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Gwayne's ears were ringing. They had been ringing for nigh a day now, only stopping once he'd caved in to fitful, nightmare-plagued bouts of sleep.
When he focused on the ringing, he could hear his brothers-in-arms screams as they burned alive, as their armour melted and cooked them like roast pigs.
Gwayne was certain he would never forget those screams nor the heat of dragonflame so close to him, hotter than any pyre, hotter than what he imagined wildfire would burn at. Breathed from the depths of those winged beasts his family had married into.
Gwayne was well aware of the feeling of heat, though more from within when his courses came, than from outside. He would rather suffer a hundred heats than come this close to dragonflame ever again.
And with their camp being decimated as it was, it seemed he would not have to wait long for the heat to well up inside of him anyway.
The fire had burned away much of their provisions. Food, drink, healing herbs. And Widow's Leaf.
On campaign, Widow's Leaf was a staple for all Alphas and Omegas to suppress ruts and heats alike. No one needed soldiers posturing and growling and preening and slinking around when war was afoot. One needed their troops alert and unaffected by their blood running hot.
Rook's Rest burned it all.
Their journey back to King's Landing was doable and Cole as Hand of the King had ordered their immediate retreat to the city to get the injured king to safety and to prevent their troops from falling apart as victims to their instincts.
Some of them already had and neither Cole nor Gwayne had the men or the strength to take precautions for those affected. All they could hope was that no one killed each other at the height of the fever and that the number of bastards would be low lest their delegation be mocked and ridiculed as an orgy befitting the Lysene.
They would not dare, Gwayne thought. They were bringing the head of the traitor dragon Meleys and news of Princess Rhaenys' death to the city, as proof of their victory.
But was there truly a victor to the battle of Rook's Rest? Cole insisted stoically that it was them, the Greens, for they had dealt a terrible blow to the Blacks.
But at what cost? Had they not suffered an equal blow, or worse?
Gwayne chanced a glance at the cart dragging what remained of King Aegon. He was alive, so Cole claimed, but who could know, truly? When Gwayne had helped to heft his nephew onto the stretcher, he sure as Seven hells had not been able to say so with certainty.
Aegon.
Gwayne did not know his nephew well. Any of his sister's children in King's Landing, really. Daeron was like a son to him, he'd raised the boy from when he'd been sent to Oldtown to ward at five years of age. But Aegon, let alone Aemond?
Aemond.
He'd seen it. All of them had seen it. Vhagar had risen to the skies and bathed the King and Sunfyre in dragonflame. Meleys and Princess Rhaenys had been hit as well, certainly, but it had been obvious to anyone graced with eyesight that the main target had been the king and his mount.
Gwayne knew little and less of Daeron's brothers. But he had not considered Aemond a kinslayer. Lucerys Velaryon, that had been unfortunate business in the middle of a storm, and the prince had been an opponent. But Aegon? Aemond's own brother, whom he had grown up with, sworn fealty to?
Gwayne remembered them as boys, Daeron a newborn babe, Aegon and Aemond young boys of seven and four. To think that the solemn child Gwayne had to coax into speaking would one day incinerate his brother, the cheerful boy always underfoot at the Red Keep...
Gwayne could not bring the two images in his mind together.
Another of Sunfyre's pained cries pierced the solemn silence of their progression. Gwayne winced. The great beast had saved Aegon's life. He'd seen the dragon struggle in the sky, burning, about to land on its back and crush the king. But Sunfyre, despite his burning wing, had turned and landed on his sliced open belly to protect his rider and then curled around him as they both lay to die.
They had tried to give the dragon a merciful death. But Sunfyre had snapped at the men who had dared to approach. So, they left him to die. Sunfyre the Golden – the most beautiful dragon of their time, it was said. Gwayne only remembered a smoldering heap of flesh and scales.
Sunfyre had been Aegon's pride and joy. Gwayne felt nauseous leaving it behind to die.
But who knew if Aegon would live to mourn his dragon? Every wheezing breath inside the covered cart could be his last.
