Chapter Text
“Stay here,” Aerion gruffly orders, leaving his personal guards at the entrance of the tourney grounds. It’s evenfall now, sun setting, and the muddy yard is nearly empty. But light flickers from his cousin's pavilion. Valarr has a strange habit of cleaning his armour himself after a day of use, staying later than anyone else.
A display of weakness, according to Aerion, for a prince of the blood to do a squire's task. Yet he always did, and this day it is to Aerion’s advantage. He can confront his cousin without minding his tongue.
Valarr had unhorsed him earlier in the day and the loss still lingered, the wave of humiliation as the sky entered his vision and servants rushed to check on the fallen prince. Aerion clenches his jaw, storming towards the black tent, eyeing the dragonheads decorating the entrance.
It had been no fair fight. Valarr’s lance had struck him by the collarbone, slipping up toward his throat. If a splinter had gone the wrong way, Aerion could be dead by now.
Worst of all Valarr had jumped from his horse immediately, surrendered the tilt and ran to check on his cousin with insufferable grace and humility. Valarr had humiliated him, fought dirty — worst of all made any observer swoon over the supposed concern he’d shown for his bested foe.
The way the meadow roared with applause as Valarr helped him off the field had made Aerion wish his throat had been cut open. At least then his cousin’s perfect reputation would’ve crumbled.
He enters the tent without warning, spots Valarr wiping off his dark chestplate with a dirty rag. Valarr hums when he sees him, unsurprised. He puts down his tools on a table beside him and raises an eyebrow.
“You cheated,” Aerion hisses, pointing an accusing finger at his cousin. “Coward!”
Valarr sighs, a bored expression on his face as he takes in Aerion’s seething form.
“I do apologize for the mishap, cousin. That is what it was — mishap.”
Aerion clenches his jaw, taking a step forward. His lips curl in disgust as he realizes he has to tilt his head up slightly to look Valarr in the eyes. He shakes his head, spitting on the ground beside Valarr.
“You always act like you’re so much better than me,” Aerion says, fists trembling.
“I am better than you,” Valarr states coolly. “I am older than you, smarter, and soon to be a tourney champion. The realm sings my name whilst spitting on yours. When I sit the throne as king, you shall not even inherit Summerhall.”
Valarr stalks forward, circles Aerion like a wolf, blocking the tent exit. His lips twitch into a smirk.
“I do think you agree, despite your tantrums, considering you moan my name whilst you’re getting fucked.”
Aerion feels his blood run cold, a chill wrecking through his body until his fingers grow numb.
“Oh, don’t look surprised now, cousin, I told you I heard you,” Valarr mocks, tilting his head.
The night of the ritual flashes in his mind, Shiera’s voice as she chastised him for hesitating to call his relatives' name ringing in his ears. In the end Aerion had done it, of course he had, to complete the spell and nothing else. Any pleasure gained for uttering the names was coincidental, caused by Brynden fucking deep into him.
Aerion breathes hard, fighting the urge to break Valarr’s handsome nose. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No?” Valarr questions. “Explain it to me, then.”
He cannot. Aerion would rather kill him where he stands than let Valarr steal Bloodraven and Shiera from him, take the power meant for him. Aerion is the one they choose for rituals, the one they invite into their bed, only Aerion, only me. The thought of his cousin touching them, witnessing their sorcery, makes violent nausea swirl in Aerion’s gut.
Valarr mistakes his silence for speechlessness. He laughs meanly, leaning close to Aerion’s ear.
“Whore.”
Aerion sees red. He dives forward, Valarr stumbling back from the impact. He grabs a dagger sheathed at his cousin's side and swings it wildly.
Valarr pushes him off with a grunt.
“You stabbed me!” Valarr’s eyes are wide, voice incredulous. “In the chest!”
Aerion’s mouth dries. He looks down at the knife in his hand, wrist aching. Valarr’s velvet shirt has been cut open, revealing glimmering chainmail. If not for the metal layer underneath he’d be bleeding.
Valarr grabs him harshly, shock bleeding into rage. Aerion sees fire in his eyes, a hatred he didn’t think his cousin was capable of.
Well. He just attempted kinslaying, the second in line to the throne nonetheless. The only way Aerion is getting away with this is finishing the job.
He swings his fist, aiming for Valarr’s nose.
Valarr dodges the punch easily, twisting Aerion’s wrist to pry the knife from his hand. Aerion knees him in the groin, using the distraction to pull his hand free. Valarr groans. Aerion jabs at his cousin's throat, Valarr deflecting the hit with his arm. Then, he grabs Aerion by the elbow and pulls hard.
