Chapter Text
Baelor twirls the ring on his fourth finger—a silver, slightly thin band that widens at the head to hold a brown moonstone, its chestnut gleam not unlike the color he and Valarr share on their left eye—absentmindedly, his half focused gaze fixed to the flames dancing from the candles atop the table.
The King’s solar is half illuminated by them and the torches in the walls, the other half bathed in the pale, silver glow of the moon coming from the large windows at his back. He adjusts the ring on its rightful place and suppresses a sigh; the remains of a headache that tormented him since the afternoon still making his temples throb.
Maekar is late. Because of course he is—he loves to go out of his way and be an inconvenience just to make Baelor’s life harder, entirely out of spite.
After dinner that night, Baelor observed his brother, as he often did; the everlasting tension imbued to his shoulders, the few acid and unsolicited comments he made about lords while he and Valarr spoke quietly with each other, his face twisted in repulsion each time Daeron refilled his cup, and the cool, severe looks he sent Aerion when the boy dared to open his mouth.
He was stressed. More stressed than usual. And rightfully so.
When the family started to take their leaves, and the sight of Aerion’s freshly chopped hair was past gone to his own chambers, Baelor sought after the biggest shadow in the room, standing still like the statue of the Warrior positioned in the wall behind his chair, and called him closer to whisper something in his ear.
Ser Duncan’s brows twitched minimally, but he pressed his lips together and nodded once, “Aye, your grace.”
Baelor made sure to wait at least an hour—to give Aerion enough time to settle, get rid of the heavy and expensive doublet and all his ostentatious ornaments, the promise of sleep on silk sheets making his body softer—to send Ser Duncan after him, to notify that his King was requiring his presence, the emphasis on how it was not at request at all loud and clear.
Any confusion that painted Aerion’s face when he first walked in, accompanied by Ser Duncan, was long smoothed out, and now he only looks bored out of his mind; sitting on the large settee across Baelor’s table, both his arms and legs crossed. A dusky purple robe, the silk as shimmery as a starred sky covers his nightgown, but his feet are bare—perharps he thought that whatever reason Baelor summoned him for would be quick, or simply because he didn't care—his index tapping rhythmically at his elbow the only sign of his growing impatience.
Albeit not his son, Baelor has learned how to read Aerion as if he was his own.
The boy is much of a volatile little thing; uncontrollable and unpredictable in his thoughts and in his temper like the long dead beasts that were the symbol of their house were described to be. Even if he likes to pretend to be docile in front of him and, mostly, his father.
But even someone as capricious as Aerion follows a pattern of behaviors, and he is, at the end of the day, a piece cut of Maekar's cloth.
He reminds Baelor of a younger Maekar so much, in certain lights—the imperious set of his jaw, upper lip curled in disdain, strong headed in his beliefs, the occasional flirt with self delusion, the sharp edges of arrogance secured over his shoulders like an armor covered with spikes to disguise the rotting, sickening yearning for approval from his own blood.
But where Maekar was prone to sulking with only the walls of his room and his sour mood as his companions, Aerion flowered into someone vicious and performative; he bathes in the attention like flowers seeking the warmth of the sun, fumes silently when he doesn't get his way, his skin tight with the need to bend knees and twist spines each time he is made to feel small, to relish in any form of reaction he can cause—and that ancient fury only boils more and more when he's met with no reaction at all.
Hence why his nephew ended up vigorously captivated with Ser Duncan.
Well, not really. Obsession has a much nicer, honest ring to it.
Differently from any other guard or servant or anyone beneath the crown that Aerion could sniff weaknesses of, could prod and pick piece by piece with his delicate, clawly fingers for his own sadistic enjoyment, Ser Duncan an anomaly; an unconventional man in more ways than one. He was not just built like a wall, hovering taller than any other soul from King's Landing, he served as a wall as well—every sharp look, every scornful word Aerion threw at him was responded with nothing but a blank, empty stare.
The man was no saint; Baelor knew he had a temper tethered to flesh just like his honesty and honor, but Ser Duncan knew that all his nephew wanted was a personal pet to play with, and for that, he refused to entertain him.
It infuriated Aerion. Each new attempt to raise a response sloppier and desperate, acting much like the childish, vain little omega he did not want to be seen as.
