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Dragons have been extinct for many years, but tradition, as his father called it, must still continue.
Each of Daeron’s children had dragon eggs laid in their cradle, stones that would never hatch even as the children grew. Wishful thinking, their mother called it. ‘Desperation’, Maekar thought as he laid a pink scaled egg for Aerion’s cradle.
Daeron, their son, picked the egg himself; babbling and pointing when Maekar carried him to choose one for his youngest brother.
It was Aerion’s nursemaid's screams that alerted Maekar and his wife.
“What happened!" Dyanna demanded. Daeron was in her arms, hiding his face in his mother’s bosom. “What happened? Tell me!”
Maekar held her to steady them both as they approached the cradle. It was the silence that made him flinch; there were no cries or sniffling coming from the crib. The quiet only made him more frantic. He shoved Dyanna behind him, shielding her from whatever horror he expected to find.
He wondered if a stray beast had gotten in, but the windows were closed. No animal could have entered. An assassin—?
Aerion cooed, followed by a strange sound, a mix of a purr and a growl. He clapped his hands when he saw his father, a wide grin on his face.
Maekar gasped, as for the first time in his life, he saw a cracked egg and a dragon sitting beside it.
“Paw–wiee!” he gurgled.
Those were his first words.
Maekar’s legs nearly gave way. He would have fainted if not for his wife’s hands catching him as she saw the scaled creature lying beside their boy.
There had never been a bigger feast in the realm that moon.
Aerion was spoiled beyond belief—far more than Maekar’s brother, the heir to the throne, or even his brother’s own children. He was gifted the finest silks, riding gear fashioned from supple, high-born leathers. Rare gemstones and pearls, bound in intricate gold, were his constant companions as he aged into a young man.
For him, the scorched secrets of the past were unearthed; ancient tomes written by dragonlords and dragonkeepers were pried open once more. A fortune was poured into the Dragonpit, transforming its ruined shell into a soaring, open dome. This time, past mistakes would be buried.
Their father, the King, had even toyed with naming Aerion his cupbearer. But Maekar had balked; even he knew where to draw the line. It was one thing to indulge the prince who had hatched the first dragon in decades, but quite another to publicly displace the heir’s own son.
As the years turned, Aerion grew in height and temper, matched pace-for-pace by his dragon.
The septons whispered that Maekar and his brood were favored by the Seven; for if a dragon were not gift enough, the sevens had seen fit to reveal Aerion as a bearer upon his one and ten name day.
Rhaenyra was born a bearer, born a daughter of a king that turned when she reached the age of ten. Her cock gave her favours, but her womanhood did not.
When Aerion was born, he was pronounced as a boy, a second son of a fourth son. An heir of nothing, and born to inherit none. Not Summerhall that belonged to his father, that would be passed down to Daeron, and not even the privileges given to any man who has a cock that could give bastards to any woman they fancy to be their whore.
But he had a dragon, and that alone made the world feel like his.
His mother named it as a blessing, and his father saw not but the opportunity it grants, the connection it may yet form.
Aerion called it both and more: a curse sent by the gods combined.
A royal womb he has, yes, but the decision of his own lacked the control he so wished to have. His father wanted to marry him off to one of his brothers, and Aerion couldn't have been more enraged when he learned about it from one of his attendants a day ago.
“Bearers are rare to the world,” his grandfather told him. “Most of all in our house.”
“To give one away so freely would be pure idiocy, with a dragon no less.” Aerion paced the length of the study, lips curled in a sneer as his gaze darted across the room, searching for some loophole—any leverage—to halt the madness of this marriage. “As I’ve been told countless of—... I will not wed that drunken, incurable wretch, nor the child who would sooner fuck the horses in our stables!”
“Watch your tone, boy.” Grandfather didn't even look up; he simply turned a page of his ledger, treating Aerion’s fury as nothing more than a passing breeze. “They are your brothers. And mark my words: you will find no other pair better suited to become your husband.”
Why did he ever think this would work? His grand-sire may hold love for his family, but he holds very little patience for his grandchildren. Was it you? Aerion’s breath quickened, nails digging into his palm. Was it you who presented this loathsome idea to my father? Aerion paused, his anger dissipating for a moment as he watched his grandfather read his book.
“You would chain me so?” he asked softly. He could feel the tears coming, but he ignored them; he was near begging, but he’d die before anyone saw him shed a tear for his own dignity. After all that they’ve given him, his freedom was far too much?
Why else would they cage him? He had a dragon for fuck sake.
(“Rhaenyra had one too and more beside, she was her father’s heir, yet it had not been enough to save her.”)
His grandfather slammed the ledgers shut with a heavy thud. "Your mother's final wish," the old man said, his voice like a grinding stone, "was for you to marry for love."
So you’d tether me to my own blood to satisfy a dead woman’s whim?
Aerion wasn't a fool; he knew a lie when it tasted of copper. "Daeron would sooner bed a cask of Arbor gold, and as I’ve told you, Aegon prefers to fuck horses."
“Enough of the fucking," his grand-sire growled, clearing the gravel from his throat. "We have given you a choice, Aerion: wed Daeron, or wed Aegon. You have more freedom than any highborn lady in the realm. Others would have traded their fortunes for even a fraction of the choice you're currently wasting.”
“I’m not a highborn lady,” he said through gritted teeth. “And I would rather feed my brothers to my dragon than have their vile hands on me.”
“You would commit kin-slaying for your pride?”
“For my own choosing!” Aerion screamed. Marriage alone could never chain him. Men might kneel, but Aerion would sooner see them reduced to ash than suffer the insult of their touch.
