Work Text:
They seldom visit Dragonstone.
Aerion can count on one hand the times they have gone in his young life, despite it being the last ancestral home of their kin before the doom. His father did not care for the island, the storming sea and beach that seemed more glass than sand, or the towering structures of looming dragons carved into every pillar after so long in Summerhall.
It is Aerion's favorite place to be. The gloom of the ancient castle, the taste of salt and smoke in the air, and the feeling of an odd, ever-present heat made Aerion feel like he had been born from this rock in the sea. Dragonstone called to the blood of the dragon, called for them to return home.
A summer storm had rolled in the evening while they supped, sucking out all the warm glow the setting sun had lain across the wine-dark sea and castle. They had all lounged in the drawing room after the belly of the dark clouds finally split open and rain began to pour, clattering down every sharp ridge of stone. The rest of the children had been sent to bed some time ago, just when the fire began to grow low, neglected as the adults became engrossed in conversation about something Aerion did not care to listen in on.
The droll of rain splattering against the walls, smacking into the wooden window shutters, and the crackle of flame made Aerion's eyelids droop as if he had drunk too much sweet wine from Daeron's cup. He turns his head to the floor cushion, feather-stuffed and warm from the lingering fire nearby, and watches Valarr from half-lidded eyelids.
The heavy shadows, the flickering light from the candles and fire dance across Valarr's face and coat his skin in a golden hue. It was in moments like these that Aerion did not mind his older cousin's Dornish look. While his father's own pale skin and silver hair gleamed in the dark, like a shining star, both Baelor and Valarr looked as if they had been born from the long shadows of Dragonstone.
Like a dragon crawling from the pits that stood below them.
"Boy," his father's voice startles him from thought, yanking him from the slow pull of sleep. "You are not some pet. See yourself to bed."
Aerion frowns, opening his mouth to protest when a clap of thunder drowns out all warmth in the air.
"Father—"
"Go, Aerion. I will not be carrying you to your chambers if you stay there." Maekar's tone leaves no room for argument. His father sips on summer wine while Baelor smiles at Aerion with thinly concealed mirth at his plight.
Liar, Aerion wants to say, as he stands and brushes his trousers of invisible dust. You would carry me back, father.
"I'll see you back, cousin." Valarr's voice cuts through his musings. It is soft and warm, like a hand on his nape. "Dragonstone can become quite the maze at night."
He almost protests, the sharp, biting refusal ready on his tongue when Valarr stands and reaches out a hand to help him from the floor. Aerion takes it tepidly, flustered and suddenly taken by the warmth of his cousin's fingers wrapping around his own. Calloused palms rub against the still-soft parts of his hand, but Aerion finds that he does not mind as Valarr guides him from the carpet.
A gentle smile plays on Valarr's lips. The light catches the dimple in his chin, making it seem more prominent. Aerion would like to press his thumb into the curve of it. Valarr lets go of him, but before Aerion can lament the loss of his hand, he feels the pressure of a palm firm on his mid-back. He stiffens under the weight of it, stomach knotted as his face blooms with heat.
Valarr leans down; his breath brushing the top of Aerion's head. "Say goodnight, Aerion."
He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry at the low, slow tone Valarr speaks in.
"Goodnight, father, uncle." His own voice sounds far away, his mind still fixated on the closeness of Valarr's body, the heat of his hand sinking under Aerion's clothes the longer it remains there.
Dragonstone does become strange and twisted in the night. Shadows take strange forms, shifting and growing in the dance of the torches along the walls. Aerion can barely see the bright whites of Kingsguard as they pass before they, too, slink back into darkness.
Valarr's hand does not move from his back as they walk back to the royal apartments where Rhaenyra's growing brood had once lived and breathed. Perhaps silver-haired ghosts walked these halls as well as they did.
It's harder to hear the clambering of rain against the castle this deep inside. Aerion can scarce hear anything else but the thundering of his own heart and the steady tide of Valarr's breathing anyway.
"You're oddly quiet, Aerion." Valarr inclines his head down at him. His eyes look like too dark pools, whatever violet in them lost to shadow.
Aerion hums absently. "Not much to say, is there."
Valarr actually tuts at him, the hand on his back rubs circles between his shoulder blades. Thunder cracks outside, snapping through the quiet hallway like the breaking of a bone, or perhaps, even a dragon's roar. Aerion flinches at the suddenness of it. Valarr pulls him closer, tugging his small frame into the splendid firmness of his side.
"Startle you, did it?" His cousin chuckles. Aerion can feel his heavy gaze on him, watching him, but he refuses to look when his embarrassment is written plainly on his face. "Don't be frightened. The summer storms rage on Dragonstone quite often. You will be used to the sound of it soon enough."
Aerion flusters and bats Valarr, pulling away from the man's side indignantly. Valarr's hand still does not sway from his back.
"I'm not scared!" Aerion hisses hurriedly, long hair whipping behind him as he whirls to glare at his cousin. "I am a prince! A dragon!"
They stop in front of his borrowed room. Aerion feels hot, his skin itching and buzzing wherever Valarr touches.
Valarr moves his hand away, and Aerion finds himself missing the weight of it. Valarr laughs again, his handsome face bathed in the warm glow of the torch mounted on the wall. His eyes look as if they have flames in them, one pale and the other a molten glow. Valarr reaches for him again—fingers threading into the curls that have fallen from Aerion's loosening braids. He pushes the silver strands behind Aerion's ear and something swells and blooms in his belly.
"Of course, you are, sweetling." His fingertips brush his cheek, gliding down to pinch his chin. "Our little dragon. You don't need me to play your white knight anymore, do you?"
Aerion flushes again, body too warm, too aware of Valarr. He looks away. It had not been so long ago that Valarr would don his armor and a wooden sword, and carry Aerion on his shoulders, despite being well past the age for it.
"Father says I'm too old for such games now, Valarr." He speaks softly, embarrassed by his loud outburst in the quiet hall. "But I get to practice with a blunted sword now, instead of the stupid wooden ones!"
Valarr's eyes trail across his face, skimming over the finer curve of his cheek—still round with baby fat, but promising—and the bridge of his nose, to the plump slope of his mouth.
"Yes, you are quite grown now, aren't you? You'll have to spar with me on the morrow. I'd like to see how much you've improved since the last time we saw one another—but the hour is late, sweetling, and I mustn't keep you awake."
A strange urgency, a desperate childish need to keep Valarr in his presence, strikes through Aerion like the lightning on the sea. Just as Valarr's hand slips from his face, Aerion grabs him by the cuff and holds the man in place. His heart thuds stupidly in his chest, the flush on his face burns, and his mouth goes dry. The hall feels almost chill despite the summer humidity. Aerion steps closer, until his slippered feet bump into Valarr's own.
"Aerion?" Valarr cocks his head, amusement clear on his face.
The words tumble from his mouth before he can think on them. "The handmaid has already gone to bed. There is no one to help me undress."
Which was true, but Aerion was never one to have qualms about interrupting the rest of the servants. He holds his breath, waiting for Valarr's response as the older man's face goes blank and unreadable. Sharp, dark eyes stare steadily at Aerion. His palms sweat and his fingers twitch.
Uncomfortable in the growing silence, Aerion blurts out: "You must assist me, cousin."
A strange, unfamiliar look passes over Valarr's face. Aerion cannot say he has ever seen it before—it is not a look of annoyance, or the pursing of his mouth when he grew angry, but something new and unseen. Valarr's hand flexes in his hold and Aerion can feel the steady thrum of his cousin's pulse on his thumb. The chill lingers between them, kissing the bare skin of Aerion's ankles as they linger at the door, but he only feels unbearably warm.
The cool, princely smile returns to Valarr's face, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. Aerion thinks about reaching up to touch the fine lines, the freckles that sit across his cheeks and temples. Valarr moves his wrist out from under Aerion's, only to grasp him by the elbow instead.
"Of course, yes," then: "we can't have you going to bed in your dinner clothes, can we?"
Valarr leads him inside the room like it's his own, hand a steady guide once more. The bedroom had grown chill in the late evening, the heat of fire—nothing more than glowing embers now—left unfed and untended since their midday arrival on the island. Valarr's hand glides down his arm, fingers smoothing over Aerion's sleeves before disappearing altogether. Aerion nearly reaches for Valarr as he steps away and walks over to the stack of kindling next to the hearth.
"Gather your night clothes, sweetling," Valarr murmurs, his broad back to Aerion as he opens the metal grates. "I'll feed the flame for you."
