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Like it almost always did, it started with the sweetest of quiet mews. That sent Ivan's heart racing, his eyes shooting open from his light rest. Then came the occasional, gentle creak of the wood of Papa and Mother's bed. Already Ivan's blood was pulsing through his cock, hardening from his excitement. Before he could make his move, he had to be sure that Meya was asleep. He turned his head to his right, looking over at her sleeping form in the bed against the opposite wall. His sister breathed slowly, not the kind of shallow breaths she'd give whenever she pretended to be asleep. But Ivan could not risk it. As softly as he dared, he whispered her name on a breath. When she did not stir, Ivan moved carefully out of bed.
Ivan was large and tall now, like Papa, so he took great care to move slowly, avoiding making any noise. He stood against the wall, peering through the tiny hole that he was now tall enough to see through. It had been an imperfection in the wood, high on the wall back when Ivan was small. But now, all he needed to do was lean forward to see right through it. It gave him a vantage point right into Papa and Mother's bedroom.
There she was in all her glory. Her long, blonde waves cascaded down her bare shoulders and back. When he would read stories of princesses and knights, Ivan couldn't help himself from picturing Mother as a princess. He had never met a woman more picturesque, so perfect in her beauty.
Mother sat up straight in Papa's lap, slowly bucking her hips, rising up and down on his cock. Papa's tan hands gripped her hips tightly, his dirty nails digging into her clean, pale flesh. Again Mother mewed, a breathy moan that escaped her lips. She looked down at Papa, watching him, her mouth hung open slightly as she audibly panted. The way Mother moved her hips, the slender curve of her body emphasized by her gyrating hips, it made Ivan's cock ache. He wore his underclothes, his cock pressing against the material of his bottoms.
Ivan let saliva quickly pool in his mouth for a moment, and then licked his fingers with the thick wetness that he had conjured in his arousal. Watching intently through his peep hole, Ivan pushed his hand into his underclothes, taking his hard cock, eager to relieve the nearly painful ache that felt like fire flowed through his veins. He pumped his cock slow, trying to match Mother's movements. Biting his lip, he tried to control his breathing, needing to be absolutely silent. If only that were him beneath her slim, smooth form, maybe he would be able to pant and grunt all he likes… If only…
Joffrey couldn't stand to take it this slow. It was a nice way to get things started, but it would never make him cum. He set his hands on Sandor's hairy chest to get better leverage, thrusting his hips down on Sandor's cock faster, harder. Sandor gripped his hips hard, pulling Joffrey down against his lap and forcing him to stop.
"Slow," Sandor grunted quietly.
A flash of anger shot through Joffrey's body. Daily he suffered through the responsibilities of their peasant lifestyle; the garden, the housework, the farm, the children. Hiding in plain sight as a woman. All to remain alive and stay by Sandor's side. In moments like this, when they were alone, sharing their affections with their bodies, it was all worth it. Like nothing had changed, as if they were still the King and his Hound. But Joffrey was in no mood to suffer a command from Sandor, not like this. Perhaps if it was what Sandor really wanted, to go slow in favor of going fast, Joffrey might indulge him, wanting to please him, wanting to make him cum. He knew better, though. Sandor did not want the noise of the bed, nor their lovemaking, to disturb the children's sleep. Neither had any idea that it already had.
With every day that passed, Joffrey thought of home, wistfully daydreaming about the halls of the Red Keep. It was the one place he truly wanted to be, the only home he had ever known, yet he could never return. Not physically. But he could always return to the better days of his past in his memories.
Joffrey leaned further over Sandor's body, continuing to feel up his muscled chest where he rested his hands. Staring down into Sandor's dark eyes, Joffrey furrowed his brows.
"Obey your King, dog," Joffrey hissed quietly, "Fuck me harder."
For a brief moment, Sandor looked up at Joffrey in confusion. He understood what his lover had said, but it took him a beat to decide how he felt about the command. He could practically feel Joffrey's cunt tightening around his cock when he called himself King. He had become so dutiful in his position as a commoner's wife, even though he hated so much about the life that they had built for themselves. Sandor should have expected that a born and raised prince turned King could never fully settle into their simple life. At times, Joffrey could be happy, but more often than not, he would be in a sour mood, dreading his day and trudging through it. Sandor knew that he terribly missed the cushy comforts and mighty power that he had lost in their exile.
