blackwood and mimes the size of the breasts at him. 

Blackwood snickers and leans in close to half-whisper in his ear. They both laugh. Loud and harsh. 

Tully’s voice pitches into a low whisper. “I thought I was gonna –” 

“Ahhhh…” The man in front of Aeron sighs loudly, blocking out the conversation. 

Aeron’s eye twitches in irritation. He stops his ministrations and softly pats the man’s shoulder.  

“That’s it for now,” he murmurs. “But for $50 you can find me in the parking lot later.”

The man grunts in annoyance. 

Aeron shrugs. “Find someone else if you want it now. Unless you’ve got a wallet shoved in that towel.”

He stands and moves on, scanning the sauna. A few stares linger hungrily on his body. 

Aeron considers starting with another random man. Better to not rush into anything and risk blowing his cover. His eyes play cautiously across Blackwood’s side of the room. 

Tully turns to him with a sweet smile. 

“Why don’t you come over here, pretty boy?” he calls. 

His eyes glitter like he’s in on some joke Aeron hasn’t gotten yet. And despite his leering, it’s obvious his true focus is trained beside him. On Blackwood. The subject of Aeron’s own attentions. 

What a fun little game they’re all playing. 

Hairs raise on the back of Aeron’s neck as his mark’s eyes bore into the side of his head. If things were going according to plan, the surveillance would be the other way around. 

He pointedly averts his gaze, eyes lingering instead on more neutral territory. 

Tully, according to the dossiers, only keeps company with women. Yet here he is. In a bathhouse, behind closed doors, on a cruising night. Perhaps being the Governor’s grandson requires more discretion. 

Aeron bites his lip shyly and tries for something appealing. 

Tully answers with a warm grin. He nods behind him. 

“How ‘bout we join forces. My friend could use a helping hand here.” He winks.

Aeron’s gaze flicks carefully to Blackwood, whose hands still methodically stroke along Tully’s shoulders. 

Their eyes meet. Blue-grey depths stare Aeron down, lit only by the sauna’s dim, orange glow. His heart stutters in his chest.

Memories of the Red Fork’s waters whirl through his mind. But Blackwood’s eyes aren’t dark or still tonight. They’re bright and wild, churning like the white rapids at the Tumblestone’s confluence. 

“Sure,” Aeron murmurs. 

He sidles up to the pair and sits behind them, smile worn stiffly on his face. 

Maybe they plan to fuck him together.

Aeron lays tentative hands across Blackwood’s neck. 

The man is tanned and toned. All muscle. Sweat beads along his spine and trails in slow rivulets down the grooves of his back, pooling at a lithe waist. 

Goosebumps rise on Aeron’s skin. He forces his hands to move. 

Countless pale scars stretch across Blackwood’s wide shoulders. Aeron maps them as he massages, cheeks warming as his fingers skim across a much fresher set of scratches that don’t look like combat wounds at all.

There’s not much real-estate left untouched on the man’s body. A fucking ridiculous glitter star tramp-stamp is tattooed down his V-lines and the words ‘Dancing Queen’ are stick-and-poked in large letters across his upper back. Valyrian steel nipple rings match the chain that hangs around his neck. 

The metal must be uncomfortable in this heat. 

Aeron’s chest flutters. He shifts subtly where he sits as an uncomfortable warmth pools in his gut.

Just focus on giving a half-decent massage. 

He still can’t believe he’s doing this. And on his uncle’s orders, too. What a sick joke. 

Blackwood looks back at him with lowered lids, perhaps trying to soften his gaze into something seductive. But his eyes stay turbulent under dark lashes. 

His grin stretches wide and his tongue runs along the inside of his teeth. He has a way of baring his canines, even when he’s smiling. 

It makes Aeron feel like prey. 

“Looking for company tonight?” Aeron’s voice cracks a little too timidly at the end. 

Blackwood laughs, sharp. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want company right now.”

At that, Aeron’s nerve falters. He chews the inside of his cheek and throws a furtive glance around the room. “I – there’s a lot of people here.”

Blackwood shrugs, hands still gently massaging Tully’s back. 

“There’s always a lot of people here,” Tully chuckles. “Popular time to get your rocks off.” He turns his head back towards Aeron with a smile in his eyes. “You can suck him off. I don’t mind. Nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”

Aeron takes a measured breath. Steadies himself. 

“I can help you when you have a wallet on hand. Chasing down collections is a pain in the ass.”

Blackwood snorts. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know something about that.” 

The words are casual, but they send a chill down Aeron’s spine. 

“I only charge $50 for a handjob,” he begins, trying to keep his tone confident. “$100 for my mouth.”

Blackwood starts at that. He twists to look at him more fully, lips twitching into something closer to a sneer. 

“And why the fuck should I pay you anything? For a blowjob,” he scoffs. “When I can wait another ten minutes and find messy hole to bend over right here?”

Aeron’s hands still. He takes a careful breath. 

“So wait, then.” He bites out, scanning the other patrons. “Or take your pick from what’s here. Maybe you have a thing for daddies. I’m not judging,” he shrugs. Tone judging. 

A hubris that is swiftly punished. By Blackwood’s gods or the Seven, Aeron could not say. But in that moment an elderly man with thinning grey hair and sagging pecks sits down behind him. 

