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The death of King Viserys ushered in a new dawn for the seven kingdoms. His named heir and firstborn daughter was crowned, not without contest, of course, for the king had three sons. But the loyal lords of the realm remained steadfast in their promise, their knees bent once again, this time, for Queen Rhaenyra, first of her name. 

As Lord of Pyke, an invitation had been extended to Dalton Greyjoy, however, he cared not about the politics of King's Landing and declined. He heard the merriments were spectacular, a Queen for the first time in history ushered in a new precedent: Women can inherit, despite tradition's call for male primogeniture.  

Dalton thought his sisters would want the Saltwater throne and prepared for a civil war that may be upon them. But instead of rallying their arms and demanding rights as the elder born, they all knelt for him.

"You are Pyke," Lysa, the oldest, wise and fair-minded, said. "You were chosen by the Merling King, by the Drowned god, you are Pyke." She anointed him with oils and saltwater, affirming him as their lord. 

They laid their lives for him and with steadfast fealty, they recognized his claim as true. 

And so he honours them by continuing his duties as Lord Reaper of Pyke, the words of their house etched in his heart, a promise to their ancestors and their legacy: They do not sow. 

Battle runs hot through Dalton's blood. Satisfaction in every win, determination in the few losses, he is forged from iron and saltwater, a veritable master of his own fate. When enemies hear the battle cry of his men, they cower. Dalton so enjoys making men cower.

And so when the Queen called upon men to find their fame and fortune at the Stepstones, the Ironborn of Pyke answered her call. 

Dalton exits the tent they erected on top of his longship. The craggy beaches are not ideal for a bottom-up shelter, with the unstable sand and rocks where the Triarchy could attack them at any moment. They decided it better to moor their ships and erect tents on the bows instead. His men do not complain, they are hardened Ironborn who have lived in rougher conditions and they know better than to express discontent when their own Lord joins them in their rough encampments. Only his saltwives are granted some measure of comfort, the five women he brought entertained the men with their songs and dancing, but no one is permitted to touch them. They sleep better than the other spoils, so they keep their complaints to themselves and only express them in thinned lips and tired sighs.

The Driftmark troops came in longships too, until a missive from the Queen summoned the Sea Snake back to the capital. All expected Lord Corlys to dismiss her summons like all the others sent before. They were too deep at war and needed all the men they could gather and the Lord trusted his wife to lead the Driftwood throne with her fairness and his ideals. To their surprise, the Sea Snake left the fray in an almost inhuman hurry, only to return upon a majestic carrack. The hull shines with wax, the wood dark and still smells of oak. The masts of the ship are the same colour as the deep seas, a blue so dark that it shadows over the sun.

It is a beautiful ship, Dalton hopes to curry enough goodwill from the man so he may have the honour of requesting the ship as a favour. Or, if the sea snake refuses, he can just take it forcefully. 

 It will make an excellent addition to his fleet.

Rumours sprang that the Sea Snake's heir would be joining them soon, a boy younger than Dalton, and the carrack was to make sure the prince was afforded the comforts he was used to.  Words spread quickly that the lad will be arriving with seasoned soldiers, to guise the true reason for his exile to the Stepstones. Vile rumours to some, bawdy and likely lies. Dalton cared not for the princeling and his secrets or virtue, he let all talk pass him with not a thought more. 

Trumpets erupt from an approaching fleet of three longships, the Targaryen Queen's flag flying from their masts.

"The new men," Maron, his first mate, tells him. He is older than Dalton, with sun-leathered skin and a clean-shaved head that he oils regularly. 

They gather with the other soldiers, excitement running through the crowds. Moons have passed since a new ship joined the fray, and here comes three of them from the capital. 

"I wonder if the prince is truly with them," Theon, a young Ironborn, tall and broad-shouldered, peers at the approaching ships.

"They are only more mouths to feed," even from afar, Dalton sees the way the sailors fumble the ropes and bearings. Not sailors then, perhaps men from the Riverlands. They will be of no use in the sodden land. The others around him begin to notice too, a wave of unsettlement replaces the earlier eagerness. 

"We do not need recruits," Dalton shouts, his men rallying behind him, "Tell your Queen, her greenhorn soldiers will do nothing good here in the Stepstones!" The sneers are raucous, a thundering echo of dissent as the men all booed the approaching galleys. 

But all their flippant jesting halts when a screech erupts from the skies. 

At first, they are awed, awaiting the beat of massive leather wings. Dalton knows of the might of two dragons, Caraxes and Seasmoke, almost all the men here know of what destruction such creatures bring. Such power can make up for the lack of experience from the new recruits. Perhaps it would be a boon to end the war.  

A dragon, with shining pearls for wings, parts the clouds. It maneuvers easily in the air, atop his saddle, Dalton spies a figure cloaked in blue. Although a veritable beast in its own right, there is no doubt that the creature is far inadequate, it can be mistaken for a large bird if one is far enough. 

"That is the dragon they expect us to go to war with?" Maron does not hide his disappointment, "They couldn't send any of the big ones?"

"That is not a dragon," Theon this time, not even trying to hide his disdain, lobbing a spit at the sand, "That is a show horse, only sent here to make the place look pretty." 

Dalton understands their worries, the dragon is too young, much like his rider, but he is unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. The dragon moves with ease, cresting and swooping, as if it belongs in the skies. Dragon and rider flit in and out of the clouds as fishes do in the outcrops of corals and seaweed, with the same glittering, shimmering scales. They leave a spiralling trail at their wake, like seafoam from shoals of silverfish, taking Dalton's breath with each flap of the beast's wings.

Lord Corlys is in high spirits as he parades around the little prince through their encampments. Pride oozes from the Sea Snake as he maneuvers the green boy through throngs of hardened soldiers and sellswords. They watch the prince with their hungry eyes, he does too, it is hard not to. The prince is a slight thing, dwarfed by the bulk of his grandfather. They contrast in more ways than size, for the prince has dark hair, dark eyes, and slightly tan skin, so unlike his grandfather and his supposed father.

Even far in Pyke, word of their bastardy has travelled. A disgrace? Perhaps. But it is of little consequence when the prince and his brothers are not only accepted but beloved by the people who matter. Rumours persist and yet no one dares talk openly about it in front of the Sea Snake who is famously known to champion his heir's legitimacy. 

Bewitched, some people say, lucky, others add, but Dalton thinks it is a mix of both for the prince has the face of someone men would go to war for. 

The prince is too pretty, with his wide eyes and button nose smattered with freckles and curls tousled by the air. Almost as pretty as a woman, it makes Dalton wonder if there is a cunt instead of a cock beneath those breeches. He will not be surprised, Targaryens and their queerness and all that. 

But prettines is not important in the battlefield. It may even be a hindrance. The prettier boys often are captured, taken as prizes like women. He has seen it, he has done it, and out of all the prettiest boys he has seen, Prince Lucerys Velaryon may be the prettiest among them.

A shame.

"I bet a dragon the prince is sent home after the first battle," Maron says, taking a swig of his ale. He is closer in age to the Rogue Prince but remains one of Dalton's trusted. It is his second war at the Stepstones, providing valuable insight for the younger sailors of Pyke, sailors who readily agree with his wager.

"The prince will never see battle," Dalton tells him, "The way the Sea Snake coddles him, he must think this a respite from his duties as the little princeling of the castle."

Guffaws follow, a couple of hear-hears! The men of Pyke are seasoned of the sea, saltwater in their veins. Dalton sailed around the treacherous waters of his home at five and began reaving at ten and amassed wealth and men. A dragon prince, much less a green boy with a fledgeling for amount and who has not seen battle, does not impress him.

He has heard about the boy's older brother, the future king, friendly with the warden of the North. If he had been sent, Dalton may find it in him to show some interest, some fealty. Only few men can garner the favour of the stern Cregan Stark. A man of few words and mostly actions, even Dalton's own uncles, hardened men all of them, fears any retaliation the Northern wolf may besiege them.

Dalton had the same thoughts about the sea snake, formidable, indomitable, fierce, but seeing him with his heir, it makes him question his merits. He dotes on the young boy too much, a fond, almost foolish smile on his face as he parades him around the encampment. 

“Lord Greyjoy!” Lord Corlys voice booms across the crowd, Dalton curses now unable to slink away and avoid all the stuffy formality. His men abandons him as they scurry and meld into other groups, indistinguishable from the other sailors. The Sea Snake briskly approaches him, practically dragging his grandson along.

“Lord Greyjoy, I have yet to introduce you to my heir, Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the future lord of the Tides,” he declares.

The boy is an unassuming little thing. Small in stature and breadth, something more apt for a whorehouse than the seas. Dalton keeps these thoughts to himself, as best as he can, although he cannot help but rove the princeling with his eyes.

"Pleasure to meet you, my Lord," the prince greets with a bob of his head and his thick curls. 

Gods, he even speaks as demurely as a maiden vying for patrons, he will have a lot of them, lines that extend beyond the doors of his whorehouse. Far from the commanding, booming voice of the Sea Snake. 

