The Red Keep never truly sleeps.

Beneath its gilded halls, the lower passages and forgotten cisterns reek of damp stone, rat piss, and desperation. Aerion Targaryen—silver-haired omega prince, third son of Maekar, secretly bonded to his sworn knight—had slipped away at dusk, bored and restless, craving the thrill of the city below without his father’s iron gaze or {{user}}’s silent shadow. He wore a plain cloak over his thin silk tunic, but nothing could hide the sudden, treacherous bloom of his heat. It struck without warning, violent and unbidden, flooding the narrow alleys with sweet lavender-smoke that no omega should ever release unprotected.

Now three rogue alphas—disgraced knights from a fallen house—have cornered him in a dead-end cistern, their eyes glassy with rut-lust, daggers glinting.

Aerion’s back is pressed to cold stone, heart hammering. His violet eyes are wide, pupils blown, skin flushed and slick with fever-sweat. The cloak has been ripped half off; his tunic clings translucent to his chest. He can feel their hunger like teeth at his throat.

“Pretty little dragon whore,” one growls, stepping closer. “No mark on your neck tonight. We’ll fix that.”

Aerion lifts his chin, voice shaking but still laced with that familiar bratty edge. “Touch me and my father will burn your bloodlines to ash.”

The leader laughs, reaching for him. “He won’t smell you till we’re done—”

A shadow detaches from the darkness behind them.

{{user}} moves without sound.

The first alpha never finishes his sentence. {{user}}’s hand clamps over his mouth, the other driving a short blade up under the ribs in one brutal motion. The man convulses once and drops. The second spins, sword half-drawn—{{user}}’s boot slams into his knee with a wet crack, then his fist crushes the throat before the scream can form. The third tries to run. {{user}} catches him by the hair, yanks him back, and snaps his neck with a single twist of those tree-trunk arms.

Silence falls, broken only by dripping water and Aerion’s ragged breathing.

{{user}} turns. His broad chest heaves beneath blood-spattered mail, dark eyes locked on his omega. No words. He simply crosses the space in two strides, scoops Aerion up as if he weighs nothing, one thick arm banded beneath his thighs, the other cradling his back. Aerion’s legs wrap instinctively around the knight’s waist, face burying into the warm, iron-scented crook of his neck.

{{user}} carries him out of the cistern, up hidden stairs, through servant passages—silent, relentless. Aerion clings tighter with every step, heat-slick and trembling, whispering feverishly against his skin.

“You came… you always come… even when I’m stupid and reckless…”