Aerion falls forward, the knife slipping. A hard kick forces him to the ground, the air leaving his lungs. Another kick at his side has him gasping for breath, scrambling on his knees to get away. When he turns to his foe, steel meets him.
Valarr stands before his beaten form, jaw clenched so hard he might break teeth. He’s holding the knife to Aerion’s throat, fingers twitching. Aerion swallows, forcing himself still as he catches his breath.
“I have tolerated you. I love my father, bless his good soul, and I have obeyed when he told me to ignore your temper,” Valarr starts, voice frighteningly stable. “Even he could not deny me the right to cut your throat. It would hardly be sin to slay a traitor in self defense.”
Aerion eyes the blade wearily. His cousin would not take his life himself, surely. He’d call for a guard and then Aerion could jump him, demand a trial if all else fails. A trial that would end with Aerion at the Wall, if he was lucky.
Aerion scowls. A dragon prince cannot take the black. He refuses to die. There must be another way.
“Do you lust for my blood so badly that you’d shed it over a slip of the hand?”
“A slip,” Valarr laughs breathily. He grabs Aerion by the hair, pulling his head back roughly. Aerion hisses, eyes stinging with tears. “Look at me whilst you’re pleading for your life!”
Aerion feels the tip of the dagger grace the soft skin of his throat, scratching without drawing blood. His breath hitches, a shiver running down his spine. Just a touch more pressure and he’d feel the sweet sting of a blade — Aerion has to stop himself from leaning forward.
Valarr looks down at him, his mismatched eyes reminding Aerion of Shiera’s. They’re sharp and hooded, pupils drawn into small circles like a predator finding its target.
Valarr loosens his grip on Aerion’s hair, cards his fingers through the short locks.
“You need to learn your place.”
It’s a statement, low and dark. Valarr lets go of him, keeping the dagger pointed at his throat. He unhooks his belt with one hand, jaw clenching.
Aerion furrows his brows. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Lips drawn into a tight smile, Valarr fumbles with the buttons on his breeches. “Allowing you the opportunity to apologize for your slip before I decide whether or not to kill you.”
The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. “Is this why you have no heirs? Can’t get it up unless you’ve got them at knifepoint?”
The hit is immediate, the hilt of the dagger jammed hard against his temple.
Aerion falls on his side, world spinning and stars dancing in his vision. He groans as sharp pain tears through his head, pointed and brutal.
He licks his lips. “That hit a fucking nerve, huh?”
Valarr forces him back on his knees by grabbing his hair, jaw clenched. “Shut the fuck up!”
Valarr breathes hard, nostrils flaring. He closes his eyes, taking a few shaky breaths, sliding the composed mask back onto his face.
Aerion watches the display through blurry vision. It brings a smile to his face, to affect his cousin so deeply. Only he could crack the perfect facade open so easily, undo years of diplomatic training. It’s pathetic.
Valarr looks down at him with a face cut from stone.
“You are going to suck my cock the way you imagine when you moan my name like a whore, or I’ll beat you unconscious and fuck your mouth anyway.”
Aerion closes his eyes, heat licking at his groin at the image of being taken when he can’t move, speak, simply used. He wonders what would have happened if his necklace didn’t break when Brynden took his throat. Would Shiera have noticed when he passed out? Would she stop Brynden or let him continue until he spilled past blue lips?
His stomach clenches. Aerion would never put himself in such a vulnerable position, but it’s an exhilarating thought nonetheless.
Aerion opens his eyes before his thoughts can drift too far. Valarr has freed his cock, lazily stroking along the length to pump himself to hardness.
He pulls the foreskin back with each stroke, swollen head peeking through. Aerion can see the veins on the underside of his length as he stretches the skin, darker against his pale complexion. One protrudes, running down to the base, the end hidden as it continues behind the slit in his pants.
The opening reveals Valarr’s sack still tucked away, dark pubic hair cushioning his groin. There’s a light strip just above his cock, looking almost like a bald spot, and Aerion has to swallow down a laugh when he realizes it’s a white streak matching the hair on his head.
Valarr taps the tip of the dagger against Aerion’s bottom lip. “Open up.”
Aerion considers his options. In the end there’s nothing else to do but comply.
He darts his tongue out to lap at the blade, tasting steel. Valarr pulls the dagger away, Aerion chasing it with a low chuckle, being held back by the fist in his hair.