"My prince," Dalton does not bow. He will bow to no man he does not respect, regardless of their royal blood. Only the slight purse of the prince's lips shows his discontentment, although it may be directed at the lecherous smirk Dalton gives him. He cannot help it, the prince wears a doublet with a low collar, as required to survive the heat of the Stepstones, and the shy peek of neck entices the Lord Reaper. 

"Lord Greyjoy is an excellent sailor," Lord Corlys says, either unaware of the subtle exchange or has chosen to tactfully ignore it. "Mayhaps as good as your father was, you may learn well from him."

"Such gracious words, my Lord," Dalton preens at the praise, "Do you sail often, my prince?"

"I would like to," The prince turns a bright ---almost blinding--- smile at Lord Corlys, "It would certainly please myself and my grandsire."

The dopey look the Sea Snake returns him almost makes Dalton lose all respect for the man. Almost. 

"My Lord," a soldier with a severe expression calls. The Sea Snake's face hardens once again, quickly excusing himself to attend to important matters. Dalton would normally be eager to join in such conversations. Will they be discussing battle plans? Is there news of the Triarchy's hideout? Will they face a stronger, meaner fight this time? 

Instead,  he stays rooted in his spot, observing the prince who keeps an eye on his grandfather. Disappointment mars his pretty face, from lips pursed and thinned to the slight furrow of his brows. He worries for his grandfather. 

"I would have thought the future Lord of Driftmark would be more well-versed in the art of ships and sailing," Dalton says, returning the prince's attention to him. 

And his attention comes with wide eyes and a soft, "Oh."

From lips that fit best in a whorehouse.

"You are mistaken, my Lord," The prince says. Does he know how indecent the endeared title comes from his mouth? "Although I do not sail as often, I know how to command a ship. A fleet even."

“Ah, but atop your dragon? If you are to lead sailors, my prince, you must be in the waters with them." 

"Hmm," the prince tilts his head to the side, exposing more of the column of his neck, "Do the sailors of Pyke need you to be present at all times? Like a mother guiding her babe?"

Dalton bristles, the prince speaks plainly yet there is daring in his eyes, "At Pyke, they throw you out to the waters and you must survive to show your worth. Most have been sailing since they were eight or ten, I began myself when I was five.”

The prince scrunches his nose in response. There are pale brown freckles dotting the bridge, scattering into an explosion of stipples over his cheeks. Pretty. Too pretty for the seas.

“You must think it barbaric, my prince,” Dalton leans forward, peering at Lucerys’ eyes that widen at his scrutiny, “Ironborn are built differently from you Southron lot.”

To his surprise, the prince does not back away. He scoffs, a petulant little sound that has Dalton’s grin widening.

“I mean no offence my Lord, but the thought of swimming in frigid waters is not appealing to me. I hear too much exposure to such harsh climates can lead to the shrinking or worst, the falling off of one’s manhood,” The prince deliberately, languidly looks down from Dalton’s face to his groin, a peek of a sly smile before he covers his lips with his delicate hands, “Oh, I see the rumours are true.” Then those mischievous eyes return to Dalton’s face, “Pity.”

Dalton almost chases after him, but the price is quick-footed as he hurries to his grandsire’s side.

“Interesting lad,” Maron chuckles, clearly having heard the princeling’s jab.

“Infuriating cunt,” Dalton mutters under his breath. Dalton does not like losing, whether by the sword or by words. The prince having the last barb leaves an odd feeling in his stomach. Much like indigestion.

"I pity the boy," Maron says with a shake of his head, "He does not belong here, most of the men believe so."

"He is a liability," Dalton scoffs, "A face like that and the enemies will think we let our pretty whores fight."

He expects a chuckle from his first mate, yet he remains silent. When Dalton turns to him, he is met with no smile but with an inquisitive look. 

"You think him pretty, my Lord?"

"Only blind men would think otherwise," Dalton admits, although he pretends it intrigues him in ways far too scandalous to admit. "Seems he favours his mother's features."

"And his father's nature."

Now this, Dalton is unable to hide his curiosity. He tries to, but Maron gives him a grin akin to someone catching the cat upon the cream. 

“Rumours, rumours only m’lord, but rumours always have a tinge of truth in them,” Maron says, “They say the little prince has more of his Velaryon father in him, found him praying between his uncle’s legs, in all manners of exaltations.”

“Aye?” The prince on his knees, with his mouth stretched around the length of a thick cock. The image makes his throat tighten, and he watches the prince with some new light. "That prince? A sword swallower?"

“Aye,” Maron play-whispers, “Targaryens and their queer customs!”

The fanfare of the prince's arrival died as quickly as he came. Time is essential in the battlefield, there is none to spare to help ease a greenling boy. The prince did not make an appearance the morning after his arrival, nor the day after, nor the next. Only on the fourth day did anyone spy him again. 

"I feel sorta bad for him," Theon says, much to the jeers and boos of their comrades. "Little thing looks frightened of his own shadow!" 

The prince sticks close to Lord Corlys, and if not Lord Corlys, to Ser Vaemond who looks as if he would rather feed himself to the crabs than be around his grandnephew. Although Ser Vaemond walks quickly, as if meaning to lose his charge, the prince manages to keep pace with him. Stubbornly snaking through the crowds that almost swallow his smaller form. 

"He's going to get eaten out there," Maron tsks. Maron has always carried a soft spot for the poor, small creatures, from the squirrels to the birds, this time, for the princeling that looks like a duckling as he waddles to follow a drake that refuses to even acknowledge his presence. 

Although he is not dressed in refinery, the prince still stands out among the soldiers. The sword around his hip too new, the dagger on the other side too opulent, his steps far too unsure, his face devoid of any harshness and hardness of someone who has driven a blade through a man's heart. It does not help that he is too pretty and moves demurely and daintily, certainly in part to his small stature. Almost every man dwarfs the princeling, in height or breadth. 

"May as well use him as bait," Dalton says with a mean grin like a shark readying to snap up its prey. 

Dry mead flows like a river through barrels into their cups. It is far from the best quality, but it warms their bellies and stutters their mind, a stupor most welcome at a night as dreary as this. Even with the new troops and provisions, they have made little headway with the Triarchy. 

They cut down their enemies, and yet their numbers never seem to dwindle. The dragon Arrax is more decoration than weapon, Lord Corlys unable to send his precious grandson to the front lines with flimsy excuses of how the dragon is too small, the dragon is too easy to spot, the dragon is unable to navigate through the smoke and chaos. The men all know the true reason, the young princeling whose hands shake whenever he draws a dagger, a sword, fear so palpable they can almost pity him. 

"They should be sent back," One of the soldiers drunkenly declares, he is deep in his cups already, yet Dalton is unsure if his red face is from the mead or from anger. "Useless lot, all of them, just mouths to feed. A dragon that does nothing and soldiers who have never held a sword." 

The man spits on the sand, it rouses some of the new men, they cower, they hide, and they know they will be sent to the front of the lines in the next battle. 

The prince, however, sits still. He stares at the fire and looks ablaze himself, with the bright orange flames licking shadows into his skin and with the dusky sun behind him.  He sits rigid and alone, avoiding the tables filled with hostility.

"He has a pretty face though," another soldier jeers. "He can put that mouth and cunt into good use!" This man does not hide the salacious smile, the half-serious chuckle. The prince's shoulders tense, yet he remains unfazed and seated. 

The princeling can pretend to ignore them all he wants, but Dalton can see the way his knuckles tighten until they are white, how his jaw clenches, his lips purse into a narrow line. No Lord Corlys or Ser Vaemond to hide under, only men who know he has no worth on the battlefield. 

Dalton is a little drunk himself, his eyes gazing over at the prince's form, back straight, head high, legs tucked demure like a maiden. Gods, it's as if the boy is asking for the vile attention, if the soldiers were given their reign, they will have him on his knees and his ass and mouth full of cock. It stirs something in Dalton, a bright warmth in his belly far better than any mead. 

"Aye," Dalton says, his voice gravelly and commanding attention. He slams his empty tankard on the table with a thundering crack. With palms on the cold wood, he pushes himself to stand, a slight sway with the liquor in his blood.  "If the prince is anything like his mother, the whore of the realm and her bastar---"

A dagger plants itself between Dalton’s third and fourth fingers, knicking the fine web of skin. The table turns silent, watching as the hunched figure atop the table pushes the weapon until it presses into Dalton’s skin, a fine trickle of blood on the blade.

“I think you should think more carefully of your words, Lord Greyjoy,” there is little trace of the scared greenboy in front of them, only simmering rage in his dark eyes, the depths of the ocean staring back, “The last person who dared insult my mother and my brothers in my presence lost an eye.”

And with that, Lucerys pulls up the dagger, a line of blood left in its wake, as he leaves with a swish of his cloak.

