Archive of Our Own

It was never Daeron’s intention to cause such a riot when he broke away from the Targaryen caravan on its journey to Ashford Meadow. He had no interest in tourneys or mass crowds, and indeed was primarily interested in keeping his life, regardless of what little value it seemed to serve everyone else. It served him as well as a cup of wine and neither came without their share of consequences.

Daeron was the firstborn son of the youngest son of the most powerful man in the world. He was born to be forgotten and certainly thought things would be better off for everyone involved if that had actually ended up being the case. He could be left alone, given the room to breathe, not forced to live up to a challenge he was destined to fail. Instead, he was handed the future and haunted by all the ways it would seek to ruin him.

He dreamt of dragons, of fire and blood, and power and fury. He woke most mornings to the taste of ash in his throat and the crust of blood in his nose. That was if he hadn’t successfully doused the flame with drink the night before. Every day was the same—an attempt to rid himself of the horrors before they were upon him. Rarely did it work and rarely did he expect it to, truthfully. He was long past the days where childish schemes proved fruitful.

His father didn’t understand him—couldn’t. Maekar had tried for many years to create something better than what he had been given. Constantly overlooked, he wanted success for his sons where failure was bred into their bones. When Daeron’s mother died, Maekar was so stung by the loss that he could not even look at his sons without seeing the image of the woman he could not save. Those kids were doomed from the start.

The idea to abandon camp did not come from a sober thought. Daeron knew he could come up with a better plan when not reduced to a fool’s ramble, but sobriety was nothing but pain. He did not remember dragging Aegon into the night, if he was dragged at all. But when he woke and saw his brother’s mop of Targaryen silver hair, the choice of his accomplice had been made.

“There’s plenty of Targaryen bastards, Daeron. The small folk won’t even recognize me, I’ll keep my hood up.” By then, Daeron had already cut away the length, pale strands floating to the floor in chunks.

“There hasn’t been a Targaryen bastard in the Ashford Meadow in at least a hundred years. Anyone who has seen you and then seen Aerion will know you are the same blood without even thinking.” Aegon went still at the comment, his hands drawn together in his lap.

“Fine,” the boy muttered. Somehow, Daeron shaved his head clean, naught but a single nick behind the ear. He wondered what survival instinct saw to the success of the endeavor, but the question was gone with a mouthful of weak ale.

“Now you can live up to your name.” Daeron said, running a shaky hand over bald skin. “Prince Egg.”

It shamed him to admit that just like he hardly noticed he’d kidnapped his brother, he hadn’t realized someone else had done the same. Only after another head of silver hair clouded his vision did he notice he’d lost the youngest son, and that he’d been found by none other than his father. Maekar was furious, red face an even darker shade through the rage. But Maekar’s anger never outlived his concern for his children. He was fussing over Daeron having to sleep in the dirt before they’d even returned to the stone walls of Ashford Castle.

Admittedly, he wasn’t trying very hard to hide from his father. His goal was to be only as much of an inconvenience as would keep him from the tourney field. Aegon’s disappearance rather complicated things, forcing Daeron to produce an explanation as to where the little prince had gone. In his haze, he remembered only one face, one mess of dirty brown hair that would survive the crushing deadweight of a dragon. If there was any truth in the story, he had no clue, but surely the man was less of a danger locked up than free.

Most men would say Ser Duncan’s arrest for his assault on Aerion was purely coincidental with Daeron’s allegations of kidnapping. But for Daeron, the path in his dreams was being constructed in front of him, and in naming Ser Duncan, he was solidifying the fate of the dragon.

When first he saw Dunk, Daeron was convinced the death would be his. But the man obeyed his command to leave him alone and was on his way within the hour. Perhaps he would be safe? 

The reappearance of the half-giant restored the fear in his chest to its peak.

The opportunity to explain his dreams had died with his mother, so when he was brought before his father, his uncle, his brother, and the lords of Ashford—blood in his boots from Maekar’s lashings to his bare feet—it did not even occur to him to mention the premonition. He gave his testimony, false as it might be, and watched the men at the table eye him with disappointment. He could be judged for his drunkenness with no problem, the years for shame had passed. It was the smirk on Aerion’s face, hidden from their father, that brought heat to his cheeks.

Baelor excused him from the room, bade him clean up before he found another cup to empty. 

The doors closed behind him and Daeron was left alone in the hall, staring straight ahead at the seven pointed star in the window. Would the gods judge him for this? Likely, they judged every action he had yet to commit and sentenced him with the dreams as punishment from birth. A coward, a fool, a drunk. What would he have been without the dreams? A better man, certainly, maybe even a good one.