Aeron flinches as wrinkled hands settle along his shoulders. 

“Gods above, you’re a lovely thing,” the man murmurs. “My name’s John.”

Fuck. 

Of course. This situation is spiraling out of control. 

Hot breath puffs against the back of Aeron’s neck. He turns his head as far as he’s willing to risk, shooting John a wooden smile. 

“Thank you. Give me a minute, please. I’m in the middle of something.”

Aeron turns back around. To where he finds Blackwood’s impish grin, cracked wide with amusement and waiting for him on the other side. 

“Of course,” Blackwood taunts. “We hate to judge.” 

His eyes glint with a laughter barely caught in his throat. Aeron hopes he chokes on it. 

He scowls and begrudgingly returns to his massage. 

Behind him, the John’s hands dip under the hem of his towel. Greedy fingers do more pinching than massaging on Aeron’s ass. He stiffens and leans in towards Blackwood’s ear. 

“You could have me for more than a ten-minute, sweaty fuck in a shithole like this,” he purrs. 

“Mm,” Blackwood murmurs. He appraises Aeron’s body with cool eyes. “Yeah? What’s the damage to keep you ‘till morning?”

Those words evoke the image of a dozen violent outcomes in Aeron’s mind. All streaming in a highlight reel behind his eyes. 

He huffs nervously. “Fuck. You tell me.” 

Immediate regret. 

But Blackwood bites out a surprised laugh. He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses. Caught off guard. 

Aeron’s mind races. He backpedals, tucking a damp strand of hair behind his ear and forging on. 

“I can do six hundred for the night,” He offers. Then adds, self-conscious, “– I’m clean.”

Heat burns his cheeks. 

He hopes the steam is justification enough for his flushed skin. Or that the dim light masks his embarrassment. 

Tully hums in agreement at his price.

“Double for both,” Aeron quickly amends.  

“Oh,” Tully laughs. “That’s thoughtful. But I don’t swing that way.”

Blackwood's lips quirk up. Mischievous, almost. He worries his tongue gently in the corner of his teeth as he nods.

“I can do $600.”

Great! Aeron’s head spins. 

For a moment, silence passes between them. 

The deflowering of any boy’s dreams! 

The door abruptly jars open and a sturdy-looking man in a towel pops his head in. 

“Was one of you folks waiting on a treatment?” Aeron’s guardian angel asks.

He nods and quickly stands. “Yep. That was me.”

It was not him. But whoever actually paid for a treatment would have to wait. 

“You can find me in the parking lot when you’re done here,” Aeron whispers as he slips away. 

—

Cool air hits his skin with a slap as he enters the hallway. 

Aeron shudders at the John’s touch, still lingering on his hips. It takes some effort to resist reaching back and scrubbing himself clean. 

The door thuds shut behind him – sealing Blackwood off with it. 

Only Tully’s muffled cackle filters through the glass. His silhouette claps a hand across Blackwood’s shoulder, words garbled. 

“Bro, I think you’re ready for a cold plunge…” 

Aeron feels like he’s underwater, listening in on some distant conversation that echoes down from the surface above.

He takes a gasping breath and shakes his head. Free at last.  

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

– Aeron –

Aeron shifts his weight, sucking a harsh drag off his cigarette. He’s been in the parking lot for an hour now and the nicotine can’t keep up with his fraying nerves. 

The heavy metal door to the bathhouse clangs open. Blackwood and Tully exit. 

They both look wrecked. Faces flush, hair damp at the temples, limbs loose. 

Aeron tosses his cigarette to the pavement and stamps it out. He wipes sweaty palms on the low-slung satin hugging his hips and crosses his arms. 

Blackwood’s eyes land on him. His mouth stretches into a feral grin. 

“Didn’t run off with some other man?” He taunts lightly.

Aeron forces himself not to clutch his arms tighter around his chest as the two saunter over. He relaxes his posture, even if he can’t bring himself to lower the cover of his arms. It’s a chilly enough night. 

“Congratulations,” Aeron’s smile is brittle. “You’re my highest bidder.”

Tully laughs and claps Blackwood on the shoulder, giving him a playful shake. “Hey-hey. Your lucky night.” 

He releases him with an easy familiarity and continues on towards his car.

“You kids have fun, then,” he calls over his shoulder. “I won’t wait up.” 

Blackwood smirks and throws a hand up in acknowledgment. “I’ll catch you later man.” 

Together, they watch as Tully backs up and pulls out into the night. 

The silence in his absence is stifling.

Blackwood bats his eyes innocently. “How was your treatment?” 

His voice is sweet, but there’s no missing the knowing glint in his eye. 

“Brrrbbt,” Blackwood shivers and rubs his arms, mimicking a chill. “Invigorating?”  

Aeron shudders. 

—

Ice cold water crashes down around him. 

He gasps in shock, writhing in confusion on the sauna bench. 

Instinct drives him to search for whatever the fuck is going on, but the room is dark. The spa attendant threw a damp towel across his face at the start of the treatment. 

A wet towel, now. In a wet, steamy room that he desperately tries to suck air out of as his heart races in his chest. He gets a couple shallow breaths in before the beating starts. 