The men look at each other, in fear and trepidation, this may be a reason for the Greyjoys to leave the battlefield or worse, retaliate and create a bloodier carnage. But when they turn to the Ironborn Lord, they are taken aback by the wide smile on his lips that almost split his face and wild eyes that watches the prince in his wake.

It is known that when Dalton Greyjoy desires something, he does everything in his power to obtain it. No gold, no land, no glory is safe from the Ironborn Lord's clutches. 

"Terrible idea," Maron tells him over breakfast, his first mate with his knowing look. 

"Good morrow to you too," Dalton tips his head in a mock salute.

"Whatever you are thinking of, stop," Maron scolds him, yet the hint of wariness does not escape Dalton. 

"You are finding fault where there is none!" Dalton has his hands up in surrender, yet unable to hide the smirk from his lips. 

"Not yet, m'Lord, but I've known you since you were knee-high, I know the smell of your shit and, right now, it reeks."

"I swear, I am up to no mischief," Dalton assures him as he leaves their encampment, ignoring the suspicious glare of his first mate. 

Finding the prince proves to be more of a challenge than Dalton anticipated. Without the imposing figures of Lord Corlys or Ser Vaemond, the prince can easily pass through crowds of common folk. It takes the better part of the morning but his persistence wins through.

Dalton finds the prince huddled between boxes and barrels in one of the ships reserved for supplies and cargo, with a coil of thick rope and practicing knots for securing sails. Dalton takes a moment to right himself, make sure his shirt is untucked in a roughish manner rather than a sloppy way and that his hair is tousled as if he effortlessly woke up as such. 

Satisfied with his appearance, he saunters in the prince's view, making sure his boots clack to announce his presence. The prince briefly looks up, surprise evident as he sees Dalton. Only to roll his eyes, press his lips thin, and turn back to his work. 

This does not deter Dalton. 

“You are braver than I thought, little seahorse,” Dalton leans on the barrel, jutting his hips. But the prince ignores him, instead focusing on the knots. He’s good, but Dalton is better. Perhaps he can entice the prince by tying him into positions that he knows to drive his saltwives crazy.

The prince’s hands are deft and practiced but they lack callouses and bleed and bruise easily, he can see blots of blood in the fibres. Dalton reaches for the ropes, his hand grazing over the sore skin, it startles the prince who looks up at him with an adorable little moue. Dalton cannot help but stare at the pink lips, the way they shine with spit, an enticing peek of tongue and teeth. 

"Your knots are secure,” he says, his throat a bit tight. His trousers too, but he hides it by sitting in front of the prince, their knees touching. “But you do not want bloody moorings, lest sharks get a whiff and come.” He gnashes his teeth in jest, hoping to elicit at least a smile from the prince.

But Lucerys only rolls his eyes and scoffs, “There are no sharks when Arrax is around, they fear him.”

“Ah but you cannot rely on your dragon to fight all your battles, little seahorse,” Dalton tells him, “He cannot swim, can he?”

“He swims better than me,“ the prince mumbles, offhand, but Dalton hears and he can’t help the chuckle that comes out.

Lucerys huffs and means to stand, but Dalton grabs his hand, careful of the tender skin, “Come on my prince, it is just a jest, you must understand.” 

He rubs a thumb on the bone of Lucrery’s wrist. It is a delicate thing for a delicate prince, he wonders how he would look with his hands held above his head. “You are to be Lord of Driftmark, and you cannot swim?”

“I know how to swim,” Lucerys is indignant, but to Dalton’s delight, he does not pull his hand away, “Not that well, but I can.” He blushes, a pretty pink blooming over the apples of his cheeks, “The waters in Dragonstone are not the most favourable, it is often too cold, and when it is not, it means a wild dragon may be nearby.”

“And you cannot approach wild dragons?”

Lucerys shakes his head, it makes his curls bounce. Dalton wonders how it would feel in his fingers, how it would feel tugging on it when he makes the little prince take his cock. 

"Wild dragons are very territorial, though you may have no ill intent, they may still see you as a threat," the prince fidgets with the rope, raw fibres rubbing on the pinkened pads of his fingers. "They are very fascinating." 

"Much like Krakens then," Dalton dares to sit beside the prince, their sun-warmed thighs touching. 

"Krakens?" A curious look passes the prince's face, quickly replaced by a blush as he notices their lack of distance. He coughs into his hand, moving his leg away from where it touches Dalton. "I thought Krakens were mere myths."

Dalton laughs at this and leans forward so he can whisper directly at the prince's ears. He keeps his voice low as if they were conspiring, "Such are the creatures of the deep, they will only show themselves to anyone who they deem worthy. They are known to be more menacing than dragons, dragging ships to the depths as an offering to the Merling King."

"Have you seen one, my Lord?"

"Aye," Dalton leans closer, his lips practically upon the lobe of the prince's ear, a tempting little bite, "It was a stormy night, raining so hard that you cannot see anything in front of you."

The prince's eyes are wide. To Dalton's delight, he does not move away. 

"Storms at the North are treacherous like that," Dalton continues, voice lowered, "Weather turns and suns become storms in a blink of an eye. I stayed out on the deck, my men tried to compel me to shelter, but there something called to me."

"I could scarcely keep my eyes open, the wind so strong, the water so cold it felt like knives and needles upon my skin," he trails a finger over the back of the prince's hand, and feels the goosebumps rise upon the flesh, "And from the depths, it rose."

The prince's eyes are wide, his mouth agape, a peek of teeth, the two at the front longer than the rest. A rabbit ripe for hunting. 

"It cowered back to the depths when I showed it my cock," Dalton is so close now that he can see the flecks of colour in the prince's eyes, dark brown with speckles of gold and green and for a moment he wonders if he can steal a kiss.

He leans in closer, closer, only a breath away---

The prince laughs, startling Dalton to back away, "The Kraken must have thought you a babe, a mere hatchling of their kind with such a tiny pecker." 

Maron finds Dalton still sitting behind the boxes and barrels, eyes unblinking and no prince in sight. 

The prince surprises him again. He does not hide this time, though Dalton had been prepared to scour the encampments again, instead, he joins the men in the makeshift training ground. 

"Very good!" Lord Corlys booms. He stands aside, surveying the soldiers sparring. He aims his praise to all the men, yet his eyes are trained on the prince alone who fumbles with his dagger.

When Ser Vaemond takes the Lord's attention, Dalton jumps at the opportunity. He swerves through the crowd, avoiding wooden weapons and fists, and pauses for a moment to catch his breath before sauntering the last few steps toward the prince. 

The prince is too distracted by the straw dummy to notice his arrival. 

"You are holding it incorrectly," Dalton tuts. The prince jumps a little, but he keeps a steady hold as he turns to Dalton with a narrow-eyed glare. His nose scrunches a bit as if he smelled something foul. 

Unlike his knots, the prince has little to no experience with the ornate dagger. An open clam with a vibrant pearl adorns the hilt, far too opulent for the battlefield. It is a beautiful piece but fits more as a decorative blade. Whoever gave the prince the dagger did not consider how it could act like a beacon for their enemies.

Here, a body that fetches a high price! A pretty face paired with a pretty dagger!

"It is heavier than what I am used to," The prince says plainly, letting the weapon's weight shift on his loosely clasped palm. He twirls the weapon, but it catches his sleeve and he almost drops it. "An inch or so longer too."

"Then why use it?" Dalton stands behind him and adjusts the arm, the hand, the fingers that wrap around the still hard leather grip. He spies a peek of red grows from the prince's collar. It urges Dalton to take another step closer, their bodies warm and flush. 

"It is a gift," the prince says, his voice comes soft and slightly hitched, Dalton quite enjoys the hint of strained composure. 

"It is magnificent," Dalton casts a glance to Lord Corlys, happy to find himself still distracted. He wraps his hand around the prince's own, "But no matter the magnificence, a weapon can only be as good as the one who wields it." With practiced ease, he puppets the prince's wrist to flick the dagger, burying the blade upon the belly of the straw dummy. 

"If it pleases you, my prince, I can teach you."

Dalton expects awe, perhaps a stammered acceptance of his offer, yet, he only receives an amused huff.

"I assure you, my Lord, I am quite capable of learning on my own." He steps away from Dalton, pulling the dagger from the dummy. He tosses it in the air, high enough to spin once, twice, and catches it as it fell without looking. 

The prince spins on his heel, arm outstretched, hand sure, and the dagger's blade slides through the dummy's neck. A smooth cut, if it had been a man, the prince would have been covered in blood. 

Maron comes to Dalton's side, closing his gaping jaw with a sharp rap of his sword's scabbard. 

"Terrible idea," his first mate says with an amused tut. 

The triarchy regains its forces like weeds, unrelenting and invasive. Both forces meet again under grey skies and the scent of a storm on the horizon, no dragon nor prince in sight. A clash of swords and crude weapons, yet both sides stand equal in their ferocity and tenacity.  

Lord Corlys commands the men with fearless fortitude, rallying the troops as he leads at the front lines. Dalton keeps pace with him, bloodlust through his veins. He has no mind for his men, they are ruthless and battle-hardened, they will not fall into the hands of rouges. 