When Valarr grew out of his cousin's ways and started to keep the omega at arm's length, Aerion behaved just the same, albeit not as spitefully. Though Baelor knows that brattish attitude excruciatingly well; knew it even before any of the children were born. That knack for insubordination, the need to defy, to show teeth, it all came from Maekar. It wasn't a surprise all of his boys shared, to some extent, the same impertinence.
But Ser Duncan was not a prince of the blood, the heir of the Iron Throne; he was simply a hedge knight made Kingsguard, someone who Aerion could trample under his pretty foot and no one would stir or blink twice.
The cruelty in his bones—so dissimilar from Maekar's harsh, straightforward sternness—was something that made Baelor leery.
His brother could cover his ears or look the other way when Aerion went too far with his siblings behind their doors, spilled his venom past his pink lips to his lessers with that soft, honeyed spoken tone that made him look like a sea creature tempting sailors to leap to their death, but to participate in the tournament held for Valarr's name day only to cruelly strike his lance through his opponent's horse's neck in front high and low borns alike, was the final breaking point.
An intervention was long, long overdue. And if Maekar couldn't do it, then Baelor would—and interestingly enough, the idea came, unintentionally, from Ser Duncan himself.
He observes Aerion for a moment. There is some sort of caution behind the mask of boredom, yes, wariness in his violet eyes at being in the dark with the absence of information on why he is there, but Baelor knows better: Aerion feels no shame or regret. Insolent in his assumption that he is above suffering the repercussions of his own actions. He taunted Valarr, even, before picking the knight he would duel with; not to worry cousin, I won't embarrass you today.
And then he proceeded to embarrass all of them at once.
The doors of his solar opens brutally, the solemn figure of his brother walking in angrily, “I truly hope you have a reasonable excuse to summon me at this time, or I swear to the Gods I will—” Maekar halts abruptly, looking between Aerion and Ser Duncan, the permanent ridge of his brows creasing even more as he frowns, “What the fuck is going on?”
Baelor eyes him up and down unhurriedly. Similar to Aerion, his brother's nightgown is obscured by a robe, but his has the color of their house; a velvet, rich burgundy red fabric that seems to have a life of its own, shifting like waves when he moves and the light hits. His hair remains split in the middle, but the left side is slightly ruffled, likely caused by the pillow.
Maekar is an early sleeper; always the first to depart after supper, eager to be free from the incessant chattering of his children, to be left alone in his chambers amidst his extravagant sheets to grasp at the well deserved threads of peaceful slumber, and gets twice as cranky when someone wakes him up.
Baelor doesn't see that drowsiness in his face, but the displeasure is there all the same—he smiles fondly, “Brother, we've been waiting for you. Do lock the doors for me, yes?”
Maekar narrows his eyes, full of suspicion, but obeys. When the lock clicks, he turns to Baelor once again, “Care to share what's the meaning of all this?”
Baelor gets up from his chair, circling the table until the back of his thighs touch the dark wood as he leans over it, “Come closer.”
His brother clicks his tongue, steps purposefully slow as he walks until their shoes are a few inches away from touching, “Have you finally lost your marbles?” Maekar asks grumpily.
“We are here to talk about Aerion's latest stunt from two days ago.” Baelor tells him.
Maekar's face hardens, “There's no need for that, brother, as I already have given him a very, very long lecture, and that deplorable.. performance, will not be repeated. Isn't that right, boy?”
“So effectively my ears nearly bled.” The curl in the corner of Aerion’s mouth diminishes at the glare his brother sends him, and he sits straighter, chin out stubbornly, “My father speaks truth, uncle, I ought not to do it again.”
“It is not that I doubt you, brother, I am sure you did your best to remind Aerion of what repercussions his wrongdoings can cause, but I fear that a simple lecture will not be enough this time.”
Maekar's spine stiffens instinctively. Baelor hasn't had the chance to see a dragon in his time, but if they were still alive, this is what he imagines one would act when feeling threatened; body leaned back on its hind legs, formidable wings flapping wide in the air, maw stretching open to show its teeth to whoever dared to touch what it kept in its lair, throat ablaze with the promise of fire. As impressive as the mental imagery could be, it did not compare to the real and tangible magnificence of his brother, “What do you mean by that? I already told you—” he cuts himself, sending a hostile, incredulous glare to the enormous figure of Baelor’s guard, “What are you still doing here, anyway?”