Anticipation prickles under Aerion's skin. The tall windows had been pulled shut some time ago, perhaps when the rain had begun, but Aerion can still make out the patter of it on the glass and the rushing of waves against the shoreline. He pads over to the wardrobe, glancing out the window to catch his reflection in the dim glow of the lamps that hang from the walls. Wide, violet eyes stare back at him.
Aerion looks away and begins fumbling through the clothes that had been laid out and hung. He needed his best gown, the one made of silks and lace, perfect for the long, warm days of Summerhall—and for Valarr to see him in. He tugs it from the pile of silks and linen with little care, leaving the rest of the clothes rumpled from their neat stacks as he holds it to his chest.
The sound of wood cracking open, flame sputtering to life, joins the sound of the rain.
He hears Valarr close the grate and his belly twists. Aerion turns around, his fingers twisted in the smooth silk.
"Have you picked something out?" Valarr walks over, towering over Aerion—he is nearly as tall as Baelor, he realizes underneath the shadow of his cousin's frame. "Let's have a look."
Valarr takes the dress, running his hand over the smooth fabric as he hums in thought. Aerion's heart flutters like a bird. He feels almost shy as Valarr inspects the garment.
"This is the nightgown I had made for you, after your flowering, yes?"
Aerion flushes, his own gaze drifting to watch the glide of Valarr's long, tanned fingers run along the lilac-colored silk and the embroidered dragons across the hem.
"Yes, cousin," he can't help but speak low, in hushed tones as if someone might be listening—as if this moment is a secret between them. "It's my favorite."
"That makes me glad, sweetling," Valarr smiles down at him. "Do you wear it often?"
The heat that sits in his cheeks floods down into his chest and belly. Aerion feels warm, his skin alight as if he had bathed in the sun.
"I try. Kepa says that it is 'too grown' for me, Valarr, but I wear it anyway." A sliver of a smile tugs at Valarr's mouth. Aerion wants to reach out and touch it.
Valarr reaches for his face, cupping Aerion's head with his calloused palms and running his thumb along his cheekbone. Aerion leans into it, enjoying the warmth of it as his belly flips in circles. He liked when Valarr touched him—like the weight of his hand on his back and nape.
A soft, breathy chuckle escapes the man's mouth. "Are you not grown now, Aerion? But I suppose that is the way of fathers; they do not want to see their children grow up so fast, especially their favorites."
Aerion preens under Valarr's words. A rush of pride had him puffing out his chest and grinning wide. He steps closer to his cousin, bumping their shoes together once more.
"Am I your favorite, too, cousin?"
Valarr's hand flexes around Aerion's cheek as he smiles. He leans down and presses his lips against the curve of Aerion's cheek, where it meets his eye. Aerion swallows, suddenly dizzy at the light scent of sweetened soap and musk that lingers at Valarr's collar.
"Of course, you are," Valarr tilts his head in the opposite direction, kissing Aerion's right eye. "You are my beloved cousin. No one compares to you."
He flushes, breath quick. "Even when Daeron says I am acting like a brat?"
Valarr's laugh is hearty and full of affection; the feeling of it vibrates down Aerion's spine. Valarr tugs him closer, the night down smushed between their bodies, as he hugs him and kisses the top of Aerion's silver curls.
"Especially then, sweetling," another kiss, lingering. "You have the blood of the dragon in you. It is only natural for you to be so hot-blooded."
Aerion feels cold when Valarr steps back, leaving space between their bodies again. Valarr steps away, walking towards the bed to lay the nightgown against the comforter. He turns back towards Aerion, beckoning him with a quirk of his pointer finger. It is all Aerion can do to keep himself from running the few steps over.
"Let's ready you for bed now," large hands cup Aerion's shoulder, running down the length of his arms before trailing back over to the front of his dinner blouse. "I've kept you awake too long, Aerion."
"I don't mind…" Aerion watches Valarr's nimble fingers pull apart the laced string, the collar of his shirt falling loose and open. He looks up and catches Valarr's gaze, his eyes even darker and pupils swollen—overtaking all shades of brown and violet—as they trail down the expanse of his throat and exposed collarbone. "I like spending time alone with you, cousin."
Valarr's fingers skirt across his bare skin, and Aerion can only hope that in the soft, warm light of the oil lamps and fire, his cousin cannot see the flush dripping down. Next comes the belt of his trou, which Vallar easily slips out from the loops, opening the fast, before, much to Aerion's surprise, gliding down to his knees. Vallar looks up at him, face unreadable, and taps his ankle,
"Lift your foot for me, sweetling." Valarr wraps the entirety of his hand around Aerion's ankle. "Good boy. Now the other one."
Aerion clutches Valarr's shoulder with each foot, steadying himself and feeling the subtle flex of muscle under his palm. Valarr sets the shoes aside, running his hands up Aerion's thighs, slow and lingering, before settling at his waist. Valarr hums to himself, barely dipping his fingers under the waistband, but the slightest graze of his fingers sends sparks down Aerion's spine.
"What?" Aerion asks, voice barely more than a whisper. The air in the room feels taut, like it's wrapping around them both. He barely notices the rain picking up, bouncing across the window and stone.
Valarr begins to ease his pants down, hands flexing around Aerion's thighs, his knees, and calves with every inch. "I can't help but notice how much your body has changed already."
Aerion frowns, not understanding. He slips his feet from the puddle of his pants, now standing in nothing but his blouse and underclothes. "How do you mean? I've been training as usual."
Did Valarr think his training was lacking? Had his muscles gone soft in the brief time he travelled to King's Landing and then Dragonstone?
"Do not fret, sweetling," Valarr looks up at him. Aerion wants to look away. "I simply mean that your flowering has made your body change. It is a natural thing, Aerion. It just means that one day, you will be able to take a husband… here."
Valarr's hand leaves Aerion's waist, placing it instead over the soft apex of his legs. It is just a moment, a brief second, a wisp of a touch before it is gone.
It leaves Aerion on fire.
His cousin stands once more, and Aerion feels all the smaller for it. Valarr towers over him, broad-shouldered and muscled with years of swordplay and tourneys. Aerion had once dreamed of being as tall and strong as his own father, to grow thick with muscle, but now it was clear that his slender form would remain shorter and leaner, no matter how often he trained. Lady Dyanna Dayne had given him more than just her comely face, but the litheness of her form. What is often a bane to Aerion blooms into something to be admired under Valarr's dark gaze and the heat of his hands.
"Come now," Valarr plucks at the shoulders of his blouse. "Lift your arms for me."
Aerion does as his cousin says, belly clenching with nerves as Valarr's fingers catch the edge of his blouse and graze his goosebumped skin. Valarr tugs the shirt gently away from his body, making sure not to let Aerion's hair tangle in the buttons at its collar. Left only in his underclothes, chest and limbs now bare, Aerion looks away from the older man, his eyes heavy on the rainfall against the window.
Valarr chuckles again. His hands glide up from Aerion's wrists, smoothing over the slender muscle of his arms, before lingering at the sides of his waist. Aerion shivers at the roughness of the calluses on Valarr's palms.
"You need not be so shy, Aerion. It is unlike you." Valarr glides his right hand up his flank, over his belly, and then stills where his fingers meet the slight curve of breast.
He flusters again under Valarr's teasing. Aerion scrunches his nose and huffs, reaching up to dig his hands into Valarr's doublet.
"You are the one inspecting me like I am some prize palfrey, cousin." He looks up at Valarr through his lashes and finds the man smiling down at him, eyes dark and low.
"Are you not a prize?" Valarr's other hand comes up his side to cup under Aerion's other breast. A thumb presses into the tender pad of fat, just below his hardened nipple. "You will only grow more comely, your face and body alike. You will have the attention of the realm soon."
Aerion shakes his head, moving closer to hide his face in Valarr's chest. The smooth fabric of his doublet tickles his cheek.
"I do not want the attention of the realm, Valarr." He sounds like a pouting prince again, all tucked into the warmth of Valarr's chest. "Yours is enough."
Valarr's hands leave his breasts, snaking up around his back and threading over the ridge of his spine. One settles at Aerion's nape, blanketed by fine silver hair, while the other cups his cheek. Valarr tilts Aerion's face until he has nowhere else to look but at those dual-colored eyes, gleaming and dark. A shiver crawls up his spine, lingering in the warm path that Valarr's hands had made along his skin.
"You flatter me, sweetling." Valarr leans down to pepper a soft kiss against the crown of Aerion's head, then another in quick succession. "I must confess, like a greedy dragon, I cannot help but want to hoard all your sweet affections for myself. It would make me quite cross to find you sharing yourself like this with anyone else."