Sandor could not deny his little cub the indulgence.
"Yes, Your Grace," Sandor grumbled.
Sandor gripped him around his slender waist, laying Joffrey on his back as he slid back into position. Looking between their bodies, Sandor held his massive cock in his hand, teasing the tip against Joffrey's wet cunt, swollen with arousal. Joffrey's own tiny, hard cock laid uselessly against his pubic bone. Joffrey shivered, squirming his hips.
"Godsdamn you, dog," Joffrey hissed, "Fuck me… I command it."
The Hound obeyed his master, pushing his cock back into the velvety warmth of Joffrey's cunt. Sandor was too focused on his lover to care about the noise of the bed, as he picked up the pace from the slow riding that had begun their nightly dance. Thrusting a bit faster, deeper, Sandor's obedient hard fuck was causing the heat of Joffrey's arousal to burn hotter. He clung his arms over Sandor's neck, huffing out shaky breaths as Sandor's cock brushed against the back walls of his cunt, filling him up completely to the brim with each thrust.
Unable to control himself, or perhaps unwilling, a full moan of satisfaction flew from Joffrey's lips as he tipped his pretty head back against the pillows. He gasped in quick succession as Sandor's hand suddenly gripped tight around Joffrey's throat, clamping down against the moans that were in the process of rattling out of him.
Ivan always hated it when Papa forced Mother to be quiet. Her moans were more delightful than any music he had ever heard, and they replayed often in his memories, enticing him in his dreams. He gripped and pulled on his cock hard, continuing to try and match the pace of the movements that he saw. Mother was shuddering from Papa's rough touch as he squeezed her neck, her face twisting in pleasure and desperation for more. Oh what a beautiful sight it was, to see Mother actually enjoying herself…
"Shut your fucking mouth," Sandor growled in between his panting breaths, "Can't let the whole of the Red Keep know that you're a whore."
It was more dirty talk to play into Joffrey's fantasy, but it served an additional purpose. In the back of his mind, he really didn't want these sounds to rouse the children. He had no way of knowing, but it was too late for that.
Joffrey set his hands on Sandor's wrist and forearm, holding onto him, wanting to keep his grip right where it was. The little lion could practically see the warm, gold decor of the King's chambers back in the Red Keep. He wanted nothing more than to return to the years that they had spent as secret lovers, back when Joffrey was quite literally king of the world. He chased after the fantasy, trying to will it to come back to life. The King and his Hound. He caught Sandor's eyes once more, and a mischievous smirk stretched across his lips.
"Let them hear," Joffrey wheezed against the pressure on his neck, his windpipe squeezed smaller, allowing just enough air to pass through, "The King— H-He does what he likes."
Sandor groaned lowly, thrusting faster, their bed a ceaseless symphony of creaking wood. He couldn't even hear it. Looking down into Joffrey's wild green eyes, he caught a glimpse of the little lion's mad desire. His eyes were piercing, demanding, taunting Sandor to rise and meet their expectations. Sandor would like to exceed them, if he could.
"They'd have my head on a pike," Sandor murmured, "If they knew of all the ways I defile their beloved King."
Joffrey's legs shook, and he pressed his thighs hard against Sandor's hips. He panted whatever breaths he could pull in and push out through Sandor squeezing his throat. Again he was unable to keep his moans quiet. Writhing beneath Sandor's thrusts, he let out a few sharp, quick moans. The sound made Ivan feel like he was going to fall over, his legs weakening at the knees. Sandor put a stop to the noise, giving Joffrey a quick squeeze that choked him back into silence. He eased the pressure quickly, still gripping Joffrey's neck yet allowing air to pass again. Joffrey never once broke eye contact.
"I'd kill them all before I let them near you," Joffrey said, unable to speak any louder than a whisper due the pressure of Sandor's grip.