Ser Duncan opens his mouth to answer, but Baelor does not give him the chance, “I will see that Aerion is rightfully punished.” he shrugs, simply, motioning with his head, “Ser Duncan will help me to do so.”
The splotches of fury leaves a faint flush on the skin hidden by his beard, “Do you think me weak?” Maekar hisses through his teeth, “That I cannot control my own sons?”
Baelor shakes his head. “No. Not weak, never weak. A bit complicit, perhaps. Too lenient, considering how harsh of a grip you maintain on your sons’ leashes. If we do not cut the weeds of his cruelty now, then when? Now is an animal, tomorrow might be a servant, a stableman, until he grows bold and charges a lord just because he heard something it didn't please him. I cannot have him behaving like a mindless, reckless pup forever, brother.”
Aerion scoffs indignantly, “I am not a pup—”
“It is not up to you to decide how to punish him,” Maekar answers, as if not hearing the other omega at all, “he's my son.”
“And isn't this exactly why we are in this situation now? Because he is your son?”
Aerion tries again, undoubtedly angry at being ignored, “Don't speak about me as if I am not in the room—”
Maekar wipes his head in his direction, “Quiet, boy,” he hisses, ignoring the offended look Aerion sends him, “Cease with this madness at once. He is my son. I am your brother!”
“And I, dear brother,” Baelor says calmly, “am your King.” he waves two fingers in the air, “Ser Duncan?”
The Kingsguard, who did not move an inch from his position behind the settee, startles at finally being spoken at, as if he himself forgot about his presence in the room, “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Take off your armor.”
The other alpha blinks, clearly taken aback by the order, “Beg your pardon? I—”
“Now, Ser Duncan.” Baelor orders firmly, with no room for arguments.
Under the heavy gaze of three different pairs of eyes, Duncan begins to disassemble his white armour. He starts by the cloak, unhooking from his back and folding it clumsily, looking around uncertainly before unceremoniously depositing it on the floor. The gauntlets are next, his movements are slow as he unfastens the straps carefully, peeling the garment off his thick forearms to place them over his cloak. His pauldrons and breastplate follow the same path, the clinking of metal clashing against metal the only sound in the room as the shape of the man behind the Kingsguard is revealed.
Duncan is built tall and thick like an oak tree, but the armor tied to his limbs usually makes him abnormally bigger, looming over people's heads like they are nothing but ants. Without it, he still looks taller than most, but the sight of his body in a simple tunic makes him softer, like the kind and gentle lad Baelor knows he is, makes him less shield and more human.
Something quickly flickers on Aerion’s face, but is gone before Baelor has the chance to examine further.
He looks down at him, frowning at the feeling of being without his second skin. “Done, Your Grace.”
Baelor nods, satisfied. He turns to Maekar, giving him another once over, the thrill of what he is about to do twirling down his spine. Keeping their gazes locked, he says, “Ser Duncan, seize my nephew. Mind your strength, there's no need to hurt him,” yet, “just enough to keep him still.”
“What?” The other three blurt at the same time. Aerion’s brows go near his hairline, full of disbelief. Ser Duncan's face is slack with shock, as if someone has spoken to him in a different language. And Maekar—he is enraged. Absolutely and beautifully enraged.
His brother reacts immediately; his feet moving to get to his son. If it is to stand between them, to flee Aerion out of the room, or to launch at Ser Duncan, he doesn't know, but Baelor is faster. Grabbing him by the elbows, he yanks Maekar back, a gasp punching out of his brother’s throat when they collide, flushed together back to chest. Though the sound isn't due to the harsh, abrupt crash—they are of the same height, their bodies fitting perfectly against one another, the puff of his breath warming the exposed, sensitive part of Maekar's nape. The change is small, barely there, but for a moment, his brother's anger falters and he goes lax, adjusting the muscles of his back so there is no inch of space left between him and Baelor.
Baelor nudges him in the back of his ear, grunting almost playfully.