A hushed giggle echoed down the hall and Daeron tore his gaze away from the star. Emerging from the darkness was his cousin, Valarr and his wife, Kiera. Kiera laughed and skipped forward, throwing her arms around Daeron’s neck as Valarr followed slowly after her, face as somber as the grave. He dropped his eyes to Kiera and forced them to stay on her.

“You should have told us you were leaving! We could have lied for you, silly.” Kiera’s voice was lighthearted, her small smack against his chest nothing more than a tap. 

Daeron forced a smile, “I hardly knew I was leaving before I was gone. Sorry if I worried you.”

Valarr scoffed behind his wife, but still, Daeron could not bring himself to look at the man. Kiera turned and flashed a checking smile at him before raising her hands to Daeron’s cheeks. In her hold, he finally felt the guilt he knew should have been gnawing at him all along.

“I had faith you would return unharmed and here you are. Val’s been in a state.” 

“Kie—” Valarr’s complaint cut short as Daeron finally picked his eyes up to his cousin’s. His cheeks burned for the briefest of moments before he steeled himself and returned his expression to a harder resolve. But the split second of fault was enough for Daeron to understand what exactly he’d done wrong. “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

Daeron followed Valarr’s gaze to the double doors behind which both their fathers sat. “I should clean up.”

Valarr’s dual toned eyes snapped to Daeron and he felt the flush of attraction that had gotten him into this mess—a hurt and possessiveness that paralleled his own, one that indeed made him forget his even existed. Daeron fell apart and Valarr meticulously fit each piece back together to his tastes. And then, Kiera. She loved them both, sanded their dragon-sharp edges down to something softer, something to be understood.

“We’ll clean you up. Come on.” Kiera wrapped her hands around Daeron’s arm, the slightest skip in her step as she steered them around her husband to return down the hall from where they came. “Quit sulking, Val, he’s home. No use fretting over what is not in front of you.”

Daeron turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the prince who followed behind them with a frustrated scowl on his face. It soothed something in Daeron’s chest to see the man so distraught over his presence, or lack thereof. He knew it was unhealthy, but which was better—drinking yourself to death or the look on your lover’s face when you avoided such an end?

Kiera led him through the castle, asking light questions about where he’d been and what he’d gotten up to. Nowhere special. Drink, he answered with a small smile, overly aware of Valarr’s eyes boring holes in the back of his skull. 

He wondered if they would listen to his dream if he opened his mouth and failed to close it? No, perhaps he would remain silent this time. If death stood in the corner of the room and he was the only one to see it, he wasn’t going to beg them to look.

Kiera let go of Daeron’s arm to open the door and a mere second after she was clear of the entry, Daeron felt firm hands against his back. He stumbled forward, shoved to the ground by Valarr. His knees cracked against the wood and he forced a stiff breath into his lungs before turning. Valarr always had such control over his face, but his eyes showed his hand every time. Fury masked by disinterest. Behind him, Kiera closed the door and crossed the room to sit at the vanity.

Breathing hard in the silence, Daeron kept his gaze only as high as Valarr’s chest.

“Look at me,” Valarr spoke quietly, voice even and almost comforting. A coo stalked by the maw of a beast. “Daeron.”

His name made him flinch, elbows digging into the floor as he brought his eyes to the prince’s. The look there was disdain, but Daeron could only focus on how irritated Valarr’s eyes were, red and puffy.

“You’re better off saving your tears for something else.” Daeron said, pushing himself to his aching feet and watching Valarr’s jaw feather. “I’m here, alright? You have no need to worry.”

Valarr scoffed, “Need or not, my worry exists. You are mine, yes? Does that not imply that I might feel some level of concern for you when you go fucking missing?” Daeron’s lip twitched with irritation, but he said nothing. At his silence, Valarr lifted his hands to his hair, the sweat of his palms sticking pieces up at random. “This is not King’s Landing, Daeron, this is not Summerhall. This is Ashford Meadow. I cannot simply send the Kingsguard to pull you out of a ditch when there are a thousand ditches and forests between them all.”

“And yet, I have been found,” he said as he pulled the cloak from his shoulders and laid it over the arm of a chair. Valarr watched him unbuckle the belt at his waist next. “I have been returned to you, like always.”

Daeron pulled his shirt over his head, simply allowing it to fall to the floor. He watched the prince silently look him over, searching for evidence of injury on his bare chest. For good measure, Daeron lifted his arms and turned in a circle, offering himself up for inspection. 

“He’s alright, my love.” Kiera’s voice came softly, a steadying hand beneath his arm to hold him up. She looked at Daeron with an immense amount of care in her eyes, herself relieved to find him unharmed. “The tournament has distracted him well enough, but you know as well as I how fear eats at him. Your absence is immobilizing.”

Daeron’s eyes returned to the prince. Valarr’s body stood incredibly still, a clay figure formed on a wire frame and positioned.