Both forces fight with equal ferocity, not a headway in sight. Until an arrow breaks through, aimed sure and true. Dalton sees it all as if time slowed to a halt, the tip burnished red, taking Lord Corlys by surprise, burying deep in his shoulder. 

As the Sea Snake loses his footing, Dalton turns to aide him at the same time as five--- or six? The fray has become so thick that Dalton cannot keep count--- pounce on the injured Lord. 

A mighty roar comes, and a dragon descends from the skies. Dalton watches as the creature, as beautiful, as ferocious as the rider upon him, lands with a rumble of Earth. The men crowding Lord Corlys jump back as the creature snaps forward, flame and teeth upon them. 

"Quickly!" The prince shouts upon his mount, his eyes find Dalton, deep, dark pools reflecting the fiery blaze. "Please!" 

Dalton tears his gaze from the mesmerizing sight, hauling Lord Corlys on his back. He stumbles, but quickly regains his balance. The flames lick at his body, searing his skin, singing his hair, his legs ache and his chest heaves, and the dead weight of the Lord makes him sink in the unstable sand. His side feels close to bursting at the seams, each step tremulous. 

He reaches safety with their soldiers, Maron and Ser Vaemond already at their side. Finally, he lets the ache reach his bones, he collapses to the ground with Maron shouting his name, his final thoughts holding on to the way Lucerys looked at him with such faith and trust. 

The battle did not last after the arrival of the prince and his dragon. Though a small thing, it spewed enough fire that shooed the triarchy into retreating. The prince burned their holdfasts, forcing their boundary further back into the craggy outcroppings. Victory had never seemed closer, and yet they are left at a grave disadvantage. 

"Are we supposed to take orders from him now?" Theon's tone remains haughty, but half-hearted. They had all witnessed the prince's late yet spectacular arrival. 

They gather by their ships, wounded and beaten, where Dalton watches the prince bid his grandsire farewell. The Sea Snake lives, but his injuries are too severe for a simple maester. 

"It is but a scratch," Dalton hears him assure his grandson, though his body is bandaged so heavily that he resembles a doll more than a man. 

"You must rest, grandsire," The prince says. He does not hide his fretting, his hand cupping the Sea Snake's cheek, the few parts of him bare. "Grandmother will be pleased to have you home, even only while you recover." He presses a kiss upon his forehead, and Dalton turns away, allowing them their moment. 

Though Ser Vaemond thought his chance to command has come, it is quickly dashed by the arrival of the King consort. Not even a day later, with the sun at its highest, they all hear the screech of the Bloodwyrm. 

The king consort and the ships filled with supplies reinvigorate the men. They have grown tired of the meagre fares, with meals of slop and gruel to stretch the available provisions. The Queen sends barrels of wine and mead, of dried meat and fresh vegetables, a veritable selection of breads and cheeses. 

"To the brave men of the Stepstones!" The King Consort greets them, "Eat! Drink! Tonight, we celebrate your courage!" The Bloodwyrm joins the cheers, a loud, trilling roar shaking the ground. 

Dalton finds the prince upon his carrack. Not hiding this time, not training, but atop the stern with his face to the wind and water, a Velaryon blue coat wrapped tight around his shoulders. 

"Here again to torment me with your presence?" The prince says with a tired sigh. 

Daemon, much to Dalton's delight, does not coddle the prince as the Sea Snake had. Too busy gallivanting with the soldiers to keep a steady eye on his son. The last Dalton saw him, he was singing bawdy songs with the men by the fire. 

"If you must know, most would call my presence a delight," Dalton says. He leans over the taffrail. From here, they have a great view of the massive pyre, echoes of laughter and merriment much like a drunken chorus of a lullaby to usher in the dusk.

The prince scoffs, a roll of his dark eyes, "I fear you are surrounded by liars."

He finally turns to Dalton, the blaze and the sun setting behind him cast an otherworldly glow. Dalton is but a moth enraptured by his flame. 

"I only wished to see if you are well," Dalton says. "It was your first battle, you weren't even supposed to be there."

The prince turns bright red, averts his eyes back to the bonfire, "I should have been there from the very beginning. A moment too late and..."

His voice trails off, his gaze turns to the horizon where the Sea Snake's ship sailed towards Driftmark, his shoulders slump so slightly with crestfallen woe. The urge to comfort besieges Dalton, too unnatural that it takes a stuttering moment before he steps close to the prince, a hand on his shoulder.

"You should not dwell on what-ifs," Dalton says, his voice soft, daring a light touch of his hand upon the prince's cheek, "What matters is your bravery." He remembers the fury in the prince's eyes, the steady command of dragon fire. The thought sends a pleasurable warmth down Dalton's spine straight to his cock. 

Daringly, he leans in, shades of speckled green and gold, and presses their lips together. 

A burst of something wonderful, delightful, almost sends Dalton to his knees. The prince's lips are soft and plush, he dares to lick the bottom one, only to be pushed away. 

"Of course," the prince hisses, fury evident yet his cheeks are prettily pink, "Who put you up to this jape?"

Dalton blinks, "A jape? I've been wanting to kiss you for a while now my prince! Have you been so dense not to notice?"

The prince pushes him again, harsher this time, enough to make him take a step back. 

“I suppose you’ve heard I’m a whore? Is that it then? You want a taste of your own?” The prince tries to speak with an air of nonchalance, yet there is a tremble there, a tremor that almost tugs at Dalton's heart. Almost.  

"I care not for rumours," Dalton reaches for one of the prince's curls, rubbing the lock between his fingers. Relishing how the prince does not shy away despite how his eyes narrow in suspicion. "Rumours are for ladies and their needlework, my prince, mayhaps lies, mayhaps truth. I am someone who does not let others colour my opinions and would rather form my own."

The prince scoffs and takes a step back, Dalton instantly missing the feel of his soft hair. 

"Do not lie, you must have heard," the prince's voice lowers, yet his eyes remain hard, cold, "Everyone knows."

"So?" Dalton steps forward, "What they say about you has no bearing on what I think of you and I---" Lucerys steps back and Dalton steps forward "--- find you interesting, and pretty, and I would like to kiss you again."

The blush that breaks through the prince's skin, from the apples of his cheeks, disappearing down his neck, is as bright as dragon flame. Dalton wishes to see if it is just as warm. 

"You think I am pretty?" Lucerys asks softly, a slight tremble at each word, "But do not seem the type... are you not... I'm a man!" He stammers, takes another step back until he bumps into the taffrail. 

Dalton steps forward, trapping the prince with his arms, "Men, women, I only know attractive. And, if I am being forthright, and I assure you, my dear prince, I am always forthright, I find you very pretty."

Lucerys opens his mouth as if to speak, only to shut it again. Once more. Soon, Dalton will have that pretty mouth doing something else. 

"You do?" He finally squeaks out, Dalton already wrapping his hands around his waist, to the small of his back.

"Aye," Dalton leans in close, his teeth grazing the skin of the prince's ear, their chests almost touching and close enough that he can feel the prince's shiver.  He smiles, predatory, mean. "Such a pretty prince, a shame your uncle has had his taste, but if your highness will let me---"

A sound cross between a snort and a derisive choked-out laugh comes from the prince, “We did not get that far, he rutted between my thighs until he spilled. Lasted mere minutes, had the audacity to say I seduced him.” 

Dalton pulls away in surprise, the prince has his head turned to the side yet the blush on his cheeks is ruddy red and pleasing. True, if the prince had lost his maidenhead already, bedding him would be easier, perhaps they could try rougher. But the confession has all of Dalton's blood flowing straight down his cock.

Lucerys Velaryon remains untouched. 

The Merling King has once again blessed Dalton. 

The prince huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to hide his embarrassment, “If I wanted to seduce someone, I would have found someone who would have met my needs too.”  

Dalton’s ears perked at this, taking the opportunity to slide his hands up the young prince’s sides who shivered at the contact.

“Is that so?” He asks, he spreads open his hands, his fingers spanning the width of the prince’s legs. Only to pull back, enjoying the tiny gasp that comes reluctant and strained from Lucerys’ lips. “I suppose riding the biggest dragon meant the one-eyed prince was making up for something, I had not thought it would be his inadequacy as a bedmate.”

Lucerys rolls his eyes, but he does not inch away, much to Dalton's delight. 

"Perhaps it is not a dragon that the prince needs, but a Kraken."

They stumble into the prince's room with Dalton's lips locked upon his neck. He tastes of salt and sweat and his sweetness laves over Dalton's tongue. Thick like honey, a slow, delectable trickle. Dalton wishes to bottle it, to drink and sup until he knows no other taste. 

"I---," The prince hesitates, doubt storming over his delicate features. "I am afraid I do not know what to do."

"Hush," Is all Dalton says, capturing his lips and silencing any protests that follow. He will take his time with the prince and savour the delicacy laid bare before him. 