Aeron flinches.

His guardian angel starts slapping his body with what feels like…tree branches? The room gets hotter. Very hot. 

Of course, he thinks. 

Of course people who willingly come to a place like this would love a good beating. Nothing like waterboarding to help you unwind. Of course! 

The air tears from his throat as another bucketful of ice water cascades down on him. 

—

Aeron blinks. 

Then shifts uneasily on his feet. 

“Harrowing.” He shoots Blackwood a sour look. “I don’t know what I expected from the Myrish.”

Blackwood cackles. “Ohh. A little xenophobe, hah? Sounds like you’re not a very well-travelled whore.”

“Mm,” Aeron agrees. 

“Maybe you’d prefer Lys,” his grin widens. “The brothels are amazing.”

“I believe it,” Aeron gestures back at him. “You’re the connoisseur. But I’m not in the market for prostitutes. And Johns are the same everywhere.”

Blackwood’s smile slips a bit at that and he ducks his head. Then nods across the parking lot. “That’s my ride.”

He doesn’t wait for Aeron to respond before walking off and popping the passenger door open.

Aeron cautiously approaches, hesitating for only a moment before forcing himself to nod and climb in. Blackwood slams the door shut behind him. 

It’s a beautiful car. A sleek black Quattroporte Trofeo that Aeron recognizes from his briefings. One of several vehicles in Blackwood’s repertoire. This one’s most frequently seen leaving the club. And high-end restaurants. 

Used for pleasure, not business.

Its interior is lined with soft, red and black leather that still smells fresh. Crimson underglow lights dimly illuminate Blackwood’s eyes as he climbs into the driver’s seat. 

He turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. 

That exotic rasp hums in Aeron’s chest as they peel out, accelerating too fast down the near-empty streets. Sharp, bark-like pops echo from the red side vents as they veer onto the highway. Like a beast, snarling from flared nostrils.

The engine settles to a sultry purr once they hit the open road.  

Aeron gently traces a soothing circle on his thigh with his index finger. When he looks up, he catches dark eyes tracking each movement. 

His heart stutters. Then he re-calibrates. 

“Fun night?” He offers an encouraging smile.

Blackwood’s lips twitch up and Aeron can’t help it if his eyes dip to that scar, glinting in the moonlight. 

“Nothing special," his voice is heavy. “But the night is young.”

Aeron glances away. His fingers slip to the hem of his skirt, but he stops himself from pulling it further down his legs. He toys carefully with the fabric.

“Oh.”

What do people say in these situations? He’s way out of his league here. His uncle was delusional, sending him to slaughter like this. 

In the dim light, Aeron catches his reflection in the window. Long hair hangs loose around his face and a baby tee hugs his form tightly, cropped short to reveal wide expanses of smooth skin. 

Aeron swallows. He hardly knows who that man is. 

The city lights fade and blink out behind them as they cruise deep into countryside’s rolling hills. 

—

Blackwood’s house is big for one man, but not ostentatious. Its most luxurious feature might be the sprawling garage, which seems to be housing more cars than there are bedrooms in the place.

The engine cuts and silence wraps around them. Aeron barely breathes. 

“You want a little past’?” Blackwood turns in his seat to face him. “I got some macaroni and clam sauce on the stove.”

Aeron blinks. 

This is all foreign to him, but he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be eating a heavy meal. Right before…

He chews his lip, unsure. “Um. Don’t you think that might be a little…dense? For me, I mean.”

Blackwood snorts. He pops his door open and pulls himself gracelessly from it. 

“What, do you have IBS or something? Moves right through you, huh?”

Aeron climbs out after him, trying to keep pace. “Professional pride is what I have. Okay?” 

He glares at Blackwood, cheeks pink. 

The man laughs and brushes past him without a second thought. He pauses briefly at a wine rack by the door and pulls what looks like an exceptionally pricey Vermentino off the shelf.

“Goes well with the clams,” he holds it up for Aeron to see. 

Then winks and turns to the door. 

—

Blackwood’s kitchen is tasteful, but surprisingly lived in. He tosses his keys carelessly on the counter and flicks the burners on. Then pulls a ladle from the spoon rest and stirs his clams with practiced ease. 

Aeron didn’t really peg him as a man who would have a spoon rest.

The scent of garlic, brine, and aromatics fills the room. Aeron takes stock of his surroundings. 

Wood, concrete, and sand-colored brick line the walls. 

Large glass doors open onto a pool deck to his left. Ahead of him, the kitchen extends into a dining room. Which extends into a hall, which extends into…somewhere, deep in the house. To his right, the space descends into a sunken living room – and what looks to be the main entrance. Slanted glass windows overlook the countryside. 

Aeron passed three bedrooms on his way in from the garage. One, clearly the master. 

A loud pop jars him from his thoughts. 

He turns and finds Blackwood pouring wine into two small, bowl-shaped wine glasses. The kind his aunt would call low-brow. Aeron could maybe give him ‘old-fashioned,’ if he’s feeling generous. 

Blackwood offers him a glass, clinking them together softly before taking a sip. 

Bright, slightly saline liquid slips too-easily down Aeron’s throat. He takes a bigger swallow than he probably should. 

