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A nose nuzzles against his temple, warm, fussing.
It had not been so easy at first. Ser Duncan too unwilling to go against his vows, against his promise to his father, much too preoccupied about propriety and their combined respect. Duh. Blah. The works.
But Valarr has patience, a pretty cunt and an even prettier face. Three things that have gotten him quite far in life when his title and his tantrums couldn't. He has found out, through certain experiences, that men are easily persuaded by desire even if they play the cards of honor. Perhaps he'd betted on the deck of duty too harshly, sighing too openly when denied, pretending to be disappointed by the service of a man not even sworn to him just to get his way
He got it, though. That's all that matters.
Duncan is sweet. Valarr's unsure why that hurts so much—The softness leaves a dull ache behind.
The man is everything his father says he is and then some more. Always righteous, so fucking good all the damned time, as if anger and upset were emotions he did not even ponder on even if the situation called for them. His loyalty to Baelor is unyielding, his loyalty to House Targaryen a weapon of theirs, for the man serves just as well as a warrior as he does as a lap-dog. Even when he's at a disagreement with their choices, with their traditions and their nature, even when the blood of the dragon burns hot and spills brightly, he remains posted up where he's put, never going against the word of his master.
It's easy to tell why Baelor adores him so.
He's everything that Valarr isn't. The son born out of the mold Baelor would've liked to crack open the day Valarr arrived to the world.
His father loves him, that he knows. It is not Baelor's love that he questions—He has had it for years. But that love has always come with conditions, with expectations and responsibilities that have worn Valarr thin like an overused parchment over the years. His father's love hangs loosely from a half-torn string that's already breaking at the seams from the times he just wasn't enough.
The Hedge Knight does not suffer the same fate. His failings, his misbehaving and even the nature of his birth do not sway Baelor from adoring him like the son he never had.
And Valarr despises him for it.
It's ugly, unbecoming of his station, throwing away all the behavioral lessons given to him over the years as he was prepared to, one day, be sat on the Iron Throne as its rightful heir.
The realm has had its fair share of bitter kings, mad kings, cruel men who took the seat and made it their mission to terrorize those who were below them. Sadly, their blood also runs through Valarr's veins, as much as he despises this fact, and it is in watching his father walk the halls of the Red Keep with the Knight in tow, following him like a puppy, that he understands them a little bit better.
“My Prince,” Duncan's voice has him lazily lolling his head, eyes rolling up, staring into the ocean-blue that's all darkened. “Should I–,”
His eyes track to the open window, which gives a generous sight of where Valarr is seated upon the oakwood table, barely dressed in his sleeping clothes. Realistically, no one can see, but the open windows means that noises get out, and there are ears in every corner of the Keep.
Valarr sits back, arms splayed behind him. “No. Leave it be, just focus on what's happening here.”
Duncan looks like he wants to argue about it, and he would, Valarr knows, if it weren't for the foot that sneaks up and presses against the clothed cock that's already stiff, hard where it's hidden behind his breeches.
Would it matter if anyone heard? Probably to someone else; the King, maybe, and his father, because he's too annoying about how a Prince ought to behave despite that being highly hypocritical coming from him.
The servants already talk in hushed whispers, over the scrub of clothes and the baking of sweet goods, while brushing the horses and cleaning empty chambers. They've whispered about Valarr since the day he was born. His Dornish features are often at the center of the discussion, his rightful place on the throne often questioned because he does not look the part of a Targaryen royal. Those same whispers echoed about his father when he was Valarr's age, too.
If it's not about that, then it is about his attitude, about his tendency to whine when displeased, about his skills as a warrior, about the way he still acts like a child at eight and ten. Always. Everything is questioned, talked about as if he weren't a whole person instead of just a figure they can gossip about without a second thought.
Ser Duncan, though… He's the noble Knight, the gentle giant that helps the servants carry heavy baskets and doesn't snicker at the stable boys when they look at him sideways. The only whispers spoken about him are about how good he is, about his height and his honor. The girls giggle among themselves pondering on if everything about the man is as big as he is. He's loved, desired, respected, while Valarr is just there.