Gwayne glanced at Cole. He had not missed the man's look when they had laid eyes on Aegon, bent and broken and burnt on the forest floor, surrounded by his smouldering dragon.
"Ser Criston", he heard himself say.
Cole did not react safe for a huff.
"You knew my nephew well, did you not?", Gwayne asked.
"I know him well", Cole said sharply and Gwayne only then realised his blunder. "Since he was a boy."
Gwayne was well aware that neither King Viserys nor Father had had much of a hand in the upbringing of Aegon and Aemond, too busy with the handling of the realm and the squabbling among Rhaenyra and Alicent. So it must have been Cole who had looked after Gwayne's nephews. Who had taught them how to wield their weapons – both swords and those inherent to them as young Alphas. And was it not a surprise that Aegon shared his father's caste? He'd never been much of a passionate fighter and yet it was him who now laid in the cart mutilated by war.
Gwayne did not ask another question and neither did Cole.
Gwayne awoke with heat licking at his insides and a scream tore free from his throat.
Was it dragonflame eating its way up his skin?!
Gwayne threw the quilt back and checked his arms, his legs, the fabrics in his tent, but nothing pointed towards a fire.
No, his skin did not blister or burn and the heat remained within him which only meant one thing – he was among the unfortunate few affected by the lack of Widow's Leaf intake.
Fuck.
Gwayne had last had a heat at Oldtown, locked away in his chambers with tonics dampening the carnal instinct, so he had spent three days feverish, sweating and cramping until his heat had broken.
There were no dampening tonics here nor a door with a lock and a trusted knight to stand guard.
Any Alpha worth his nose would be able to smell him soon. And with his stupid scream just now, even those not worth their noses.
Fuck. Gwayne reached for his dagger.
He was not going to arrive in King's Landing raped like a common wench and with a soldier's bastard in his belly, not if he could help it. Anyone who dared lay hand on him would lose said hand, so long as he could still think clearly.
"Ser Gwayne?", a voice came from outside his tent and Gwayne swore when the heat in his abdomen flared up at the deep tone.
"T'is nothing of concern!", Gwayne called and cursed himself for his shaking voice.
Before he could clear his throat and try again, the flaps to his tent were opened and Cole stepped inside, clad only in breeches and a loose-fitting tunic, barefoot, but with his sword brandished.
"What in the Gods' names are you doing?", Gwayne asked and tightened his grip around his dagger.
Cole let his gaze sweep the tent, then focused on the dagger in Gwayne's hand and did not lower his sword. "Are you alone?"
"Am I–yes, I am alone, obviously!", Gwayne hissed.
Cole did not relent. He seemed ready to jump at a wrong movement in the shadows, honed by years of service as a Kingsguard. "You screamed. You're armed, expecting to defend yourself. Are you alone."
Well, he was certainly more capable as a personal guard than as an army commander. Gwayne still wanted him out of here. Cole was an Alpha and with his heat encroaching into every fibre of his body, even seeing him unarmoured was dangerous.
"A bad dream", he said as casually as he could. "Now, if you were to–"
A branch cracked outside and Cole turned on his heel, sword out and at the ready. Gwayne's heart was in his throat, more from Cole's reaction than a fucking branch breaking in the woods.
A man Gwayne did not know by name, but who was part of their delegation, stuck his head into the tent, pupils so wide his eyes appeared black, and Cole lifted the tip of his sword.
"Lord Stokeworth", Cole said coolly. "I believe the hour has grown quite late for you to call on Ser Gwayne. Don't you?"
Stokeworth blinked like an owl. "Lord Hand! I only came– I would not have, I did not know you had already staked your claim."
Even though it felt like it was boiling, Gwayne's blood felt like it froze in his veins.
"My claim?", Cole said and Gwayne clutched his dagger tighter, suddenly strangely glad that Cole had not marched off. He could hear the irritation in his voice.