Aerion, on the other hand, looks like a wounded animal ready to chew on his own leg, relentless is his attempt to break free, “You dare to put your filthy, commoner hands on a prince of the blood— get off of me you repugnant oaf—”
“Forgive me, my prince,” Ser Duncan says, and Baelor knows he means it.
The omega trashes incessantly, as if all the wiggling will make him slip out of Ser Duncan's hold, but it is useless; he was taken by surprise, and the knight is double his size, the thick hands working like heavy shackles around his thin wrists. Aerion is too small to give him a butthead, but as his nephew isn't one to yield without a fight, he still manages to dig his elbows onto Ser Duncan's ribs and a two kicks to his calves, ripping a few grunts from the Kingsguard before he is tightly secured, “I will have your hands for it, Ser Duncan. Better, I will have your head, I swear it. I will have you skinned alive myself, and when your empty, wretched mind is overcasted by the pain and all you can do is screech like a pig, begging for the mercy you will not receive, I will—”
“Keep your dramatic, vengeful oaths to yourself, Aerion,” Baelor tuts, rolling his eyes, “You'll do no such thing.”
“What the fuck are you planning?” Maekar murmurs furiously at him.
Baelor's lips curl, “Something far kinder than what you've given Daeron for his last escapade, I can assure.”
“W—what now, Your Grace?” Ser Duncan asks, breathless.
Anticipation licks at the pit of his stomach, hot and feverish like wildfire, “I want you to sit down and put Aerion over your knee, on his stomach.”
Maekar’s face is obscured by their position, but he doesn’t need to see him to picture the way realization draws in his expression—his body speaks to Baelor better than any word could. He feels the weight of his command on his brother as if he is the one inside his flesh; Maekar grows taut, like his bones morphed into hard, valyrian steel like the one Baelor keeps at his hip, his scent blazing up in surprise, a sweet tinge sparked by memory underneath the shock that makes Baelor’s nostrils flare. Oh, there you are. “No.” Maekar chokes, “How dare you to do this to him, your own nephew, with a fucking low-born hedge knight, of all people?”
“There is no one I would trust more to do this than Ser Duncan, brother,” Baelor then lowers his voice, just for him to hear, “Unless you wish me to do it myself?”
Maekar doesn't answer—he only snarls, his scent turning sour.
Aerion sneers loudly, a new wave of energy washing through his body as he starts to struggle again. Small, delicate thing that he is, his nephew nearly looks like a child draped over Ser Duncan's thick thighs, “Is that what you plan? Make your pathetic dog smack my hide as if I'm some snotty, misbehaving child? That is ridiculous, Uncle, especially for you. Is that what you do to keep sweet and precious Valarr in line—” Aerion gurgles amidst words, like his tongue got too big for his mouth, his body suddenly growing limp as a large hand grips the skin of his nape, scruffing him like a pup.
The silence rings louder in the room than his nephew’s previous protests—Duncan’s eyes are wide, shocked by his own behavior, and Aerion’s face slackens in disbelief. His voice is calm and deadly when he says, “Did you just—”
“I am so sorry, my prince, I didn’t mean to—”
Before it escalates again, Baelor steps in, “Enough. Ser Duncan, lift his nightgown up to his hips.”
Aerion’s eyeballs look like they are about to pop out of his skull, showing more white than purple, “You cannot do this uncle, I care not that you are King, I will—”
“Yeah? Please do entertain me, dear nephew,” Baelor says, inappropriately entertained. Maekar twitches against him, “What do you plan to do? Strike your King down? Just like you did with that poor horse?”
Aerion glows a lovely, bright shade of red; the color painting the sharp lines of his cheeks down to his neck and collarbones. Does it go down to his chest as well? The memory of a flustered Maekar, red like a ripe strawberry, squirming on his hands and knees, hiding his face down the pillow comes to his mind.
It does. It definitely does.
His fingers spasm around Maekar's elbows.
However, a brief, curious tendril of thought chimes in: is Aerion’s blush provoked by the position he is being forced to, in front of the only two people that hold any shred of authority over him, or because of who touches him?
The omega changes tactics then, sending a pleading look to Maekar, teary lilac glimmering fragilely like dragonglass, “F—father, please, he cannot do this, you cannot allow it.”