“How long have those been sitting on the stove?” Aeron eyes the clams heating in a covered pan.

“Uh, like a few hours,” Blackwood’s brow furrows. “Cooked ‘em before I left.”

“Mm,” Aeron nods in agreement. 

He doesn’t love to roll the dice on this one, but his hands are tied. 

Blackwood sets his glass down on the counter.

“Didn’t set the table, sorry. Wasn’t expecting company.” He gestures around. “Make yourself at home.”

Aeron shrugs and leans back against the kitchen island, watching him pull two bowls from a cabinet. 

“No worries, really,” he slowly swirls his wine. “The food smells nice. I wouldn’t take you for a cook.”

The grin Blackwood shoots him is surprisingly warm. It makes him look younger. Almost boyish.  

“My buddy’s Ma taught me when I was little. Kermit – from earlier.” 

He pulls a drawer open and gathers silverware. “Kerm hated it. Helping with dinner was a chore, you know? I love it, though. Exotic.” 

“Mm, yeah” Aeron hums and takes a small sip of his wine. 

Warmth pools slowly through him. Just enough to take the edge off.  

“You didn’t help your own mom out?” Aeron prods. “Or she didn’t cook?” 

He hates to ask, but it feels like the only logical follow up. Blackwood’s mom is dead.

Aeron hopes it won’t make things awkward. Or sentimental. 

“Never had one,” Blackwood shakes his head and turns back to the clams, stirring lightly. 

He sets the ladle down and returns to his wine. Their eyes meet. 

Aeron tries to feign sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Clearly, he’s not successful. Blackwood's mouth stretches into something wooden that resembles a smile. His eyes, however, remain flat.  

“Don’t worry about it. Never had anyone to miss.”

Aeron nods. Silence stretches between them. 

“And you?” Blackwood leans back against the counter, taking a sip. “Did your Moms ever teach you how to cook?”

The thought of his mother makes Aeron’s heart clench painfully in his chest. He has no idea if she could cook. No one really bothered to tell him. 

“My mom’s an awful cook,” He chuckles a little too loud. “It’s better she never tried. I usually just microwave myself something.”

Blackwood snorts. “Well, not tonight babydoll. I got you taken care of.” 

He sets down his wine and flicks the stove off. 

Aeron’s ears burn. He stares into his glass, turning the stem gently between his fingers. 

Blackwood drains his pasta over the sink and mixes the clams in. He doles their food out and hands over a bowl. Then leans back on the counter and starts shoveling pasta into his mouth.

“What’s your social?” He asks. 

Aeron takes a gulp of wine, clunking it back down on the counter. 

The interest takes him back a little, but his team did prepare for this. He recites the handle they’d made for his undercover identity. 

Blackwood sets his food down. He pulls his phone out and starts scrolling through Aeron’s photos. Right in front of him, without hesitation. 

Aeron blinks in shock. Bold. He instinctively searches the room for someone to commiserate with over this behavior. But, of course, he’s on his own. 

“You have a dog?” Blackwood asks, reaching for his wine and taking another casual sip. 

He looks up into Aeron’s eyes. Completely remorseless. 

Aeron chokes out a halting laugh.

“Um. I did,” he pokes at his pasta, staring into the bowl. “But she died a few years ago. Her name was Sadie.”

“Sadie,” Blackwood smiles. “Cute.” 

He turns back to his internet stalking. 

Aeron’s face heats at the attention. This is going to be a long night. 

—

A floorboard creaks under his feet. 

Aeron takes another shaky step back into the dim bedroom. 

Dinner had been an awkward affair, but he’d clung to the safety under those bright lights for as long as possible. Ultimately, though, the night was always going to end here. 

With nowhere left to run.  

Blackwood pads in after him – face shadowed but eyes catching in the scattered lamplight. He carries himself with the loping gait of a hound. Deliberate, but graceless. 

Aeron’s heart flutters as the man sidles close. 

There’s a dark amusement in the set of Blackwood’s lips, though he doesn’t smile. Already, his eyes are blown-wide with lust. Hungry fingers reach out and curl in the satin of Aeron’s skirt. Slow, but firm, drawing him in. 

Hot breath ghosts across Aeron’s jugular. His hands flutter up to Blackwood’s chest – half to hold onto him, half to keep him at bay. 

A sickening tangle of emotions churn in his gut. Shame, loathing, fear. Unnamable things. Fever, pulse, breathlessness.

Blackwood presses their mouths together. His lips are soft, but insistent. 

A shaky exhale slips from Aeron’s throat and Blackwood thoughtlessly swallows it down, stealing the breath off his lips. His mouth runs over Aeron’s and slowly works him open. 

The delicate fabric of Aeron’s skirt crumples as Blackwood’s hands on him become more urgent. With a hard tug, its zipper pops open and the ruined garment slips down to pool at his feet. 

“Oh,” Aeron gasps into the kiss. 

Blackwood leans back just far enough to tug his shirt off. Then shoves their lips back together and walks Aeron backwards, towards the bed. The discarded fabric catches around Aeron’s ankles and he stumbles out of the skirt as he goes, practically dragged along.  