"Well", Stokeworth said and his gaze flickered over Gwayne in a way that made him want to have the man whipped for the audacity, "can't miss the smell. Omega in heat."
"Fuck off to your tent, Stokeworth", Cole bit. "You are out of line."
Stokeworth shrugged, left and Gwayne dared to exhale and loosen his painful grip on his dagger just a little.
Cole waited a heartbeat, then he lowered his sword. He had not brought the scabbard.
"Ser Gwayne?", Cole spoke again, voice lowered, back turned to Gwayne still.
"What?", Gwayne bit. He could already feel the flush starting in his cheeks, feel the fever build behind his eyes and worst of all, feel the slick starting to drip into his smallclothes no matter how tight he clenched.
"Are you..."
The audacity to make him say it. As if this situation were not humiliating enough!
Gwayne laughed mirthlessly. "Do use your nose, Lord Commander."
Cole did not say another thing but he also did not turn around or leave. It was unlikely another Alpha would approach his tent, Stokeworth was sure to tattle to camp that the Hand of the King had staked his claim.
Except the Hand of the King was also a Kingsguard, sworn to chastity. Gwayne was well aware Cole did not give a rat's arse about his vows, especially those pertaining to fucking if the way Cole and his sister had interacted around each other was any indication. Cole would certainly not entertain an endeavour so risky as to accompany Gwayne through his heat, if people knew.
But then again. They already assumed. Wasn't the deed basically done? What would be the harm in doing it, then?
Gwayne wanted to slap himself. The heat had fogged over his mind already, it seemed. Why else would he consider letting a commoner, a Dornishman at that, fuck him?
But what choice did he have? Cole could stand guard, surely, but not for three nights a ridden-out heat would take before it broke. They did not have three nights. Aegon needed to be brought home, to the Grand Maester, as soon as possible, there was no time to waste and Cole could hardly return without the Queen Dowager's brother.
"Ser Criston", Gwayne said.
"Don't ask", Cole cut in, voice low.
Gwayne scoffed. "Ask you what?"
"You know what."
"Well, my Lord Hand", Gwayne drawled, the heat in his belly mixing unpleasantly with irritation. "I know not what manners they teach down in Dorne, but–"
Cole kissed his teeth and whirled around, anger twisting his features. "I have had enough of your thinly veiled stabs at my upbringing and the lands and customs that raised me, Ser Gwayne. You are brother of the Queen Dowager, I am Hand of the King and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and you would do well to remember who outranks whom here."
Gwayne held Coles gaze and tilted his chin up in defiance. "A poor, common Dornishman who could not even protect the boy he'd raised like his own."
Cole stilled and Gwayne almost choked on the man's scent. He had reined it in expertly before, for Gwayne could scarcely breathe through the thick fog of anger.
"Unprotected by both his sworn shield and his uncle by blood", Cole said lowly. "Do not forget, Hightower, you were there as well. Just as powerless against the dragons as I was."
A small, cruel little smile played at the corner of Coles mouth. "But looking at you now, you seem much more out of power than me."
Gwayne swallowed and the heat in his cheeks could have been due to the fever or the shame, he could not say.
"Power is a curious thing", Gwayne said softly and fixed Cole with his gaze, let go of the scent he had so desperately tried to rein in.
Cole's dark eyes widened and he clamped a hand over his mouth and nose when Gwayne's scent permeated the air in his tent. Gwayne felt dizzy, the heat was spreading and rising quickly and he barely bit back a whine starting in the back of his throat when Cole's common, unworthy scent made its way into his system, made him shift and slick.
Cole did not leave. It was hard but not impossible for an Alpha to leave an Omega in heat. He should have been able to flee.
Unless...
"Seven help me", Gwayne groaned and let his head fall forward. There was a reason Stokeworth had fucked off as quickly as he had. There was a reason why Cole's scent was this overwhelming. "Your rut has come for you."
Cole's eyes darted to the entrance of the tent as if he wanted to flee but his feet remained firmly planted where they were.