He can be the conqueror reborn in the people’s eyes if he so wished; he could raze entire lands, and none would possess the power to stop him. If they think a golden cage can hold him, they are halfwits. He’d take to the skies, turn his gaze toward the Free Cities, and strip them of their name and their liberty alike.
His grand-sire slammed the book onto the table with a crack that made Aerion nearly jump. The old man’s face was a mottled, dangerous crimson—the color of a heart about to burst. "You are spoiled, Aerion. From the moment that egg cracked and you crawled toward the heat, you have been indulged, and I have no one to blame but my own doting foolishness."
Leaning in, his voice dropped to a jagged whisper. "You may own the sky, boy, but you do not own the earth beneath it. You burn and feed whomever you please to sate that beast’s hunger, and for years I have pulled my cloak over my eyes and plugged my ears to the screams. But now? Now that I ask for a single act of duty, you turn your back?"
“I do not want to,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.
“Two weeks,” was his grandfather’s reply. “I will give you two weeks to accept. If not—If not, you will be wed in the tradition of our house instead of the sevens.”
Aerion flew back to Summerhall, outraged, before the king could order his men to put him in a chamber until his father, distraught and furious with his son, arrived.
He did not burn or raze any land, but the sight of his youngest brother, a dwarfish boy with love for dirt and peasants alike, made him smile.
Summerhall may not have a Dragonpit, but its great terrain was large enough to fit something big enough for one.
(“I have too many brothers but not enough sisters, mayhaps if I cut off his cock the gods may bless me with another.”
Aegon whimpered, daring not to move as Aerion glided the blade closer to the inside of his thigh.
“Please, Aerion. Enough of this,” Daeron begged tiredly.
Aerion clicked his tongue, and forced the blade away.)
Rylax was not caged, of course, Aerion on the other hand was not saved from this dilemma.
His father locked him in his chamber the moment he heard of what he did to Aegon, and it was only his love for his family that stopped Rylax from responding to her rider’s distress and unfounded anger.
Aegon was not allowed to be flown with Aerion ever since, for whose protection he knew very much of.
He touched neither food nor water.
He remained anchored to his bed, slept through the mornings till evening, slipping so deep into lethargy that the line between rest and lifelessness blurred. It was only when Maekar could no longer endure the sight of his son’s slow decay that he finally rescinded the order to keep him locked away.
It had only taken two days to break his father’s resolve.
When the doors finally opened, he did not immediately take to the sky for the North. Instead, he bathed away the grime of his despair, dressed in his favored riding leathers, and flew northeast.
Dragonstone may yet hold another dragon in its caves.
Valarr was not surprised when Aerion landed on Dragonstone’s shore.
“You’re a long way from home, cousin.” He said looking up, the beast did not growl, instead it lowered its back for Aerion to come down.
“Uncle?” Aerion said, feet hitting the sand with a grace not many had, for none of them had the dragon to support it. He removed his gloves, as he walked in front of his waiting cousin.
“The Red Keep,” he replied, his gaze fixed on Rylax as she gave a heavy shake to settle her scales. “Gransire summoned him for council, along with Uncle Maekar. I assumed you knew?”
“For mere confirmation,” he said. His father nearly declined; had it not been a direct order, he would have stayed behind to guard his most volatile son. Aegon had not forgiven him still, scared, the boy became avoidant and nearly like a ghost whenever Aerion comes. “Beautiful, isn't she?”
“I’ve no one else to compare her to,” Valarr smiled at Rylax. “I supposed you’d even be able to call her the most beautiful in the world.”
Rylax preened, her pink scales gleaming from the setting sun, as if sensing the admiration in his cousin's words.
Aerion could kill him now. Not even his quick instinct with a sword could save him. Dragon fire can melt steel as easily as wax. Rylax could open her jaw and maul him as her snack for the day and Aerion could plainly tell his father and uncle that his cousin ran off with his secret lover across the Narrow Sea.
He huffed, his lips curving into a soft smile, “for a time.”
Rylax rose into the air, banking toward the caves. She emitted a soft, melodic lowing; to Aerion, it sounded like the mournful song of a whale, a sound as vast and lonely as the ocean itself.
Valarr’s gaze shifted to him, eyes narrowed with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. After all, Aerion was not someone to visit Dragonstone on a whim. “What do you want, Aerion?”
“Father, and grandsire wish for me to marry Daeron. As you well know.” Aerion said, his smile tightening into a thin line. The suggestion of Aegon was an insult—a lie told only to placate his rage, though it had served only to stoke it. In Aerion’s eyes, Aegon was still a mere babe. He felt a profound disgust at the choice he had been offered: a choice between a common drunk and an insipid child.
“I do,” he said carefully.
“I’ve no desire to marry that rot, Valarr.” He glared at him, his voice sharpening into a hiss.
Valarr winced, “You are far too harsh on him. He is your brother still, and to speak ill of him that way—”
“Ill words oftentimes hold more truth than flowery ones,” he said.
“You sound like you want to kill him.”
“The realm would weep for it, I’m sure.” He rolled his eyes. Who would even mourn the useless sot? He spent his days drowning in wine and his nights moaning for pity. Eventually, his tongue would sharpen the wrong man’s temper, and they’d silence him for good without Aerion as much as lifting a finger or saying a word.
“I heard what you did to Aegon.” Valarr shook his head, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he let out a long, heavy breath.
Aerion could feed him to Rylax, or he could simply eat him himself. There won’t be much of a difference.
“Foul rumours spread fairly easily.”
“From my father,” Valarr said disparagingly. “We’re both aware that father never likes repeating ‘foul rumours’ as you say.”
Aerion released a breath, “it was a jest.”
“You held a dagger near his groin,” he argued back. “You threatened to cut off his—...his genitals.”