"Have I pleased you, my prince?" Dalton teases. They have debauched the prince's soft feather bed, blankets and pillows all strewn on the floor, their bodies still entangled in a loose embrace. The prince lays on Dalton's chest, both of them still catching their breath. 

The prince rolls his eyes but his smile is wide and welcoming. Dalton accepts the invitation with a playful hum upon the prince's still red and quite plump lips. They are so warm and so soft and so willingly parts open for Dalton. 

"You are unquenchable, my Lord," Lucerys says when they part, a line of spit connecting their mouths. Dalton wants to follow the trail and drown in Lucerys' kisses. 

"Aye, for I have tasted the blessing of the gods," Dalton decides to grant attention upon the prince's neck. There are still spots unblemished, he must correct that. "I am but a man, my prince, who must have his fill."

"Have I pleased you?" Lucerys throws the question back at him. There is some hesitance, some doubt in the slight furrow of his brows. Dalton kisses it smooth. 

"You have drained me dry,"  Dalton says, cupping the prince's chin with his fingers, "I fear you will never rid of me, my prince, for I would like to live in your cunt."

Lucerys laughs lightly, like bells or chimes, a pretty tinkling sound that makes Dalton smile himself. 

"You have your way with words, Lord Greyjoy," Lucerys says with a sigh. "Flowery words and promises." He bites his lip, a habit Dalton finds very enjoyable, "In truth, I asked to come here. My uncle held no affection for me, he only wanted to humiliate me out of spite of his eye."

Dalton growls, rolling over so he cages Lucerys with his body, his hands on each side of his head, his knees on either hip. He does not let the prince carry his weight but presses down enough for his length to push up the Prince’s own.

“It is courtesy not to talk about other men in bed, my prince,” Dalton’s eyes are blown out wide as he watches Lucerys bite his lips, still raw and pleasantly pink from their kissing, and he surges forward to devour them. He does not care for the one-eyed prince, he lost his chance.

All of the young prince’s protests are shushed with intense kisses, only a gasp and a broken moan as Dalton pushes one of his legs to his chest and breeches his entrance again. He is still loose from their previous tryst, still soaking from oils and seed, but the new angle hits the pleasurable point so easily, so messily.

“Da– Dal—” Lucerys pants, trying to find purchase upon the lord’s shoulders. He is still sensitive, Dalton knows, the way he shudders and shakes in pleasure under him. A beautiful sight he will not anyone else see. “Dalton—” Oh, it is so sweet the sounds that come from those lips.

“Yes, only me my prince,” He grunts as he fills him, his tightness, his scent, his whines and moans and gasps, so addicting. He covets them all.

Lucerys arches his neck, pretty little thing, and Dalton has no preamble in latching his teeth into the curved column. He feels his pulse through his teeth, like a wild rabbit. He bites and spills at the same time, the prince shuddering into his own release despite no seed coming out from his quivering shaft.

“Fuck—” came the gasping whisper. Dalton smirks as he kisses the arched and straining neck, keeping his cock in the prince, and for a wild, wild moment, he hopes his seed will take.

The prince still lies asleep, his skin littered with the marks, all of Dalton’s handiwork. It almost drew him back to bed, to sink into his heat and stay there. Although he wishes to stay with Lucerys until the day breaks, ravish him until he is nothing but a bundle of mess that Dalton will happily nurture again only so he can ruin him over and over. But, alas, he must keep his lust at bay for if the Sea Snake finds out about the trysts, well, Dalton would rather not think of that.

He kisses the prince’s bare shoulder, mumbling a promise to return tonight. The prince only hums in his sleep, his tousled hair and pouty lips and oh Dalton must go before Dalton does something untoward. He will wait to do so when the prince is awake and can enjoy every second of it.

He exits the prince’s room with a skip in his steps.

Darkness still cloaks the horizon, enough for him to slip undetected to his one ship moored nearby. Ah, he wants to take Lucerys there next, have him writhing and begging for more, hear his sweet moans and gasps and—

He stops, hands raised in surrender.

Prince Daemon stands before him, the Valyrian sword Dark Sister pointed at Dalton’s neck.

“Good morrow, Prince,” Dalton greets cheerily, wary about the blade. If this is death, at least he had a taste of heaven in Lucerys Velaryon’s cunt.

“Good morrow lad,” The rogue prince stands relaxed but Dalton knows any wrong move would have his head detached from his neck. “I might be wrong, although I tell you now I rarely am, but this is not your ship.”

“Ah,” Dalton has Nightfall by his side and a dagger or two in his person. If he is quick enough, mayhaps he can survive this with only an injury. Hopefully nonfatal. “I got lost.”

Daemon cocks a disbelieving brow, “You got lost?”

“Aye,” Dalton uses a gloved hand to push the sword aside, but it stays pointed at his throat, “I got lost. All the ships. They look the same. Easy to confuse them.”

A disbelieving scoff comes from the King consort. He looks amused and shakes his head with an almost disarming fondness. 

“Listen, lad, I liked you, you remind me of my younger self. Determined fiend, never shy about taking what you want, impressive in the battlefield,” Daemon chuckles, then turns cold, amethyst steel gaze boring into Dalton’s soul, “That is why I know what type of boy you are. I do not like you sniffing around my son and giving him false promises, he is a kind boy, perhaps the gentlest of all his siblings. Rhaena can be scrappy too you know, wild little thing, knocked out a Hightower for being too forward, I was so proud. But Lucerys? Lucerys gives his heart too easily, I know you’ve heard the whispers of the one-eyed cunt’s accusations? Trust me, Greyjoy, if I hear you hurt my son, I will burn your fleet, your crab-infested island, and feed you cock first to my dragon.”

“Ah, but I do not aim for the prince’s heart, not at all,” The words spill out of his mouth before he could think, “It was a one-night stand, surely, you’ve had those before.”

This surprises Daemon, not enough to stay his sword, but enough to slacken his hold, “So you carry no feelings for the boy?”

The laugh comes out strained, a bit acerbic, “Feelings? Prince Daemon, I hold no affection for the prince, it was all in good fun."

“Ah,” There is a spark in the king's eyes, and for a second, Dalton thinks he has said the wrong thing. Perhaps Daemon prefers him to have prostrated himself and promised his life to Lucerys? 

“Well," Daemon smoothly sheaths his sword, "If it is all in good, meaningless fun, I can be kind enough to excuse the matter altogether. I expect this is the last I'll see of you getting lost in my son's ship?"

“Of course,” Dalton assures him, “Your son is very beautiful, but I fear one night is all I can spare.”

“Very well,” Daemon nods, placated, then smirks, “Lucerys, I’m glad you had fun.”

Oh.

When Dalton was but a boy, he fell off the side of his father’s ship, the impact broke a rib and made it hard to breathe for months. This feels worse.

“I did kepa, thank you Lord Greyjoy, ‘twas a night to forget,” The young prince has his arms crossed over his chest, his nightshift too long that it swept the ground, but his eyes, his eyes are full of fire.

“Lu–”

Lucerys smiles at him, tilting his head to the side, but it is not warm, not delightful, it holds none of the affection the prince blessed him only the night before, “Farewell, Lord Greyjoy.”

And with that, he closes his door with a thud.

“He is moping,” Maron feigns a whisper to Theon. It makes the sailor choke on his drink, eyes darting to Dalton. The Lord of Pyke is not known to welcome jests upon his character, he is known to pick fights over such petty reasons.

However, Dalton ignores them. If he acts, they will surely think that it is the truth, but it is not. No. Truly. 

He is not moping, Dalton Greyjoy does not mope. He may have no appetite this morning and pushes and swirls his food on his plate rather than eating, and he may have been sighing with a tinge of morose forlorn, and he may have been stumbling around a bit, unawares of his surroundings. But is not mopiing.

Dalton Greyjoy does not mope. 

The Lord Reaper of Pyke does not mo---

His thoughts stutter as Prince Lucerys passes by their table with nary a glance towards him. It should not have hurt as much as it did, but the Prince's pointed disregard stings like a harpoon through his chest. He ignores the worried call of Maron and Theon as he stumbles off his chair, eyes focused on the prince who weaves quickly through the crowds. 

"My prince," Dalton calls when he is close to catching up. 

Startled, Lucerys turns to who calls for him, but when he sees it is Dalton, he purses his lips and wrinkles his nose as if he smelt something foul. That offends Dalton, but not as much as the prince turning away and hurrying away from him. 

It is unlike their early meetings, where the prince avoided him due to mere apprehension and unfamiliarity. This frantic scurrying sends a biting panic up Dalton's spine as if the prince truly wants to rid of him. 

"Fuck," Dalton curses under his breath, trying to catch up to him. Has there always been this many soldiers in their battalion? If Lucerys keeps going, Dalton will lose sight of him and Dalton will lose a chance to apologize for the stupid words that Lucerys should never have heard. 

That Dalton should never have said. 

By the grace of the drowned god, Lucerys finally stops. Triumph is within Dalton's reach and he cannot help the victorious smirk that splits his lips, only to stop all momentum of his approach with a skidding halt. 