Duncan grips his calf, pushing a soft gasp out of him with the force of his hold. His head hangs low, always shy to hold Valarr's gaze.
“M'lord, can I—let me,”
Valarr spreads his legs, shivering at the sight of the giant kneeling in between his thighs, not looking any smaller at all. Calloused hands reach to ruck up his sleeping shirt, merely exposing his clothed cunt and the lean expanse of his stomach.
It is as all things should be; Duncan bowing to him, knowing his rightful place beneath Valarr's sole.
It does not make him feel any better.
“Let us be quick,” Valarr sighs, feigning disinterest despite the crimson flush that spreads across his cheeks and chest. “I've matters to tend to.”
Duncan hums, peeling off Valarr's smallclothes with a swift touch. Valarr bites back a sharp intake of breath at the exposure of his cunt, wet, dripping already, to the soft morning breeze that leaks in from the open window he's posed next to.
He is no longer the green boy he was at Ashford Meadow. Duncan has grown, that experience having shaped him deeply, he still wears the scars left behind by Aerion's blade and hands as a proud demonstration of his victory. Valarr has exchanged correspondence with his cousin over the years, though Aerion was never fond of him and the feeling was mutual, but during his most frustrating moments he finds himself quick to the quill and parchment to rant about the Knight who everyone deems as the best in all the Seven Kingdoms.
His mind goes back to Aerion's words the first time he wrote to him after the exile quite often, merely to talk about Ser Duncan's service to their house and to share his uneasy feelings.
Someday you will ache like I ache.
Aerion was not one to be forward about his emotions. Valarr often thought him to possess none, for he was quick to cruelty and he enjoyed blood more than one could enjoy a glass of Arbor red. In fact, most of his words were just crude remarks directed to Maekar and his siblings, some insults for Valarr and jabs at Baelor's pride. But that last bit, the one that looked as if it was written by a shaking hand, had stuck with him for moons.
His father had almost died to turn in to defend the Hedge Knight against Aerion's mad accusations. His uncle had almost worn the badge of Kinslayer for the rest of his days. The King had been sunken in grief while his heir, his first-born and most beloved son, recovered and battled fever after fever. Troubles that should've been kept between the two caused a hemorrhage in the family name, bleeding shame and humiliation through wounds that were yet to close.
Ser Duncan had acted righteously, yes. He'd made good on his vows. He had the right intentions when defending the puppeteers from Aerion.
But a Prince of the realm had almost died. The heir to the Iron Throne. Valarr's father.
He had been knighted under the same vows, had sworn to only ever wield his blade upon those who wronged the people he loved or the innocent, just like Duncan. And yet, when he looked back on what had happened, what unfolded afterwards and his current situation, he couldn't help but think if he might have been wrong to have been so quick to go against Aerion.
Moons later he'd found himself weeping in the lonesome darkness of his chambers after having been told off by his father like a toddler. There had been an incident during training in the morning—He had snapped at Ser Duncan, said ugly things that the master-at-arms had repeated to the Hand later, clearly. He had been pent up with stress, strung tight with the expectancy of his upcoming trip to Dragonstone to see Matarys. Duncan's footing wouldn't get better, he would swing his sword like it hurt him to do so.
“I expected better from you,” Baelor had said, fingers twisting his rings in that nervous way of his. He sat solemnly at the solar, illuminated by the candle light, looking disappointed. “I now see that I was wrong.”
The words had gotten caught in Valarr's throat. His eyes stung, threatening to spill over. “Father–,”
“Save your apologies for Ser Duncan, Valarr. If you wish to do something for me, to mend your mistakes, then be better.”
Have I ever done anything else? Valarr had wanted to ask as he rushed out of that stuffy solar. All I do is for you to see me. I am your son. Blood of your blood. You are my dragon-kin. My King.
A knock on the door had startled him out of his sobbing. It had been Duncan, standing awkwardly outside his door—He'd come to check on the Prince after learning how Baelor chewed him out for what happened. The Knight had come to comfort him. Not to seek out a vengeful exchange or to collect his apologies.