He scoffed at the feigned innocence. Valarr had spat far viler words than ‘cock’ when the blood was high. It was part of the man’s incendiary charm—the ease with which he turned vulgar the moment they fell onto a bed, or a furs-draped chair in an empty council room.
They’ve never been very particular on where they release their heat.
“Don’t play the prude with me now.” Aerion leaned into the space he occupied, noting how Valarr’s eyes tracked his every movement as if marking the path of a predator. He closed the final inch of distance, closing in until his lips were inches from Valarr’s ear. “We both know where that mouth has been, for it to sound so prim. Most of all in my presence.”
A slow flush of crimson climbed from Valarr’s collar to the tips of his ears. For all his posturing, his cousin was ever a lustful man, indulging them only behind locked doors and far from watchful eyes of others in court and his wife. Especially his wife.
It must be so tedious when he fucks her; he was always so frigid on duty, and no doubt even more so in her.
“Is that why you came here?” Valarr said, and in his boldness, rested his hands on Aerion’s waist.
His grip was gentle yet purposeful, a single finger finding the exact curve where Aerion was most sensitive. Valarr hummed a low, vibrating sound that drew Aerion’s face away from his shoulder, their breath hitching as their lips hovered mere inches apart.
Valarr leaned closer, “The call of desire, is it?”
There was no one present, his idiot cousin never did like having guards follow him. It would cost him his life one day. If Aerion wasn't so gracious, he would have taken it himself.
"And if it is?" Aerion’s voice shuddered. He leaned in, prompting to close the distance, but Valarr remained a statue. The gap between them felt like a chasm. Aerion pressed his palms against Valarr’s chest, trying to force the kiss, but the grip on his waist tightened—a silent, firm command. Valarr leaned back just enough to stay out of reach, prompting an annoyed huff from Aerion’s lips.
“I doubt it,” Valarr said softly. “You’ve come for something else. Tell me what you’ve come here to take.”
“Is that an order?”
He kissed him then, though not where Aerion craved. Instead, Valarr’s lips drifted across his cheek, trailing fire down to the curve of his throat. “Gaomagon daor mazverdagon nyke rȳba nykēla , qyybranna,” he murmured against the skin. (“Do not make me repeat myself, cousin.”)
Aerion gasped, his head lolling back as he felt the warmth of Valarr’s mouth, the soft pressure turning into a sharp, rhythmic pull against his own. “Aōha Valyrīha ēngos iksis sȳz.” Aerion managed to breathe. (“Your Valyrian tongue has improved.”)
“Ao dohaeragon nyke sȳrkta syt ziry,” he said. (“You serve me better for it.”)
“I serve no one,” Aerion slipped.
“And you’re certain of this how?” Valarr’s thigh found its place, the rough texture of his riding leathers a sharp contrast to the heat blooming beneath them. “You still haven't given me your answer, as I recall.”
“Mittys.” (“Fool”) His legs locked around Valarr's moving thigh of their own accord. He muttered a protest about being caught, his hands resting on Valarr's shoulders in a gesture that was supposed to be a push but felt more like an invitation. They were out in the open, vulnerable to any wandering eye, but the danger only served to sharpen the ache in Aerion’s blood.
“Māzigon naejot nyke,” Aerion hissed. (“Come to me.”)
“Is that an order?” Valarr said amusedly.
“Yes,” Aerion growled.
Rylax descended from her crag, a living shadow against the sky. She dived toward them with a speed that might have looked like an execution to any other witness. Instead, she swerved at the last moment, her massive wings unfurling like a wall of leather and bone to shield them from view.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Aerion surged forward, shoving Valarr back into the sand. He moved with a predator's grace, pinning Valarr between his thighs and sinking his weight firmly onto the man's groin. A strangled groan escaped Valarr as Aerion rolled his hips in a slow, punishing thrust—a silent, stinging bit of revenge.
“Zūgagon, issi ao?” Aerion teased, leaning down to bite at Valarr’s neck, as he rocked their hips together. He could feel it, the familiar tension of nerves. (“Scared, are you?”)
“Issa daor va moriot bona vala kostagon kipagon iā zaldrīzes.” A low groan escaped his lips the moment Aerion gripped him through the fabric, the sudden pressure forcing a hitch in his breath.
“Iksā paktot. ” (“You are right.”)
He felt the chord snapped, and Rylax released a keen sound, as if she felt what he felt at that very moment. His dragon may hide them from sight, but it was the sea that muffled the sound that they could not hide.
“Do you love her?”
“She’s my wife.”
“I didn't ask about her title, I asked if you love her.”
When they both emerge from under Rylax wings, the sun has long come down, and the stars above shone brighter in the vast dark sky.
Valarr helped him up, the world flashing white for a mere second before Aerion's vision cleared, his grip a gentle contrast to the way he had pinned Aerion to the sand.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
I haven't eaten or drank in two days.
“Well enough.” Spite alone kept him upright. His stomach felt like a void, and his mouth was so dry he considered throwing himself into the surf just to wet it. It would at least wash away the filth between his legs.
“You still haven't told why you came here,” Valarr brushed at the sand clinging to his breeches, though his efforts were half-hearted. His hair was a dark ruin, tangled as if Aerion’s fingers were still threaded through the strands. His lips were swollen, stained a deep, bitten red, and his neck was a map of rising heat—a jagged constellation of bite marks and bruises. Aerion didn’t need a mirror to know he was marked the same; he could feel the sting of Valarr’s hunger cooling on his own skin. “You didn't come here to vent.”
For a moment, he wanted to crawl back onto the sand—back under the shadow of Rylax’s wings and the weight of Valarr himself, where the world was reduced to skin, breath, and salt. The sea was becoming too quiet, the waves softening into a hush.
