Epilogue
The spring rains had come early that year, soft and silver against the slate roofs of Valemont Keep.
The garden beyond the western walls had burst into wild green—overgrown, alive, full of the scent of wet stone and lilac.
From the terrace, Aerion could see the hills hazed with mist, the world washed clean and tender.
Clyde stood beneath the archway, watching the rain with that same stillness he always carried.
His hair had grown longer in the months since the war, brushing the nape of his neck, darkened now by the damp.
The wound across his side had long since healed, but he still moved like a man cautious with his strength.
Aerion pretended not to notice when the stiffness caught him.
He crossed the room anyway, the silk of his robe whispering over the marble floor. “You should sit,” he said, soft but firm. “You’ll undo the healer’s work.”
“I’m fine, my lord.”
Aerion arched a brow. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Aerion stopped beside him, close enough to catch the warmth of his breath. “You nearly died, Hound. You don’t get to define ‘fine’ anymore.”
Clyde’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite defiance. “I’m your knight. You shouldn’t fuss.”
Aerion’s voice dipped low, “and you’re mine to fuss over, whether you like it or not.”
Before Clyde could answer, a small voice cut through the hush. “Uncle Clyde!”
Little Isolde came bounding across the rugs, curls wild, skirts gathered in both fists. Clyde barely had time to turn before she collided with his knees, clinging with fearless affection. He bent, careful and gentle, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“Easy, dove,” he murmured. “You’ll knock me over yet.”
She laughed, peeking up at him with a grin missing two teeth. “Papa says you’re made of stone. Stones don’t fall over!”
Aerion smirked, leaning against the balustrade. “Then your uncle is the most dangerous stone I’ve ever tripped over.”
Isolde’s laughter filled the chamber, bright as birdsong. She darted off again, leaving the echo of joy in her wake. The door closed softly behind her nursemaid, and silence settled once more.
Aerion turned back to Clyde, his smile fading into something quieter. “You’re good with her.”
Clyde straightened. “Children are honest. They see no use in fear.”
“And yet she calls you ‘uncle,’ not ‘hound.’” Aerion tilted his head. “Strange, isn’t it, how easily she knows the truth of you?”
Clyde looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m not family.”
“You are,” Aerion murmured, stepping closer. “You are my family.”
When they reached the bed it was inevitable, as if a tide had finally accepted the moon’s invitation.
Aerion undressed Clyde with a trembling greed.
He traced every old line of scar with reverent fingers, as if memorizing a map of battles.
Clyde tried to speak, to stall with protest, but Aerion silenced him with another kiss, softer this time, before the hunger returned to his mouth.
“Let me,” Aerion whispered against his throat. “Let me take care of you.”
Clyde let him. Always he let Aerion in. Because the Archduke could be cruel and daring and reckless, because Aerion’s barbs masked a private, ferocious tenderness, and because Clyde wanted nothing more than to please the man he loved.
Aerion slide lower then, hands steady on Clyde’s hips as he sank to his knees. He felt himself stirring in equal desire as his lips brushed the dark head of Clyde’s cock. As he wrapped his lips around the thick member, he took delight in the sharp inhale from his hound’s own mouth.
“My lord,” Clyde groaned, voice dripping with desperation. His hand grasped Aerion’s golden hair, driving the Archduke deeper onto his cock, despite his own reservations.
For his part, Aerion was delighted, moaning around him, one hand digging into Clyde’s thigh, pulling the knight ever deeper.
His other hand loosened his own trousers and stroked himself, his wet desire making for slick work.
He slid slowly along Clyde’s length, tongue stroking, lips sucking, throat tightening, pace increasing.
He wanted to feel Clyde’s cum spill down his throat.
He knew some part of him wanted this since the moment he first laid his eyes on the massive knight.
But it was not to be.
Clyde pulled him up then, swift and sure, strong hands wrapped around Aerion’s wrists. Aerion was bent over the edge of the bed with a grip that was gentle in intent and blunt in execution.
“You wanted me to take you,” Clyde said, voice low and rough with desire. Aerion could not see his knights face, but his hands bunched in the blankets, his own cock twitching with excitement.
Clyde held Aerion there for a moment, looking down at the Archduke. Some part of him, a loyal knight, was disturbed by his own feelings. But he loved this man and would never deny what he love wanted.
He ran one hand down Aerion’s spine until he reached the band of Aerion’s loosened trousers and yanked them down fully. He stroked his lords pale cheek, kneading the soft flesh gently, tilting his head back in response to Aerion’s moans.
He longed to bury himself deep between those cheeks, fucking his arrogant peacock into submission. But he was a loyal hound and Aerion’s pleasure came before his own.
One hand pressed between Aerion’s shoulder blades, he held the man in place, while his fingers found their way into Aerion’s hot hole. He worked slowly, scissoring and kneading until the Archduke writhed beneath him, gasping and whimpering.
“Damn you,” Aerion breathed, half laughing, his back arching to display himself better. “Just fuck me already.” The hand on Aerion’s back pulled at the robe. Aerion let it slide off his arms until he was naked beneath his lover.
Clyde’s hand slid between them, fingers curling around Aerion’s cock, finding him already slick and warm.
With the other hand, his positioned himself, his tip teasing the loosened ring of muscles.
He took Aerion from behind with the slow, measured force of a man restraining himself.
He set a hard rhythm then: pelvis lifting, thrusting into Aerion’s warm, yielding body, the friction delicious and terrible.
He leaned forward, one hand splayed flat over Aerion’s lower back while the other stroked the prince’s cock, fingers rolling expertly along the shaft in time with each deep drive.
Aerion’s moans came quick and bright now—sharp, defiant, braided with pleading—and his nails raked the blankets as he rode the fire Clyde stoked beneath him.
“Fuck—yes,” Aerion whimpered, words jagged, voice thin with need.
He tried to twist his hips to meet Clyde’s stride, to make the angle deeper, to find the place that drew stars across his vision.
Clyde obliged without mercy, driving harder until Aerion’s world narrowed to thrusts and the slick squeeze of heat.
They climbed together: Aerion’s breath rasping as Clyde’s strokes found a steady song, fingers pumping his cock in time, the pressure at the base building with a slow, relentless insistence.
Clyde’s own breath hitched and then become a ragged rhythm to match Aerion’s cries.
With one final, powerful plunge and a shuddering grip on Aerion’s hip, Clyde drove them both over the edge.
Aerion came first—head thrown back, throat open in a raw, guttural exclamation—his release spilling hot and blinding, trembling limbs folding at the sudden ease. Clyde followed, muscles tensing, groaning his name into the air as he emptied himself deep and molten inside the Archduke.
They collapsed together, rain-soft and breathless, Clyde still seated behind Aerion with a hand pressed to the small of his back as if to reassure that neither of them would slip away. Aerion turned, face slick with sweat and satisfaction, and kissed the scarred knuckles that had claimed him.
He spoke softly, as if afraid to break the stillness. “You swore an oath.”
“I did,” Clyde murmured, fingers tracing idle patterns along his shoulder. “And I’ll keep it until my last breath.”
Aerion smiled, small and tired and unbearably fond. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep you alive.”
He lifted his head, kissed him again—slow, languid, claiming and tender all at once. Outside, the world kept raining, soft and endless, washing clean the stones of Valemont.
And inside, for the first time in years, the Archduke and his knight were at peace.