"Kepa," the prince greets his stepfather. 

The King consort glares at Dalton over the top of his son's head, a pale brow raised as he assesses him. Dalton quickly turns to the soldier nearest him, jovially pulling him into a conversation. 

"How did you find breakfast today, lad?" He asks the old man who looks at him with surprise. 

"Good, m'lord," The man, white-haired and wizened, answers. Half-chewed bits of gruel and smoked fish fly out of the man's mouth, landing on Dalton's face and the front of his tunic.  

"Yes, it looks... moist," Dalton has eyes only for Lucerys, watching him engage in an animated conversation with his stepfather. The king consort looks to be listening intently, however, his hawk-like eyes are still trained on Dalton. 

"Aye!" The man nods his head, still not swallowing, "Yesterday's batch almost choked Alric there, poor lad, oats were too dry. "

Dalton can only watch as Daemon leads Lucerys away. 

As men of the sea often away from their homes, saltwives are an Ironborn lord's right. They are not spoils of battle, not merely so, they are respected for the relations with their Lord husband. Though young, Dalton has acquired more saltwives than the previous Lords before him, twenty-four maidens from their various victories and conquests, two of which have blessed him with sons. Some older than him, some younger than him, all pretty maidens that Dalton adored. 

He brought three to the Stepstones, entertaining the men with their singing and dancing. Only he was allowed in their sanctum, the only one allowed to touch them. 

His sisters insist he needs a rockwife soon, a lady for their castle and a mother to his heirs. They adore his sons and they will not question Toron as his heir, but there may still be unrest about his legitimacy. A rockwife and a trueborn heir will assuage any doubts from his men, from his uncles. He is young, he still has time. 

Perhaps he will find someone as pretty as Lucerys. 

“You are worried about something,” Amara pointedly tells him. She is nine and ten, from Lannisport. Long legs and auburn hair twisted in the fashionable Southron style. She is one of the few wives that willingly went with Dalton, staking her fate with the Ironborn instead of the burning pyre they left her home in. She has a hand on his chin, a pout on her lips, enticing a kiss from him. All it does it remind him of the way Lucerys juts out his lower lip and narrows his eyes when he is annoyed. 

“Aye, m’lord has been here and has not once touched any of us,” Sylva says, her hand rubbing over Dalton’s shoulders. Buxom and slim waisted, with half-lidded eyes and pouting lips that try to entice Dalton. She smells of flowers, the perfume Dalton likes always heavily applied around her neck and wrists. He wonders if Lucerys would enjoy a gift of perfumes and incense, perhaps something sweet but not cloying, or herbal but not medicinal. A perfect balance of soothing and seductive.

"Does my Lord desire our company now?" Tess this time. She has her head on his thighs, thick curls that tickle his skin, "We have been so lonely these past weeks."  Her breath ghosts over Dalton's skin, warm and prickling, and he remembers the prince's hot, searing sighs over his shoulders as he takes him---

"I am not interested in talk," Dalton tells them, he slumps on the feather pillows that adorn their temporary shelter. Such spoiled pretty things. "You are meant to entertain me, not prattle like hens." He means to expel the young prince from his mind, even for just a fleeting moment. His wives are meant to do that, and yet, everything reminds him of that one damned night with Lucerys. 

A night that he returns to often, filling him with passion and frustration as he tries to reach his peak with only the memory of the prince's mewls and keens. And so he finds himself in his wives' tent, hoping for release that has evaded him. 

Like the prince has evaded him.

Damn. 

He leaves their tent with a huff, his sour mood no better. None of their temptations worked, not their lips, their hips, their cunts. They have graciously attributed his disinterest with tiredness, with their thin-lipped smiles veiled in concern. Even Tess looked at him with worry as he quickly dressed and dashed.

This has gone on far too long, the prince invades his very being with the memory of his lasciviousness. He needs to talk to him, grovel if he must, and he needs to be let in the prince's bed again. His men make way for him, familiar with the determination etched on his face. Even Maron has no wise quips, only a wary glance. 

Suddenly, the murmur of their encampment is shushed by a dragon's roar. The creature flies over their heads casting a shadow so large it makes their world dim until light passes.  With another mighty cry, it lands in the water, sending the ships shaking.

There is no mistaking the hoary bitch that lands upon the shores of the Stepstones, Vhagar and her one-eyed rider have arrived. 

Dalton stands among the crowds as the prince dismounts. 

"More princes," Maron huffs a chuckle, "Do you think they're planning to make the Stepstones the new Dragonstone?"

It earns a laugh from Theon, but Dalton's mouth is too dry as he watches Lucerys approach the new arrival. 

“Nephew,” the one-eyed sneers. Dalton decides he wants to punch him.

“Uncle,” Lucerys’ lips are pursed, his arms crossed over his chest, but he stands his ground.

A thick tension envelopes the two, suffocating even those who stand and watch their frigid greetings. 

"Aemond," The king consort saunters through between them, breaking the headiness by some small measure. He has a hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, a warning. Dalton reaches for his own, Nightfall's weight reassuring at his side. 

"Your grace," Aemond says, yet his lone eye remains on Lucerys. Dalton thinks of plucking it from his head. 

"What brings you the Stepstones?"

"A letter," The prince says, "It seems like your youngest may come earlier than expected, the Queen hopes you will return to the keep."

Shock colours Daemon's features, "It is too soon!" His eyes scan the letter before handing it to Lucerys. 

"Aye," One-eye says, "I am to stay here, in your place. The Queen worries about her son and her men if Caraxes is away," His smirk is slimy, like a lizard, "Your duty is by your wife, I am to stay while the Sea Snake heals.."

"We do not need you or your dragon," Lucerys says with biting fury, "We have Arrax."

“Ah, the whelp of the dragon of yours?” The one-eyed chuckles darkly, “So small and bony like yourself, poor thing wouldn't even satisfy Vhagar.”

Lucerys makes to lunge at him, fists balled and ready, but he still and steadies himself. Regains his composure with the squaring of his shoulders. He turns to the King Consort.

"Go, kepa," He urges, a brittle, encouraging smile, "Muña needs you."

Daemon leaves with an order: Do not face the Triarchy. Even Ser Vaemond can do nothing but follow, fully outmatched and outranked. 

Dalton watches from the shadows as Prince Lucerys and Prince Aemond bid him good bye. A tender hug for his son, a terse nod to his nephew.

"I will return with grand news and more provisions," Daemon promises his son. Then he looks up, meeting Dalton's eyes. "Do not do anything stupid. Both of you."

Dalton's patience runs thin with each passing day. The one-eyed prince seems to hold little regard for his Uncle's command, instead taking it upon himself to play-captain with Ser Vaemond as his council. They have been running around with pompous self-importance, ordering around the men and preparing for a battle. To prevent the two fools from killing them all, Lucerys can be often found chasing after them, undoing any of their idiotic plans. 

This leaves little opportunity for Dalton to speak to him. 

And this allows too much time for the one-eyed cunt to spend with him. 

The only times Dalton is within sight and reach of Lucerys are during the council meetings. He used to send Maron to attend the boring prattle and plannings, preferring to train with his men. But since his disastrous morning after with Lucerys, he has taken the duty of attending.

And trying to stand as close as possible to the pretty prince. 

"We cannot simply attack the Triarchy, they have taken the shanty towns bordering Tyrosh, innocent smallfolk!" Lucerys tells them, though it only falls on deaf ears. "They have built a barricade, we cannot simply use dragon fire to destroy or it will send the whole town ablaze."

"If they are not fighting against the rebels, then they must be working them," Prince One-eyed sneers, "Perhaps it would be better to annihilate them all."

"I've also considered that possibility," Ser Vaemond this time, "There is a reason they do not run out of supplies despite our efforts to choke their sources."

Lucerys scoffs, turning to his grand-uncle with narrowed eyes, "You have already brought the possibility to my grandsire many a-times, Ser Vaemond, and not once has he taken it seriously."

He turns to his one-eyed uncle this time, "And you, the Queen sent you here not to devastate the people she has sworn to protect, do not take the absence of Daemon as your chance at glory. The Stepstones is not the place for impulsiveness."

An agreeable murmur bursts through the war council. Since the last battle, Lucerys has gained a better reputation among the men. They all saw him come with their blaze, saw his bravery as he pushed back at the Triarchy. 

The rest of the council passes through Dalton, he hears and notices little, his attention all centred upon the pretty prince. Whenever his mouth moves, Dalton remembers how they taste on his own. When the wind ruffles his hair, Dalton remembers how soft they feel upon his fingers, how it crowns the prince's head like the image of the maiden fair. 

"You look like shit," Maron tsks.

"You're no better yourself," Dalton mumbles. He does not have it in him to argue, even with Maron. His head aches from glaring at Prince One-Eye, willing him to burst into flames. Yet, he remains standing. A curse, a blight, he continues to darken Dalton's days. 

"Your wives say you haven't visited them in a while," Maron says, "Are you having issues with keeping it up."