Ivan was not the only one who longed to hear Joffrey's moans. Sandor pulled his hand off of his lover's neck, leaning down and replacing his grip with the nip of his teeth, biting down hard into the flesh of Joffrey's throat. He closed the space between their bodies, fucking the little lion hard and fast, huffing and grunting against his mouthful of skin. Joffrey clung his arms around Sandor's back, letting out breathy, high pitched moans in between his panting breaths. He was not loud, but he was not quiet, either. Ivan felt like his head was spinning, his precum spilling out into his hand, only making his stroking easier and more pleasurable.
Joffrey knew that Sandor was getting close whenever he would start gnawing on his neck. The man really was like a Hound, biting into his mate's throat to claim him as he fucked him like a dog. The pool of burning hot pleasure deep in Joffrey's gut began to clench tighter, the heat rising, his pleasure spreading through his entire body as the wave of his orgasm pulled back, preparing to crescendo.
"Sandor!" he cried out, his cunt squeezing around the length of Sandor's cock as he came hard, his body shivering.
Joffrey's pulsing cunt milked Sandor of his cum, and he groaned gruffly against his lover's throat. He bit down hard into his flesh as he pumped Joffrey full of his seed, causing the little lion to whine in pleasure, his orgasm still ongoing.
The sounds of Mother's moans and her face as she experienced the height of her pleasure sent Ivan toppling over the edge, and he came a mess in his underclothes, his teeth clenched and lips pressed together tightly. Shuddering, Ivan stopped pumping his cock, but he continued to grip it. Once the pleasure subsided and he regained his sight, he looked through the peep hole once again. He tried to pretend that it was him laying over top of her, his cock still pressed inside her. It made his raw, softening cock ache in his hand.
Joffrey hugged tightly around Sandor's body as he caught his breath. Sandor released the little lion's flesh from his mouth, pulling back his head to look down at the flush, satisfied face of his lover. The mad desire in Joffrey's green eyes seemed to have subsided, leaving his gaze softer. Joffrey looked over the Hound's aged, scarred face, drinking in every detail. He pulled a hand from Sandor's back, setting it gently over Sandor's scarred cheek. He had been obsessed with Sandor's scar since the first moment he laid eyes upon the man when he was a young boy. It framed his handsome face, it marked him as the Hound. And back then, everyone knew that the Hound belonged to King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.
"I love you," Joffrey hummed to his dog.
A warmth spread in Sandor's body, in his heart. Beneath him laid the mother of his children, the only gifts that he had ever gotten in his life that truly mattered. His boy Ivan, with Joffrey's golden blonde hair and green eyes, who's fourteenth name day had just come to pass. He was a good boy, if a bit simple. He had dreams of becoming a knight someday, which Sandor tried to discourage. He was only trying to prepare the boy for the realities of the world. Knight or not, he believed that Ivan could grow to be a better man that himself. It was all he could ask for. Then there was his girl, Meya. She was just like him in every way. A dark haired, dark eyed spitfire fighter who would not be beholden to her sex. She was the best of Sandor, with hardly a trace of her mother about her. Sandor was grateful for that. Training both his children, trying his best to teach them about life and how to care for themselves, receiving their unconditional love in return for his own; that was the best part of their simple life. Sandor loved being a father, and that never would have happened had Joffrey never bore his pups.
Joffrey was the only true lover that he'd ever had. The only one who had ever loved the monstrous Hound while knowing fully what he was. They had always been alike in that way, monsters who thrived on violence and their own hedonistic urges. Like a father, Sandor had tried to curb the worst of Joffrey's behavior, the only one willing to even try. But he could not change the little lion from what he was. Sandor had grown to accept it, for he could not change himself either, or what he had done in the past. But the Hound's love sanded some of the edges of Joffrey's rage, even if Sandor had to deliver his love with a rough hand in order to quell the little lion.
Their simple life was far from perfect, but Sandor was happy with it. Even when Joffrey acted like a cunt, he tried to be a little understanding.
The boy had been publicly humiliated by his grandfather, exposed as a bastard, his crown taken away. He would have been put to trial and sentenced to death for the massacre tantrum he had gone on during Sandor's temporary absence, determined to murder his mother for separating him from his beloved Hound by sending him away. Bastards trying to kill the Queen Regent was treason. Joffrey's head would have been put on the wall, had Ser Jaime not stepped in with the help of Lord Varys to spirit away the false King on a ship to Essos. Lord Varys had only agreed to help when he had learned that Joffrey was with child.