“You’re so beautiful,” Blackwood murmurs against his jaw. 

Aeron melts. 

His heart races. He’s kissed a few women before, but this feels new. The girls he dated were sweet. Respectable and charming and easy to control himself around. With a few meaningful touches they would sigh and melt under him and he would do just enough to excite and flatter them before pulling away – telling them they should do things properly – that he wanted to take them seriously. 

And it pleased them. 

Blackwood is uncharted territory. The rough skin of his clean-shaven jaw and the solid weight of his chest makes Aeron’s head spin. Whatever chemical reaction is happening in his brain right now feels strong enough to make him collapse. 

His knees hit the edge of the mattress and strong hands dig into the flesh of his thighs. Blackwood hoists him up and drags him to the center of the bed. Aeron’s hands raise back up to catch his chest as he settles on top. 

Despite the fear, Aeron’s stomach plummets low and settles uncomfortably between his legs. His heart beats wildly in his chest and his eyes dart to the sides, where Blackwood’s arms cage him in. He can feel his traitorous cock twitch against his thigh.

Then Blackwood’s mouth is on him again. The man’s tongue slips out to run against Aeron’s bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open. Aeron submits to the intrusion, letting him bully his way in.

Blackwood laps at his mouth, tongue strangely appraising as it runs along the inside of Aeron’s teeth. Like he’s a horse, being measured for purchase. 

Not that Blackwood would make out with a horse. He thinks.  

“Fuck,” Blackwood breathes against his mouth. 

He groans loudly and cants his hips against Aeron’s groin. 

Aeron flushes at the attention. His fingers flutter against Blackwood’s chest and his breath grows uneven. 

There’s a wildness in the man’s eyes that looks barely restrained. His knee settles between Aeron's thighs and pries his legs open. 

Aeron swallows thickly and complies, spreading himself wide for Blackwood’s use. His arms wrap around the man’s neck as heated hands paw across his body, pushing the fabric of his shirt up and sending shivers running up and down his abdomen. 

Stilted moans slip helplessly from Aeron’s lips. 

He melts into the bed’s silken sheets. The slide of his satin underwear against charcoal fabric makes everything feel soft and slippery and sensual. Everything but Blackwood, whose heavy weight pins him firmly to the mattress. 

Aeron feels hot and faint. He can taste the expensive wine from dinner on Blackwood’s tongue, or maybe on his own. He must have drank too much. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. 

A hand slips up to Aeron’s throat. Warm fingers flex firmly at his jugular, pushing cold Valyrian steel rings gently into his skin. Aeron doesn’t recognize the breathy sighs spilling out of him, muffled by the press of rough lips. He’s never felt so possessed. 

Heat swells in his body. He trails shaking fingers down to the buttons on Blackwood’s jeans and fumbles them open. 

Blackwood moves his hands down to help, pushing at the top of his jeans to force them lower. Then abandons the task in favor of sliding calloused palms across Aeron’s sweat-slick skin. 

His tongue slips in and out of Aeron’s mouth, exploring him. Wild and consuming. He drags desperate hips against the hard length of Aeron’s cock, grinding down.

Aeron chokes out a gasp and freezes.

Cold washes over him. Suddenly, he finds himself painfully aware of his body in this bed. Beneath a man. Beneath the Gods’ watchful eyes. 

It’s not your choice, he tells himself. He’s just following orders. A necessary evil. 

Aeron forces stiff hands to grip weakly at Blackwood’s hips. His palm slides down and cups the man’s groin, trembling as he pushes against Blackwood’s straining length. 

Blackwood groans into his mouth, bucking into his touch. Bile rises in Aeron’s throat. 

You can go through with this. It’s just sex. It’s not that serious. 

Tentatively, Aeron rubs him through his underwear, squeezing gently. 

Fuck. He’s big. Aeron swallows the lump in his throat. And pierced. 

Blackwood’s lips trail hot down Aeron’s neck. He gently sucks a nipple between his teeth, swirling it with his tongue. 

Aeron’s body shakes beneath his fingers. He sobs and forces back the hot tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

Blackwood stiffens, pulling off. His hands still at Aeron’s hips. 

“Are you okay?”

Aeron blinks down in surprise at the alarmed eyes staring back at him. 

Blackwood searches his face intently. 

Aeron swallows and nods rapidly, collecting himself. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Keep going.”

Don’t be a fucking baby. You’re fine. 

Blackwood’s eyes linger on his face another moment before his lips lower back to Aeron’s chest, pressing experimental pecks into the skin. 

Unfortunately, Aeron can’t control his body’s responses anymore. His muscles quiver. The shaking increases. 

Blackwood pauses and looks down at his groin. 

Aeron’s not sure when it happened, but he’s gone completely limp. He desperately tries to will his cock to react, but it’s too late. Blackwood is already pulling off of him. He sits up on his knees between Aeron’s legs, frowning down at him. 

“I’m fine, really,” Aeron breathes. “Just keep going. I’m fine.”

Blackwood lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Fine? You’re shaking like a fucking leaf.” His eyes narrow and Aeron squirms under his examination. “You’re crying.”

Aeron brings a hand up and quickly swipes at his cheek. So there’s a little moisture. He’s fine. Prostitutes don’t get paid to like it.