Aerion feels all hot inside at his cousin's words. They felt as good as being praised for his footwork and sword hand by his father. He wished he could sit in the feeling forever, tucked in Valarr's embrace.
"Come now, let's get you dressed. You're getting goosebumps."
Aerion mourns the soft down of Valarr's doublet, the lingering scent of musk and sandalwood, and, of course, the heat of his body as Valarr pulls away. It's not the cold, Aerion wants to say; I'm not cold. But he keeps quiet as Valarr looks him over once more before grabbing the dragon-embroidered nightgown from the bed, piling the fabric together until it's ready to be tugged down over his frame.
The smooth silk glides down over Aerion's head and shoulders like melting butter, falling neatly around his body and just beginning to cling to his budding chest and the slight curve of his hips. The collar hangs just below his collarbone, exposing the greater part of his chest and throat as the billowing sleeves kiss his fingertips. Aerion somehow feels more exposed than just before, when he stood before Valarr in only his bloomers.
"Such a pretty dragon," Valarr tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear from where it had fallen out of his braided crown. "Spun from moonlight itself."
He flushes again, face ruddy as if he had sipped on wine. "Will you brush my hair, as well, Valarr?"
Aerion wanted Valarr to stay longer, to touch him and his fine, soft curls like a husband might. Valarr smiles, and Aerion knows he has won.
"Another great privilege you bestow upon me, sweetling," Valarr caresses the lope of his neck where shoulder and throat meet. "I'd be happy to."
The vanity is scarcely illuminated enough to see his reflection, but the glow of the hearth and the oil lamps mounted on the walls grant them both enough light to watch flame and shadow flicker across each other's skin amongst the gloom outside. Aerion sits in the cushioned seat just as he would for his maid, except instead of sitting slouched over a book or sleeping while she brushed and styled his curls, his shoulders and spine are taut with nerves as Valarr looms behind him. Valarr, despite his large hands—scarred and molded for sword, not the finicky nature of delicate hair —is diligently gentle as he begins to remove pearl and ivory pins, tugging tiny braids from their numerous plaits.
It is quiet, only disturbed by the delicate tink of the pins as they are set on the vanity and the sounds of Aerion's own heart beating out of his chest.
"Did you do this for Lady Kiera when you were married, cousin?" Aerion's father always said he needed to learn to hold his tongue, and he once more wishes he had when Valarr's fingers pause, and his jaw clenches in the mirror's reflection.
Valarr does not torture him with silence, however. His cousin lets out a sigh, a quiet and almost mournful thing, as if the memory of Kiera of Tyrosh is as bitter as it is sweet. Perhaps it was; perhaps seeing her back to Tyrosh with her barren womb felt like a grief of its own. Aerion would not know such things when it came to wives and husbands—his only loss was that of his sweet lady mother.
Another braid unravels and the carefully arranged strands, tucked to keep from falling into his face during their travels, unravel in loose curls around his face. Valarr runs his hand through the untied strands, caressing silver curls as if they were silk.
"Not often, no." Valarr reaches for the boar-bristle brush—another gift he had bestowed upon Aerion. The brush glides through his curls, silver-gold spooling in Valarr's agile hands. "She much preferred her handmaidens' help with such things. I fear I am too heavy-handed when it comes to removing fine jewels and hairpins."
"I think you did well enough, for me, cousin." Aerion whispers, his voice caught in his chest.
Valarr smiles and leans down to place another kiss against his crown. "Good. I would never wish to hurt you, sweetling."
"Do you miss her?" He questions, unable to help himself or bury the incessant need to know if Valarr still thought of his former wife. He did not want Valarr to miss her, to still mourn their marriage—not when they occupied the same room and shared each other's breath.
"No." The answer is curt, a rough roll of Valarr's smooth voice. "Not as a husband. I miss the companionship that left with her, but I do not miss her like I will miss you when you return to Summerhall."
Valarr's words leave Aerion hot, his stomach twisting while his heart continues its relentless fluttering. Aerion hated acting like some fair maid, but his cousin often left him feeling strange and unmoored. Valarr runs the brush through his curls, now nothing more than fat waves, in one last pass before setting it down. His hands settle on Aerion's shoulders. His fingers skirt under the edge of the collar, caressing the pale skin before squeezing him lightly.
"All done, Aerion." He guides Aerion to stand, running his hand down a slender arm before grasping Aerion's smaller hand in his own. "Let us get you to bed—I'll even tuck you in, like your maid as well."
Aerion flushes and lets himself be sequestered across the room to the bed, its canopy of thick, red drapes hiding most of it from sight.
"You make a good handmaid, cousin." Aerion grins at Valarr as the older man untucks the sheets and pulls the covers back. Aerion climbs in, nightdown shifting to expose his legs. "Or is this a husband's duty, as well?"
Valarr's gaze drips over him like warm honey. Aerion can feel every inch of it as violet and brown eyes shift from bare ankles to the sight of his silver hair splayed out against the pillow. Valarr pulls the blanket over him, shielding him from whatever draft would leak through the windows from the summer storm outside.
"Would you like to know of another husband's duty, Aerion?" A small smile plays at Valarr's lips.
This close, with Valarr sitting at the edge of his bed, Aerion can make out the pale freckles that dot across his tan skin in the dull light, and the cleft in his chin that deepens with his smile. He is handsome, as a prince ought to be, Aerion thinks, counting the silver lashes that stand out amongst the black, even if he looks more Dornish than Valyrian.
The air is thick and swollen between them. Aerion nods, licking his lips as Valarr leans down, wrapping Aerion in his sturdy arms until their noses brush one another.
"Yes," Aerion whispers, like a secret is being told.
Valarr's lips press against his own, sweetened with wine and the tangy lemon cakes they had for dessert. Aerion's eyes flutter shut as he sighs, melting into his cousin's hold. A hand comes to cradle his face, tilting his chin up until there is nothing but the smoky scent of Dragstone that clings to Valarr's doublet and the taste of wine to fill Aerion's senses. He grows lightheaded, breath caught between his lungs as a slow ache pools in his groin.
The kiss is over all too soon.
Aerion lets out a pitiful sound, something like a whine a child might make. Shame floods his face with wretched heat.
Valarr is staring down at him, hand still holding him in place. He feels trapped, molded and formed into his cousin's grasp. Aerion can't help the small shudder that rolls over him.
"How was that for a lesson in marriage duty?" Valarr hums, warm breath brushing over Aerion's cheeks like a second kiss. "Satisfactory?"
He reaches out before he can stop himself. The molten heat in his belly grows as thick as the fog in his mind. Aerion wants more, greedy and full of newly discovered need. Aerion clenches Valarr's doublet in his sweaty palm, holding him steady so that his cousin may not slip away.
"I would like another, cousin," Aerion says breathily, and then, as if it might help: "please, Valarr."
The flame beside the bed flickers, casting Valarr's face in strange shadows. Both violet and brown eyes appear to be the same, lost in the shadow and gloom of his room. A thumb smooths over the curve of his cheekbone. Valarr's eyes trace down his face, lingering on Aerion's wet mouth.
"How could I refuse when you ask so kindly, Aerion?" Valarr's fingers splay out, clutching Aerion's face until silver hair wraps around his fingers.
Valarr closes the short gap between them, pulling him closer, hand threading in his hair until there is no space left between them. The second kiss is longer, less gentle than the first, a taking of breath. Aerion whines softly, wrapping his arms around Valarr's broad shoulders until the two of them are chest to chest. It is a languid thing, torturesly tender like the syrup-thick love ballads the bards would sing when they visited the Keep. Valarr's lips part ever so slightly, and Aerion feels the inside of another person's mouth for the first time.
A tongue dips along the edge of his lip. It is gone before Aerion can even open his mouth further. Valarr captures his mouth again, fingers tightening in Aerion's hair as if he is afraid he might slip away, kissing him more harshly than before—punishing and relentless. Like this, Aerion can feel the burn of stubble against his chin. His mouth feels bruised.
It is not like the gentle, quick kisses Aerion had watched his parents share in quiet moments.
Valarr pulls away, lips glistening with spit. Aerion squeezes his thighs together, suddenly all too aware of the growing pressure between them.
When Valarr speaks, his voice is rough and tight. The hand in Aerion's hair loosens, as does the one that had slipped unnoticed to his backside. Aerion keeps his arms around the man, unwilling to let go.
"Can't I have another, Valarr?" He asks, voice full of need. He cuffs a finger under the collar of Valarr's doublet.