All this while the babe Ivan had been the size of a raspberry in Joffrey's womb. Sandor didn't want to live and die in King's Landing anyway. He had always wanted to leave, he just couldn't tear himself away from his little lion cub. Joffrey's exile was the perfect ticket out of that shithole of a city. Now it was the two of them, their children, their farm on the furthest outskirts of Myr. Joffrey's androgyny let him pose easily as a woman, his true identity hidden from those who would trade him to the Lannisters for the massive amount of gold on offer in exchange for the traitorous bastard.
Wrapped in Joffrey's warm embrace, Sandor would hardly change a thing. Just Joffrey's temperament, if he had the choice.
"I love you," Sandor replied quietly.
Joffrey cupped the back of Sandor's neck, pulling him into a deep kiss.
Ivan shed his soiled bottoms, and returned to bed. He tried not to fume. He loved and respected Papa, but when it came to Mother, Ivan would brim with painful jealousy. He knew it was wrong of him, to love his Mother as more than a mother, to sometimes hate Papa for being the one who got to be with her. It made Ivan's guts churn with guilt. But it was the way that he felt. He knew he had to keep his feelings a secret, but that didn't mean that it was an easy thing to ignore.
Meya could never understand why Ivan had always been a mama's boy, and she had told him as much. Mother was always teetering on the edge of a bad mood. She was mean, and her praise was extremely hard to come by. Once, when Ivan was a toddler, Mother had tried to scold him by whacking the back of his head. Papa hard torn across the room and smacked her hard, growling that she would never lay a harsh hand against his child again. She never did, but that didn't stop her from being cruel with her words. When she would occasionally cross a line that Papa deemed unacceptable, he would smack her hard again. It tore Ivan apart to see Papa hurt Mother. Meya saw it more for what it was, a stupid game played by a loathsome and unhappy woman.
It was clear to both of the children that Mother loved Papa far more than she loved the two of them. Meya often doubted that Mother loved them at all, and she felt the same way, only tolerating Mother because she was Papa's wife. Ivan just couldn't bear to bring himself to think badly of Mother. Her praise may be hard to earn, but it wasn't impossible. He would do everything in his power to make Mother smile, laugh, to make her happy. In his heart, he tried to treat her the way a true knight should treat his Queen. Mother took notice that her boy was sweet, but she felt that her son owed her that kind of love.
He had taken to riding out to Myr when her name day approached, working a few days for Lord Ennyl at one of his shops to earn a tiny bit of gold to get her something nice. Nothing too lavish, but the gesture always put Mother in one of her better moods. One year he brought her a scarf, since she liked to cover her face when they would go to the city. It had been a crimson red, her favorite color, but otherwise quite plain. Mother still wore it often, always using it when they would visit Myr. Her grin when Ivan had presented it to her was wide and wistful. Years of exile had made Joffrey desperate for the slightest taste of the finer things.
"At least my son knows what I'm worth," she had teased to Papa.
Papa's presents for her name day was simply to spend the day with her, to unburden her of her chores for the day. He would get her wine, but it was for the both of them. That left the work to go Ivan and Meya. Meya always grumbled, but Ivan happily put in the work to make Mother happy. Even if it made him furious to see her kissing and touching Papa down by the river where they bathed.
Ivan had read about his affliction in books and scrolls from the Myr library. Targaryen Kings and Queens would marry their siblings, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews. The books told tales that it kept their dragon powers potent, but Meya said that was just made up nonsense to justify the fact that they simply liked to do that sort of thing. It made perfect sense to Ivan. Royals were beautiful, weren't they? And Mother was beautiful like a royal. Maybe that's just what happened when someone was beautiful like that. It would inspire a love that transcended familial bounds.
Still, Mother belonged to Papa, and the world frowned upon the feelings that Ivan tried desperately to repress. He knew that he could never let his feelings be known, not to Mother, not to anyone. This would be his vice, his burden for him to carry alone. But a good, true knight could carry any burden valiantly, and remain dedicated to their ideals. Papa always said that there was no such thing as a true knight, that no man could embody perfect honor. Ivan was determined to prove him wrong.