“I can keep going. I want to.”

Blackwood’s lips press into a thin line. He rocks back on his heels, as if to stand. 

Aeron quickly sits up. He desperately grabs at the man’s arm to stop him. 

“Look –” Blackwood’s voice is hard. “I don’t know what type of clients you usually take, but I’m not paying to hurt you. That doesn’t do it for me. I’m not fucking you like this.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Aeron looks down in misery, fingers still clutching at him. 

He feels so stupid. His uncle’s given him the chance of a lifetime to make a real difference, and he’s fumbling it over his stupid feelings. All because he’s a sensitive fucking virgin. 

Aeron takes a deep breath and meets Blackwood’s gaze. He can still salvage this. Maybe. He can try. 

“Look, I’m sorry I reacted like that. I don’t usually do this. I’ve never done this.” He blinks his eyes to clear the tears, leaning into his vulnerability. 

Maybe he can at least make a play at the man’s compassion. If he has any. 

“I only started doing sex work recently. I’ve never done a night before. I’ve never done -” Aeron casts his eyes down and swallows back the lump in his throat. “I’ve used my hands a little. So far. I’m still getting used to it.”

Blackwood’s eyes study him. He’s confused, but no longer a flight risk. 

“My mother is sick –” 

“– Hah,” Blackwood interrupts him with an incredulous laugh, “Of course.” 

He turns his head and starts to pull away.

“I’m serious!” Aeron barks, tone sharpening. His fingers dig into Blackwood’s bicep. “You think I’d react like that if I was lying? Look, maybe everyone on the street has some stupid fucking sob story but my mother does have cancer and her insurance doesn’t cover the treatments. So here I fucking am.” 

Aeron’s mother is dead. Of cancer, sure, but fourteen years ago. Fortunately, it’s not a difficult wound to reopen. 

He pulls in a quick breath to steady himself. Then continues more demurely. 

“Your jewelry looked expensive, so I thought I’d take the risk. I thought I could get away with asking for more, you know? But it’s…” Aeron swallows, voice cracking. “It’s a lot.” 

Suddenly, he realizes how hard his fingernails are digging into Blackwood’s skin. Aeron releases his grip and casts his eyes down. 

“I’ve never… and you felt, um, big. And…it was, it- I-” the words tumble out haltingly. 

Blackwood stares him down incredulously. “Are you telling me you’ve never fucked anybody?”

A pause. 

“Gods.” Blackwood shakes his head. “Worst whore I ever met.”

Aeron’s face feels like it’s on fire. Surely, even the dim lamplight can’t hide the redness in his cheeks.  

That’s good, he figures. 

A physiological reaction like that can’t be faked. It will lend him credibility. 

Aeron flutters his eyelashes, hopefully coquettishly. 

“I was raised with the teachings of the Seven. This…” He reaches out and traces a gentle finger across Blackwood’s chest. The man’s eyes dip to track the movement. “– is sin.”

Blackwood meets Aeron’s gaze. There’s a heat kindling there, but he doesn’t act on it. He shakes his head, suppressing any fleeting emotions that might have spilled through. 

“Look,” he huffs. “I’ll still pay for the night. Let’s just go to sleep.”

Aeron falters, unsure. “Sleep?”

“You won’t get a taxi coming out here at this hour. I’ll have someone pick you up in the morning.”

“I –” Aeron starts, but Blackwood is already sitting up on his heels and climbing towards the nightstand. He flicks the lamp off. 

“Goodnight.”

End of discussion. 

Aeron doesn’t push his luck. He carefully lowers himself back onto the bed and crawls under the sheets at Blackwood’s side. 

A minute of tension ticks by. 

Eventually, Aeron releases the breath he was holding in. He relaxes carefully back in the sheets. 

As adrenaline and stress finally fade, exhaustion washes over him. His eyes flutter shut. 

Just before he fully slips under, Aeron feels a strong arm sling across his waist. 

Blackwood pulls him in, cradling him loosely as they drift to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

– Davos –

Clank. 

The iron bar settles loudly in the rack, plates rattling. 

Davos exhales hard. He sits up on the bench and rubs vaguely at his chest as he leans forward, grabbing his water and taking a sip. 

The music cuts out of his headphones. Kermit. 

He sighs but picks up anyway.  

“Morning, sunshine,” Kermit’s cheery voice chimes down the line. 

“Hey, man. Mornin.’” 

Kermit hums happily. “How was last night?”

Davos cringes. Aeron’s teary hazel eyes flash through his mind. 

Not his best work, last night. 

“Uh…could have been better.”

Kermit scoffs. “What, why? He was perfect. What happened?”

“Yeahh,” Davos spins the cap on his water bottle. “I don’t think he was feeling me.”

Kermit snorts. 

“I mean. He’s a prostitute, Davey. He’s supposed to fuck you. Not feel you.”

Davos chuckles awkwardly. 

“Yeah but, like. He super duper wasn’t feeling me man. Like…screaming, crying, throwing up.”

Kermit waffles for a second. Then laughs, startled. “What the fuck did you do?”

Davos throws his hands up defensively.