"No," Dalton says, "I am perfectly capable of fucking. Am I not allowed to feel tired?" In truth, it is in tiredness at all that keeps him from them. No, it is Lucerys. All his waking hours, all his dreams, all his thoughts have been filled with nothing but the prince. 

The prince and his moans, his mewls. 

The curve of his spine, the pout on his lips.

The perfect shape of his ass, the warmth of his boypussy. 

"---Lucerys!"

Dalton snaps at the name, Theon and two others huddled together talking in hushed voices. 

"What did you say?" He asks them calmly. Though perhaps a tinge coldly as the three of them look at him with a bit of worry.

"Just rumours, m'Lord," Theon dares, "About the prince and his uncle."

"And what of it?" He tries to stay nonchalant, but he already feels a prickling itch. 

"Just leave them be," Maron tugs at his arm. But Dalton does not let him. 

He glares at the three of them, "Well?"

The one on Theon's right speaks up this time, a mousy-looking fellow with muddy hair, "That the prince-- well-- y'know the rumours m'lord, that the prince had a dalliance with his Uncle? T'was the reason the Queen sent him here and all that."

Dalton scoffs, "OId rumours then? If Lord Corlys or King Daemon hears you talk of Prince Lucerys this way, you know they will have your heads." Perhaps Dalton should do them the favour, a present for Lucerys, perhaps that would earn him his forgiveness. 

"Ah, but there's more m'Lord," the other fellow this time, almost identical to the other but with a bent nose, "They say the princes have rekindled their affair. Spent the night in each others' rooms I hear."

The ground shakes under Dalton's feet, he almost stumbles if not for Maron. 

My uncle held no affection for me. He only pursued me out of spite of his eye.

"Lies," Dalton hisses. He leaves without noticing their confused expressions. 

"M'Lord?" Maron tries to keep up with him.  

Dragon or not, the one-eyed cunt needs to stay away from Lucerys. And Dalton will make sure he does. 

He spots him, accosting Lucerys. 

"Bastard," he hears the one-eyed hiss, "You will listen to me when I talk to you!" He grabs Lucerys' arm, and Dalton sees red. 

"Leave him alone," Dalton pushes him away from Lucerys. 

"This does not concern you, Lord Greyjoy," The one-eyed speaks loftily. 

A crowd starts to gather around them, wary but curious. They know of Dalton's temper, easy to anger easy to start fights, but the prince has a dragon. Will the Kraken dare? 

"Dalton," Lucerys finally speaks to him, a hand on his arm, urging him to let go. "It's alright, my uncle and I were merely talking."

Dalton turns to Lucerys. Pretty Lucerys who gives him a thin-lipped smile. It warms Dalton a bit, his hold slackens a bit, and the one-eyed pulls his arm away with a huff.

"I see," Aemond sneers at Dalton, then at Lucerys. Anger flashes through his single eye, an ugly contemptuous smile, "I should have known, did you find another cock to suck, bastard?"

It happens quickly, Dalton charges at Aemond, the two of them grappling with each other trying to bring the other to the ground. The crowd cheers, the start of the fight sending them into a frenzy. The frenetic energy only spurs Dalton on, he manages to free an arm, he wishes he had a dagger, but his fist will do. He aims for the prince's lone eye. 

“Lord Greyjoy!” Lucerys’ voice is stern, his eyes disapproving. It is enough to stay Dalton's hand. “Aemond is still, by all accounts, a prince. And you are a Lord of the realm. Hitting him would not be wise. Let him go.”

Dalton starts to protest but bites his tongue at the furious Lucerys gives him. Aemond takes the moment to pull himself away from Dalton's hold, an almost triumphant sneer on his thin lips. 

The little prince takes off his gloves, one finger at a time, delicate with the soft leather, “I, however,” He walks to them, nary a hesitation in his steps, “Am the second son of the Queen, third in line to the throne, and the future Lord of the Tides.” He swings a tightly balled fist at the one-eyed prince, knuckle meeting the bridge of his nose, and a resounding crack as the taller man falls to his arse.

Before Aemond can retaliate, Lucerys is upon him, straddling him around his middle, his knees pinning Aemond's arms to his side, and pulling him by the collars of his aketon.

“You and your dragon are not needed here, you are no soldier worthy of the glory of the Stepstones. You will never amount to these men who have seen and won battles, not in tourneys or training grounds, you soft-bellied cunt. One more insubordination, and I swear, uncle, I will serve your mother your cock and balls upon a silver platter.”

“Bast—” He is decked again, square upon his princely nose that now bleeds down his shirt.

“This is not a place for pettiness, if you are not here to fight, if you are not here to win, then go home,” Lucerys almost snarls when he speaks, a spark of something ferocious and breathtakingly beautiful, “You think you can take command of my men by insulting me? Spreading falsehoods?” Lucerys lets out a sharp *hah*, “Sword swallower, was that not the rumour you began and continue to perpetuate? If you must talk about our passing two penny dalliance, dear uncle, at least describe the truth for you have no sword, between your legs is barely a measure of a paring knife.”

Lucerys shoves his uncle to the ground before dismounting him, wild hair in fury as the crowd roars with laughter. The one-eyed prince is unable to defend himself, unworthy to defend himself as he struggles to stand and leaves the fray. Dalton does not notice, nor does he notice the men cheer and celebrate and praise the Heir of the Tides. His eyes are solely on Lucerys, blood on his knuckles and victory on his lips.

Dalton knocks once and does not wait for an answer, opening the door to the prince’s quarters. Lucerys looks at him in surprise, but he does not instantly send him away. That is a good sign.

Better yet when he meets Dalton halfway, their lips crashing in a searing kiss.

He still smells of blood, of fire, of burning promises and Dalton swallows them all. Or he would have if Lucerys did not pull away from him. His pretty face is flushed, pink upon the cheeks and red upon the neck and Dalton wants to suck hickeys upon the length to claim him. If Lucerys lets him.

“Dalton—” The prince protests, but Dalton decides he does not care to hear it.

He lifts him by his thighs, the prince giving a surprised yelp and wrapping his legs around Dalton’s middle. Dalton did not come to talk, they do not have time to merely talk.

He kisses him again, softer this time, pleading this time, a soft nip at the plump lips at the prince is gasping a pretty little sound.

“Let me fuck you,” Dalton says, it comes out strained and choked, a noose around his neck that hangs in the balance of the prince’s approval. He decides if he cannot have him again if he cannot feel the warmth of his boypussy, that he might as well throw himself off the cliffs of Pyke. This ferocious little beast had a pretty face and a vicious right hook.

He knows Lucerys can feel his cock straining through his trousers, desperately wanting to be in him. Dalton kisses his neck, his chest, bites through the fabric of his tunic and latches onto a nipple. It earns him a delightful little moan and a delightful harsh tug of his hair.

“Please,” Dalton murmurs over his skin, “Gods, please let me fuck you.” He grips the prince’s hips, his skin burns under his clothes, yearning to feel his wonderful, tight heat again. If he is truly blessed by the Drowned God, then may his cock find sanctuary in the prince’s cunt.

A cool hand urges him to look upwards, Lucerys with his halo of brown curls, flushed cheeks, and lips slightly agape as he pants in Dalton’s hold. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and oh gods, Dalton wants to devour him.

Lucerys leans in, their lips meeting in an embrace, and for a second, Dalton thinks of home.

Dawn breaks and Dalton wakes with the most pleasant sight of Lucerys sleeping soundly. The prince lays on his stomach, his cheeks pressed on the pillows that push his lips out in a pout. His shoulders and upper back are exposed, littered with kisses and teeth, marking the prince as *his.*

Unlike that first night, Dalton does not get ready to depart. Instead, he listens to his cock as it swells with want. Gently, he kisses Lucerys’ bare shoulders. Hot lips upon soft skin, warm hand upon the swell of arse that tempts him so.

Lucerys stirs and lets out a gentle moan as Dalton squeezes and palms the perfectly round cheeks. He kisses a path over his shoulder, to the curve of his neck, sucking at the skin to leave another mark. He turns the prone body over, straddling him and pressing his already hard cock over the prince’s hips.  

A sleepy gasp escapes Lucerys’ lips as he finally wakes, long lashes fluttering open before his sleep-tinged eyes catch up and focus on Dalton.

“Oh,” he breathes out, a soft, dream-like sound, “You’re here.”

“Aye,” Dalton says, finding the prince’s lips, “And will be every morning if you will have me.”

Pink blooms upon Lucerys’ cheeks, wide eyes blinking owlishly at Dalton’s words.

“I thought…,” Lucerys swallows slowly, thickly, the protuberance on his throat bobbing and tempting Dalton to kiss it. To bite it. So he does, a tiny nip that earns a more salacious sound from the prince.

“I want to live in your pussy,” he murmurs into the prince’s skin, hot lips upon hot skin, searing burning branding, “I want to fuck you every day until you only know the shape of my cock.”

