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The Ashford quarters, with its stale air trapped by the old damp walls, couldn't compare to the spaciousness and splendor of those Donnel got accustomed to in the Red Keep. However, as a member of the Kingsguard, one ought not to put comfort over duty. At least that’s what he believed in. Whatever complains, he may have had, he kept them to himself.
His companion, Ser Roland Crakehall, had a different approach.
Donnel scoffed at the memory of Roland, who, with a scowl of disgust, blatantly voiced his complaints that half of Ashford had been privy to by evening. It made it easy to perceive him as a poor little dandy that couldn't relieve himself in the hay and needed his arse wiped with a silken cloth.
Tonight, Roland was free of his duties and was probably improving his sour mood with a few pitchers of thin cider.
All of Ashford was engrossed in the pompous celebration in honor of Lady Gwin with the tournament set to begin in the morrow.
However, it seemed that not everyone was in the mood to celebrate.
The princeling, Aerion Targaryen, retired to his quarters shortly after dusk, and, as befits a spoiled, arrogant brat he was, he didn't hesitate to throw insulting remarks towards the host and a few other guests.
Donnel stood guard alone in front of the prince's chamber. Time passed slowly. This wing of the castle was quiet at this hour, only the faintest gusts of wind blew through the empty corridors, occasionally, carrying the cheerful laughter and lively music coming from the feast.
He would enjoy himself the next day, he thought. Tonight he was fulfilling his duties.
“Ahh-”
Donnel straightened up, the sudden sound snapping him back into alertness.
His first assumption was that some young couple in a state of intoxication had crept out of the banquet hall and were giving themselves over to a moment of passion in one of many dark corners of the castle. With the intention of testing his guess, he took a step down the corridor, but then the sound reached his ears again.
Donnel turned around. This time he was sure that it came from the princeling's chamber. Earlier that evening, he accompanied Aerion right to the door. He had no doubts the prince was there alone.
The implication downed on him with a wave of pleasant warmth rushing through his body.
The bratty princeling was playing with himself.
The image flushed through Donnel's mind. Aerion splayed on the soft bedding, his plump lips open, failing to contain his noises as he pumped his deliciously pink dick that glistened with precum.
Donnel felt his blood running south. He fantasised about the princeling for a while now. However, no matter how much he wanted to mount this spoiled brat and fuck him senseless, Aerion was still a Targaryen prince and Donnel, as a member of the Kingsguard, was condemned to following him around, obeying his orders and lust for him from afar.
But it was hard to obey when the object of his desires was jerking off, separated from him by a single door, moaning wonderfully like the most luring whore.
The temptation was clouding Donnel’s mind, the mere chance to see the prince pleasuring himself enough to make him reckless.
Carefully, so as to not make a sound, he pushed the door wide enough to sneak in into a small foyer. It was separated from the main room by an archway which allowed entry without being immediately spotted from the bed.
He prayed to the Seven, no one of importance would pass through the corridor without him being there.
However, his concerns vanished instantly as the most beautiful sound he had ever heard echoed through the chamber. No longer muffled by the wood, Aerion's moans were even more sinful.
Without thinking, Donnel stepped into the main room.
The sign in front of him almost made him fall to his knees.
Prince Aerion was laying on the bed with eyes closed and head tilted back, his chest still clad in the chain mail he so favored, raising up in shuddering breaths. Donnel often wondered if the prince's choice of attire was purely for protection purposes or was there a particular kind of pleasure he took from the metal rings scraping his skin raw. After all, the princeling proudly called himself a dragon.
With his trousers discarded on the floor and legs set slightly apart, he was pumping himself at a strong, steady pace. His tip glistened with drops of precum in the gentle light coming from the lit torches.
Donnel was fully hard now and feared that his body, its prime years undeniably fading away, wouldn’t last long.
Unfortunately, his mind, clouded by desire, meddled with his steps and as he moved to retreat from the room his armor rattled loudly enough to startle the previously unaware prince.
“The fuck is this!?” Aerion snarled, just like Donnel has seen him do dozens of times. Every time he did so, Donnel wanted to slap this pretty face of his.
“Pardon my intrusion, your majesty. I thought I'd heard an intruder, but I seem to have misheard. I came in to check on your well-being.” The lie flowed smoothly off his tongue, even under the scorching gaze of the dragon prince.
Silence filled the room as Aerion didn't respond. Instead, he propped himself on his elbows, eyes not leaving the knight in front of him.
His movement brought Donnel's attention once again to prince's cock, still hard and glistening despite the unexpected encounter. This action turned out to be exactly what Aerion was looking for. A mocking laugh reached Donnel's ears.
“You wanted to see a royal dick, didn't you?” The prince pointed at his exposed groin.
Something in Donnel’s expression must have given him away because a wide smile spread across the prince's face.
Without giving him time to answer, Aerion climbed off the bed and approached him, his erect dick bouncing with each taken step.
“Come on, have a try.”
Oh, how Donnel wanted to do it. He found himself at a crossroads. As a sworn member of the Kingsguard, he was to follow the orders, yet what was he supposed to do when one demanded of him to break them in the first place?
His stillness seemed to irk the already temperamental prince.
“Your oaths forbid you to touch a cunt, there is no mention of whacking a dick, is there?” he taunted.
So carefully, as if he was approaching a real beast, Donnel put his hand around the base of Aerion’s cock, his hand tickled by the white hair there.
“You don't know how to whack or what? Go on. That's an order.”
So he did. However, he didn’t start with immediate strokes across the entire length. Instead, he traced the prominent vein on the underside, purposefully scratching the skin enough to feel Aerion twitch under his touch.
Donnel's actions were entirely selfish, yet Aerion did nothing to intervene. His muffled moans made it clear he was enjoying it.
Finally, Donnel stroke him properly. He could see how Aerion’s chest started rising and falling in quickening breaths, how a vain on his neck pumped the blood up for it to explode in a furious blush all over his face — a perfect contrast with his pale Targaryen hair.
The knight sped up his movements.
Droplets of sweat glistened in the gentle light on their way down Aerion’s temples. Donnel wanted to lick them off, yet he knew to control himself. Even if the princeling didn't speak a word the entire time, it wasn't wise for Donnel to let his temptations take over. Not if he wanted to leave this chamber in one piece.
However, there was something else he could get drunk on — sharp gasps and strangled moans Aerion failed to contain the more he succumbed to the pleasure.
When the prince finally came, with hips desperately bucking into Donnel's hand, Donnel was convinced that, in this world, there was no more beautiful and erotic sight than the blood of the dragon unraveling under his hand.
Aerion took a moment to come back from his blissful high. When he did, he looked Donnel straight in the eyes. There was no shame in his gaze, only well known cold cruelty.
“Now, leave, and if you value your head you'll keep quiet about it. I hear one word, and I'll sit you down and feed you the tongues of your kin.” His voice was steady with not a speck of anger. Yet, Donnel spent enough time around the prince to recognize the authenticity of the threat woven into his words.
He turned around and left the chamber.