“Nothing! Honest. I mean,” he shakes his head. “It’s not my first rodeo. But it was like, Beauty and the fucking Beast in there. I tanked so hard.” 

He shudders at the thought. 

Kermit sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah. That seems maybe a little…dramatic.”

“You win some, you lose some,” Davos shrugs. 

The memory of Aeron’s cute cheeks smushed into his pillow this morning flashes unwanted through his mind. Perfect, petal pink lips gently parted. Hair mussed and fanning across Davos’s bedsheets.

Something clenches in his chest. 

“Totally, bro,” Kermit plows on. “You know, we should go out tonight. It’s important that you get right back on the horse. Or you’ll form a complex.”

Well. That’s a sobering thought. 

Davos scrubs a tired palm down his face. He knows he isn’t exactly Prince Charming, but he gets by well enough. His dick is big and he’s at the top of the food chain. So he can eat when he’s hungry. 

But a guy like him would need to pay to touch a boy like that, anyway. The kid’s playing in a whole different league. He probably wants some Romeo to come and sweep him off his feet. 

Davos drums his fingers against his knee. “Yeah, maybe. I got a busy day. I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Davos pauses for a moment, considering. 

“You know he told me he’s a virgin?” He blurts.

Silence on the line.

Then, “...What? Virgin prostitute?”

“Yeah,” Davos cracks a grin. “The immaculate hoor. Can you believe that? Gotta be lying, right?”

Kermit laughs. “Dude. Yeah. That’s like when a girl’s friend calls at the end of a date and says there’s an emergency. There’s no way.”

“Whoof,” Davos cackles. “Brutal. Anyway, I gotta run. I’ll text ya.”

“Okay, talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you.” Davos hangs up. 

He heaves himself to his feet and leaves the gym. 

—

Davos chugs the rest of his water as he enters the kitchen and tosses it in the trash. A blender sits on the counter with a few sips of his protein shake left in it. He downs that too and tosses his dishes in the sink. Then gathers six egg shells from breakfast and a piece of toast he set aside and shoulders through the sliding glass doors to the pool deck. 

The creak of boards under his bare feet is jarring in the morning’s quiet. He steps off the deck and lets his toes sink into the soft soil of the Godswood beyond. 

Davos dumps his offerings in a small heap next to the Heart Tree, kneeling before the Weirwood’s ancient face. 

Those all-knowing eyes send his hackles rising today. He drops his gaze and focuses on prayer. 

Aeron will probably be gone by the time he’s finished. And if his chest tightens slightly at the thought, he’ll get over that soon enough. He can find someone else to keep his bed warm. 

But it was nice. To have a body next to him, to hold through the night. Worth the money, anyway. Even if things didn’t work out. 

He pulls a lighter from his pocket and sets it to his oblation. Flame eats at the dry corners of the toast. 

Davos’s nostrils flare at the rank smell of ash and sulphur that curl around him. The air is still crisp and cool, and birds chirp in the early-morning light.

He takes a deep breath and bows his head. 

The Old Hymns twist their way slowly through his diaphragm. His human anatomy can’t manage all of the True Tongue, but he’s got the pipes to make decent work of it. 

Davos lets the notes vibrate deep in his chest and hum behind his eyes. It's one of few rituals that actually calms him. He lets himself get lost in that feeling and time slips away.

—

– Aeron –

Aeron’s disoriented when he blinks awake. He sits up fast and takes the room in. 

Blackwood’s house. Right. 

The other side of the bed is empty. He exhales heavily and flops back down, staring at the ceiling. 

Aeron tunes his ears in to make sense of his surroundings. Shuffling sounds echo from somewhere deep in the house. 

So Blackwood is still here, then. Or his staff is. 

Memories from last night rush in, despite his best efforts to repress them. Aeron groans and digs his palms into his eyes. 

How embarrassing. Reporting this back to his uncle would be a humiliating task. Couldn’t even make it through one night without fumbling. And he’d been so adamant that he was right for an undercover role, too. That he could be of value. 

He considers ways to spin this as favorably as possible. At least he’s alive. 

“Ugh,” Aeron complains to the empty room, flopping his hands down next to him. 

He grants himself one last moment of peace before rolling out of bed and searching for his clothes. 

The skirt lays on the floor where he left it, crumpled like a discarded napkin. Aeron cringes at the thought of re-dressing himself so scantily under the broad light of day. Before Gods and men.  

He scans the room. On the dresser, a small stack of clothes has been set out. Neatly folded. 

Aeron approaches. He picks up an oversized black band tee and grey sweats. 

Surely these aren’t for me to wear? 

He glances around, searching for another answer. But Blackwood has already left. And presumably dressed himself to do so. 

The casual clothes must be intended for him.

Aeron slips them on with relief. It would be unwise to reject Blackwood’s hospitality anyway. 

He plucks last night’s clothes off the floor and dumps them in the trashcan by the bed. Then treads warily into the hall and towards the kitchen. 

—

– Davos –

Davos isn’t sure how long he’s been at prayer when his peace is violently interrupted. Twigs snap under careless footsteps trampling through the underbrush. 

His head snaps towards the intruder, blood boiling. 

Then freezes. 

Aeron.

His mind blue screens for a second. 