Valarr had dragged him into the room, begging to be fucked in between tears and pleas. Please, he'd begged, like his Valyrian blood did not curdle at the prospect of being made to kneel, just tonight.
I see it now. He'd written to Aerion the morning after, his thighs bruised, his cunt leaking, a secretly snuck cup of moon tea stewing by the window. The meaning of your words. The weight of my own troubles disarms me. I ache, too. Unlike you, I cannot get away from the ache. So I have given it a purpose. I refuse to go mad.
Aerion's response had been short, never lacking its usual bite, though there was an underlying sense of mutual understanding between them now.
Lys is full this time of the year, dear cousin. Do try to not see yourself exiled, our family can only take so much of losing their brightest youth.
And, do share the size of his cock. Draw it out if you can. Make it detailed and neat.
A high pitched whine escapes him as the expanse of that coarse, rough tongue dwells into his soaked folds. His hands come down to Duncan's hair, gripping the golden-auburn toned locks, sensing the water gathering in his scalp from an earlier wash, it seems like. His thighs tense around the Knight's head, keeping him enclosed there, like a caged animal devouring whatever's given.
Duncan is surprisingly fast to lust, despite how he's stammered about the lack of experience and his vows before. Valarr has found himself engulfed in activities only ever seen at pleasure houses before.
So much for his knightly ways… The man loves to have Valarr bouncing on his lap, he gets this certain look behind his eyes—Like he knows the Prince's shame burns through him as violently as his need, boiling his blood, making him run hot and weak under those rough hands. Valarr knows it's not true, but sometimes he basks in the tale that he might be tearing the Knight down with him, dragging him to the same pit he lies in after they're done and he's left all alone once again. He imagines Duncan crying in his bedroom the same way he does, with a certain quiet ferocity, clawing at his own scalp and praying to the Seven to make him right.
“Fuck,” He snarls, one leg kicking; the blow lands against Duncan's shoulder, making the man groan. “Just like that.”
Duncan hums around a mouthful of pussy, slurping, drinking, licking. His thumb presses against the boy's clit, merely holding there, not rubbing him or touching him properly.
He has thought before about his father and the Knight. The Hand and his sword. Who he stole from Aegon after the display of Aerion's ruthless cruelty, always making decisions for others who have their own tongues and minds—He had tried to wager with Maekar for the boy to join them at the Keep, but with the loss of Aerion and the tragedy of Daeron's state his younger brother could not fathom letting another son go. Maekar had been cruel with his words then, reminding Baelor that he would never have to see it done to his own sons.
Valarr thought, absentmindedly, that he might just be much more content in the Free Cities. At least there he could just do anything, not have to witness someone living the life he's pretended to live for years with none of his effort behind it.
Have they done this together, too?
It is a sick, horrible thought, one that has brought him to a panic before. But one he cannot help.
Has Duncan offered himself to Baelor as he does with Valarr? Has he gone straight to his father's chambers right after having wetted his cock in Valarr's cunt? Maybe hoping, praying, that their part of the lineage is done with the extreme levels of familiarity between kin and Baelor does not recognize the scent of Valarr clinging to his stubble.
Outside the birds chirp, there's the distant echoes of clashing wooden swords, the quiet chatter of servants and guards alike. Valarr wonders if they can hear him—He's not really holding back, mainly because he does not want to, but the sickening thrill in the back of his head has him picturing a scene out of a dramatic play where Ser Duncan is caught with his face stuffed into the heir's cunt and dragged to the dungeons to await the eventual death sentence bestowed upon him by King Daeron.
Duncan's fingers join his tongue in its adventures, two at the same time, stretching Valarr wide as the boy gasps and writhes. His chest heaves, he's covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his mouth is wide open, body thrown across the table.
A kiss is pressed to his clit, wet, loud. Valarr flushes a dark crimson, a Targaryen red.
“That's filthy,” Valarr exhales. “You're filthy.”
Duncan mewls, nuzzling against the inner side of Valarr's thigh. “I showered before I came here, m'lord.”