Aerion brought his arms around himself, a shield from the cold, only to let it fall beside him again. He did not want to look weak now. He already did under heavy shadows, and dusk. Too much is unacceptable. He’s a dragon, the cold meant nothing to the fire that flows in his veins.
“I don’t wish to marry Daeron.”
“As you keep telling me,” Valarr replied. He stood perfectly still, the image of a flawless heir once more. It seemed a hollow thing to have the blood of the dragon but no wings to carry it into the clouds. Rylax had yet to lay a clutch, but there was a heaviness in the air—a sulfurous electricity in the wind—that told Aerion the eggs would soon come. “Grandsire, and uncle only wishes the best—”
Aerion gritted his teeth, feeling the familiar rage simmer at his chest. “I am not a maiden to be coddled by honeyed words, Valarr.”
“I only meant to ease you.” Valarr stepped closer, his eyes turning the soft, hazy color of morning dew. He looked at Aerion with a worry so sincere it felt like a betrayal. “It is a good match. Any lord in the realm would be vying for your hand if not for this betrothal. Can you imagine it? A dragon in Highgarden or Casterly Rock? With a Targaryen bearer to boot?”
“Do you hear yourself?” He stepped away from him, avoiding his touch like a sickness. “You wish to make me comply. To be as you are. Chained with a spouse that could never satisfy my want.”
Their sweet moment was gone by that point, if it could even be called that.
Valarr lost his pliability then, and Aerion held back a vicious smile at how easy it was to get under his skin.
“Do not speak of her,” he warned. His wife’s name was never uttered but the glare he sent him made it seem as if he did.
Aerion was right, of course, Kiera had never given him the son he so truly wanted.
His lips formed into a mirthless smile. “Do not play the fool, Valarr. We both know that you possess a freedom I shall never taste. Your mark on my skin is enough proof of that. The secrets you keep from your wife is enough evidence. My dignity may be given, but your honor will always be in question. Not to the people, yes, but to me!”
Of course he would have tried to soften him before the blow, but it didn't make it less frustrating how easily he could do it after what he took from Aerion. What he kept taking from him since they were children. It’s as if he believed that as long as he acted as the dutiful son and heir, it would somehow drown out their ravenousness and wanton feasts for each other’s flesh.
He never did like having his honour questioned. The hypocrisy never fails to astound him at times.
“What would you have me do?” Valarr asked sharply. He looked every bit the crown prince then, his face set in a mask of exasperated duty. To Valarr, Aerion’s desire for freedom was merely ‘unreasonable,’ a childish tantrum thrown by a boy who refused to see the chains already locked around their ankles. “For me to march to the king and demand for your right to choose? The one that you were already given!?”
“A drunk, and a child, Valarr!”
The man grimaced. “As if they themselves would relish being trapped in a marriage with you! Aegon is terrified of you, and Daeron cannot endure your presence alone. Do you truly think it would please them to be wed to you? Even a man with nothing but a sheep to his name would sooner throw himself into your dragon’s maw than have you as his wife!”
Rylax let out a deafening roar, her screech drowning out the sound of Aerion’s hitched breath.
“How dare you,” he whispered. His eyes, treacherous as ever, pooled with unfallen tears. He loathed himself for it—he must look pathetic, weeping for a man who cared more for the sating of his lust than for Aerion himself.
Rylax growled behind him, moving closer than before. The sound was low and jagged, a warning to the man who dared prioritize his bruised honor over his rider's grief. Aerion didn't need to turn to know she was there, looming at his back.
“You are a coward, and a thief, and—and a fraud," he choked out, his breath hitching as his eyes stung.
“Aerion,” Valarr said, his voice dropping into a slow, cautious drawl. But his gaze was no longer on Aerion. It was fixed on the shadow rising behind him.
“How dare you speak to me that way!” He was not hated! He was loved and revered! His brother's view of him did not matter. It does not mean anything to him.
He was a dragon.
He has a dragon.
How dare they lower him to nothing more than a cattle to be bred.
Valarr is a fool, and he is naive. He doesn't understand, and Aerion should have known better to fly to him like a desperate lover would.
The world shifted, and before he could flinch, Valarr’s arms engulfed him, his face buried in the crook of Aerion’s neck. Rylax’s roar vibrated through his whole body. Fire would have come, but she could not strike her target while he held her rider; she could not kill him if he was holding Aerion. Valarr's arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him so close it felt as though their bodies had merged into one.
He could have pushed him away, had his resolve not finally shattered just before he lost consciousness.
A sharp knock from a servant girl jolted Aerion awake.
His head felt light, his stomach hollow. Where was he? Where was his dragon?
From the distance, a familiar song drifted through the air. Only then did he allow himself to sag into the mattress.
The stone walls sent a phantom chill through him. Despite being a seat built for creatures of flame, Dragonstone remained stubbornly, perpetually cold.
Did Valarr carry him here? Did Kiera see? Aerion hoped she had. Perhaps then she would realize what a fraud her husband truly was. Or perhaps she already knew; the thought had plagued him since the second time. She couldn't be that dense. Uncle Baelor and Grandsire would never have tethered their golden boy to an insipid girl.
He loathed his submissive nature, but he loathed its timing even more. Had it manifested before Kiera arrived, it might have been Aerion standing at the altar with Valarr. He wouldn’t have minded. He could have borne a child; he could have been Consort to the Crown Prince.
He could have been Queen, and his son would have been King.
Aerion clicked his tongue, his lips curling into a smirk. That could still happen—
Thwak! The sound of a basin hitting the stone floor, followed by an involuntary squeak.
His eyes twitched. "Who sent you?"