“Freak,” Valarr mumbles, but his pupils are blown wide as Aerion lets his mouth fall open.
Valarr circles Aerion’s mouth with the tip of his cock teasingly, smearing precum across his lips. It’s an obscene display. Aerion’s chest heaves as he fights the instinctual urge to lick his lips clean, glaring up at his cousin.
Tapping the head once, twice against Aerion’s tongue, Valarr shallowly thrusts in, just to withdraw. He repeats the action, movement slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. As if they’re not in a pavilion on public grounds and anyone could walk by at any moment.
He’s playing with me, Aerion realizes, groin tightening. Fucking asshole.
He decides it’s enough when Valarr pulls out again and sinks down on the length. Valarr hisses, sucking air between his teeth as Aerion’s mouth envelops him. When it hits the back of his throat Aerion pulls back, changes angle. He licks around the head, lets saliva gather in his mouth to make the slide wet.
The faster he spills the faster I can leave, Aerion excuses in his mind, but he can feel himself twitch in his pants. Valarr is thick, would stretch him so it burns, long enough to hit just right. The thick vein on the underside of his cock presses against his tongue.
Valarr tightens his grip in Aerion’s hair to hold him still, not wasting any more time — he begins thrusting earnestly into Aerion’s mouth, setting a steady rhythm.
The musk and sweat is heady, the aftermath of the day's efforts overtaking his senses. The taste of grime and violence should disgust him, the tang of battle without blood, yet the thought sends a thrill up Aerion’s spine. He wishes Valarr had split his lip open so he could savor the true experience.
Aerion looks up, connects with Valarr’s hooded eyes. His brown iris looks black as night in the dim light, nearly inhuman. Valarr studies him intently, tongue caught between his teeth, committing the sight to memory.
“Gods, if I’d known how good you’d be at it, I would’ve done this as soon as you came of age. You really are a whore, hm? I refuse to, ah, believe this is your first time.”
Only once before.
Aerion keeps his gaze as the cock hits the back of his throat, Valarr pushing deeper, tears welling up in his eyes. Even through blurry vision Aerion spots his lips part. Valarr moans softly, a quiet sound.
“Maybe there is a place for you at my court after all…” Valarr mumbles before thrusting into his throat, nearly to the base. Aerion swallows and gags around the length, forces himself to take slow breaths through his nose. He’s acutely grateful for Shiera’s lesson a month earlier.
Valarr withdraws until his swollen head lays on the tip of Aerion’s tongue, then thrusts again. He holds Aerion down, pushing further, rests for a few seconds before pulling out. He repeats the movements, deep patient jabs. Aerion can’t help but imagine it inside his hole, the way the cock would drag agonizingly good against his walls, press hard against his most sensitive spots.
Eyes fluttering shut, Aerion groans.
“Prince Valarr?”
The voice of ser Donnel of Duskendale rings through the tent in a polite tone. Both of the princes freeze, a heavy silence hanging in the air. Aerion tries to pull his head back but Valarr keeps him still, presses the blade into his skin until it stings. He clears his throat.
“You may enter, Ser.”
Aerion panics but before he can do anything he watches as the tent flap moves, sees a white-clad leg enter. Aerion tilts his head behind Valarr’s hips, praying he’s sufficiently covered. If he’s caught on his knees for his cousin he may throw himself into the nearest campfire.
“Your father bade me— Ah…” Ser Donnel trails off, standing by the entrance as he takes in the scene. He coughs awkwardly, arm fumbling behind him to open the entrance again. “My apologies, my prince, I was sent to escort you back to the castle. I shall wait outside for you to… I shall wait.”
The knight takes a step back, bowing slightly. Then, he pauses. Aerion can see the side of his face, his flushed cheek, dangerously close to entering Donnel’s line of sight himself.
Turn away, Aerion pleads in his mind. Leave.
Ser Donnel leans slightly to the side and they make eye contact. Aerion makes a startled noise, the vibrations causing Valarr’s hips to twitch forward. He chokes around the length in his throat, sees Ser Donnel gape, a flush growing under his greying beard, eyes wide.
Valarr curses under his breath, thrusts his hips impatiently. “Dismissed,” he grunts, and Donnel hurries out of the tent, armour clanking.
When they’re alone again, Aerion pulls his head back, uncaring of the strands being ripped from his head. He bangs angrily against Valarr’s hipbone when the other refuses to let him go, scrapes his teeth against his cock.
“Fuck!” Valarr hisses and lets go. “Don’t think this means we are finished.”
