Chapter 4: Victory's Spoils
The scent of burnt honey was a lie. It came from the strange, gummy incense a Lysene camp follower had sold him, something she claimed would purify the air of bad humors. All it did was mask the deeper stench: the coppery tang of blood not fully scrubbed from his knuckles, the damp wool of the tent canvas, the stale wine in his cup, and beneath it all, the distant, perpetual smell of dragon—ash and scorched stone. Vhagar slept somewhere beyond the tent walls, a great, rumbling mountain of scales and ancient rage.
Aemond stared at the map. The village they had taken that day was a speck, its name now crossed out with a violent slash of red ink. It meant nothing. A cluster of hovels loyal to a petty lord who had dared to speak Rhaenyra’s name in his petitions. It had taken Vhagar one pass, low and slow, her shadow a chilling eclipse before the furnace-blast of her breath turned timber and thatch and flesh into a single screaming pyre. The fight had gone out of them after that. The cleanup had been butchery.
“They broke like rotten grain,” Aemond said, his voice rough from shouting orders over dragon-wind. He slumped in the campaign chair, its leather creaking. He’d unlaced his jerkin, revealing the sweat-damp tunic beneath. A half-empty wineskin dangled from his fingers. “Ran. Left their old and their young in the mud.”
Across from him, Criston Cole let out a slow breath. He had propped his stained boots on an iron-bound chest, his white cloak a dull grey in the flickering lamplight. “They’ll remember. Tomorrow, when they see what’s left. When they see the heads on the stakes along the road.” He took a long, practiced pull from his own skin. “Memory is a sharper lesson than steel.”
Aemond’s eye was fixed on the map, but he wasn’t seeing ink and parchment. He was seeing the moment the village elder, a man with a beard like dirty wool, had been dragged before him. The defiance in the man’s eyes had been a physical blow. It was the same look Beesbury had given him. The same look all the small, soft men of the world gave him when they thought their principles were a shield. He had drawn his dagger slowly, savoring the man’s fear as it finally dawned. But even as he’d sawed, even as the hot blood had pumped over his hand, the defiance had only melted into a terrible, accusing emptiness. It hadn’t been enough. The rage was still there, a black snake coiled in his gut, digestion spoiled.
“I need to forget tonight,” Aemond said, the words flat and final. He lifted his gaze from the map and found Criston’s in the gloom. No explanation was needed. The understanding between them was older than this war, born in the Red Keep’s secret places, forged in mutual, restless hatred for a world that prized politeness over power.
Criston set his wineskin aside. The movement was economical, weary. He rose, his joints protesting faintly, and crossed the short space. He dropped to his knees between Aemond’s spread thighs, the rug coarse under his knees. His hands, scarred and capable, went to the laces of Aemond’s breeches. He worked the knots open with a silent efficiency, pulling the fabric down just enough. Aemond’s cock, half-hard from adrenaline’s slow drain, sprang free into the cool air.
Without a word, Criston bent his head. His mouth was hot and wet, swallowing Aemond down in one smooth, deep motion. Aemond’s head thumped back against the chair, a guttural groan torn from his throat. His hand shot out, tangling in Criston’s white hair, gripping it in a punishing fist. He held him there, feeling the tight, swallowing pressure of his throat.
“That’s it,” Aemond growled, his hips jerking upward. “Suck it. Take it all, you loyal old cunt.”
Criston took it. He hollowed his cheeks, his tongue a firm, relentless pressure along the throbbing vein underneath. His throat opened, again and again, accepting each harsh thrust. The sounds were obscene—wet, gagging swallows, the slick slap of flesh, Aemond’s ragged breathing. This was nothing like his mother’s calculated submissions. This was degradation, mutual and honest. Criston used his mouth like a weapon, a service, a grinding stone to wear the sharp edges off his prince’s fury. Aemond fucked upward, his balls tightening, slapping against the stubble of Criston’s chin. The coil in his gut wound tighter, fueled by the violent imagery of the day, by the feel of this once-legendary knight on his knees, servile and desperate.
“I’m going to—” Aemond gasped, his whole body bowing. Release ripped through him, hot and bitter, pulsing into Criston’s waiting throat. He held Criston’s head down, grinding through the last waves, until he was spent and shuddering.