"Prince Valarr, my prince. And the Lady Kiera," the girl stuttered. "They told me to prepare a bath and... and to inform you of dinner."
Aerion nearly gagged. Had they discussed him? Sitting in their shared chambers, gazing lovingly at one another as they decided his fate?
Disgusting.
"My prince?"
"What?" he snapped.
The girl flinched, but Aerion found no satisfaction in it. His life was a ruin.
"Your bath is ready," she said meekly.
Aerion groaned, his head falling back against the silk pillow. The scent of sea salt drifted through the window, deepening his scowl. Valarr wanted the evidence scrubbed away. He wanted Aerion cleaned before he had to face his wife.
The phantom weight of him still lingered, a stubborn pressure between Aerion’s thighs. With a sneer, he dismissed the servant; she fled the room, her skittish footsteps sounding like prey escaping a wolf—no, a dragon.
He rose, clutching the silk blanket only to fling it aside. Standing at the bedside, he arched his back in a long, deliberate stretch, a sigh escaping as a familiar ache flared in his hips. He glanced around the room, squinting as a knot tightened beneath his ribs.
On the bedside there was a vase filled with red lilies, and just beside the porcelain there was a cup, unassuming and easily palmed.
Had the girl left it? No—more likely a maester. Aerion wondered what lie Valarr had spun this time to procure it. He scoffed, imagining his cousin’s rehearsed performance. Had he blamed the "naive servant" again? Or was it a young maiden seduced by a knight—perhaps a squire, for variety?
Aerion crossed the room in a predatory blur. He snatched the cup, his lip curling in a spasm of envy.
Kiera would have no need for this.
His breath hitched as he flicked the lid open. The scent was a familiar sting. With one jagged swallow, the cup was empty. His chest ached with the burn, and he hurled the ceramic against the wall, watching it shatter, scattering razor-sharp fragments across the stone.
“What is that?” Aerion pointed a ringed finger at the cups on the tray.
The feast for the king's nameday had drained him. His night was filled with lords' prattle, ladies' gossip, and dances in the great hall—and finally, his sheets with someone whom he should not have allowed the courtesy of simply leaving his room as if he’s some common whore to be left after a night of tryst.
His father would have raged if he knew; at the news of his son being sullied, he would surely demand the head of the man who dared touch his second.
There’s not much to be done regardless, even with his father’s place in court and his status as the king’s youngest. Kinslaying would have been unacceptable. Baelor would have stopped him no doubt, to save both the image of his brother and the skin of his own son. And Aerion, well, there's not much to say there. It would be scandalous for news to spread of his maidenhead being taken so abruptly before marriage, true, but—
What else could they do?
He’d bedded enough whores to know their limits; none could leave him torn and bloodied as Valarr had. Let the rumors reach the crown. He’d been man enough to handle a woman for years. His nature might have robbed him of a cock, but it had left him his tongue and his fingers.
He sat amidst a hoard of Dornish fruit and a pitcher of Arbour gold, dismissing his servant with a curt flick of his hand. The Maester stepped forward, head bowed meekly.
“Tea, my prince. A friend mentioned a... mishap with a servant girl, and that she was under your care. He suggested I bring this for her as a gesture of compensation—from one of the knights, I believe.”
Aerion paused. His gaze drifted to the cup before his hand drifted instinctively to the flat of his stomach. The Maester caught the gesture—a flicker of recognition in his eyes—before Aerion jerked his hand back.
They were right to be wary. Aerion’s temper was a gravity that claimed anyone caught in its orbit—servant and knight alike. Even his siblings knew to keep their distance when his moods turned sour.
He looked at the fruit—the spread he’d begged his father for. His nails dragged across the chair’s handle, scratching the wood as a sharp, stabbing pressure locked his chest in place.
Valarr cared for his image, as his father taught him to do so. He was a Targaryen, and no Targaryen had ever truly turned their backs on duty, even so, their ways does not always meet the norms of Westeros, and Aerion, foolish and naive, thought that—he thought ineptly, and now Valarr was throwing the truth right at Aerion’s face.
“My prince?”
Aerion’s tongue felt like wool. He fixed the Maester with a stare, teeth clamped shut against the burning pressure in his eyes.
The Maester hurried forward, setting the cup on the table with a quiet clink. He retreated instantly, tray clutched to his chest. “The tea, my prince. She should take it immediately, lest her actions allow the seed to strengthen into a fledgling.”
“Leave,” was the only word he could utter. The Maester obeyed with frantic speed, the door clicking shut just as Aerion’s glass cup shattered against the wood.
Only then did he allow himself to wallow, but not completely, not truly, not until he drank the damn tea and purged Valarr’s seed which he planted himself the night before.
“Aerion.” Kiera guided him to a seat, her hair pulled back in neat braids. A smile touched her lips, but her eyes remained bright with concern. “You gave us quite a fright. How are you feeling? I was afraid the tide might have disturbed your sleep.”
“It didn’t,” Aerion told her with a smile of his own. “Although Rylax’s were a bit more noticeable when I woke. Tell me cousin, how did she take it when you carried me in? I hope she didn't terrify you—gods knows she’s enough to unman the bravest soul."
Valarr sat at the head of the table. With his father gone, the burden of the Dragonstone sightings fell solely to him. He swirled a wine cup in his left hand, his right fingers drumming a restless, rhythmic beat against the wood—a sound that cut short the moment Aerion stepped into the room.
A small smile grew on his face, as if he hadn't just called Aerion’s existence a hateful crime for the people earlier. “So she does, I reckon that If I hadn't caught you she would have turned me to ashes for not noticing your weakened state.”