As if breaking free from a spell, Maekar jolts, “My boy,” he pleads hoarsely, “He's my boy, Baelor, you can't do this.”
Baelor sinks his heels to the floor, leaning back slightly to keep his brother in place, “It's for his own good, sweetling,”
It is a low blow—something that he knows will pull one of Maekar's strings, but he does anyway, remorseless.
“Don't call me that,” his brother says, but his voice is choked, like he is trying to shove all the frenzied emotions a mere name could unlock back to the confines of his ribs.
But how could Baelor stop, if it was nothing but the truth? Maekar is his sweetling. Has been since the day he was born; small and fierce, crying his lungs out with his face scrunched tightly, as if the world was to be blamed for forcing him out of the sacred place within their mother's womb. Has been his sweetling each time Baelor held him in his arms, each time he called him strong to make him grouse in embarrassment—even if he was secretly pleased by it. He watched Maekar mature handsomely, filling in his own limbs to the exact shape of Baelor's hands, growing to be the tempestuous man he was destined to be. The one Baelor couldn't take his eyes from.
“You have too much on your shoulders, brother,” Baelor murmurs low against his ear, feeling more than seeing the shiver that runs down Maekar's spine. He smiles to himself, slowly sliding his hands down to the omega's wrists and pulling them back gently, until his arms are secured behind in the small of his back, “Will you not let me help you ease that? hm?”
“I don't need your help.”
“Mayhaps. But there is no shame in accepting it. You are blood of my blood, that's what we do for each other.”
“Let him go, Baelor.” Maekar rasps, but there is no more heat behind it—dulled by cool resignation. He knows Baelor better than he knows himself, therefore, he already knows the answer he will get.
Baelor noses the hair in the back of his head, planting a small kiss on his nape, “No.”
“You are an omega of seven-and-ten already, Aerion” Baelor starts, the disappointment in his voice not fake, but mixed with with a hint of mockery that would make his skin crawl, was he the one the target of it,“Still young, but way too old to be behaving the way you do. Ser Duncan advised me that perhaps, just like Aegon, all you need is a firm hand,” he pauses, purposefully stalling just to feel his brother fidget impatiently, “I think seventeen slaps might be appropriate for you to remember your place, don't you think so, Ser Duncan?”
The Kingsguard gives him a panicked look, one that screams this is not what I meant when I said it, the wheels in his head are spinning, looking for the right answer, until he remembers his King is not really asking for his opinion at all.
He was not informed of what would be happening in this room beforehand, and in spite of being nothing but exceptional as a knight for him and his family for the past five years since he ascended to the throne, Baelor was curious to see if he would do what was expected of him to or not.
Ser Duncan was honorable—almost to a fault, thick headed in his beliefs, his truth, and in any other scenario, he doubts the man would ever will himself to participate in such an endeavor. He would rather have his two hands cut clean if the boy above his knees was Aegon, and he would not hit an innocent even if Baelor himself, his King, asked him to.
But Aerion was not Aegon, and even less an innocent. He was vicious, provocative, and treated Ser Duncan as if he was a large, breathing and moving target for his wickedness. An endless line could be made just from people who would want to spit back at Aerion’s face, but if there was someone who would really have a right to do so, that would be Ser Duncan.
And yet, even with all the scorn he was victim of throughout the years, Ser Duncan didn't hold any grievance towards his nephew—if anything, he seemed to hold some sort of fondness for Aerion. It didn't make him blind to his cruelty, nor made him less guarded when Aerion got too close or less prone to anger when Aerion turned away, but his dazzling blue eyes always glinted with some kind of temptation; an unrestrained, nearly morbid inquisitiveness that made his gaze follow the omega when he was around, as if, for the better or the worse, he could not look away.
Baelor couldn't be the one to condemn him for it, though. He had no morals. No right. Aerion was born from Maekar, after all—whatever magnetism his little brother possessed to clamp around his throat, like a collar on a hound's neck, was probably passed down to his offspring.
A ferocious, yet bewitching omega, just like him.
He was giving the other alpha a chance; an offer that no other man would dare to refuse—and the seeds of doubt are plain to see in Ser Duncan's face: the conflict, how he is torn between doing what he was ordered to do, what is right to do, and what he wants to do. It is not just a battle of his vows against his honor, but his vows against his own flesh. A fight of a knight that obeys and a man that wants.