“That's not what I meant, Ser,” Valarr rolls eyes, biting down a whine that crawls out of his throat as Duncan scissors his fingers inside him. “Hold your tongue.”
“Very well.”
Duncan pulls back, standing to his full height. He towers over Valarr—over everyone—and plucks his fingers loose, licking over the slick gathered on them.
“I did not command you to stop.”
“You asked me to hold my tongue,” Rough fingers grasp his thighs, spreading them wide as the Knight slips between. He's unlacing his breeches with one hand while maintaining Valarr spread open for him. “Isn't this what you want, my Prince?”
He frees his girthy, thick, terribly big cock, it stands flushed red and weeping already. The weight of it is immense against Valarr's thigh, smearing pre-come along the pearl-toned skin.
Gods, Valarr had drawn it.
He'd grabbed parchment after studying the Knight closely, using his wet, big eyes to plead for the man to let him explore just to weigh the size of him and properly memorize the look of it under candlelight. He had refused the guard who offered to send the raven for him, flushed down to his neck as he insisted it was him who should be the one to send it. Bloodraven be damned.
“Get on with it, then.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Valarr's hand flies to the Knight's shoulder as soon as the head of his cock grazes against his entrance, rubbing it across the expanse of his folds.
“Scared to hurt me now?” Valarr taunts, eyes darkened, mismatched irises tracking every expression on the man's face. “That was not the case mere nights ago.”
When he'd accused Duncan of trying to turn his father against him, right after a particularly difficult council meeting and a scolding from his father right in front of the King. Daeron had not intervened, though he had, later, plead for Baelor to go easier on the boy, lest he intends to ruin him before the boy can even sit on the throne.
He had taken his anger out in the training yard, against a mock puppet he imagined to be the Knight, then his father, then it turned into Aerion and dragons and the personification of every grief he held lodged within his ribs. Then his father had walked by, shoulders at ease, his face returned to its usual calmness, accompanied by the Knight with the goofy smile who was making him laugh and blush like… like a maiden. They looked like they were courting each other.
Valarr had seen red, he had gone and grabbed a real sword from the armory. His hands had blistered and bled right after, the hilt of the sword indented on his palm, and the puppet lay beheaded.
Duncan had not taken the implications kindly, he had gotten upset, as anyone accused of whoring themselves for an ounce of attention would. They had hissed at each other like feral cats and then Duncan had taken him from behind, pounding him into the mattress with little to no regard for the boy's body. Valarr had limply taken himself to the council meeting the next morning and struggled to sit himself down, his cunt still raw and sore, and he had not asked for the Knight's head.
“I said I was sorry,” Duncan groans, looking glum at the reminder. “You told me it was fine.”
Valarr sighs. “Put it in.”
“I—I am—,”
“Don't act shy now,” Valarr drags himself toward the edge, running a hand down Duncan's chest, feeling the rough fabric of his clothing, so unlike the Targaryen silks he'll wear later. “You want me to tell you I want you? Well, Ser, I want you."
The young Prince rises slightly to press a soft peck to Duncan's lips. They rarely kiss a lot, only when Valarr needs to be quieted, really, and it's never as warm as he hopes it to be.
Duncan breaks then, feeding him his cock inch by annoying inch. The breach steals the breath from his lungs, forcing his fingers to tighten around the rough fabric. Valarr's mind goes eerily quiet as Duncan bottoms out inside him, balls pressed to his taint, body covering him entirely as he leans forward to shadow him.
Valarr sobs, Duncan reaches over to wipe away his tears. Kind touches are not rare whatsoever, Duncan's gentle even to the garden bugs, but they make Valarr recoil.
The council's hour draws near, he can hear the phantom knocks of a servant announcing her arrival to dress him. Yet here is; impaled on the cock of the man he loathes. Clinging onto his shoulders for leverage as he's pressed further onto the edge, held by those wide hands that cover the expanse of his waist with little to no issue. His forehead drops to Duncan's chest as the man allows for a moment to catch their breath.
“Hurry,” He begs, tear-streaked face hidden in the scratchy cloth. “I'm not fucking weak. I won't break.”
