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Ormund inspects the boy himself.
The maester had been clear, and calm, even, as he delivered news that must disgust any man, and the Gods themselves. It is a Targaryen malady, a malformation, unnatural and abominable. A gruesome secret to be burdened with.
And it is there when he looks, pink and pretty, a shy slit below his pale stones and above the darker furrow of his hole.
It has been recorded before to happen, with the blood of the dragon the maester had said, and Ormund had not liked his tone.
Would ensure the man would be sent away and beset upon the road to be beaten into the silence of the grave by guardsmen that could be mistaken for bandits. His hands smashed and eyes plucked out.
It was intolerable, the look in his eyes, the offer to help, the desire to study the boy, his changing, growing body.
At just past five and ten, there was much more to go, more pains than the cramping and discomfort and then the clear terror, the secretiveness, the way he had not let him close, that had Ormund calling the maester in the first place.
He'd feared diseases, the whore's pox, looming death.
The answer had been far worse, and the maester wicked. He'd seemed happy at the news, expecting Ormund to be, enough to slip past a sly insinuation in front of the boy that this could be miraculous, desirable, a boon rather than blasphemous.
Disgusting.
Unnatural and immoral.
It must stay between them, they two alone, stay secret and shamed. It was a duty, a need, to keep the appetites of the dragon leashed, lusts chastened and excesses curbed. Reins held firm and crop raised.
Only Ormund seems willing, able to do it.
At least when Ormund finishes with the maester, dismisses him, and returns to the chambers, the boy is waiting, as he should, sitting quiet and straight backed in his shirt and nothing else.
Despite the clear, visible contamination of the blood in him, the bloom of it open and wailing between his thighs, inside his belly, Daeron remains obedient.
Trembling but dutiful, spreading those milky pale legs, blue-purple eyes on the ceiling and throat silently swallowing, to let Ormund see it.
The cunt between his legs.
Such a dainty looking little thing, not quite the length of Ormund's thumb.
But deep, and greedy, sucking it in all the way to the second knuckle when he presses at its lips.
It gives, flesh soft and wet and puffy, walls hot and slick inside the boy's body.
Somewhere above, Daeron sucks in a breath, and trembles, but does not fight.
"Do you bleed?" Ormund asks, in the tone he's learned to mask his ire, his agitation, his moods. It sounds calm, to his ears.
"No," Daeron says, voice close to steady.
He's learned, is learning. And not lying.
Good.
Ormund had known that, already, after all. He smiles. And waits.
"But. I could bear a child, the maester said. If it became necessary."
He's deeply flushed, pink crawling up his chest and neck and cheeks, cunt darkened red around Ormund’s thumb. Fluttering. Sucking.
"How could such a thing ever be necessary?" he spits, striking like a whip, digging the weight of his hand down inside Daeron's soft cunt to bruise it on the bone beneath.
It hurts, it has to, from the wince, the weeping eyes, the hard clench of wet muscle around his taut knuckle.
The sunken skin of his belly, harshly sucked in to shield his womb.
"No, I didn't mean, I wouldn't, it's that he just said—" Daeron babbles, and Ormund, as he always does his fear and tears, wipes them away as easily as he summoned them.
"Forget what he said. I know, my boy, that you want to be good," he soothes, rubbing slowly now, in wide circles along his insides.
The boy shudders, nods, hard enough his teeth click.
"So heed me. You will not let anyone have you here. Ever. You will sleep in locked chambers, and should I ever have even a whisper of suspicion you will drink moon tea without complaint or question."
The boy hasn't done either for Ormund's orders in years, not since he was very small and untrained.
He's molded to Ormund's liking now, nodding and promising, his cunt wrapped tight around his thumb.
Drawing him deeper.
It won't break his maidenhead, but it will bruise him, leave him sore and raw enough to not try and follow its path, touch himself in the dark.
Ormund doesn't even need to command it.
"Good," he says and slides it out, watches the gratitude and relief flood Daeron's smooth, pretty face.
He cannot grow a beard, rarely even stubbles. It had seemed odd, that the years had not brought it. It seems clear now the years never will.
"Open your shirt," Ormund commands, idly, not missing the carefully hidden wince when Daeron sits up, eager to obey.
As his fingers fly, Ormund brings up his hand to his face, needing to know.
The skin is sticky, all over, the angle and the slick having travelled in fat around and down to drip from his wrist.
The smell is mouthwatering.
It is only years of temperance that keep him from popping his thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean like a hungry babe at the teat.
Gods, the scent of him.
Musky and earthy, rich and warm. Thick.
Soothing even as it makes him ravenous. Makes him want to push Daeron back, to kneel and push his nose right inside the boy's cunt and breathe until his head floods, swimming in it.
Like it might consume him whole and he would like it.
It's wildfire, the impurity of him leaking through, pouring out. Blood magic, and heresy, and every one of his ancestor's sins writ large. A pyre that threatens to burn them all.
A thought, which cannot be his own, flits across his mind: what does his cunny smell like when stirred? When fucked? When clenched up and peaking?
He pushes it away, thinks of the gods and repentance, of the safety of his soul, once more in danger from Targaryen lust and madness, through no fault of his own.
It must show on his face, because a deeper tremble runs through Daeron, hard as he tries to hide it, visibly rippling through his pale, naked skin.
There's a spatter of freckles over his chest, a soft dusting that looks like it could be brushed off with the right pressure. With a cleaning cloth and a firm hand.
There's no swell to him though, except a fatness to his nipples, rounder and pinker and heavier than any boy's should ever be.
