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Ormund loathes how used to the scent of dragon he's become.
It's a strong scent, meaty and thick. Almost oily. The kind that moves beyond pleasant or unpleasant into simply potent. And lingering.
He had hoped, when the monstrous little beast he had been forced to harbor grew too large for the tower, he'd be rid of it. Once it was no longer able to drape its breathing carcass around Daeron's shoulders and snap its jaws, curl round his neck and protect his throat. Sleep in his bed, warming it with scales forged with fire.
He hated even looking at it, shining and sinewy and unnatural in every way, limbs wrong and wings leathery. A demon born of blood magic, dangerous to the body and the soul. It should have been locked away, sealed off from all eyes, left to die and rot in dust.
He had meant for it, but Daeron would not be parted from the creature, despite all his warnings, all their hours together upon their knees in prayer, all the attention and distraction Ormund provided.
Daeron still went to see it, to fly upon it, and came back with the stink of it on his skin. And let it linger in his keep, always underlying, clinging to the stone.
Even after Ormund gave orders he was to wash immediately afterward, in cold water with lye soap.
Even after he forbade him to use the halls and stairs, banished him to the servant's doors and corridors when he returned from flying.
Even after he had his riding clothes and boots burnt, too caked in mud and stench to tolerate.
Daeron still left the tower in rain or shine or freezing cold without complaint and without ceasing, dashing his hopes that perhaps it would be a novelty to be forgotten.
Instead, Daeron loved the thing, its spell as wicked as it was insidious.
Because others spoke of her too. Without disgust.
Visiting lords, men of the city, maesters and captains. They were proud of it, cheered its shadow when it swept over their roofs, forgetting it was a vicious animal that would burn them and eat their children without remorse or hesitation.
And he had no peace from it, at all, even in his own halls.
No matter how Daeron scrubbed himself, skin pink and raw, with coarse cloth and harsh lather, Ormund could smell it on him.
Even after leading the boy into his own tub, the waters warm, using his own hands to rub him with sage and violet soap from his private stock. Dried him with fine linens from the cedar chest before his bed. Or drawn orange oil and a comb through his hair, as copper and thick as Ormund's own, left long enough to curl around his neck. He had even daubed myrrh from his personal silver censer behind his ears, dots in the shape of his fingertips thick and black and fragrant.
Underneath was always the trace of ash and scale and death.
Smeared onto Ormund’s own sheets the nights he had Daeron attend him there, sweating out onto his skin, leaking through his cock.
Coated on Ormund's own where he'd been inside, buried to the hilt in his hot, tight body, not even his thick seed dripping from the pink, puffy hole enough to smother it.
He can smell it now, having invaded every inch of his ward's bedchamber, despite how often Ormund has it cleaned, has sachets of rose petal placed in drawers and only sweet beeswax candles burned long into the night.
He knew it would be everywhere, tainting the space and the pillows and even the fresh linens.
It was why he'd stripped and set his clothes by the door to keep them clean before reclining on the bed himself, knowing that Daeron would sleep on it later, coated and stained, after they had finished.
Would smell him, on his mattress, for once.
He had the sheets changed an hour ago, needing them new, before dismissing the servants.
It's well kept, the boy’s room, books stacked neatly and music sheets for his lute put away. It's comfortable. Ormund didn't expect it. He spends little time here, prefers to summon Daeron to his study or his solar or the furniture in his rooms.
Likes to have him there, dressed and not, hair spilling onto the unforgiving wood of his desk and little noises pouring from his throat. No matter how he tries to swallow them.
He knows Daeron enjoys it as much as he does, their time together.
His body cannot lie, and his tongue does not try to.
And his step is approaching, familiar as his own, as is a disgusting cloud of the scent of dragon with him.
If Daeron finds the emptier than usual hallway strange, the guards and servants told to keep away, there is no hitch in his step or hesitation in his hand to betray it.
He steps into his own rooms easily, absent smile on his face and hands on his doublet until he sees Ormund, naked and waiting.
He falters then, nearly stumbling, staring eyes wet and wide.
Ormund likes it more than he'd thought, the eyes on his form, and brushes a hand down his chest to his filling cock, watching Daeron's eyes track its going.
"Sire. I— I did not expect...I am sorry, I should bathe, I'll just—"
"Did you have a good ride?" Ormund asks, with a smile in his voice that does not reach his eyes.
Daeron's face had fallen, as he'd spoken.
He's trying very hard not to look at him now, and that will not do.
"I did. There was fair wind. Mild weather."
Ormund makes a vaguely agreeing noise, reaching now for the small jar he's left on the bedtable.