Ser Duncan swallows thickly, the sag of his wide shoulders the telltale of a decision already made, “Aye, your grace. It sounds.. reasonable.”
Aerion scoffs, loud and full of bitterness, “Reasonable? You must be rejoicing with it, uh, beast? Where is the oh so honorable hedge knight now?”
“It brings me no joy to harm you, my prince.” Duncan splutters earnestly.
Baelor almost believes it.
“I will find joy when I have your head, at the end of a spike—”
“Aerion,” Baelor snaps, “will count out loud. And I advise you to pay attention, because each time you mess it up, a new slap will be added. Do not try to test me, boy, the bargains you do with your father will not work on me,” he tilts his head to the side, “I can keep you here the entire night. Do you understand?”
Maekar's breath hitches; a small, pitiful little thing that anyone else would dismiss as a whimper of hopelessness for his son, but to Baelor—whose body and mind are so attuned with the omega's entire being—it is nothing but a response to a blurred mirror that showcases an image of a past time; of Maekar, some moons younger than Aerion is now, folded over Baelor’s knees, pale and unblemished skin naked as the day he was born, full of fury and defiance, being reduced to heavy pants and cries as Baelor stripped him from all his pride.
He closes his eyes momentarily, the sound sending a jab of heat right to his groin, his cock stirring inside his breeches.
Aerion wears that same defiance as his father once did; his cheek twitching with how tight his jaw is clenched, not giving him the courtesy of an answer, as if forcing himself not to spew the words that he knows will get him in trouble.
Baelor cannot help but feel amused. Fond, even. Let's see how long it takes for him to fall apart.
“Very well, then. Ser Duncan, you shall begin.”
Cautiously, as if dealing with a wild, restless destrier that is one step away from kicking him in the face and not an omega half his size, Ser Duncan hoists Aerion’s robe and nightgown slowly, until the fabric pools over the small of his back—
Baelor blinks, the situation so foolishly unanticipated he has to stifle down a snort; Instead of the flimsy, ghostly white cloth of smallclothes covering his hips, what greets them is the sight of the naked expanse of Aerion’s arse, round and perky, pale skin so soft and immaculate it is almost a sin to leave a mark behind.
Ser Duncan swallows a strangled sound, forcing his gaze away.
For such an evil thing, Aerion surely matured nicely. Baelor licks his lips absentmindedly.
The first slap is so weak it is laughable; like a pat on the back someone would give to a newborn after feeding, even a short aid to a horse's belly to make it trot faster would have more strength behind it.
Maekar still has it in him to huff through his nose, disdainful and unimpressed.
Baelor's mouth twitches, faintly amused, “We both know you can do better than that.”
The condescending tone makes Duncan's ears flush. It is charming, somehow.
He tries again, his palm rings louder, but still not yet what Baelor is looking for.
“Your King gives you permission, Ser Duncan. Do not hold back.”
On the third time, he lifts his arm farther back, the movement makes the air whistle faintly, and when his his open palm meets the omega’s skin, the noise reverberates through the room like a lightning hitting the ground;
Aerion squeals in his lap, hissing as his teeth clink shut by the sudden impact. “Three.”
“One,” Baelor corrects, challenging him to protest when the boy sends a glare that would set anyone else in flames. His brows furrow angrily, but even with his sharp features, the attempt of intimidation is lost by his doe eyes and plump lips twisted in a look of sheer chagrin.
“One,” he grits, grudgingly.
Baelor smiles.
Little by little, as if appeased by the fact that he is not to lose his head, Ser Duncan gradually becomes assertive in his role, his simple mind guided by a wholeheartedly focus; the motions of his arm grows certain, the sound of his hits a crisp, sharp stinging sound that makes both Aerion and Maekar jump.
The alpha’s strength is undeniable, his tunic clings to his biceps so tightly it gives the impression it will rip at any moment.
Aerion jolts forward on his lap like a boneless doll with the impact of each strike, one hand on the settee and the other on Ser Duncan's knee, knuckles white holding himself for dear life as he babbles the numbers. Ser Duncan switches between his left and right cheek, the back of his thighs, and the space they both meet—it makes Aerion's arse blooms crimson like a rose. If Baelor closes his eyes, he can feel the warmth irradiating from the skin beneath his own fingertips.