Valarr lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head before leaning down to give Aerion an agonisingly brief kiss.
"I've made you into a thing of greed, sweetling." The hand on Aerion's back slides over the smooth silk until it lies flat between his shoulder blades. "No more; it is not proper."
Aerion pulls at the collar of Valarr's doublet, pouting up at the man. He flutters his eyelashes, pulling himself closer until he is entirely in his cousin's lap. Such antics almost always worked on father. Maekar would glare until he'd sigh in defeat, sending Aerion off with a wave of hands.
Valarr shakes his head, dark hair falling over his forehead. Aerion can feel the tension in his cousin's arms, the flex of muscle caging him in as if Valarr is restraining himself from something. Aerion lets go of his collar and instead slinks his fingers through the short tuffs of hair at the nape of Valarr's neck, something he had seen his mother do once to father.
"Aerion…" His name comes out like a growl. The sound of it makes his belly tighten. "Your father will have my head for kissing you so freely, as if you were my own wife to touch."
Aerion shakes his head, leaning in to steal a quick, fleeting kiss at the corner of Valarr's mouth. "I won't tell, Valarr. I promise—I'm good at keeping secrets. I can be your lady wife."
He steals another kiss, this time directly upon Valarr's mouth, needful and unpracticed.
Valarr inhales sharply, pulling Aerion impossibly close. Aerion's dress slides up his thighs, baring the length of them to the cool air. Valarr reaches to grab his calf, squeezing the fat of it until Aerion whines.
"You do not even know what that begins to entail, sweetling." Valarr's voice is rough against his face. Wet lips trace fluttering kisses along Aerion's jaw and throat.
His hand slides up from calf to thigh, nearly encompassing the whole of it in his palm. Aerion shudders, thighs flexing under his ministrations. He tries to shake his head in protest, but Valarr keeps him pinned. The hand travels higher, under the hem of his dress to finger at the edge of his underclothes.
"Valarr," His voice is nothing but a breath. "I can be. I'll be a good wife, please."
A flash of silver light washes over the room. Thunder rattles against the coast. Valarr's hand stills just as it dips under his bloomers. Something like a sigh, deep and drawn out, exhales itself from Valarr's chest. His cousin plants one last lingering kiss upon his cheek before pulling back.
"It is late, Aerion." Valarr slides him from his lap. Aerion frowns, tears threatening to pull at his waterline in frustration. He clenches his legs together, belly burning as hot as his face. "Forgive me for riling you up. I do not mean to tease you with my affections."
"Then don't leave!" Aerion holds on to his cousin's arm.
Valarr chuckles and stands, leaving a cold space on Aerion's bed in his wake. Aerion slowly relinquishes his grip on Valarr's now wrinkled sleeve.
"I must, lest you want our fathers to come looking for me. What would Maekar say if he saw you in my lap, kissing me like you were born to do so?"
Aerion can picture his father's face, red and pinched with familiar rage, looming in the shadow of the doorway. A fearful curl of anticipation edges his nerves at the thought, but Aerion shakes himself of the image. He pushes himself up onto his knees, clenching his dress between his fists in place of Valarr's arm.
"I'd tell him that you were teaching me of a husband's duties, cousin." Aerion juts out his chin and puts on another pout. "It would not be a lie."
A glint of amusement flickers in Valarr's eyes.
"Yes, but then there would be one less prince in the world." He reaches out to pinch the fat of Aerion's cheek. Aerion glowers at him, immediately latching on to the offending hand with both of his. "We will have plenty of time together; do not fret. Now, lie down."
The firm command of Valarr's voice is too much like Baelor's. Aerion releases his hand and allows himself to be guided back under the comforter and tucked in.
"It is unbecoming of a prince to pout, sweetling."
Aerion glares at his cousin, letting out a frustrated huff at Valarr's teasing as he turns his back on the man. He stares at the dark window; fragmented light dances off the panes as the storm rages on. Aerion presses his thighs together again, uncomfortably aware of the wetness between them as his nerves still buzz from Valarr's kisses.
He hears the crinkle of cloth and leather behind him. A hand settles on the curve of his hip, squeezing. Valarr is leaning over him, Aerion realizes. He forces himself not to look, content to glare out the window.
"Goodnight, Aerion." A soft, feather-light kiss presses into his temple. "Do not be so fraught with me…I will kiss you on the morrow if you behave."
The flame next to his bed gutters out, leaving only the soft glow of the hearth to lighten the room as the bedroom door opens and closes.
Aerion listens to the hectic tide rushing the shoreline as more thunder rolls over Dragonstone, washing their ancestral castle in torrents of rain. His heart still thrums like the beat of a war drum, pounding into his ears with an incessant beat. The lingering sensation of Valarr's hands running down his spine, the curve of his hip, and the dark intensity of his stare haunt Aerion's body—as if he is anticipating a strike from the Master of Arms' practice blade.
He swallows, mouth dry. Aerion slips his hand under the sheets, closing his eyes as he imagines the growing familiarity of Valarr's touch running down his body. But his hands are too soft, too small to mistake for his cousin's firm grip. Aerion furrows his brow, trailing his hand farther down his hip, across the flat plane of his belly, before slipping it under his bunched gown. He lingers on the memory of Valarr's touch at his apex, so brief and faint that it almost seemed as if he had imagined it.
The septons at Summerhall had preached to him about purity and the foul touch of his own hand, and that of wicked men who wanted nothing more than to sully his body after he had flowered. Moon's blood meant he could wed and that if the Mother deemed it, put upon with a babe. But Aerion had merely sneered. What did they know of the blood of the dragon?
Aerion pushes past the waist of his underclothes, dragging his finger through the soft, white hair that lay over his mound. It's warm and wet; unfamiliar slick sticks to his fingers as he presses through folds that are still new and barely explored by his own hand. Aerion thinks of Valarr again, the edge of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, and the mouth pressed against his. He whimpers, muscle twitching, jolting with a strange and sudden bolt of pleasure. Aerion gasps, clenching and trapping his hand between his thighs in shock as his blood races.
He stares into the dark, eyes wide as he pants in short, jagged breaths.
Aerion moves his hand, fingers prodding at the little bulge again. Pleasure, hot and like a strike, shoots through his belly. Aerion lets out a frantic cry, almost afraid at the sensation. He pulls his hand away, belly hot and fingers wet as he buries his face in the down of his pillow.
Was this what Daeron had meant when he said Aerion would now know what else his sword hand could be used for?
Rain clatters listlessly outside. Aerion waits for the tide of his breathing to slow before pulling himself onto his knees, wiping his sticky fingers on the sheets. He turns towards the door, squinting in the dark to make out the frame of it. The fire flickers. Aerion lowers himself off the bed on the tips of his toes, patting blindly around the bedside table for the chamberstick. Cold metal meets his fingers. Aerion pads over to the fireplace and sticks the wick of the candle inside until it reignites.
The bedroom door gives a quiet moan as he pries it open, the wood swollen with the salty air and the ever-present humidity of the island.
Aerion peeks his head through the crack, staring down the long, empty hallway. It is shadowed in darkness. The torches burn low in the lateness of the night, untended by the passing servants. Sound does not carry well through the castle's vast, thick walls, so Aerion must wander deaf to those who may round the corners, or to his father and uncle, if they still linger awake in the drawing room.
He holds the candle high, slinking out of his bedroom and into the swallowing darkness of the hall.
Cool air seems to nip at his heels, kissing his bare shoulder where his nighgown had fallen loose around his arm. Aerion walks down the hall, running his hand down the slope of the wall as he searches for Valarr's door. He had never gone so far into the royal apartments before. In the dark, with only a few torches, the doors blended into shadow.
Valarr had not been wrong when he said Dragonstone turned into a maze when the sun set and torches burned low.
Aerion pushes forward, undeterred by the unfamiliarity of the castle. His cousin could not be far now. Aerion had watched the older man come and go enough, had waited at the threshold of his own door for Valarr to pass by so that they could break their morning fast together, and now, he must merely wander deeper than he had ever cared to go.
He stops at the door where the torch burns brightest, freshly lit and thick with flame. A rush of jittered nerves passes over him like the feeling he gets when he picks up a sword, arm itching to swing. He wraps a trembling hand around the doorknob and pushes it open just enough to let a sliver of light cut across the dark room. Aerion squints, trying to make out the strangeness of the room. He steps inside, easing the door shut beside him as he keeps his candle low, careful to not let the light flame burn out.