“Most probably,” Aerion said, his voice dropping to a soft, dangerous edge. His memory of the event didn't align with Valarr’s convenient narrative. How silly of him to speak so blatantly, as if Aerion wouldn't dare smash at his illusion with a simple word. “A stroke of luck, then, that you were standing so close when I faltered.”
“So it was.” Valarr’s face went stone-still. He wouldn't yield the truth, not now. He had nearly died for the sake of his belief, screaming about the ‘greatness’ of Aerion’s fate while Rylax stood close enough to catch every treasonous word.
Kiera’s confusion was a tell. She wasn't as oblivious as he’d hoped. She was already picking at the frayed edges of the tension between them. With a few truths and a dozen half-lies, he could lead her exactly where he wanted her.
Aerion claimed the seat at Valarr’s left, with Kiera flanking his cousin’s right. From this vantage, the deception was paper-thin; he could almost trace the marks Valarr fought to hide beneath the high, dark collar of his tunic. A sudden, jagged snort escaped him at the thought—how would Valarr manage tonight? Would he keep the silk pressed against his skin even while he labored to sire another babe with his wife?
Valarr’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and knowing, even as Kiera prattled on about the plans for a new fort. Their hands were clasped atop the table in a performance of devotion so saccharine Aerion nearly sneered at.
"Have you thought of attending the tourney, Aerion?" Kiera asked.
If she hadn't been looking directly at him, he would have assumed the question was for her husband; her gaze was fixed so intently on Valarr’s that she seemed determined to drown herself in his ‘loving’ stare.
“Which one?” he drawled, leaning back as if the very thought exhausted him. “I hope you’re not suggesting the Greyjoy’s tourney. I would rather eat my own tongue than suffer the stench of that island for a fortnight.”
It was a half-truth. Aerion had a taste for flayed fish—the salt and the smoke sat well on his palate—but he had never been able to stomach the smell of the raw, slimy things before they hit the fire.
“The Iron Island? Sevens, no.” She released a laugh that sounded like bells in Aerion’s ears, “I meant at Ashford. The Reach will be in full bloom—no salt–rot, I promise you. Just roses and sunshine.”
“How quaint,” Aerion said, his gaze sliding back to Valarr. “And you, cousin? Will you be competing? You’ve always had such a passion for the joust. Remind me, what is the appeal? Comparing who carries the sturdier wood? Or is it simply the thrill of thrusting at one another until something finally breaks?”
Kiera let out a girlish giggle, and Valarr joined her, his laughter sounding warm, soft, and—to Aerion’s ears—infuriatingly authentic. Valarr kept his gaze locked on his wife, the picture of a devoted man.
“We both know you’re well aware of how a joust works, Aerion,” Valarr replied smoothly. “Besides, father has already announced our attendance. Has Uncle Maekar not told you?”
“I wouldn't know.” Aerion reached for his knife, flipping the roasted lamb on his plate with a jagged motion. He stabbed the meat through, the silver tines of his fork sinking deep as he sliced downward with unnecessary force. “Father hasn't spoken to me in days. I imagine he’s been far too busy to spare me a word.”
Too busy planning the next wedding, Aerion thought bitterly. His knife ground against the porcelain with a harsh, screeching rasp. He was a heartbeat away from snapping the plate in two when he felt it—Valarr’s boot nudging his foot beneath the table.
It wasn't a kick, it was a slow deliberate pressure; a command of restraint that felt like a brand through the silk of his clothes. Aerion’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the ivory hilt of his knife until they ached.
“Oh, that’s right!” Kiera exclaimed, her eyes widening with a spark of genuine excitement. “Your wedding! How thrilling. I heard it’s to be held in the traditions of Old Valyria—I’ve never seen a ceremony like that. Do you think I’ll be allowed to attend, Aerion? Or is it strictly for the blood of the dragon?”
“Kiera,” Valarr spoke steadily, his hand squeezing hers for a moment. “Aerion is tired. We should let him finish dinner before we start any talk of marriage.”
Aerion kicked the offending foot away, relishing at seeing Valarr’s perfect mask crack with a wince that he hid from his wife when she glanced back at him.
The door creaked open again. This time, no servant entered; Matarys was ever soft on his feet, and had the heavy oak not groaned to announce him, Aerion would not have known he was there at all.
Matarys tensed at the sight of Aerion, his composure faltering for a heartbeat before he recovered, taking his place beside Kiera. Rylax’s presence had surely told him of Aerion’s. The dragon never did like straying too far from her rider.
Valarr greeted his brother with a nod and a practiced smile, which the younger boy reciprocated with only a sharp lift of his brow.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Dinner’s can be a dull affair without conversations, isn't that right, Matarys?”
“Right,” Matarys spoke slowly. “Is this about Ashford? I heard Daeron is to compete."
Aerion snorted. “To what possible end? The embarrassment of our house?” He muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Daeron would sooner fall on his horse before the tourney even begins, no doubt smelling of wine and his whores. His brother never had the heart for sports, only wine; to even suggest him attending one would be both a miracle and a humiliation wrapped in fine armour.
“For simple sport, cousin.” Valarr raised his glass to his lips. He did not dare brush his foot against Aerion's again, but his eyes promised another visit.
He’d always been gifted at that—maintaining a dutiful image even when lust threatened to undo him.
“We speak of the next royal wedding, good brother.” Kiera told Matarys, her excited grin not ceasing as she glanced at Aerion.
Matarys’s eyes widened for a fraction, gaze darting between Valarr and Aerion, brisk enough for Kiera to overlook. “It’s true then? You are to wed Daeron?” Matarys’s voice dripped with pity.
It was so misplaced Aerion felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. Daeron wasn't the one being bartered away—a broodmare for the line, rather than a dragon of the blood.