The fight drained out of Gwayne like water and he was tired, all of a sudden, tired and feverish and too aroused and sensitive to find rest. And he was alone with an Alpha who had bedded his sister, of that he was almost certain, an Alpha of low birth and Dornish blood at that. One whom he did not like and who did not like him either.
It was a stalemate, for the moment. Whoever succumbed to their instincts first would lose. But the outcome would remain the same. It may then as well happen on his own terms.
Gwayne sighed and leaned back on his hands on his flatbed, let his knees fall apart. Cole followed his every movement with a pained expression. Gwayne could see him harden in his breeches and felt himself slicken in turn.
Gods, it was humiliating. Parts of him wished to close his legs again and send the man on his way, threaten him to never speak a word of this to anyone, but a deeper, primal instinct had taken over his limbs and turned his body pliant, wanting even, no matter what his head had to say in the matter.
"I made a vow", Cole had the audacity to say.
Gwayne scoffed. "You care about your vows now?"
Cole's jaw twitched and his gaze hardened. Unfortunately for him, it was not the only part of him growing hard, as his breeches were wont to hide. Gwayne felt hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest.
Was this going to happen? Truly?
"If I were to leave, you would be fucked and marked before dawn", Cole forced through his teeth.
Like Gwayne was not aware of the fact that only the illusion of Cole's claim was keeping him safe for now. He could defend himself, certainly, but he would soon grow sluggish and lose his sensibilities with heat.
"Then why are you still here?", Gwayne said. "In your state, you are due to break your vows either way. Your already soiled Kingsguard cloak will be besmirched even further, Lord Commander."
Cole's fists flexed and he inched closer, subconsciously. Gwayne's pulse spiked at even the minimal increased proximity. "Careful, Ser. One might think you want this."
Gwayne's stomach rolled at the same time his loins throbbed. Not even the anger welling up inside him served to quench the heat spreading in his body.
"Want this?", he said quietly and he could not tell if the quiver in his voice was to be attributed to his anger or his Gods forsaken arousal. "Make no mistake, Cole. There can be no talk of want. This is a necessary evil. You can hardly be seen mounting any old soldier. I can hardly be seen getting mounted by any old soldier. You have no interest in spreading tales of what will occur in this tent and neither do I. So cease this useless demonstration of false pride and do what must be done already."
Gwayne could see the moment Cole's resolve gave way and only a heartbeat later, he was getting crowded into his bedding, a hot mouth on his, an insistent tongue licking into his mouth.
Oh, fuck.
The buzzing under his skin eased, even at this comparatively innocent touch, and Gwayne breathed a sigh of relief, matched by Cole.
Gwayne fumbled with his breeches and Cole leaned back just enough to undo his own lacings. Neither of them could pull away too far, an instinct more profound and primal than the maesters could hope to understand.
His blood was starting to boil in his veins and his hands shook as he pulled his smallclothes down enough to bare himself for what needed to happen. Cole hissed through his teeth and slotted himself between Gwayne's legs. Fuck, he was big, Gwayne could tell, and throbbing already. If he himself were not already dripping slick, he would have mocked Cole for his desperation.
Gwayne writhed beneath Cole and the Kingsguard gave him just enough space to turn onto his stomach before yanking him onto his knees and plastering himself to his back. Cole grazed his teeth over his nape, close to where one would place a mating bite, close enough that Gwayne shuddered and pushed back against Cole whose hard length slipped between his thighs and over his slick and swollen folds at the motion. His core tightened and pulled at the sensation and the need to have Cole's cock inside burned bright like the beacon of the Hightower.
"Fuck", Cole wrenched out and Gwayne tasted copper in his mouth when he had to bite his cheek to keep a whimper down.
This position was humiliating, unbefitting an Omega of his station. On his knees, cunt bared, face in the sheets. This was how whores went about their business, not noble Omegas of Westeros' great houses.
It was everything Gwayne needed.
"Get on with it", he managed to slur and immediately had to stifle a cry when Cole sank into him without further warning.