His eyes adjust slowly, honing in on the lump of blankets on the bed before him. Valarr sleeps on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, blocking him from the flickering glow of Aerion's candle. Even in sleep, Valarr looks utterly princely. Aerion flushes, noticing his cousin's bare chest as he nears the edge of the bed. Unlike most of the other men in their family, the ones who were slender and silver-haired, Valarr was robust with chest hair that matched what lay upon his scalp.
Aerion sets the chamber stick on the bedside table. Rain falls outside, muffling the sound of his breath and the rustle of his knee against the bed as he pulls himself over the edge. Valarr does not wake. Careful not to fall, Aerion settles on his knees, placing each one on either side of Valarr's hips as he hitches up the hem of his nightgown.
His belly tightens as he hovers over Valarr, strange and warm with unexplored feelings. His thighs still feel wet, and Aerion can't help but shiver as the drafty air of Dragtonstone caresses his bared skin, before he finally settles down on Valarr's lap. The warmth of Valarr's body envelops Aerion, warming his legs and thighs, and the wet place between them. He shudders despite it, the fine hair on his arms and legs prickling into goosebumps. Aerion sits, unsure of what to do now. Valarr's mouth twitches and his brow wrinkles before going smooth and slack again.
He had only seen Daeron with a whore once before- well, not a whore but a steward's daughter- and could only scarcely recall their whispered words to one another as he peered through the crack in his brother's door at the Red Keep. The girl had sat atop Daeron much like he did now; her dress had been left to wrinkle on the floor while her underclothes sat hitched up around her hips, leaving the pale curve of her ass exposed and directly against Daeron's bare groin.
Daeron had that flushed look about him, pale skin ruddy with wine, as he ran his large palm up and down her flank, rocking the girl ever-slightly in his lap. "Ride me, girl, yes, there you go."
It was then Aerion had first felt that cruel, sweet curl of ache in his belly.
Aerion imagines the motion of it, of Daeron's hands guiding the girl, and begins his own slow rocking. The blanket is soft against his mound, rubbing strangely between his legs and folds. He frowns, adjusting his stance to lean forward slightly, pressing his hands against the hard planes of Valarr's belly as softly as he can to steady himself. The feeling from before is faint, the sharp, strange edge of pleasure dulled, but the sensation lingers with each sloppy jerk of his hips against Valarr's pelvis. Aerion presses his hips harder, chasing the feeling as each drag of his hips becomes more sure, even as his legs shake with his efforts.
It is not like riding a horse. It's harder. Aerion whines softly in frustration, heart pounding as pleasure blooms and pools in his belly. The friction isn't enough. He humps Valarr like a lowly dog, rutting against the growing bulge underneath him as his thighs begin to ache despite how little time has passed. Aerion wants more; he wants to know what that girl was feeling when she sat in Daeron's lap and moaned like she had been struck, like the very air had been punched out of her.
He closes his eyes and presses down harder, rutting until Valarr's slight bulge strikes the bud of his cunt. Hot, white pleasure courses through him, striking down like the lightning that flashes through the window. Aerion shudders, gasping wetly with each roll of his hips. He is just on the cusp of something, the heat of it swirling in his belly, growing tighter and thinner, like a rope pulled too taut.
More. I want more, comes the whispering voice in his head. Aerion quickens his pace, belly spasming with the thrill and burn in his thighs. Spit pools in his half-opened mouth, spilling over the edge of his bottom lip. Aerion thinks of Daeron's hands on the steward's girl's hips, the tightness of his grip leaving the flesh white with pressure as he had begun to buck his own hip up. Aerion wished Valarr would wake and grab him, squeeze him and thrust against his swollen, sensitive bud—was that what Daeron had been doing? Another desperate whine falls from his lips. Aerion bares down, bucking his hips one last time just as pleasure seizes him.
Aerion gasps, belly and legs shaking as he pants over Valarr's sleeping form as blood rushes from his head, leaving him blinded and dizzy. His cunt spasms, clenching like it wants something inside. Aerion quivers, heart pounding into his ears once more.
Large, strong hands settle on his hips.
Aerion flinches, startled, and shoots up from his slight hunch. His chest nearly aches at the speed at which his heart beats as he stares down wide-eyed at Valarr's shadowed expression. In the dull warm light of the candle, Aerion can hardly see his cousin's eyes, but even now he can tell they are dark and blown out.
Unnerved and suddenly all too aware of the wetness between his legs, Aerion tries to rear back, but Valarr's hold is unyielding. Fingers dig into the soft silk of his gown, tightening around him until Aerion can scarce move at all. His belly curls tight, the warm pleasure in his belly gone cold. He hadn't thought much about being caught or about what Valarr might do when he awoke to find Aerion straddling him.
Valarr makes a soft tutting noise, much like Uncle Baelor did when he caught Aerion in the middle of something "un-princely".
"Sweetling," Valarr's voice is husky and low with sleep. "Did I not put you to bed?"
Another quiver of nerves flares up his spine. Aerion's hands feel sweaty against Valarr's belly as the silence between them grows louder, Valarr's stare unwavering. Aerion sucks in a breath, stomach tightening as he puffs out his chest, knocks his head to the side, and pouts.
"You left me wanting, cousin." Aerion flutters his lashes, staring down at the man, almost bashful. The hard bulge is still firm below him. Valarr's grip tightens as one hand slides over to rest at the dip of his tailbone. "It is your fault I could not rest."
A wry smile quirks at Valarr's lips. An agonizingly gentle finger traces circles against his spine through the silk of his gown. "Wanting? And pray tell, sweetling, what would you know yet of wanting?"
Aerion does not know much of what wanting is at all. The word had come unbidden to him, without much thought as to what it meant or entailed; all Aerion knows is that he wants, needs something he yet to learn the name of. He has wanted to chase that strange feeling that sat hot in his belly as he watched Daeron touch that wench, and that want only grew and bloomed like overgrowth in a garden since, growing worse when Valarr paid him tender mind.
He let out another whine, hitching his hips, squirming under the intensity of his own feelings. Valarr's grip tightens as his stomach twitches under Aerion's hands.
"I don't know, Valarr, tell me what it means." Aerion whines, leaning down to wrap his arms around Valarr's torso, burying his face in the soft fuzz of his chest. The steady thump of Valarr's heart kisses his ear. "It's your fault. I wouldn't feel this way if it wasn't for you."
His voice is muffled, barely above a desperate whisper. Aerion's face burns with embrassment, hates the way the words spew from his lips just because it is Valarr who asks.
Valarr wraps his arms fully over Aerion's body, dragging him higher until the top of his head rests at the crook of the older man's neck. Aerion shudders, inhaling the rich scent of musk and burning stone. Valarr curls his hand at his nape, gliding his fingers up and through the silver curls that tumble over both of them like a moonspun curtain. A tender kiss is pressed against Aerion's temple.
Valarr's voice curls around Aerion's ear. "I suppose it is my fault…I am cruel to leave you in such a state, sweetling."
He nods his head against the warmth of Valarr's throat, the top of his head rubbing against his chin. "Yes…cruel, so very cruel to me, cousin. Haven't I been good?"
Aerion feels the vibration of a chuckle before it ever makes a sound. Valarr coaches him to turn his head up until Aerion has nowhere else to look but at his eyes. Aerion finds that he cannot tell the violet from the brown. He flushes again, all too aware of the half-naked body flush against his own, and the warm wetness that still lingers between his thighs.
Even in the dark grasp of the room, with only the soft glow of a single flame to keep them in sight of each other, Aerion feels much too seen.
"I must take responsibility, shouldn't I?" Valarr's other hand slides from the small of his back and over the swell of his rear, lingering. "Finish my lessons in husbandry and ease you of these wants?"
"Yes," Aerion whispers, chest tight. "You must."
Valarr slides his hand between the meat of Aerion's thighs, cupping one in his palm, holding it just under the wetness between them. "So tell me, sweetling, where did you learn that from? Where did my little Aerion learn to sit on top of a man like a common whore?"
His breath hitches, and the hot flood of mortification reignites itself. Aerion cannot look away; Valarr's hold on his nape is steady and firm. He licks his lips, fluttering his eyelashes as he thinks of what to say.
"Do not be embarrassed now," Valarr says, tilting his head to kiss him between his brows. "As you do most things, you rubbed yourself against me so unabashedly. Where was your shame then? "
"I watched Daeron with a steward's daughter, once." Aerion swallows down the lump in his throat. The hand between his thighs tightens. "You made me feel the way I did then…I wanted to do the same."
