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“Can we stop this?” Valarr asks, his voice shaky.
“We're almost done.”
“No, we are not. Tis ridiculous. You cannot possibly expect me to memorize every single banner under the seven kingdoms.”
“Why would I not?” Baelor frowns, “It is a King's duty to know the houses within the kingdoms he rules. You are my heir and far from half witted. If I manage to do it, so can you.”
“We've been here for the p—past hour, Father.”
“Have we?” Baelor looks around, feigning ignorance; they have been locked in his chambers for a few hours now, judging by the sky. The bright, yellowish orange beams of sunlight setting over the horizon sprawls over Valarr's clammy skin like a gentle caress, his brown eye shining golden as he looks up at Baelor, slightly unfocused gaze full of annoyance and impatience. He doubts his boy had this in mind when Baelor suggested a game, “Forgive me, you know your father loses the notion of time when he is in good company.”
A sweet, faint tint of pink dusts Valarr's cheeks; that, added with the glow of the natural light, only emphasizes the freckles sprinkled on the bridge of his nose and collarbones, decorating his flesh like countless stars.
Baelor licks his canines—he could devour him whole.
“Can we please b—be done with it?” his boy tries again, his feet wriggling mid air as he half sits, half lays, supported by his elbows, over the long wooden table.
Baelor gives him a look, squeezing his knee gently, “Come on, sweet boy, just a few more, hm? You're doing wonderfully.”
Valarr worries his bottom lip, stifling a whine and the rebuke Baelor knows he has at the tip of his tongue. He nods at last, resigned.
Baelor hums pleasantly and for the boy's obedience, he curls his fingers upwards, digging right against Valarr's sweet spot, “Good. hm, let me think… green and brown maple leaves strewn on a field of yellow.”
Valarr licks his lips, “House Blanatree.”
“Very good. Red crabs—”
“House Celtigar.”
He smiles, using the thumb from the same hand he has buried inside his son's warm heat to rub tight little circles over his clit, "A black vulture holding an infant in its claws on yellow.”
“House Blackmont,” Valarr answers, swallowing thickly. He looks like a painting someone has breathed life into, like the embodiment of Baelor's most immoral, lascivious dreams; his brows are furrowed, eyes firmly shut as he throws his head back, jaw slacked in a silent moan. He opens his trembling thighs wider, completely lost in pleasure, shamelessly offering himself to Baelor’s mercy.
His cock twitches in his breeches at the sight, imploring to feel the tightness of his son's cunt, yet Baelor remains resolute.
“Three blue beetles on gold,” he removes his fingers slowly, watching with no little amount of satisfaction how his whole hand is coated with Valarr's wetness; it drips down to his wrist, dampening the sleeve of his own doublet, the fabric sticking to the skin, but Baelor pays no mind to the tacky feeling.
As if on a spell, Valarr sways forward; his open doublet, the only thing he still has on, finally hangs free off his shoulders, mismatched eyes clouded with arousal, red bitten lips open as he tries to suck on his fingers, but Baelor stops him, gently pushing him down the table again.
A while ago, he made a habit of offering his hands so Valarr could clean him off, unintentionally training the boy to crave the taste of his own slick when it was still thick on his father's tongue, soaking his beard—but his baby was bold by nature, and by result, he grew too spoiled; too greedy, thinking he could feast on what it didn't really belong to him.
“Later,” Baelor promises, licking his fingers absentmindedly. His lips curl at the feeling of the wrinkly texture of pruny skin against his tongue—they have, indeed, been at it for a while now, “Now, answer.”
“House B—bettley,” Valarr forces out.
“Good,” Baelor grazes his touch where Valarr's hips and legs meet, thumbing the lips of his cunt open, before he purses his lips and spits. The act is crude as it is unnecessary—Valarr gushes in abundance; a small pool of slick gathers where he sits, seeping through the wood like it wants to keep memory of their debauchery—but Baelor does it anyway, if only to hear his boy strangle a whine in embarrassment, before unceremoniously shoving his fingers back inside, “Orange and blue; upon a black canton there is a golden stag beneath an orange bend sinister.”
“Ngh— I know this one, it's, it's—” Valarr trails off, lashes fluttering prettily as his hips buck forward on its own violation, trying to force Baelor deeper.
Baelor smacks the inner side of his thigh, “Valarr,” he warns.
His boy quivers, “House B—bolling?”
“Is this a question or an affirmation?”
“An affirmation, Father,” he pants, pebbled nipples whispering a siren song, begging Baelor to bully the small buds with his teeth as Valarr's chest heaves up and down.
“Correct. Very good indeed,” Baelor allows himself the indulgence and gives in to his urges, leaning down and wrapping his lips around his left nipple, “See, you are a natural.”
Valarr squeaks, eyes looking like gleaming gemstones as he gives him a pitiful, pleading look when Baelor pulls back, “Please, enough of this, Father. It hurts.”
His cunt blooms crimson like a flower at the peak of spring; petal lips swollen and open, clenching sporadically around his knuckles, glistening as if Baelor has poured honey between his legs, “Poor thing, It does look painful, hm?” he drawls, mock-sympathetic.
Valarr nods desperately, his brown hair bouncing.
“A black three-headed dragon,” Baelor starts.
“No! Father, please—”
“A black three-headed dragon,” he repeats firmly and gives a harsh, mean thrust, jamming his fingers cruelly against his walls, the squelch of his wet cunt loud and lewd, “breathing black fire on red.”
“House Blackfyre,” Valarr chokes out, white knuckled grip on his arm to support himself.
Baelor's lips tease the shell of his ear as he growls, “The house of who?”
“The house of the traitor,” his son hiccups, shaking his head hurriedly, “Ah, Father, too much, please, please—”
“A red three-headed dragon, Valarr,” he grunts louder, licking the salt of sweat and a stray tear from the side of Valarr’s face, “breathing red fire on black.”
“House Targaryen,” his son all but screams, “the house of the dragon, the house of m—my King. Please—”
“Come for me, baby, your King commands it. That's it, give me everything, there we go.”
Valarr's face contours; a nearly pained wail scratches out of his throat and he shudders frantically, his legs closing around his wrist as Baelor holds him through his orgasm, milking his cunt until both his clothed forearm and the floor are damp with his son's release and Valarr tries to swat his arm away, overestimulated.
Baelor gives him time to recover, rubbing his open palm over the moist expanse of his back until his breath his even, “You were perfect, sweetling. My beautiful boy.”
Valarr huffs a sleepy smile, rubbing his cheek on his shoulder, “Thank you, Father.”
Baelor pats the back of his head affectionately, kissing the white strand of his hair three times, fondness almost overshadowing the lust.
He isn't done with him yet, though.