He was big and yet Gwayne felt no pain, only the inexplicable feeling of completion, of wholeness, an unbearable itch scratched that he could not have hoped to reach himself.
Cole exhaled above him, his breath hot on his nape and Gwayne moaned into the pillow when Cole bottomed out inside of him, the beginnings of his knot pressed where he was speared open.
Cole did not wait for approval to move. He did not need it, Gwayne's body spoke its own traitorous language with how he was arching his back against him.
Cole's hands were on his hips, holding him in place while the Alpha pumped into him and all Gwayne could do was push back best as his body dictated him to and hold on. A whine tore free from his throat, audible despite being muffled by the sheets, when Cole's cock managed to hit that spot inside of him that he could only ever reach with his fingers. Gwayne clenched instinctually around Cole and the Alpha growled in response.
Because that was all they were. Not Criston Cole, not Gwayne Hightower, merely Alpha and Omega, bound together by nature and instinct, chasing a release their bodies forced upon them.
Gods, what were they doing?
Gwayne pressed his face into the sheets and stifled the moans he could not help but make when Cole's swelling knot pressed against his sensitive flesh, his knees sliding further apart on instinct to give the other man more room. To let him in, to entice him to spend himself inside him and plug him up with his seed.
As if Gwayne would not flush his bastard out with moon tea as soon as he could procure some tansy.
"Close", Gwayne managed to get out as his core tightened and the wave that had built up inside him started to crest.
Cole hauled him back onto his cock and Gwayne could not say who cried out first, or louder, when Cole's knot slipped inside of him and swelled to its full size, locking them together.
Gwayne's arms gave out and he collapsed onto the sheets. For a moment, his vision went white and he felt as if he stood beside himself and watched as he shuddered through a release that felt as relieving bodily as it was exhausting mentally.
Cole groaned behind him, above him, and Gwayne dimly registered him twitching inside him through the fog in his mind.
Gwayne could not tell how long they stayed like this: Bound together in the most intimate way there was and yet utterly detached from what had just occurred.
A necessary evil, that was all it was.
The burn in Gwayne's veins subsided and the fog lifted just as Cole's knot went down enough for the Alpha to pull free. Gwayne grimaced at the feeling of spend trickling from his hole, rolled onto his back as nimbly as he could and pulled his smallclothes up.
Cole had tucked himself back into his breeches already, but his fingers trembled while fastening the laces again.
Neither of them spoke.
Gwayne pulled his knees to his chest and tried not to think about the seed and slick still currently starting to pool in his smalls. He would have to wipe down and dare a trip to the river to wash the scent of heat and sex and Alpha off himself.
A single knotting did not end a heat or a rut. But it did postpone a new wave for several days. They would be back in King's Landing in two days where there would be a fresh stock of Widow's Leaf.
This had been the sensible decision.
"We leave on the morrow", Cole said and his voice was strangely hollow. "The king..."
"Yes", Gwayne heard himself say and suddenly it felt like there was an anvil on his chest with how hard it felt to breathe.
Curse this war. Curse the dragons and curse the fucking Targaryens. If only Father had never taken Alicent to court. Aegon would be hale and healthy and Gwayne would not have had to debase himself like this.
Cole climbed off his bed and grabbed his sword which he had dropped haphazardly on the ground in his rut-induced haste.
Gwayne expected him to leave without looking back. He did not. Cole glanced over his shoulder before leaving and Gwayne fought against the sudden lump in his throat.
He had no sympathies for Cole, that lowborn, oathbreaking upstart, he reminded himself.
"Goodnight, Ser Criston", Gwayne said.
Cole nodded like a man facing the gallows. "Goodnight, Ser Gwayne."
Tomorrow nothing would have changed. Tomorrow they would still be the victors and the vanquished of Rook's Rest alike. Tomorrow the king, Cole's ward and Gwayne's nephew, would still be on death's door at the hands of Cole's other ward and Gwayne's other nephew.
Gwayne rose and set about cleaning himself.
Tomorrow, everything would be the very same.