The muscle in his jaw flexes again as Valarr sucks in a breath.
"Was it Daeron you imagined as you rode your cunt against me, Aerion?"
A sudden, desperate feeling seizes him. Aerion shakes his head, silver hair whipping against them both in waves. "No, no…only you, Valarr. I promise. Even when I—"
He stops short. His face burns as the words tumble over his tongue.
Valarr squeezes his thigh, urging him on. A thumb caresses his throat. "Even when you what?"
Aerion pushes his face back down against Valarr's throat. He pants lightly, heart beating like a trapped bird, as he focuses on the beat of Valarr's pulse against his lips.
"Even when I put my hand between my legs." Aerion whispers it like a prayer, a confession at the feet of his father.
The hand on his thigh squeezes him gently. Valarr's fingers drift closer to the warm, wet mess between his legs—his cunt. Valarr hums against Aerion's head, lips grazing his scalp and fine curls. His breath is warm and steady. Aerion shudders.
"And how did it feel when you touched yourself?"
The question shames him. Aerion tenses, sweating through his silks and growing dizzy at the thought of confessing more. His cunt clenches, dripping and empty. The ache grows, renewed under Valarr's attention.
"It was good, Valarr." His voice sounds strange to his own ears. "I've never felt such things."
Valarr sighs against his scalp, inhaling deeply before exhaling again. "So you came to me, sweetling? To help you as a husband should?"
Aerion clenches his thighs around Valarr's hand, holding it still, warm and steady between his legs. He lifts his head and pouts, flustered. Aerion smacks Valarr lightly against the shoulder.
"Do not tease me, cousin!" He sucks in a breath.
Valarr shushes him, pulling him closer, back down so that he can kiss Aerion's inflamed skin. He presses his lips against Aerion's chin, each corner of his mouth, and then finally, his own spit-slick lips.
"I do not mean it to be cruel, Aerion." Valarr's hand skims higher, and then, with all the practiced ease his cousin possesses, settles over his apex. "I only wish to know what you want."
Aerion kisses Valarr back, sloppy and hard, too eager and desperate with the newness of someone who has never received more than the closed-mouth kisses of family. He hates feeling like a child, like some green boy who has done naught. Aerion wanted to kiss Valarr as Daeron had with that girl, easy and well practiced—he wanted to kiss Valarr as a ladywife would.
"I want you! That is what I want, Valarr. I want you to touch me as you did before—as Daeron did with that girl; that is what I want!"
A finger slides through the wet folds of his bare sex. Aerion gasps, body shuddering at the new sensation of being touched by another. His belly quivers, rolling over itself with restless nerves as Valarr drags his finger through his wetness, dipping low enough to graze his hole before moving away entirely.
"Sweetling," Valarr's voice is low. Aerion can hardly stand to meet his heavy, punishing gaze. "I will be rather fraught if you bring up Daeron again, do you understand?"
Aerion clammers to shut his mouth, slapping a hand over his lips. Dark, mismatched eyes gleam in the candlelight.
"Good boy." Valarr slips a finger inside of him.
He jumps, a choked moan leaking through his fingers at the strangeness of the sensation. Aerion arches his back unwittlingly as the finger pushes in further, past the opening and into the wetness inside. He twitches against Valarr, body taut and hot with a fresh wave of pleasure. It's strange and too much, too full where nothing had been before. Aerion has no words to describe it, nothing to compare it to; he can merely lie there and feel it all.
Aerion had never thought to put his fingers inside himself.
"Does this ease you of your wanting, Aerion? Or do you require more, hm?"
He flutters his eyes, breath hitching as the finger inside him curls slightly. Aerion's breath hitches, and all he can do is nod, mouthing voiceless words against his palm until the hand cradling his head comes to pull it away.
Aerion nods his head, throat tight. He licks his lips, panting as he finally gets the words out. "More, please, Valarr. It—it is not enough."
Valarr leans in, licking the spittle from Aerion's lips. "I will show you what a husband does to his wife. You will want for no other, not even your own hand."
His finger slides out just to fit another in with it, quirking against his fluttering walls as Aerion spasms at the stretch of it.
"Valarr…it's so—ah!" His toes curl, the tight, hot coil in his belly pulling inward as a rush of newfound pleasure leaches through him. "Your fingers are so big. I can feel them inside!"
Aerion squeezes his eyes shut, whining softly with each drag of Valarr's fingers. He grasps onto Valarr's bare arms, squeezing yard-earned muscle between his lithe hands. Valarr trails wet kisses from his lips, his chin, and down the exposed length of his throat, each one leaving a bloom of fresh heat and desperation in its wake.
"Look at you, so wanton just from this." Teeth graze his pulse, sharp canines digging in enough to sting. "You were made for my fingers, weren't you, my little dragon?"
"Yes, yes, Valarr," the words tumble from him like a prayer. Aerion's heart thuds and thuds until he is sure it will beat its way from his chest. "Please, don't stop."
There is a sharp inhale of breath against his throat. The fingers inside him part from his hole. The mouth is abruptly removed, leaving a cold, damp spot in its wake, as Aerion is manhandled and lifted into Valarr's arms, now suddenly below him and pillowed in the warm press of sheets. Aerion opens his eyes to find Valarr above him, locking him in between his muscled legs in a way Aerion could not, the lean, firm lines of his sword-honed body highlighted in the golden hue.
Once more, Aerion's body buzzes and burns with his want. I want him in the way Daeron wants a flagon; I want him in the way he rides a girl like he would a horse.
Valarr's eyes flicker over him, hungry, lingering over the exposed line of his throat and chest where his dress had slipped from his shoulders. Aerion feels like prey. He shivers, dragging his legs up to squeeze his parted shiny thighs close. Valarr grabs him at the knee, tutting softly as if to chide Aerion as his hands slide down the silk gown, dragging it further up his thighs.
"Don't hide yourself, sweetling." A finger slips under the silk, drawing loose circles against his soft skin. "It is a husband's right to see all of his wife."
Valarr seems to drift down slowly over him, nuzzling Aerion's jaw before nipping at it with his teeth and resuming his path downward. Valarr kisses both of his bare shoulders, the silk sleeves loose around his arms, and then the center of his chest. Each passing touch leaves Aerion reeling. There is nothing beyond the two of them.
The hands at his thighs slide up again, taking the bunched fabric of his nightgown with them until the pink of Aerion's cunt is exposed, and then, before he can even protest, Valarr is pulling the nightgown off in its entirety. Valarr seizes his arms before Aerion can even think to cover himself, suddenly bashful under the intensity of his cousin's gaze. It does not feel like before. If Aerion had wanted then, bare and stripped as Valarr dressed him, then Valarr's own want now seemed like being trapped in a dragon's maw.
Aerion swallows hard, stomach in knots as his skin prickles at being so exposed. Valarr guides Aerion's hands to rest on either side of his head, cushioned against the feather pillows and loose silver hair. Valarr traces his fingers down Aerion's milky-white skin, as gentle and light-handed as a seamstress. Aerion shivers, breath catching in his lungs as the touch tickles him, leaving him light-headed with anticipation.
Valarr's hands stop at the tender buds of his chest, the fat of his breasts made to look even smaller in this position. Aerion blushes, suddenly all too aware of his lackings. The girl on Daeron's lap had a full chest; her breasts had bounced with each rock of her hips, even bound in her small clothes.
He averts his gaze, unable to look at Valarr's face as the man takes in the shape of his body.
"Aerion?" Valarr's voice is still low, soft with intrigue. Aerion does not look at him. Rain patters against the window. "What is that look for? Has my dragon become shy?"
"They are lacking…"Aerion hates the smallness of his voice, hates that Valarr sees him pouting as a child might. "Daeron says—"
As quick as the strike of a blade, Valarr grabs Aerion by the chin, forcing him to look up. A hard, mean look overtakes Valarr's usually handsome and gentle face. It unsettles him, just as the darkness of his eyes does. It is not an expression Valarr has ever cast upon him.
"I care not for what Daeron has to say, sweetling." Valarr glides his empty hand across the smooth planes of Aerion's stomach, up the invisible line of his sternum, to cup the small swell of his left breast. Aerion watches as his nipple, pink and tender, perks up into a hard nub at the touch. "Is it his touch or mine that you wish for, Aerion?"
He swallows, sucking his teeth before begrudgingly meeting Valarr's eyes. He speaks in a whisper. "Yours, Valarrs."
Valarr smiles; it is a small, strained thing, with an odd quirk that has his lip pulling to the side.