In another world, Daeron knew he and Valarr were born as twins, reflections of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Valarr was forced to maintain control in every facet of his life, unable to even consider the cathartic release of being broken. Daeron, inversely, had control wrenched away from him at every possible turn, constantly grasping for firm and stable ground, even if only for a moment. Only with each other could they assume the life they so desperately craved. And Kiera, well if no one existed to ease the transitions, the two of them would spiral endlessly.

Aggression and tenderness stood as the pillars of their relationship, never one sacrificed for the other, but both given and taken in equal measure. Valarr was strong and brave, but only to Daeron could he admit that he yearned to be crushed by the weight of the world he was made to hold up. And Daeron, always associated with crude recklessness, would finally be allowed to show how carefully his mind worked, his meticulous nature seen in its entirety by Valarr.

They needed each other. Only one could do for the other what he was made to do for the world.

“I am not Maekar,” Valarr said. “I refuse to forget the pain even when the injury has scarred over. I am not healed, Daeron, not yet.”

Daeron glanced at Kiera only long enough to see her nod of permission before crossing the room to stand before Valarr. The prince looked up at him, searching for the man that would tear him apart. He wondered if there was a soul alive that would not succumb to his cousin’s eyes, the intensity there, the watchfulness. Under his gaze, Daeron became a victim of being witnessed, and what a beautiful horror that was.

“You reek,” Valarr murmured as Daeron lifted his hand to his waist. His breath hitched at the touch and he shifted his weight to lean into it.

Daeron chuckled and heard Kiera’s delighted giggle. “Your wife wanted to clean me up, but your lack of patience has pushed that aside.”

Valarr breathed, “Our wife.” In his stupor, Daeron had forgotten many of the several conversations they’d had late at night after the caravan had stopped to make camp. Daeron was as permanent a facet of their relationship as he could possibly be without being labelled as such. Valarr had mentioned it casually, which was perhaps the only excuse Daeron had for having forgotten such a benchmark of his life. They would renew their vows and write new ones to include him upon their return from Ashford.

“Our wife.” Daeron repeated with a smirk. His hand rose, knuckles brushing Valarr’s cheek, “My husband.”

The thought made him sick to his stomach. He ached for it, even a meager taste of being known by the realm not as Daeron the Drunken, but as husband to the Young Prince and his pink-haired bride. The day would never come, he knew, and he knew a reason ought be given. But how in the seven kingdoms was there meant to be a way he could explain himself without confirming to them that he would be dead in—how long would it be? Days? Hours? Did he have this and nothing else?

Daeron’s eyes squeezed shut as his dream flashed in his vision. He ground his jaw rough enough to hear his teeth gnashing, forcing a breath through his nose. He heard the beating of dragon wings in his ears, the scream as it fell from the sky.

“I’m sorry, Valarr.” He said quietly, opening his eyes to look at him. He sank to his knees at his husband’s feet, hands stuck at his back with no intention of letting him go. “I’ll never be as brave as you—“

“I don’t care to hear excuses or listen to you degrade yourself.” Valarr’s hand fell to Daeron’s face, fingers gliding first through his hair and then around his ear to reach his jaw. He moved lower, gently cupping his throat and smirking as Daeron swallowed. “You made a choice to leave. I still haven’t heard why.”

Daeron smiled, “Why else? I’m a coward—“

Crack!

Daeron’s eyes focused on Kiera once he realized his head had snapped to the side. She giggled but he could only focus on the sound of Valarr’s hands scraping together as he soothed the sting from his slap. He hummed when Daeron turned back to face him, tongue sliding over his teeth in contemplation. Daeron’s cheek exploded with heat, his skin prickling as he processed what happened to him.

He swallowed again, blinked, and then his body moved on its own.

His hands at Valarr’s back moved to seize his hips, Daeron surging to his feet to walk Valarr back and shove him against the wall. The prince grunted, his face an impenetrable fortress, but his eyes alight with excitement. Their breath mixed between them and for the first time since his return, Valarr smiled.

“It’s pathetic to pretend to be less, dreamer. Which of us is pinned to a wall?”

Daeron frowned, pulling Valarr only far enough from the wall to twist him around and force his face against the stone. Valarr groaned lowly, the sound a mix of sharp pain and frustration. But he did not fight. As Daeron’s hands worked to unbuckle his belt and strip him of his cloak, he did not fight. He did not fight either when the iron dragonscale clasps of his doublet stuck and Daeron forced them free, ripping them from the cloth. Two of the six scales fell to the floor, bouncing at their feet.

He pressed against Valarr, fingers tugging at the strings of his linen undershirt as he breathed in his scent. Wind and stone and a raging hearth fire. In the shadows of the world, he would recognize that scent, in death he would follow it.