Aerion takes a deep breath, swallowing the saliva that is pooling in his mouth. He takes a second to relax his jaw, buy some time to pull himself together. Shame burns hot in his chest, rage — he considers diving for the dagger once more, catch his cousin unaware.
But Ser Donnel had seen them both and would know precisely how and why the young prince had died.
“Ser Donnel,” Aerion rasps. “Is an issue now.”
Valarr snorts. “That man is the most loyal knight of the kingsguard, cousin. He won’t dare tell our fathers for fear of shaming us.”
Aerion bites back a retort, eyes narrowing. However noble the knight had grown, a secret this big does not stay hidden long. A slip of the tongue, a cup of ale too strong and they would never hear the end of it. Aerion clenches his jaw, making his decision. If Valarr would not clean up the mess, Aerion would.
“Call him back,” Aerion grumbles. He won’t demean himself further by risking his voice breaking. When Valarr raises an eyebrow, he adds, “You will enjoy it, cousin, trust me.”
That catches his cousin's attention. Valarr gives him a curious look, intrigue winning over his need for release. He takes a step back, sheathing the dagger and turns towards the opening.
“Ser!” he calls. “Ser Donnel!”
There’s a rustling from outside, and then a hesitant voice replies. “Do you need anything?”
Valarr smirks, the tone in his voice mocking. “My cousin wants to see you desperately, Ser. Do come inside.”
Donnel enters like a dog scared of a beating from its master. His gaze flickers around the room, a furrow in his brows as he seems to debate whether or not they’re playing a trick on him.
When his eyes land on Aerion’s kneeling form, they stay.
Donnel’s breath hitches, worry forgotten as he walks forward. Aerion beckons him closer with his hand, closer until they’re nearly touching and Aerion has to tilt his head back to keep their eye contact.
The knight audibly swallows when Aerion puts a hand on his thigh. The armour is cold, raising the hair on his arms. Aerion tilts his head.
“Ser Donnel,” Aerion purrs. “How long was it since you swore the oath of the white cloak?”
“Twenty… twenty eight years, I believe,” Donnel answers nervously. Then, he adds, “My lord.”
Aerion smiles sweetly, finds the strap that keeps his codpiece in place and unclasps it. The armour falls to the floor with a loud clang and Donnel flinches at the noise, clutching his swordhilt.
“Nearly three decades you have served our house faithfully, longer than I have lived, yet what have we given you in return? You deserve a reward, don’t you think?”
Donnel shakes his head. “Ah, I need no prize for doing my duty—”
“I want to give you one.” Aerion’s words are firm, an order in his tone. He gathers up the edge of the chainmail that protects the knight’s groin and holds it up. “Hold this, Ser.”
Donnel snatches it quickly with a gloved hand, lifting it over his stomach and revealing his breeches. He wears a troubled expression on his face, wrinkles deep, yet Aerion can see him straining against the crotch of his pants.
Pervert, Aerion thinks, though he’d relied on that assumption. All men have the same weakness. His gaze flickers to his cousin. Valarr strokes his length lazily to keep himself hard, watching their exchange intently.
When Aerion slips a hand into his breeches Donnel hisses. “You cannot— I took oaths, I am sworn to protect you!”
Aerion pulls out his cock from his pants, jerking it to full hardness. Despite Donnel’s protests he makes no move to stop the prince, nor to leave.
“If it helps soothe your heart, Ser Donnel, you should know,” Aerion starts, licks a stripe across the tip. “You are not the first of the kingsguard to indulge yourself in this way.”
Donnel’s eyes widen but before he can reply Aerion sinks down on his length. His cock is smaller than Valarr’s, fits more comfortably in his mouth as he goes down until his nose scratches against hair.
There’s no grace or games in his actions. Aerion moves with a determination to make it end as quickly as possible, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue around the cock as he moves his head up, down.
With one hand he braces against Ser Donnel’s thigh, the other going to tug his balls, caress his sack.
The effect is immediate. Donnel grunts and huffs with each move Aerion makes, cock twitching desperately in his mouth. Despite the intense pleasure the knight stays still, an impressive feat all things considered. The self control annoys Aerion, makes him even more determined. How dare the knight not crumble at the slightest touch?
When Aerion can feel the skin of his sack tightening he pulls off of Donnel, just enough to speak. A thin string of saliva still connects them, glistening in the air.
“I am sure you can imagine the scandal if any of this got out,” Aerion croons. “The princes fooling around…a knight of the kingsguard. You could lose your head.”