Unlike he could feed a babe if it was fucked into him, hanging heavy against his bones.
He'd need a wet nurse, like a fine lady. He isn't either.
"May I dress myself?" Daeron tries, voice small into Ormund’s long staring silence.
He must be desperate, terrified.
As he should. Ormund had known he'd been hiding something, suddenly shy and secretive, withholding, a sudden flare of rebellion to be stamped out.
It was always going to come to this.
This is better than him sniffing after a maid, putting a bastard in her belly. This is worse. He might be the one growing round.
The thought should have him striking the boy, throwing the books by his bed, knocking over the furniture. It cannot happen.
But the cooling drool of Daeron's hungry cunt is going distractingly tacky on his skin, and the scent of it is grounding, soothing, centering. Tempting.
It needs to be wiped away.
"Lay back," Ormund says, and Daeron goes, fixing his eyes back to the ceiling, blinking quickly to banish his tears.
He doesn't see Ormund draw the handkerchief.
He changes it daily, has them cleaned often. Not everything can be overcome by a sniff of his flask, sometimes he needs to smother himself, blot out his breathing. The only way is with the linen, as clean and as scentless as can be managed.
Likely it only smells of Ormund himself, blind to his own odor.
It's a pleasing thought.
"You must be cleaned," Ormund says, and doesn't look to see if anything crosses Daeron's smooth face.
He strokes the outside of him, low, avoiding the musk of his stones or the limp line of his cock, pushing it flat onto his belly.
There's a fine line of hair there, so pale he cannot see it with his eyes, just his fingers.
As he swipes along the pretty little slit, hard and firm and sure, it swells, and weeps.
Pushes out, pink and bloody-fat, puffy, the lips as wet as if he'd licked them.
It's easy, to press inside, even now, thicker round.
Just one of his fingers at first, bound in the cloth, only to the first knuckle.
That's still too much, from how Daeron strangles a gasp in his chest.
He cannot help it and groans when Ormund pushes it the rest of the way in, hard, struggling even with how drenched he is, hot and damp even through the handkerchief, like a heavy breathing mouth.
His fists, still soft for a squire, clench hard on the hard ridges of his hips as Ormund keeps working him, scouring him from the inside.
His cock has filled out, dark and painful and ignored against his belly, rippling with how he struggles to control his lungs.
He fails, little punched out moans and whimpers coming in a steady stream from his throat, lips a tight white line, clasped by the sharp teeth behind.
He'll learn. In time.
As it is, Ormund gives no quarter, no whisper of mercy, using all the strength in his hand to press inside Daeron, rubbing and stroking and crooking.
It's easy, from how he gives himself away, the shift of his hips and flex of his thighs and the noises, from his throat and his soaking, sopping cunt, to divine what he likes, where he wants more pressure and thrusts. Where he’s sensitive, and it’s too touch, too rough.
He gasps, going finally still after so long fighting it, when he peaks, closing tight around Ormund's fingers like he means to keep him there.
He spills on his own belly, too, spurting creamy and cloudy, puddled around the fat pink head of his cock.
Would his gash clutch at nothing if Daeron fucked someone, sheathed his cock in another?
Even as he was spilling in them would his sopping slit ache for Ormund to fill it?
He couldn't, as the boy's guardian, as his kin, allow him to try and find out.
He had done this for him, to scrub him clean, burnish out his impurities, to ensure he only thought of shame and sorrow and pain at the idea of using his sweet little cunny for any kind of coupling.
The handkerchief came away dripping as he pulled it free, clumped, fragrant and dotted with tiny rosettes of blood where it had chafed.
Ormund did not open it; to grab and drape heavy and heady over his entire face but it was a near thing. His hand shook, as he tucked it into his doublet, over his heart, for safekeeping.
He could breathe it in later, preserve it, suck it into his mouth and nose. His reward. Alone in his rooms, with time for prayer and his own two strong hands to do it.
"You did very well, Daeron," he says, calmer now that the smell of the boy and his slick, his cooling spent excitement has filled the room.
Daeron says nothing, carefully minding his manners, drawing his knees up to his heaving chest, ankles crossed.
He doesn't realize that Ormund can still see his swollen, aching, glistening cunt behind.
"Go to bed now. Say your prayers and then sleep," he adds, the way he does every night.
Daeron nods, but doesn't move.
Waiting for him to leave, as if there's anything left to hide. As if he could if there were.
He was set to wait until the next day, until sleep dried his tears and soothed some of the ache, but it seems he must bring down the crop now.
Even if it steals his slumber.
At least it should keep his fingers from wandering.
"We shall have to do this again, Daeron."
The boy doesn't bother to try and mask the shiver that travels through him at that. The freckles on chest, the little specks he can see over the swell of rounded kneecaps, dance.
"It is for your own good, my boy. You do not bleed, and yet you must have your monthlies. Be kept clean. Cleansed. It is a difficult duty, and it must be kept secret and solemn. No one can see you thus, no one can know, no one else can expose themselves to your…deviation without damning themselves. They're weak. Even I will spend the night in the sept atoning for this."
A night, anyway, eventually.
Daeron shuts his eyes, hard.
His cunt tenses too, where Ormund can see the edges, clenched like a fist.
Then he remembers himself and nods. Knows what to say. What he’s been taught.
"Thank you. You are too kind to me, sire. Thank you so much."
Ormund smiles.
"Anything for you," he says, cupping his face, gently stroking his cheek.
He means it.
But the boy flinches, as if struck, skin wet under his palm, and that is when he realizes just which hand he's used to do it.