“Not without my say,” he spat. His other cousin's caring nature never fails to set his irritation ablaze. That must be why their grandsire and their father never tried to betrothed them. Aerion would have undoubtedly eaten Matary’s sweetness away by the first night of their marriage.
Matarys watched him, his expression more puzzled than provoked. “But... I thought Grandsire settled the matter?” What more is there to say? He didn't mention.
“Settling a match is one thing,” Aerion said. “But they’ll find it quite another to drag me to the altar and force the vows from my lips.”
“Aerion.” Valarr said.
A warning.
Hypocrite. The word burned in Aerion’s throat hotter than the tea. He flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a jagged, vicious thing.
"You must pardon my lack of grace, Kiera. My cousin is a demanding companion when the mood strikes him. He was so intent on our 'excursion' at the beach that he quite wore me out. It was a private affair, of course; Rylax had to keep the world away while Valarr played in the water. He can be very thorough when he wants something finished."
Kiera’s smile remained, though it took on a slightly puzzled, glassy quality. She looked at Valarr, perhaps trying to reconcile the image of her dutiful husband ‘playing in the water’ like a page boy. “The beach?” she repeated softly. “I hadn't realized the tide was high enough for swimming. You must have been drenched.”
“Terriblly so,” he drawled, his tongue tracing the back of his teeth. “And exhausted. Your husband has a certain stamina when he sets his mind to a task. He wouldn't let me leave until he was satisfied I had my fill on the salt.”
Matarys choked on his first bite, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he lunged for his wine. He gulped the vintage down with desperate, frantic swallows, trying to wash away the sudden, suffocating tension that had colored his face a sickly, mottled mess of green and feverish red. He looked ill, his eyes darting toward the door as if he would rather skip dinner than endure another syllable of Aerion’s "reminiscing."
Aerion flashed a bright, mocking smile. “What’s wrong, cousin? Is the wine not to your liking?" He leaned in. "You really ought to visit Summerhall more often. Our cellar never stays the same for more than a moon. Daeron’s efforts of course.”
“Matarys is fine,” Valarr said sharply, his venomous tone catching his wife aback. “He never held much liking for wine, and the reason you passed out is your lack of food and rest. Uncle sent a missive regarding the situation; he has asked me to keep you here until Ashford.”
“You never mentioned that.”
“I did.” Valarr pursed his lips, his displeasure plain. “I asked if Uncle Maekar had told you. You said no.”
“So you did,” Aerion muttered.
Matarys was the first to flee, mulling over a clumsy excuse about a sore back that needed rest, all while ignoring his nearly untouched plate. Kiera followed soon after as the conversation dragged on and the night deepened. Claiming exhaustion, she kissed her husband goodnight and offered Aerion a gentle wave and a tired smile before vanishing into the shadows of the hall.
She shouldn't have.
Aerion still suspected she wasn't as simple as she let on. She couldn’t be; even a child would sense that something was amiss in these halls whenever he visited. Rare as those occasions were, they were impossible to ignore. They were Targaryens, after all—she knew the blood, she knew the history, and she surely must suspect.
Valarr took him from behind, fingers digging into Aerion’s hips to anchor him as he drove inside his cunt. Each thrust was a blur of reckless abandon, leaving him breathless beneath his weight.
“Have you lost your wits?” Valarr hissed into his ear, the words fractured by his own uneven gasps as his pace turned punishing.
Aerion’s hands were a slick, aromatic mess of grease and spices. He had let them drop heavily onto the table the moment Valarr spun him, the wood grain biting into his palms while Valarr’s breath scorched the vulnerable nape of his neck.
“It’s not my fault you're so easily tempted,” Aerion murmured, tongue unconsciously licking at his drying lips. “Tell me, cousin—how did it feel to slide into her while you were still slick with me?”
Valarr’s grip tightened, the bruising pressure wrung a hiss from Aerion’s throat. The ache was instantly eclipsed as Valarr buried himself deep, a blunt force that seemed to pierce his very womb.
He didn’t answer. He shoved Aerion’s face down against the cold salt-glaze of the table. The smell of roasted meats and wine turned cloying as Valarr’s weight crushed him into the wood.
“You want to speak of her?” Valarr ground out, his voice a ragged snarl against the back of Aerion’s head. He didn't slow; he drove harder, his rhythm breaking into something desperate and wild. “While you're bent over this table like a common whore?”
“And what does that make you?” Aerion gasped. “A princeling who fucks like a greenboy?”
It was a lie, a baseless taunt. Valarr had used him enough for Aerion to know better; the man always fucked with a raw, seasoned competence.
Valarr’s response was a sharp laugh that sounded more like a snarl. He reached forward, his hand tangling into Aerion’s hair and wrenching his head back until their eyes met in the reflection of a polished silver platter.
“It makes me a fool,” Valarr hissed, his breath hitching as Aerion clenched around him. “And it makes you a corpse if you don’t hold your tongue.”
Valarr was reaching his limit; his hips stuttered, his breathing turning shallow and fast.
“Don’t you dare,” Aerion hissed, his fingers white against the table as he felt the shift in Valarr's rhythm. “Not inside.”
Valarr let out a low, breathless laugh. “Why not? You’re usually begging for it.”
“Fool! I’ve only just drunk the tea,” Aerion snapped. A high-pitched moan cut through his protest as Valarr’s hand slid between his legs, two fingers pinching his bud. The sudden, sharp friction made his head light. “Would you turn me barren just for a moment’s pleasure?”
Moon tea could erase a mistake, but the bitter brew was a poison in its own right; too much of it could wither a womb entirely. As much as Aerion claimed to hate the burden, he wasn't ready to let the fire in his blood go cold.
