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None of the usual tricks had worked this time.
That stings almost as much as the decision itself, Aerion thinks. He’d made nice and played up every flicker of affection that he’d ever felt for his father – despite the betrayal, he loves him more than anything else in this world and he wants his father to know that before he makes his choice – and offered other acceptable options that had come to mind; had been on his very best behaviour and none of it had helped. Finally, after he’d stooped to trying to negotiate at the dinner table, Maekar had called him to his study and had berated him thoroughly enough to never beget another discussion on the matter.
“I understand that you think that all of this is beneath you,” he had said, voice dripping with annoyance that had hurt worse than the words themselves, “when, in fact, it’s beneath none of us. It’s especially not beneath the second son of a fourth son. This is a better lot in life than many of your station would receive.” He had patted him on the back; a clumsy attempt at absent-minded comfort. “Cease your whining and be patient. You will be Prince Consort one day.”
And that had been that.
It hadn’t been a long engagement. He suspects that his father had done his best to rush it along before Prince Baelor had found a reason to change his mind and Aerion had amused himself for the better part of his wedding feast by glaring daggers at his uncle on the other side of his groom and studiously pretending that the groom in question does not exist.
It’s silly and petty. They’d grown up together, meeting whenever the two branches of their family would unite and herd all the children together for their lessons. They had played, then, and sparred and fought and he has no memory of when it had all soured, only that it had. He remembers complaining to Daeron that their cousin is a horrible, dreadful brat and receiving an ever unhelpful ‘So are you!’ in return and whatever the issue had been, it had grown teeth and turned into a subdued, charged resentment that had let them here.
Still, there are some small mercies to be appreciated: he’s caught up in a conversation with a highborn man that he’s desperately trying to recall the name of when he feels a hand brushing against his, hesitant but noticeable for what it means. They’d made first contact outside of their oaths and he hadn’t been the one to reach out first.
“Husband.”
And really, Aerion knows that he hadn’t been married off to the most talkative man in the Westeros, but he could at least stand to address him properly. He grits his teeth into another smile and hears an offended sniffle somewhere by his left ear.
“Must you insist on this behaviour?” A haughty huff. “Father said that it would be so. I should have heeded his warnings.”
That is enough to make him turn around. Aerion tries to retain his perfectly pleasant expression, but it’s a feat. “What would you have of me, my love?”
It clearly takes every bit of restraint out of Valarr to not roll his eyes.
“We have a cake to cut. Darling.” It’s barely audible, but his beautiful face is the perfect picture of a doting lover and Aerion resents him a little for that, too; for always appearing exactly as he should.
Still, he knows his duty. Not to be outdone, he lifts their still-joined hands up above the table and in full view of their guests to kiss his husband’s wrist, tender and intimate, never breaking his gaze from Valarr’s expressive eyes, curious despite themselves, staring unblinkingly back at him.
“Of course,” he says at last and reaches for a knife, noting with glee the way half of his family leans forward in alarm all at once at the movement. “Let us cut the cake.”
~.~
It’s hardly the first time Valarr had been embarrassed by his house. On the contrary, in fact; it’s rather alarming just how often it happens. He had just never expected it to ever happen quite like this.
Upon Aerion’s insistence, they had held two ceremonies: the one swearing in the name of the Seven in front of a septon for the realm and a more private one for their family, in the customs of Old Valyria. Valarr had done as had been asked of him and bears the sights of it now – his lower lip and his palm sting where they’d been cut and there’s still the heavy, coppery taste of their joined blood in his mouth, taken from both the goblet and from his husband’s dutiful kiss. There’s blood smeared on both their foreheads, too, and they’d been halfway out of their ceremonial clothes as they’d been pushed into this room for their bedding, dishevelled and ungainly, and the last thing he wants is to fight with a good portion of the Seven Kingdoms’s nobility right outside their door as witnesses.
Perhaps they’d mishear, he hopes distantly, and would mistake the rapid breathing and occasional curse for pleasure rather than profound frustration as they try to wrestle each other into submission.