Only by the ninth slap is when something finally shifts. A different sound knocks out of Aerion’s chest the moment Ser Duncan’s hands strike again; not quite the pained grunts that have been slipping past gritted teeth, but a higher, breathless drawl that rips his throat like it has been forcefully scratched out without permission—Baelor can almost feel its burn on his own larynx—and his scent, previously scorched citrus like a fruit left to rot, spikes sweetly.
“Oh?” he chuckles, awfully delighted by the turn of events, “Now, look at that,” He grips Maekar tighter, resting his chin on his shoulder, their beards rubbing against each other, “It should not be a surprise, of course you would enjoy that.”
Aerion closes his eyes shut, lowering his head onto the crook of his elbow as if to hide from the humiliation that sets his face ablaze, but his own body betrays him, the unobstructed patch of his nape and even his scalp shines pink.
Maekar wiggles, trying to look away, but Baelor forces his head back, “Look at him, brother. Isn't he beautiful?” he murmurs hotly against his ear, timbre low and deep in the way he knows it never fails to bring out a reaction out of Maekar, “He looks just like you at this age.”
“Shut up,” Maekar grits.
“It certainly brings back some memories.” Baelor chuckles fondly, “Did you know, Aerion, that your father used to behave much like you do now? Looking down his nose at anyone he thought his lesser, brutal and unforgiving with his words just as much as with his mace.”
Maekar has always been so strikingly different from Aerys and Rhaegel. He had that weirdly endearing awkwardness to him since he was but a child, stalking after him like a shadow and complaining when Baelor made a comment about it, his little pale brows frowning so fiercely as he was cooed at and had his cheeks being pinched; a habit that Belor still risks the integrity of his fingers from time to time.
He was a warrior, just like Baelor, the lavender eyes—the color to the notes of his scent, mixed with spicy, smoky undertones that was so characteristic of their blood—keeningly assertive and judgmental, the strength in his bones only flowering more and more as the summers went by.
Maekar was the moon where Baelor was the sun, and for all that their personalities could be perceived as opposite of each other, and all the weight of duty and comparison hanging over their heads like an undying storm, for some reason, they got along remarkably well.
But like any little brother, Maekar thought it entertaining to give Baelor absolute hell—having a reason for it or not.
“He enjoyed to test me,” Baelor traces the scarred cheek with the tip of his nose, “to provoke me, because just like you, he thought himself untouchable—until I folded him over my lap for the first time. But I guess it is to be expected, right? You cannot repress the nature of a dragon, but you can surely tame them.”
And taming the dragon he did. Countless times. Sharing blood with Maekar was not enough—Baelor wanted to mark him on the outside too. Wanted Maekar to look at himself in the mirror and not see his own reflection, but the imprint of Baelor's fingertips left on his body, like a brand. To feel the ghost of his touch on his skin when Baelor was away as if he had never left in the first place. Wanted Maekar to never doubt his worth ever again. Wanted him to never think of himself as less, but as Baelor’s.
Aerion’s wanton moans play a luring melody inside his solar, the combination of his nephew’s cloying scent—sweet and ripe and perfect to sink your teeth into—and, as expected, Ser Duncan's thick and rainy alpha musk builds a hazy atmosphere, like nothing else exists in the world but the four of them, in that moment. It makes his stomach clench and his balls tighten.
But what finally stirs his cock to full hardness is the scent of his brother hitting his nose; fresh and floral and heady from where his core leaks.
“Where is your tongue now?” he asks Maekar and Aerion both, all but growling as he rubs himself against his brother, his cock nudging perfectly the cleft of his clothed ass, “Not much attitude left when there is someone to put you in place, hm? You two seem to share that as well.”
Ser Duncan manages to look both flustered and pale, the hair on his forehead sticking with sweat. His eyes are flickering between Aerion and the floor, not once looking up at Baelor, and his body is taut, like a wall of thin ice one flick away from crumbling.