“I thought you hadn't,” Valarr said, his voice dropping an octave. “My servants heard something shatter in your chambers.”
“You were spying on me?” The whine escaped Aerion unbidden. He hitched a breath as Valarr’s cock nudged his limit, every rigid vein dragging against him with agonizing precision.
“For mere confirmation,” Valarr replied, his pace slowing to a torturous, deliberate grind.
“Valarr,” Aerion moaned, his legs giving way as he was nearly hoisted against the table. Tears spiked his eyes, blurring the room as the dual friction of Valarr’s depth and his wandering fingers pushed him toward the brink.
Valarr groaned, the sound vibrating against Aerion's skin. “It still astounds me,” he rasped, “how much you sound like a soft maiden being taken by her husband on their wedding night—always so quick to lose in pleasure.”
“Not inside,” Aerion gasped, his fingers clawing at the tablecloth. His elbows ached, bruised against the unyielding oak as the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin muffled the rest of the world. He worried his lip, teeth sinking in until the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.
“Do you think Daeron would fuck you like this?” Valarr growled. “Do you think that drunkard could put a child in you on your first night?”
Aerion’s head thrashed against the wood, a surge of disgust cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I would think... you’d know better... than to speak his name here,” he choked out.
Valarr only laughed, a dark, breathless sound. He reached down, his thumb hooking deep into the folds of Aerion’s cunt to spread the slick heat before he resumed a punishing, insistent grind against his clit. The friction was relentless, stinging and sweet all at once.
"Who's the hypocrite now, cousin?" Valarr hissed, his fingers working with a frantic precision that mirrored the desperate thrusting of his hips. "You want to talk of my wife, yet you tremble at the thought of your own husband's touch."
“Not my husband,” Aerion said through gritted teeth.
“Not yet,” Valarr replied.
Then the useless bastard emptied himself inside anyway. Aerion didn't even realize it had happened until the haze cleared and his own pulse began to level out.
“I told you not to,” Aerion rasped, his voice raw. He didn't have the strength to push him off yet, but the anger was starting to sharpen through the exhaustion.
Valarr didn't move. He stayed buried deep, his forehead resting against the nape of Aerion’s neck, his breath coming in long, ragged draws.
“You did,” Valarr admitted, his voice muffled and devoid of its earlier malice. “I didn't care.”
“Fuck you,” Aerion spat, the venom returning to his voice.
“I just did.” Valarr laughed, the sound low and breathless. Aerion moved to shove him away, but stopped as he felt Valarr’s cock nudge deeper inside one last time.
“What excuse will you give the Maester now?” Aerion snapped. “Will you blame your whorish servants again?”
“I have no need for excuses.” Valarr pulled out with agonizing slowness. He made sure Aerion felt every inch of the friction until he was gone, leaving a mess of slick and seed behind. “I’ve yet to eat my dinner.”
“Then fucking eat,” Aerion gasped. He pushed off the table, his legs shaking so violently he had to white-knuckle the edge of the wood to keep from falling to his knees. “Cunt.”
“I know.” Valarr smirked, a smug look that made Aerion’s hand twitch with the urge to strike him.
“What are you staring at—!” Aerion let out an indignant yelp as he was hoisted back onto the table. If the plates and food hadn't been a mess before, they certainly were now. “What are you doing?!”
“Having my dinner,” Valarr said casually. He dragged his chair forward and sat, his hands heavy on Aerion’s exposed thighs. “Now stay still and behave yourself. I think you’ve interrupted enough for one night.”
“You fuck—Ah!”
Valarr leaned down, and sucked, pulling at Aerion’s clit until the sharp heat of it forced Aerion’s back into a high, rigid arch. He didn't collapse; instead, he gripped Valarr’s dark hair, his fingers locking tight as he fought to stay upright.
Valarr’s tongue flattened against his folds, pushing inside with a rhythmic, heavy pressure. He was fucking him with his tongue, relentless and clinical, while his hands stayed pinned to Aerion's thighs to keep him from scrambling away.
He sounded wanton, the noise of his own voice ringing in his ears. He half-expected a guard to burst in and find them like this—Valarr hunched between his legs, eating him with a starved, frantic focus.
Aerion’s pride was the only thing keeping him upright. He wanted to collapse onto the table, to let the exhaustion take him, but he refused to end the night covered in grease and spilled wine.
He gripped Valarr’s hair tighter, his back still arched, forcing himself to endure the heavy, rhythmic lap of Valarr's tongue until he was dry.
Valarr’s eyes were closed, his jaw slick with their spit and spent seed. Even like this, he looked like a dutiful prince. Aerion hated him for it—for making this feel like more than a desperate fuck in a messy room. He hated the sudden, traitorous wish that the tea would fail. That a single drop would slip past and take root inside him, as it should have, and as it never could.
A hitch broke from his lips. He tried to convince himself the tears were just a reaction to the pleasure, but they were for the distance between them—a gap that stayed wide even with Valarr’s tongue deep inside him.
It was the thought that Kiera married for duty that only deluded him, for she might have married the prince, but Aerion would always have Valarr.
Through the thick stone walls, he could hear her. If he could only ignore the wanton sounds of the mouth between his legs and the traitorous rhythm of his own breath, he could almost see Rylax casting himself over the sea, calling out to a ghost that would never answer.
Almost gently, Aerion's hand slid from the tangle of Valarr’s hair and down to his cheek. He traced the line of his jaw, his thumb dragging over the skin as Valarr met his gaze. Valarr’s eyes were glazed, yet they held that same stubborn sternness even as he pulled away—only to catch Aerion’s hand and press a lingering kiss against his fingers.