Duncan groans, holding him still. “Just wait.”
“We've no time—I want—I need–,”
“Valarr.”
His name comes out as a bark, as an animalistic groan as the Knight drags himself back until only the tip of his cock is inside the young Prince.
Duncan slams back home with no mercy, battering into Valarr's cunt with little to no hold back. Valarr's lithe, tinier body shakes with every thrust, jolted forward and backwards. The bruises on his thighs will have him ushering servants out of the washroom before he can even undress, only giving them further to talk about. He'll ache well into the week, but he doesn't care.
It's much better when it hurts. Far better when there's proof of what he's done for the sake of pleasing his father. For the sake of the realm.
His legs wrap around Duncan's hips, locking him in. Valarr's skin chafes due to the fabric of the shirt he's still wearing, nipples sensitive and raw. Their noises echo inside the room and then leap outside, Valarr can't bring himself to care much. He sneaks a hand in between their bodies and reaches for his clit, rubbing it in an awkward rhythm as Duncan fucks him all the way to the next moon.
“Ser,”
"My Prince,” Duncan gasps, teeth pulling at Valarr's lobe, making him shiver. “Are you alright?”
Valarr nods through the tears, clinging, wailing. “S—someone's bound to come,” He gasps, legs shaking, stomach turning as he feels the boiling grasp of the coil inside him. “Please—,”
“Let me… let me take care of you.”
He smacks Valarr's hand away, replacing it with his own. That rough thumb rubs at his clitoris in the same tandem of his thrusts. Valarr's trembling, his spine taut, muscles spasming.
Do not, he wants to say, I don't want you to.
It would be a lie, wouldn't it? Valarr's mind swirls as he's weakened by the vulnerability of his own body, yielding to the Knight's ministrations just as he yields to his own guilt and shame by letting him debauch him like this. He wants it. He wants to run away to Dragonstone and be with Matarys for the rest of his days. He wants Aerion to return to finish what he started. He wants his father happy, even at the cost of his own sanity and health.
He wants Duncan to swallow him whole and let him live for him.
“Dunk—fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Duncan rubs him through his orgasm, groaning as Valarr's tight cunt clenches around the girth inside of him. His orgasm tears through him like a blade, bleeding him dry and leaving him wide open.
His nerves are on fire, his thighs ache, his body is taut like a bow string and held carefully like a sharpened sword. Steel and blood drip on the back of his throat—Teeth clenched, gums hurting. It lasts a little too long, his shivering form only coming down a few minutes later. Duncan stops touching him once overstimulation settles behind his bones.
There's a mystified look to his eyes as he glances up at Duncan. The man stares back down at him, chest rising up and down heavily.
Duncan pulls off him, he grabs his cock, hand wrapped around the base, and then he's stroking himself over Valarr's thighs. It's a kindness he's not owed; Valarr knows this, he should be dripping the rest of the day, left to think about what happened in the morning until it makes him spiral all over again. Valarr watches, hazy-eyed and warm in the cheeks, and jolts back once Duncan's seed spills all over his pale thighs.
Afterwards it's quiet, always. They dress themselves back up, or… Duncan does, lacing up his breeches and giving him a glance over before bowing respectfully. That makes Valarr chuckle sadly, wetly. He's just a Prince. He'll warm a seat until his bones decay and he's gone, and then it'll be his son's turn, and then all the men after him. There'll be songs about the Knight echoing through the halls of the Keep once Valarr is long gone, but his name will be just another one in the scrolls.
A servant girl arrives to dress him up, she does not question the bruises blooming across his skin, the scent of sex and sweat reeking off him. The silks hug him warmly, he slips the dragon-pin on his shoulder and swallows in front of the mirror.
His father's face stares back at him, his mother's softness, those Dornish features the court questions and brings up whenever they aim to hurt him. Not the right son. Not the right heir. Not the right King. Never right. Always wrong.
Ser Roland knocks on his door, voice booming. “My Prince, we ought to leave for council.”
Valarr sighs. At last, he'll just have to get through the spring for now.