Lucerys tugs his hair, a pleasurable pain on Dalton’s scalp and he returns the favour with a harder bite on the prince’s jaw. But the hand on his hair tugs harder, and Dalton has to unlatch from his ministrations, a reluctant groan as he tries to reach for his skin again.

But Lucerys keeps him from doing so and instead pushes Dalton off him who lands on the floor with a thud.

“I thought one night was all you could spare, my lord,” he says, clutching the blanket over his chest, “And I have already generously given you two.”

Dalton stands quickly, ignoring the pain on his tailbone, “My prince—”

But Lucerys only turns away, pointing to the door, “We have morning duties to tend to, Lord Greyjoy. Best we go about it.”

Lesser men would listen and accept the prince’s haughty dismissal, but Dalton Greyjoy is the Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke. He does not sow. A dragon tried to chase away the Kraken before he could claim more of his prize, but he will be firm this time, stand his ground this time, and instead of whimpering in defeat, he growls in defiance.

It startles the prince and startles him more when Dalton takes his outstretched hand and leaves kisses upon the connecting arm.

“Dalton!”

Dalton shushes him with a hard bite on the meat of his arm.

“Have me,” he demands, their fingers twined and his lips never leaving the skin that blushes like a beautiful rose for him. “I will be your sword and shield, I will lay the whole Ironborn fleet at your feet, worship you day and night and in any way you want me to.” He presses kisses at each word. “Have me, in any way you would have me.”

Lucerys stares at him with unbridled bewilderment. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again and Dalton does not let him do more as he takes his lips. He pushes the prince until his back meets the bed, hoisting his legs over his hips, caging him in. Lucerys tries to push him away, Dalton grabs his wrists, gentle yet firm, planting them beside his startled face.

“Have me,” He repeats, resolute. He does not think he can live a life without the prince in his bed, his cock strains at the sight of him flustered underneath him and he wants so badly to take him again like he had last night.

He is Ironborn. He can take as much as he desires. Yet, he waits. He worries. Every moment that Lucerys only looks up at him with his wide, dark eyes, threatening to tip him into an oblivion without the comforting arms of the prince. His heart hammers through his chest, the uncertainty stopping him from breathing — is this what it means to be afraid?

Dalton knows no fear. He was born from iron, forged and hardened by the sea, he dove headfirst into battles and feared not for his life or his legacy for he knew the drowned gods will always bless him with victory, but here, in the confines of the Driftmark carrack, with a soft, gentle, yet ferocious prince underneath him, he fears that he will be met with rejection. He would rather face tempestuous storms with only a rowboat riddled with holes than be rebuffed by the prince.

Lucerys blinks slowly, his long lashes fluttering over tender cheeks and Dalton waits with bated breath.

“I—,” The prince hesitates, and oh how Dalton’s heart falls to his stomach, “I will.”

The drowned gods have blessed him again. And Dalton will worship the boon they gave him.

(---)

The Sea Snake returns after a fortnight, healed and roaring for battle, his first order was to send Ser Vaemond and Prince Aemond home, a decision met with cheers and exaltations. The men clamour for blood, a rage in their spirits that will not be satiated until the Triarchy is no more. With their commander at the helm and a dragon at their side, victory has never been closer. 

True to his word, Lucerys and Arrax forged through and collapsed the huge barricade built by the Triarchy. No need for a one-eyed prince and his too-big dragon, a flame more controlled that it kept most of the houses intact. Corlys watches proudly as his heir flies through the smokey din, a shrill shriek cutting through the screams as their enemies are chased out of their rat holes, right into the waiting army. Dalton watches with him, a smirk on his handsome face.

“He rides as well as his father,” Corlys tells him, as they draw their swords to join the fray.

Dalton bites his tongue and hides his amused smirk in the guise of blood lust. For Lucerys does ride well, not only dragons but krakens. His loins ache at the memory of Lucerys donning his armour, still full of Dalton’s seed, a salacious little smile as he notices Dalton’s amazed stare.

“I will carry your favour, as you carry mine,” Lucerys whispered hotly.

He left Dalton a wonderful bite on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a pleasant burn whenever he lifted his shield. A reminder of a reward far greater than gold awaits him when they claim their victory. He rallies his men with a war cry as Arrax gives another roar of fire.

The scent of blood and smoke and salt lingers on Lucerys’ skin and Dalton laps it all up. The prince mewls underneath him, a plaint mess with a wicked smile and legs splayed open, Dalton two fingers in. Gone is the dragon warrior, fearsome as he and his mount ravaged their enemies, and all that is left is Lucerys.

His sisters taught him to be pious, and Dalton heeds their lessons well as he offers up his reverence and devotion to the dragon prince. Lovemaking is all sweeter with victory still running through their veins, day after day, battle after battle, they are closer to winning the war against the Triarchy. Dalton knows his prayers upon the altar of Lucerys Velaryon’s pussy is a great contributor to their accomplishments.

“Enough,” Lucerys gasps, tugging Dalton’s hair, “In me, now!”

”Patience my prince,” Dalton kisses his jaw, before curving his fingers just so that has Lucerys keening, back arching, “I want to make you cum like a woman, I hear it is a pleasure beyond compare.” Another twist and Lucerys spills on his stomach, the poor thing already red in the face and panting in big gulps, but he glares at Dalton, daring little prince.

“You are impossible,” He says as Dalton kisses up his jaw, nipping at the juncture of his neck and ear. “We do not have much time my Lord.”

“Oh, call me my lord again,” Dalton teases, he spreads Lucerys’ legs, slotting his hips between them. His own cock is hard and leaking, already anticipating his own release deep in Lucery’s womb—-warmth.

Oh gods if he had been born a woman, Datlon would already have him full with his seed. The mere thought makes his cock twitch. Lucerys would look beautiful pregnant, carrying his children.

He tugs at his cock, coating it with the oil from his fingers, now impatient as Lucerys smiles at him with his half-lidded eyes and kiss-bitten lips and Dalton slides inside with a grunt. His thrusts come erratic and uncoordinated, desperate as he hotly moans all means of obscenities directly at the prince’s ears.

For a delirious, delicious second, as he spills inside the prince, he knows his seed will take.

Their days at the Stepstones are numbered. For months, they toiled and bled to dismantle the Triarchy and they can finally see the end. Word has gotten back to them that their bottom feeder leader is considering negotiations. The Sea Snake has been working hard with his council, weighing their options. In truth, Dalton would have preferred to annihilate all their enemies. Snip them at the roots, and make sure they are never able to rise up again.

Lucerys, however, is more tempered. It is the prince in him, the one noble and kind. Dalton likes that about him.

“I think we should hear them out,” the prince tells him as they bask in the afterglow of their lovemaking. They’re both sweat-drenched, Dalton laid on the bed on his stomach, watching Lucerys as he collected their clothing strewn on the floor. Carefully, he drapes them over a chair, smoothing out the wrinkles, much like a wife would. 

A little wife, Dalton thinks. His little wife.

“Do you think they will listen to what your mother has to offer?” Dalton asks, he wants to pull Lucerys under him again, fuck him again, but something seems to bother the prince who shrugs. He wears Dalton shirt, too big on his frame, and nothing else. When he bends, Dalton gets a nice view of the curves of his ass and his cum stained thighs.

Gods he needs to fuck him again before he returns to his quarters.

"They must, they have no choice," Lucerys says. "She wishes for peace, mother does, but sometimes it comes at a heavy cost." 

And there, the fire, the simmering underneath his quiet façade. The dragon that Dalton must mount again. Pyke will be warmer with the prince around, always ready and wanting on Dalton's bed. The image of the prince all pliant and waiting and ready at any moment's notice. Dalton will house him in the best rooms, will dress him in pearls and silks and lines of gold and silver chains.

"Marry me," Dalton says. 

Lucerys looks back at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, lips still bitten pink. 

"Marry me," Dalton repeats, kneeling in front of him, holding both hands and kissing the meat of his palms, "Become my rock-husband, mine and mine alone."

He waits with bated breath, watching intently as Lucerys closes his mouth, opens it again, swallows hard and starts to speak, only to close his mouth and try to pull his hands away. Dalton does not let him. 

"Dalton I---" His words do not come, instead, he turns to his side and vomits. 

It takes fifteen men to hold Lord Corlys back. Driftmark must have healing waters, for, despite his recent recovery, he has turned to all wild fury when he heard about his grandson's affliction. Too much anger to think about drawing his sword, instead falling into a primal need to attack and hurt. 

"I will have your head!" He screams at Dalton, struggling against those who held him back. 

Dalton spits blood from his mouth, his nose aches and he knows he will be sporting a black eye soon. But despite the threat and injuries, he grins. A bloody, grinning mess. 

"If you must, Lord Corlys," he says, a whistle as he speaks through the loss of one of his front teeth. "But what would Lucerys say, if his grandsire kills the father of his child?"

Dalton thinks it was worth it, as Lord Corlys frees himself from those holding him back and lands a solid punch that knocks Dalton out. 

It was all worth it.