"Good boy," Valarr breaks his relentless stare and leans down, eyes fluttering shut as he places a tender kiss on Aerion's breast. "I do not care about such matters. Your breasts are perfect simply because they are attached to you, dear one."
He opens his mouth, lips pink and swollen from his trail of kisses, and sucks the nipple. Aerion flinches, lurching forward in surprise with a shocked moan. Valarr suckles against him like a babe might. Aerion watches in awe as his cousin laves at his nipple with his tongue, licking and grazing his teeth against the bud and swell of fat until it, too, is as flushed as his face and bruised with color. He gives a violent shudder, belly curling under the wet ministrations of Valarr's tongue. His cunt clenches, slick running down his rear when Valarr nips him gently.
Aerion moans, eyes fluttering as unsure pleasure courses through him. It's strange, the feeling odd and foreign. Cool air tickles his skin when Valarr unlatches. Aerion shivers, panting softly as Valarr kisses his breast before meeting his eyes again.
"One day, when you are older, they will swell with milk for a babe," Valarr says, squeezing Aerion's breast. He places another kiss against his chest, over the fluttering beating of Aerion's heart. "Even if they only grow soft and fat then, they will be perfect still."
The thought of babes and Valarr makes his head spin into mush. If his pale skin was not already flushed, pink and red, up to his ears, Aerion is sure he'd bloom as violently as the snapdragons planted in the Keep's gardens.
Aerion can merely nod his head, breath and words still caught in his throat. Valarr pays no mind to his silence, continuing his trail of kisses across Aerion's chest, back down the slope of his sternum, and then down his quivering belly. Aerion shudders, nerves dancing and singing with each light, feathery touch of lips and the steady drag of rough palms down his naked body. He had never seen Daeron touch a maid like this, nor his father with their mother—only polite kisses on the cheek and mouth when they were alone enough, away from the pressing eyes of propriety.
Valarr's tongue grazes his bellybutton, and Aerion can't help the shocked giggle that slips out unbidden.
He lets go of his death grip on the sheets and slaps playfully at his cousin's shoulders. "Valarr!"
A soft, breathy chuckle is his response. Valarr nuzzles the soft, fleshy bits of his belly, scratching it with the shadow of a beard on his shaven face. Aerion stills when he feels a warm breath over his apex. He opens his eyes from his previous delight to find Valarr hovering over his cunt, mouth inches away from the silver thatch of hair.
The dark, looming edge of hunger has swallowed any light from Valarr's eyes. Aerion cannot tell where the pupil begins or ends.
"Every good husband should take great pride in pleasing their wife, Aerion." Valarr slides his hand down Aerion's waist, resting it fully over his belly, as if to keep him in place. "Do you remember what I told you earlier, when you were dressing?"
It's a struggle to comb through his memory. It all feels so far away, a distant memory from an eon past instead of just the mere hours that had passed. Aerion flutters his eyes, dizzy and muddled with Valarr's touch, shrinking under the intensity of his gaze. He thinks of Valarr's hand at his mound, the briefest of touches where no one else had ever dared. His face grows hot again, his ears burning.
Aerion swallows, mouth thick. "Yes…that I would one day take a husband…there."
His voice is but a whisper.
Valarr nods, his chin grazing silver hair. "Good. Before a man should take his wife, he should please them."
Valarr slides both his hands down Aerion's hips, grabbing him from the underside of his thighs, and eases his legs open so that he can sit directly between them. Aerion tries to flinch away, mortified at being so exposed and spread open. Tears prick his eyes at the thought of Valarr looking at him like this, seeing redness and the gush of wetness marring his thighs up close. Aerion squeezes his eyes shut, slapping his hands over his face as his heart pounds into his ears.
"I told you not to hide yourself, Aerion." His legs jerk as a puff of warm breath kisses his exposed, wet sex. "Your cunt blushes just as prettily as your face."
Aerion watches through the gaps of his fingers as Valarr leans closer, mouth open and waiting. Valarr kisses him there much the same as he kissed his mouth. Aerion gasps at the first touch, belly growing taut as he inhales and the long stripe of a tongue licks him from bottom to top. He squirms, writhing at the strange sensation of being licked there, confused and shocked by the sensation of Valarr's tongue slipping through his folds and sucking at his nub.
Valarr's fingers dig into his thighs, keeping him still and trapped as he kisses and sucks the wet mess.
"Ah! Val—Valarr!" His eyes flutter, wet and bleary with tears. Pleasure builds in his belly, hot and thick with each lave of Valarr's tongue. "It-it feels strange, ah, I don't—"
Aerion reaches out, fingers splayed out in the air as the pressure in his groin builds. He grips his cousin's hair, digging his fingers into the loose, thick strands. Valarr does not heed his words—Aerion whimpers, smothering his cries into the hand that isn't tangled in Valarr's hair. It feels different from having Valarr suck at his breast, more intense and wet with each accidental canting of his hips. Even having his much larger fingers rutting in and out of him hadn't felt so intense.
Everything is just so warm and wet, a constant, unforgiving pressure against where he is most sensitive.
The tight coil in his belly, all the molten heat, pools and grows inflamed with each passing second. Aerion pants, heart fluttering as his breath hiccups out of him.
It's weird. So strange and unlike anything he has felt before. Aerion can't breathe. Fear itches at his nerves.
"Valarr!" He bears down around nothing, the feeling, the sharp, insistent pressure in his groin growing too strong to bear. "Stop, something's happening!"
Fingers tighten, digging divots into the soft flesh of his thighs that would be sure to bruise by the morrow.
Aerion chokes on a sob as tears roll down his fevered cheeks. The pressure builds, climbing and relentless as the pleasure from Valarr's ministrations washes over him like waves battering the shoreline. His back arches uncomfortably, torn between pulling away and reaching for more. He pulls at the silky, dark hair between his fingers, twisting and writhing as feeling becomes too much and bubbles over all at once.
He comes hard and with great shock. Aerion wails with the relief of it, stomach spasming with each heaving gasp of air he sucks in.
Aerion can hardly register the feather-light kisses that Valarr presses against his thighs or the warmth of his hands gently rubbing up his legs, over his belly in soothing circles.
"You did so well, my love," Valarr whispers to him from somewhere below. Aerion stares unseeing at the canopy of the bed. The weight against him shifts. "Breathe, sweetling."
Valarr scoops his head in the palm of his hand, cradling Aerion until he his tucked against his body. He shakes unwittingly against his cousin's chest, unable to put the full-body shudders that wrack over him to an end. Aerion nuzzles his sweaty, tear-soaked face into the soft muscle of Valarr's chest, not minding the coarse hairs that tickle his cheeks. Valarr's body is cool against his, a comforting embrace as his mind comes back to him.
The air feels humid, and his long hair sticks uncomfortably to his body. Aerion can scarce hear the wind and rain anymore, just the beating of both his and Valarr's hearts. Was this what Daeron felt each night he slipped away to a brothel?
"That is one of a husband's duties, Aerion." Valarr murmurs against the top of his head. "Did you enjoy it?"
Valarr tilts Aerion's head away from the warmth of his chest. A pleased, satisfied smile sits upon Valarr's wet, swollen mouth. Aerion flushes at the sight, burning with the realization that the slick all over his face came from him.
"It did not feel like before." Aerion pauses, searching for his words. The purple in Valarr's eye looks like wine. He looks away, down at the freckles littering over the bridge of Valarr's nose. "Not like when I did it."
"Better?"
Aerion nods. Valarr's hand tightens around his nape while the other drags down his hip and over the curve of his rear.
"Did it relieve you of your wants? Are you satisfied, or would you like to know exactly how a man and wife share a bed?"
He thinks of Daeron and that girl again, of the tapestries in the halls of the Red Keep that had now begun to take on new meaning. Aerion thinks of the cock he knows is between Valarr's legs, the very one that presses into his belly now.
"I want more, Valarr." Aerion squirms against the man, wiggling his arms out from between him and Valarr's bodies to wrap around the man's broad frame. He leans up to brush their lips together. "Make me your ladywife."
Valarr's grip tightens, and before he can blink, the room shifts, spinning, as Aerion is shuffled onto his back and once more coushined between the pillows and plush blankets. Valarr looms over him, as tall and thick as a knight of the realm should be. Aerion feels uncomfortably small in comparison. He was in a maid's position, spread out and bared before Valarr as only a wed couple should be.
The air is thick and sticky between them.
Aerion's chest heaves in uneven puffs.
"There will be no going back from this, sweetling." Valarr slides his hand from Aerion's sternum to his belly. "I will take your maidenhead as a husband would. You will forever be bound to me."