The boy looks like a little deer caught in the headlights. Wide, pretty doe eyes blink back at him. And a light pink flush dusts across those perfect, high cheekbones. 

He’s wearing my clothes. 

Davos’s heart jumps into his mouth at the sight. He stands and runs wide eyes over the boy. 

He’d laid out the clean clothes for himself to wear, later this morning. To change into after he’d showered and discarded his sweaty gymwear. 

Aeron fiddles with the hem of his shirt, eyelashes fluttering. 

He looks like he belongs here. He looks like another one of Davos’s many possessions. Sitting pretty in his home, in his clothes. Like Aeron is his. 

His cock twitches in his pants.

Some savage instinct flashes through his body and he has to stop himself from dragging the boy in front of the Heart tree and taking him right there. Claiming him, for all the Gods to see. 

Davos adjusts himself. “You’re wearing my clothes,” he observes, dumbly. 

He can’t think of anything else to say. His heart thumps wildly in his chest.

“I – sorry,” Aeron stammers slightly. “I thought you put these out for me. I mean – did you not? They were on the dresser. I assumed…”

Davos scoffs out a laugh. “Bold of you. To assume.”

Aeron casts his gaze down in embarrassment. 

Fuck, he thinks. There he goes. Being mean. 

Davos could bash his head against a wall right now. He did set those clothes out on the dresser. Really shot himself in the foot with that one. 

“I’m sorry,” Aeron continues. “My skirt’s pretty ruined. I just thought – never mind. Um. If I could just get the cash for last night, I’ll get out of your way.”

Davos blinks at him stupidly. 

He already left the cash. In a plain white envelope on the night stand. The boy could find a change of clothes to wear, but not his own pay? 

Honestly, Davos had figured that Aeron would ‘find’ some extra bills out of his wallet, too. Before leaving. Kid’s the greenest hooker he’s ever met. 

“Please,” Aeron adds with a sweet smile. 

“Uh, yeah,” Davos clears his throat lightly. “I left the money in an envelope on the bedstand for you.”

“Oh.” Aeron’s eyes widen.

“Yeah…”

“Oh. Okay. Well then I’ll just…” Aeron turns slightly and gestures back towards the house. 

Okay fuck. So now he’s leaving. 

Davos’s heart races. He feels like he’s clutching at smoke, letting a boy like that slip through his fingers so quickly. He panics and shakes his head. 

Aeron stops in his tracks. 

“Before you go,” Davos blurts. “I have a job offer for you.”

Yeah. He IS going to be a pathetic fucking loser about this. 

Aeron pauses, brows furrowing. Davos does his best to school his face into something neutral. Professional. 

“It’s a…eh – companion role, of sorts.” He frowns as he considers the logistics. “I could use some longer term company around the house.”

Aeron blinks. Silent. 

“Sex isn’t required,” Davos throws his hands up. “Or…sex acts. Just – you know. Kissing. Touching.” He takes a deep breath and lets his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll pay you a daily rate for it.”

The boy swallows. He still hasn’t said anything. 

Fuck. He still hasn’t said anything. 

Aeron shifts his weight and crosses his arms. His voice croaks a bit when he finally speaks. “What is the rate for this?” 

Davos’s mind scrambles for an answer. The kid needs cash now. He’s desperate. 

“Look. I’ll give you $50k cash advance for 60 days. On account of your Moms.” He gestures vaguely. “Pay her medical bills.”

Aeron’s eyes widen. 

Okay. Good. 

“Your expenses will all be covered,” Davos barrels on. “Clothes, jewelry, food, whatever. I’ll keep enough cash in your wallet, you'll never see the bottom of it. And some days off, of course.” He waves a hand. “I don’t work a regular 9 to 5, so it'll have to be at my discretion. But I’m not gonna be a dick about it if something important comes up. Birthday, chemo…that sort of thing. ”

Aeron nods rapidly, processing. 

A lump forms in Davos’s throat. He swallows it down. “And another thing. When you’re with me, you’re with me. You won’t see or fuck other men until the contract’s up.” 

He can practically feel the snarl on his lips when the words ‘other men’ roll off his tongue. 

Aeron stares him down. “Is this contract…legally binding?”

“Sex work?” Davos laughs sharply. “Look, if you break your contract, you’re not gonna be hearing from an officer of the law.” 

His voice sing-songs mockingly at the mention of Bracken pigs. 

Aeron exhales sharply. 

“I’ll have one of my guys write up a document,”  Davos shrugs. “You can sign, or not sign. It’s a formality. Verbal agreement’s good enough for me to enforce.” 

He grins, baring his teeth a little. Reflex.  

Aeron nods and stares at his feet as he thinks. 

Suddenly, Davos feels a crushing need to sink this deal. His body winds tight. 

“I’m not gonna charge you a fee if you back out,” he blurts. “It’s not that deep. And I’m not generous enough to call you a professional. But that salary comes out to a good chunk of change each day. However many days you skip out on, you better be good for. I’ll take two points on the remainder for every week it isn’t paid.”

Aeron looks up and meets his steady gaze. His eyes are wide and vulnerable, but he doesn’t cow. 

“Okay. I’ll take it.”