Is he appalled, disgusted, by the revelation? Regardless of not being a proper religious man, Ser Duncan was still raised by the moral framework of the Seven, and those queer costumes were no longer that common between Targaryens anymore, after the doom of the dragons.
If he is, he doesn't say anything. Baelor doesn't believe he could, anyway—how could he think of anything else when Baelor has all but served Aerion on a silver plate to him?
All Ser Duncan does is blink the sweat away and land another smack.
“Fourteen. Father,” Aerion cries, his hand quivering in the air in Maekar's direction before it drops down lifelessly. He rests his head on Ser Duncan's thigh, the corner of his lips twisting downwards as his chin wobbles pitifully, “Please—”
Aerion looks broken. The ferocity he wears like a blade stripped away, leaving only a beautiful boy in its most vulnerable state.
“Look at him, brother, taking his punishment so well. Don't you think he deserves praise?”
Only silence answers him.
“Tell him how well he is doing. How good he is.”
His brother hesitates, the wet sound of his tongue peaking out when he licks his lips tickling his ears.
Baelor wraps one arm around Maekar's waist, the other skating up to his head, his fingers sliding through his hair. He pulls. “Tell him.”
“Y—you are doing well, my boy,” Maekar gasps, throat dry as sand as he grasps Baelor’s hand on his stomach, “Just a few more, it is almost over.”
His words serve as the final push for his nephew, the last infinitesimal shred of control snapping in front of their eyes; Aerion sobs wetly, wrapping one arm around Ser Duncan's leg, crystal tears falling down his cheeks.
“F—fifteen, ngh, Ser Duncan,” he mewls pitifully, shaking his head.
Aerion is far too gone, incapable of anything but weeping and whining. Is at the tip of Baelor's tongue; the reprimand that he forgot to count, but then the final slap comes, and all the words die on his throat.
The boy shudders over Duncan's lap; his face scrunches, red, bitten lips slack open in a silent moan as he leaks from both mouth and cunt on the stoned floor, his thighs quivering violently.
Maekar sways on his feet, slumping back on him like a puppet whose strings were cut. Baelor, like always, is there to stead him. “Shhh, it is over, sweetling, you were marvelous.”
The room feels like a cave swallowed by fire; the gentle breeze useless against the stifling air, thick with the overpowering smell of their combined arousal.
“My prince…” Ser Duncan croaks hoarse, his throat bobbing.
At the sound of his voice, Aerion pulls away harshly, his legs so wobbly his steps are like a newborn fawn attempting to walk for the first time, practically snarling at Ser Duncan when the alpha moves to help him. He supports himself on the arm of the settee, chin touching his chest, just long enough to recover his balance, and then his head is high once again, jaw tight as a stone and wet lilac eyes freezing cold. Aerion juts his chin out proudly while looking at each of them, one by one, and then he spins on his heels, the hem of his gown wisping after him as his trembling fingers reach for the lock, disappearing without looking back.
Ser Duncan keeps staring at the door after he is gone.
The heat enveloping his front vanishes abruptly, his arms empty in the air as Maekar shrugs himself free from him. His brother straightens his shoulders, sliding his hands down the front of his robe as if smoothing invisible wrinkles, composing himself. He throws Baelor a hard, livid look, the high of his cheekbones flushed, lips in a thin line with his jaw clenched tight enough to pull a muscle, before following his son and leaving the room, the hinges creaking as the door slams shut.
Baelor sighs heavily.
He had that coming.
Ser Duncan clears his throat, shifting nervously from foot to foot, “Your Grace, hm, may I—” he trails off, looking at the door. Baelor takes notice of his state; black swallows the blue of his eyes like an eclipse, there is a darker, damp spot in his breeches on the side of his thigh, a few droplets on his calves, and his hands are folded at his front, trying very hard to hide the obvious straining of his cock.
Baelor winces inwardly in sympathy, “You may go as well, Ser Duncan. Thank you for your services.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He hunches down, fetching his dismounted armour hurriedly in his arms.
Before he steps out, Baelor calls him, “And Ser Duncan?”
The alpha stops, turning his head slowly.
“I do count with your… discretion, about what happened in this room tonight.”
“Aye,” Duncan nods swiftly, and then he is gone, leaving Baelor alone with his thoughts and the uncomfortable weight of his own throbbing cock.