His words make Aerion's chest flutter. He wants to be with Valarr forever; he wants to train by his hand, to feel the weight of it on his back as they walk through the halls, and more than anything, Aerion wants Valarr to spill his blood upon the sheets like that of the bedding ceremonies.
"Please, Valarr," Aerion begs, unperturbed by the thought of it. His septon and father needn't know, for none of it would matter if Valarr made Aerion his wife."Take it and make me your wife."
Valarr makes a strange, unrefined noise. He groans and pulls Aerion closer, cradling his face in his hands like a lover and kisses him deeply. His tongue pushes into Aerion's mouth, licking everything from the edge of his teeth to Aerion's own useless tongue. It is all Aerion can do to accept it, to let Valarr swallow him and dance in his mouth.
He pulls away with a kiss that is chaste and out of place, tender and delicate as if it were their first. A stringle of spittle keeps them tethered.
"I fear it will not be as pleasant as some maids may tell it," Valarr says, kissing Aerion's cheek as he settles the boy back against the bed. He grabs a strown pillow and eases it under Aerion's hips, propping his rear higher. "It may be uncomfortable, sweetling."
Aerion, feeling as if he finally lost all shame, buzzing with the anticipation of being bedded, lets his legs fall open. Valarr settles between them, pulling the laces of his smallclothes loose. His stomach tightens with anticipation, the familiar prickle of fear and excitement—like the first swing of a sword.
"I can take it, cousin. I will not cry."
Valarr smiles down at him. "Of course not. Not my brave dragon. "
The laces of his pants unravel, and Aerion watches wide-eyed as they slip down over Valarr's hip, exposing a dark thatch of hair before the hard, straining cock pops out, leaking and ruddy. His chest lurches. Aerion had seen them before: Daeron's manhood soft and peeking through his laces when he was too drunk to finish undressing, and those of his other brothers when the maids once bathed them together before he grew too old for such things. But Valarr's is not soft nor small.
Valarr leans in, sliding into the slot between Aerion's legs until they are flush at the groin and his leaking cock sits heavy against his cunt. Aerion sucks in a breath as he watches Valarr push forward, rubbing himself through his folds and slick. His hole twitches, clenching around nothing. His stomach tightens again, nerves and want mixing like molten flame. Aerion bites his bottom lip, eyes fluttering at the sight before him.
The head of it slinks down, pushing at his hole. The blunt pressure strange and unappealing. Aerion tenses despite himself; all his bravado fades into the sea as Valarr pushes inside inch by inch, large hands once more at Aerion's hips, keeping him still. Aerion lets out a pitiful whine at the new, painful stretch.
"Shh, shh, breathe, Aerion," the hands at his hips are warm, but Aerion cannot find comfort in them. "My sweet prince, look at you, taking it so well."
He whimpers and clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a gasping breath as Valarr splits him open. Aerion shifts, back arching at the intrusion as mind and body wades back and forth between wanting to push the man away as much as keep him close. He clenches down and hears Valarr hiss, his fingers digging into his skin.
Aerion grits his teeth. Valarr slides deeper, continuously hushing and petting him like some fragile doll.
"Valarr—"his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. "It hurts!"
The slick, wet sound of skin against skin fills the room.
"I know, sweetling." Valarr leans down, barricading Aerion between his arms and simultaneously breaching deeper inside. He kisses Aerion hurriedly, smattering them across his cheeks and nose in fevered brushes. "Just a little more, Aerion. You can take it."
He shakes his head, grimacing as his body fails to adjust even as he feels an abundance of wetness running down his ass. Aerion lets go of his knuckle-white grip on the blankets and wraps his arms around Valarr, desperation and pain searing through him. It was as the septons told it, painful and a mark of sin for abandoning the protection of the Maiden—Aerion bares down, casting the thought away. He is a dragon. The pain would not paralyze him like some common wench.
He trembles against the burning heat of Valarr's body, as the tight stretch of resistance finally seems to give way—something snaps inside of Aerion as Valarr bottoms out and they are joined together, flush at the sex. Aerion keens low and pained, the edges of relief taking over the constant ebb of pain that came with losing his maidenhead.
Valarr is kissing him again, panting into Aerion's mouth desperately. Valarr merely stays settled inside him, even as Aerion cannot help but clench, his cunt spasming of its own accord as his body adjusts to intrusion. Aerion whimpers into his cousin's mouth, tears leaking over his face once more as his entire body trembles.
Rough, warm hands rub soothingly up and down his flank. "You did so well, sweetling; you've taken it all, like a proper wife."
Aerion preens at the words despite the uncomfortable pain and the feeling of being pulled too taut. "More, Valarr, I can take more."
Another kiss. "Yes, I think you can, Aerion. My dragon, always so willful."
Valarr bucks his hip forward, stealing the air from Aerion's lungs. The burn of being spread open does not ease considerably, but simmers into something lesser, like the pressing of a fresh bruise. Valarr thrusts inside him with great restraint, his eyes squeezed shut. Aerion can tell by the flexing of muscles in Valarr's forearms, his fingers flexing against his hip bones but never squeezing, and the fierce look of concentration that overcame his cousin when he calculated a parry in the midst of sword practice. Aerion stares up at him in wonder.
His cousin was a dragon in his own right. Aerion shivers and inches his legs higher until he can wrap them around Valarr's hips and cross his ankles. The abundance of wetness between his legs had begun to ease Valarr's passage, and as the stretch eased, his body accommodating his cousin's girth, Aerion began to feel that familiar trickle of pleasure.
Aerion moans weakly, body trembling with exhaustion and nerves. Each thrust picked up speed and hit harder than the last. Aerion's body will be bruised in the shape of Valarr's own by morning. He wraps his arms around Valarr's shoulders, holding himself up against the sweat-slicked skin, clinging to the man as hips slapped feverishly against his own.
"My beautiful Aerion," Valarr speaks against his temple, his voice rough and wet. "So wanton and beautiful. You'll always be mine now, won't you? Say it."
He hiccups on a gasp at particularly cruel thrust. Pleasure burns anew as he nods mindlessly, clenching down harder on the cock spearing him in what feels like two.
"I'm yours, Valarr." Aerion rubs his cheek into the rough burn of Valarr's stubble. "Wed me-ah-like Daemon and Rhaenyra!"
Aerion can hardly spit the words out. His chest heaves and body burns like a pyre at its peak.
Valarr chuckles, clicking his tongue. "Should I steal you away in the dead of night, sweetling? Wed you before the sea while your father sleeps?"
He shivers again, not from cold or pain, but from the idea of being stolen away by someone as chiverlous as Valarr. Tension coils low in his belly, like the bow of a ship ready to break and shatter to pieces. Aerion nods fervently, whispering 'yes, yes, yes', against Valarr's mouth.
A vibrating hum of approval is his answer as Valarr increases the force behind his thrusts, each one meaner and harder than the last. Aerion has no choice but to be held against his chest and take it. He lets out a pleasing soft, the pain and pleasure mixing into an unidentifiable mess of feeling. There is nothing beyond the two of them, nothing besides the thick heat of the room and wet glides of their bodies.
Aerion looks down between them, watching the fevered strike of hips, the swell of skin moving under the flat plane of his belly, and shudders. Valarr sucks in a breath and growls as if pained before he slams inside one last time before yanking himself free of Aerion's cunt.
"Fuck." Valarr's face is pinched with disgruntled pleasure as he wraps his hands around his length, smeared with blood, and jerks him roughly. His eyes are hooded, heavily laden with lust as he stares down at Aerion with each pump of his cock. "Forgive me, sweetling."
Hot strings of thick white fluid land on Aerion's trembling belly and his swollen, pink cunt. Valarr collapses half on top of him, pulling him closer to tuck back against his chest, not minding the mess of fluids smearing between their bellies.
Aerion slumps into the embrace, listening to the harsh tide of Valarr's breathing as the air begins to cool the sweat on their skin. Valarr carresses a hand through his tangled hair, mindful of the knots that formed in their coupling.
"Was it good, Valarr?" He whispers into the hollow of Valarr's throat. A sudden wave of inadequacy spills over him. Aerion feels cold despite the heat between them.
Valarr tilts his head up, lightly pulling on his hair. "You were perfect, Aerion. I knew you would be."
Relief courses through him as his eyes drift shut. The rain has stopped, but Aerion can still hear the rush of the waves against the shore. Valarr is whispering something against his hair, low and smooth.
He falls asleep before he can make out the meaning of it.