“We cannot be doing this,” Valarr hisses when he finally manages to pin his cousin down by the wrists, grunting with the effort of keeping him there when Aerion tries to throw him off like a misbehaving horse. He straddles his hips and presses his weight down as purposefully as he can, angered further by the mulish glint in those stubborn, fiery eyes. “Have you no shame? They’ll know if we haven’t completed the ceremony—”
All it had taken had been a single moment of irritated distraction for Aerion to gather his strength and before Valarr can blink, their positions are reversed again and they’d rolled over precariously close to the edge of the bed. Perhaps they would fall and his darling husband would hit his stubborn silver head on the headboard and get some sense knocked into him – an unlikely outcome, considering the next words out of his mouth. “Lie still and we can complete it just fine.” His tone is almost conversational, one hand idly unfurling the last remaining ribbon of Valarr’s robe off of his chest. “Your father has informed you of your duties, I assume.”
“Did yours?”
“Of course.” There’s a feline sort of languid arrogance to him and it’s as enthralling as it is unbearable, his thighs clenching around Valarr’s hips when he makes to push him off. “But that’s not what I asked, was it?”
“I’m well-informed. My father was kind enough to warn me that you’re a spoiled-rotten little cu— Fuck!”
With no warning whatsoever, Aerion had squeezed his hand in his own, making sure to press his damned thumb directly into the cut running through his palm, somehow remaining in place even as Valarr flinches from the pain, and the sweet smile that had graced that entrancing face all day melts into something far more victorious and just as sadistic.
“I wouldn’t bother. I’ve always been the better rider between us, cousin.”
“Ride, then.” Feeling a little bolder, he pries his uncut hand out of Aerion’s deathly grip and reaches out to caress his lower back, sliding down until he can squeeze the handful of flesh pressed flush against his groin. Aerion scowls, absurdly scandalised, but the answering shiver betrays him. They’re both hard by now; it seems a waste to keep fighting something as inevitable as this. “Why all the fuss?”
“Ride. Like one would a mare?”
“Like one would a dragon.”
That seems to catch his attention – Valarr had been told of his husband’s fascination with their family’s history and sees the appreciation in his eyes now as he finally quiets and nods, decisive and almost awed, before climbing off of him and off the bed, rummaging through the scarce belongings in their new room before he gets his hands on the vial of rose oil tucked underneath some of their haphazardly discarded clothes and tosses it on the covers. “All right.”
Valarr eyes him warily, propping himself up on his elbows. He gives another thought to whoever might be outside their doors, waiting for Seven knows what kind of sign from this room. He desperately hopes that they can’t hear them talk, in any case. “All right?”
“All right.” And before he can manage another suspicious inquiry, Aerion wraps his hands around Valarr’s waist and pulls him down unceremoniously, bending his legs at the knees for him as if he’d needed assistance for that, tilting his head inquisitively at the indignant yelp that pulls out of him in response. “Sit tight, husband mine. We’ll make a dragon out of you yet.”
He allows himself to be undressed the rest of the way, as befits someone of his standing, and is just about to command Aerion to hurry this along when he stops to watch him coat his hand in the oil rather thoroughly instead, making a mess of the bed, of himself and, at last, of Valarr as he settles between his legs and – with care that he’s not used to when it comes to the man he knows so well – presses a finger inside him, watching with rapt attention as Valarr gasps and frowns and settles, nodding his assent.
It’s the oddest thing; giving himself over like this to someone who had never treated him with the least bit of consideration, competitive and rough on his best days, but Aerion handles him with a strange reverence, as if he’d decided to make good on his promise from moments ago; as if he had suddenly taken on a responsibility that he hadn’t expected to be offered. He thrives on being approved of, Valarr would guess, but it’s not an easy thing to be sure of when he does so little to get anything but scorn. Here and now, though, he’s methodical and gravely serious, his trembling hands serving as the only sign that they’re passing a threshold of a kind together as he wipes them off on the covers just to slick himself up and carefully press his way into Valarr’s body, coaxing him into relaxing as he goes, manoeuvring him gently until his knees are bent at an angle he hadn’t thought himself capable of, pressed high up on Aerion’s back like he could spur him on if needed.