Donnel swallows. “Yes, my prince,” he agrees, a hint of fear marring his handsome features.
Good, Aerion thinks. My job is done.
The prince is happy enough to leave it at a threat, but before he can pull his head back Valarr speaks up.
“Do not be rude, cousin,” he tuts. “Let him finish.”
Aerion clenches his jaw, sends a heated glare towards his cousin. He can’t argue, does not want Ser Donnel to catch on that something is wrong with the whole situation. With a sigh he puts the cock in his mouth again.
It doesn’t take long, a few bobs of his head before Donnel spills.
The quickness catches Aerion off guard, has him pulling away instinctively — a decision he immediately regrets as hot ropes land across his face. Seed lands across one of his eyes and he wipes it away, blinks cautiously.
His eye stings. Humiliation burns bright in his chest at being debauched so thoroughly. Aerion looks down at the come on his hand, spreads his fingers, watches the webbed white stretch, sticky and warm.
Disgust and satisfaction mix in his gut.
Valarr curses loudly, shoving Donnel out of the way in his hurry to get a proper look at Aerion. He fists Aerion’s hair, tilts his head up, eyes trailing the come dripping down his face with a guttural groan.
“Fuck— Leave, Ser Donnel,” Valarr orders.
“My prince—”
“Leave!”
The knight bends down to pick up his codpiece off the floor and tucks himself into his pants, a tight expression on his face. He exits the pavilion wordlessly.
Valarr hisses, eyes wild as he looks down at his cousin.
“Hells,” Valarr breathes, lifting a leg over Aerion’s shoulder, trapping him tight against his body. “You are filthy, you are filthy.”
Then he shoves his cock into Aerion’s mouth.
The angle forces the length deep into his throat, Aerion swallowing repeatedly as he gags, struggling for breath already. Valarr pays no mind, sets a brutal pace from the start.
He fucks Aerion’s mouth with vigor, one hand on the back of his nape, the other gripping his hair, manipulating him like a doll. Aerion can scarcely breathe, tears falling down his cheeks, mixing with the seed still staining his face.
The burn in his throat and the burn in his lungs mixes into a raging fire, licking at Aerion’s body, his groin, causing his head to spin. A pleasant familiar buzz sings in his head, pushing out all coherent thoughts, allows his mind to drift weightlessly.
Aerion relaxes into the lightheadedness as he chokes, eyes slipping closed. Time leaves him as all he can feel is the cock in his throat, in and out, in and out. The pain of the harsh thrusts send jolts of pleasure through his body.
Wet, obscene noises fill the air, mixing with Valarr’s quiet moans. He fucks him so roughly drool spills from the side of Aerion’s mouth, drips onto his red tunic.
“Gonna come,” Valarr warns. “Swallow.”
The rhythm of his hips falters into quick jerks. Valarr hisses as he comes, spilling down Aerion’s throat. Aerion swallows dutifully, obeys, makes a soft noise as the salty taste hits his tongue.
Valarr rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm shallowly, panting hard. Then he withdraws, looking down at his cousin. He takes in Aerion’s battered form, gasping for breath, lips slick and face stained. After a moment, he nods.
“You may live,” Valarr says airily. “This time.”
Aerion blinks. The original point of the matter had left him long ago. Awareness returns as he comes down from his high, hissing at the ache in his throat. His cock strains painfully in his breeches, throbbing angrily. There’s no use asking Valarr for a hand.
Valarr throws the rag he’d been using to wipe down his armour at him. Aerion grumbles but catches it, cleans his face thoroughly. Despite everything, he still has some pride surviving.
Aerion stands up, legs tingling from kneeling for too long. He leans against the table, waits as bloodflow returns to his sore muscles.
Valarr gives him a strange look.
“I…” he starts, voice low and brows furrowed. “Nevermind.”
Aerion catches his gaze and Valarr breaks it first. He sets the rag, dirty with oil and mud and sweat and seed, down on the table. Then he leaves.
Aerion ignores Ser Donnel’s stiff form as he walks, pretends not to feel his eyes piercing him. When he reaches his personal guard there’s a rage building in his chest, his shoulders tense. He’s pent up and humiliated and slightly dizzy.
“Wate,” he snaps, the guard stepping forward. “There must be at least one whore clean enough to fuck around here.”
Wate tilts his head, hesitating. “I can take you to the entertainment section, my lord.”
Aerion nods, jaw clenched. His fingers itch to grab and break and kill.