Criston swallowed convulsively, then released him with a soft, wet sound. He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up, his own breathing uneven, and his eyes—usually so guarded—flickered with surprise. Aemond’s cock, glistening with spit, lay hard and heavy against his belly, still fully erect, the vein along its side throbbing.
A slow, dark smile spread over Criston’s weathered face. “Still hungry, my prince?” The chuckle in his voice was rough, intimate.
Aemond looked down at himself, then at Criston. The feral light was back in his eye. “On your back,” he commanded, his voice hoarse.
Criston rose. He unbuckled his own belt with deliberate slowness, letting it fall. He pushed his breeches and smallclothes down over his hips, his own cock springing free, thick and already leaking a clear bead of moisture. He didn’t lie on the rug. Instead, he turned and climbed onto Aemond’s lap, straddling him, his back to Aemond’s chest. The chair groaned under their combined weight. Criston’s thighs, thick with muscle, bracketed Aemond’s hips.
He reached between his own legs, his hand wrapping around Aemond’s renewed hardness. He guided it, not into himself, but pressed it firmly against the perineum behind his balls, trapping both their cocks together between his clenched fist and the hard plane of Aemond’s stomach.
“Like this,” Criston breathed, and began to move.
He rocked back and forth, a grinding, relentless rhythm. Aemond’s cock, slick with spit and pre-cum, slid fiercely against Criston’s own, the twin shafts rubbing together in a hot, tight channel of flesh and friction. Aemond’s arms encircled him, one hand splaying across Criston’s stomach, the other gripping his hip, guiding, demanding.
“Fuck,” Aemond hissed into the sweat-damp hair at Criston’s neck. The sensation was brutally direct, animal. He could feel every ridge, every pulse. He thrust upward, meeting Criston’s downward grind, their bodies slamming together. Pre-cum smeared between them, a sticky lubricant that made the slide vicious and loud.
Criston’s fist tightened, squeezing them together. “Come on,” he grunted, his own breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Do it. Mark me.”
The words did it. The permission, the base demand. Aemond’s control shattered. “Come for me,” he snarled, biting at Criston’s shoulder through the tunic. “Spill it, Ser. Now.”
Criston’s body went rigid. A ragged cry was torn from him, harsh and unpretty, as his cock jerked in Aemond’s grip, spurting hot stripes of seed across Aemond’s hand, his own stomach, the dark leather of the chair. The sight of it, the feel of the warm spend, the raw sound of the knight’s release—it detonated Aemond’s second climax. He roared, his hips pistoning uncontrollably as he came, his own release mixing with Criston’s, adding to the filthy, glistening mess between them.
Silence fell, heavy and complete, broken only by their ragged, synced breathing. Criston slumped back against him, a dead weight. Aemond let his head fall back, his eye closed. The black snake in his gut was gone, sated, dissolved into a numb, heavy exhaustion. The distant sounds of the camp—a snatch of song, a horse’s whinny—filtered back in.
After a long while, Criston shifted, reaching for a discarded rag on the chest. He cleaned himself with a few efficient wipes, then handed it to Aemond. They dressed in wordless routine, lacing up, righting clothes. Criston reclaimed his chair, picked up his wineskin. The air still smelled of burnt honey and sex.
“Beesbury’s nephew holds the next keep,” Criston said, as if commenting on the weather. He took a drink. “The one with the granaries. He’s a pious man. Believes in the Seven-Pointed Star, not dragons.”
Aemond stared at the red slash on the map. The numbness was receding, replaced by a cold, clean clarity. The defiance in the elder’s eyes merged with Beesbury’s pinched face. A lesson had been taught today, but it needed repetition. It needed to be written in fire so large the whole Reach could read it.
“Pious men fear hell,” Aemond said, his voice quiet and precise. He picked up a fresh quill, dipped it in the pot of red ink. He drew a circle around the next keep, a deliberate, bloody halo. “We will show him hell flies. And it is obedient only to me.” He looked at Criston, a partner in grime and consequence. “At dawn. We make an example that even the Citadel will hear.”
Criston nodded, a grim satisfaction in his eyes. The game continued. Here, in the mud and blood, it was simpler. There were only masters and ash. And for now, that was enough.