The discomfort gives way to tentative pleasure and if nothing else, then he at least now knows of one thing in this world that keeps Aerion quiet – his eyes are wide and hungry and fuck-drunk and every time he bottoms out, he makes a wounded sort of moan in the back of his throat, subdued and cut off by his own scarce self-control, and Valarr would have had much more to say about it if he’d had the breath for it, but it’s not to be. Each thrust sends a burst of sparking pleasure up his spine and pushes both of them a little further up the bed and he grasps clumsily at Aerion’s hair, pushing his head downwards and into a sloppy, distracted kiss that drowns out the noise they both make well enough. The cut still hurts, especially when his cousin makes a point of nibbling on his lower lip, but he bears it for what it is; for what it seems to mean to him.
We’ll make a dragon out of you yet. If it’ll placate him enough to get him to behave, it’s good enough, and it’s just plain good, too. It’s good, perfect, even, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Aerion has his hands firmly planted onto the bed as he fucks him and only shakes his head when Valarr makes to let go of him. It’s driving him mad with need and he’s painfully hard by now, waves of pleasure coursing through him every few moments that make him feel suspended on an edge that he can’t quite step off of. It’s only a little push.
“Touch me,” he commands, proud of how level his voice is, and turns his head to the side in displeasure when Aerion leans down for another kiss. “Get your useless hands on my cock,” he elaborates through another gasp, “or get off of me so I can do it myself.”
He’d asked for it, he supposes, but it’s still knocks the breath out of his lungs when Aerion obliges, lowering himself down onto one elbow and getting to his knees, one hand wrapping around Valarr’s length, uncoordinated and rough and in a complete counterpoint to the rhythm his hips keep, so he gets no rest at all – his body is bent nearly in half with the new position, every alternating sensation feeling like it’s strumming on each and every one of his senses and he’s strung tight, suspended in the wrappings of his own making.
“D’you like that?” Aerion asks and it comes out painfully earnest, a whimper forcing its way out when Valarr nods and he can feel a new realisation take root, power washing over him as he understands what it is that he can give, solid and tantalising. The dragonriders of old had sometimes had horns or songs or chants to bring the beasts to heel if needed, he’d heard, and the rush of finding what works must have been as exhilarating as this is.
“Yes,” he nods again, more of a sob than a word as Aerion doubles his efforts, but the message comes across perfectly well and he pushes further in turn, the urge they both have to push each other to the brink feeding into itself in an endless circle. “Yes, husband. You’re so good, Aerion.”
That’s what does it, in the end – Aerion’s rhythm stutters with a choked-off groan and his hand on Valarr’s cock strokes him furiously, almost painfully, as his thighs clench around his cousin’s waist at the sensation of his seed spilling inside him. It only serves to drive him that much deeper and by the time Valarr reaches the edge he’d been chasing towards, he feels boneless and spent, curling around Aerion’s body and clutching at him so firmly that his nails must be leaving marks down his back, but it’s all right – no one but him would be seeing that either way – and the wave of his pleasure takes him in and pulls him under, sending him towards the depths of something as of yet uncharted.
He almost means to complain when they collapse in a boneless heap on top of the still-made bed and Aerion ends up pressing him into it with his weight, but he doesn’t quite have the breath – or the willpower – for anything stronger than another princely huff of displeasure.
Alas, it fools no one. His husband laughs in his ear, sated and pleased.
“There’s your ceremony, cousin.” He rolls over and collapses onto his back, that infuriating, smug face staring back at him again, making his blood run hot in a thousand different ways. “Forged in fourteen fires.”
It sounds vulgar and clumsy in the common tongue, spoken mainly for his benefit, but it’s a good fit for what they are, Valarr supposes. It’s fire enough, certainly, to last them a lifetime.