"Not too sore?"
Daeron swallows, hard.
"I am. Well. Sire. No pain."
He's lying. Good. This time Ormund's smile is real.
"Then there's no sense in wasting a bath, or the soap it would take to get you clean."
Daeron's face now is his favorite of them all.
He's seen the jar, and knows now exactly, hope against hope, what is to come. That submissive acceptance, the give in his muscles, is as sweet as pushing into him.
He strips without having to be told, body soft and rounded despite training and riding and carefully balanced meals.
Ormund would not have him changed in one direction or the other, not when time will do enough damage.
"Prepare yourself," he says lazily, but raising an eyebrow when Daeron moves as if to kneel on the bed. He freezes.
It's not often he has Daeron do it, preferring to feel the hot give of the pucker himself, making it slick and ready, but he likes it, watching the strain in his legs and arching feet, perched on his toes, his belly tensing and bulging with muscles doing their work.
The little flickers over his face, the mingling of pleasure and pain, the furrow between his brows and the widening of his eyes when he remembers he's being watched.
He won't have done it right, rarely does, and much less now.
Not that Ormund gives him enough time, anyway, beckoning him forward.
At least he has the sense to set the jar down, not letting it thump onto the carpet. No need to add to his tally.
Daeron expects to be tumbled, shaking a little, trying not to brace for it, onto his back or his belly.
It's the way Ormund's always had him.
He wants something different tonight.
Something new.
To him, anyway.
Daeron's face only flickers with confusion for a moment, when Ormund settles his knee by his hip, then it goes carefully blank.
Ormund enjoys it for a long moment, the view of Daeron above him, his breathing lungs, his strong legs, his almost interested thick pink cock.
And then, without looking away, he reaches for himself, lines up, and brings Daeron down on his burning, throbbing, stone-hard cock.
He knocks the air right out of that pretty, pale, freckled chest, Daeron's mouth punched open wide and wet, eyes teary. Thrusting hard right where he must have already been aching.
He wraps his hands around those muscled, defined thighs, that sat on a dragon's back earlier and are now spread around his body, holding Daeron there, feeling his hips twitch.
And then he lets go.
After a minute, Daeron understands. And begins to ride.
It's different, like this. It's better.
He's as hot and tight as ever, but Ormund is deeper in him, spearing inside further with every drop of his weight.
And Daeron cannot hide the noises now, cannot hide the effect on his body, the way his back straightens and his head falls heavy, his eyes closed as they roll up, the glide of his waist, the jump of his cock, beading and dripping at the tip.
He was made for this.
Ormund had always known it, but watching him bounce now, greedy and wanton, something in chest unfurls, bright and sharp.
He likes it, he must, taking it like a whore.
Like a dragon being rutted into by a mate, to be stuffed with spawn. Wild and beastly, an animal in heat, in need. Crude and lustful. Exposed fully at last, the taint in his blood clearer than ever, despite prayer and schooling and careful guidance.
It cannot ever be purged from him.
Because it's not Ormund who is doing this to him, not holding him down, or pulling at his hips, hardly thrusting into his hole.
It's Daeron who rides him like he is the dragon, grinding down, gasping and squeezing and sucking him in deeper.
Ormund cups him from below, runs his finger over the wide stretch of his rim, weeping wet where it opens for his cock, and Daeron jumps, falls forward, hands braced on Ormund's chest.
The angle rubs his own cock on Ormund's taut belly, stroking wet and hot into the hard flesh.
It just takes one hard pull, closing his fist far too tight, and Daeron is spilling, going deliciously, impossibly tight around Ormund, arms trembling with the effort of keeping him upright while Ormund thrusts up and up inside him, his thighs clearly aching and saddle-sore.
He doesn't let Daeron collapse until he finally peaks, spurting deeper into his body than he ever has, scalding him with seed.
He kisses his sweaty, dragon-scented hair, feeling tender, where the boy hides his face in Ormund's neck.
Perhaps now he will reconsider his outings, knowing this. Or perhaps he will become more avid to ride.
He breathes, chest against chest, rhythm settling, and Ormund hopes the taste and scent of him fills his mouth.
Because now, excitement spent, all he can think of is the film of grime and fluid and beast and dirt on them both. Filthy.
"I require a bath," he says, disgusted and not bothering to hide it, pushing him up and away.
Daeron blinks, slowly, coming back to himself. To his senses.
"Yes, sire," Daeron says, casting his shuttered gaze to the floor.
He wobbles toward the door, leg as unsteady as a newborn foal's, fire all snuffed out.