Valarr shed the tunic, skin finally exposed, gasping at Daeron’s touch. His hands were first, greedy beasts clinging to his waist and the slim muscle of his chest. Valarr was always stronger than Daeron, but never larger. They took after their fathers, Daeron inheriting Maekar’s size as the anvil, Valarr the hammer to strike. 

His mouth came next, tongue sliding over the freckles that spattered Valarr’s shoulders and the back of his neck. The prince took advantage of the summer sun, shedding his shirt when possible, and so was covered in freckles that Daeron might’ve dedicated his life to worshipping were it not about to end. Valarr whined, hands jerking to pull Daeron’s arm away from his ribs. Daeron stepped back, eyes widening at the fresh bruising on Valarr’s left side. The darkness blossomed across his chest as he turned to face the man.

“Nothing broken.” Daeron’s eyes flicked to blue and brown, a self-satisfied smirk on Valarr’s lips. “Well, not completely. A few cracked ribs from the first day’s tilts. No one has dared to seriously charge me. It’s been a shame to avoid the injuries of a true tourney, but no one wants to hurt the son of Baelor Breakspear.”

Daeron breathed through his mouth, lifting his hand to cup Valarr’s ribs, thumb swaying.

“Have you come change that? Will you ruin me, Daeron?”

Daeron closed the gap between them, pushing Valarr against the wall with his hands on his ribs, pressing. He watched carefully for the flinch, the flash of teeth and pain, exercising his lessons in patience until finally, it could be coaxed from the prince. Valarr hissed, body jerking in an attempt to get away, but where was there to go? Only to remain in the hands of his destroyer would be his safest option.

His hand on Valarr’s jaw, Daeron forced his mouth open. Valarr’s eyes shuddered closed as his tongue waited, groaning when, at last, he tasted his reckless fool of a husband. The taut strings of his posture snapped, if not from desire then from the sheer relief of having Daeron back in his hands. His body relaxed, held up simply from being pressed against the wall.

Valarr kissed him like a starving animal, never hesitating. He brought his hands to Daeron’s hair and face, cupping his stubble covered jaw and fitting his thumb perfectly against the cleft in his chin. He moaned, whimpering as Daeron squeezed his cracked ribcage. The sound was music to Daeron, a plea for more as much as a submission. Pain knew them as well as they knew each other, woven between those pillars of aggression and tenderness.

The pain in Valarr’s chest was proof that Daeron could make him feel. Kiera had her own influence on him, but Daeron razed his defenses to the ground, left him an open, bleeding wound.

Daeron’s foot slid between Valarr’s, his knee spreading his legs. Daeron dropped his hands to Valarr’s hips to slip beneath his trousers, the prince moaning against his mouth. He pushed the trousers down for a better grip on his ass, grabbing him and guiding his hips to roll and grind against Daeron’s thigh. 

“Seven fucks,” Valarr swore, his head falling to Daeron’s shoulder.

Daeron chuckled in Valarr’s ear, lifting his leg to echo his motion, never allowing Valarr to go unattended to. And how could he possibly? Not with the way Valarr clung to him, the sounds from his mouth begging for his pleasure to be exploited.

“He won’t last long if you keep that pace, Daeron. He has been pent up since you left.” Daeron looked to Kiera, still sat at the vanity. She had taken off her shoes and was in the middle of shedding her own layers of dress.

Often, the intimacy shared with Kiera was individual. The three of them loved as a group, but sex happened most naturally between pairs, the dynamics clearly expressed. She called them to heel, but when their focus was each other, she enjoyed watching. They had tried before, to show an equal display of attention to her as to each other, but she had no interest. I am better served by your mouth on him than distracted by me, she had said to him once.

But he had been gone for days this time, and when he completely diverted his attention from the prince to his wife, she smiled watching Valarr crumble to his knees a trembling, panting mess. She stood as he approached, lifting her arms and slotting in against him. He kissed her slowly, arms wrapped around her waist. She too smelled of stone, but after a night’s rain.

She pulled back, turning in his arms to give him access to the dozens of buttons trailing down the spine of her dress. She was shorter than Valarr, though not by much. Standing up, Daeron had to crane his neck to reach both of their throats. She hummed as he kissed the crook of her neck, her hair brushing his face as he fingered through each delicate button.

Kiera was made to be worshipped, both of them knew and treated her as such. So Valarr never complained when Daeron neglected him for her—he had done the same many times himself. His patience, however, did not prevent the look on his face from showing his pathetic plea for attention. The look sent fire through Daeron’s spine, one of the clearest indicators that Valarr was indeed struggling and failing to keep his control. He knelt on the floor, trousers halfway covering his thighs, hands beside his knees to keep him up.

With every button undone, Daeron pulled the dress down her shoulders and chest, coaxing it around her wide hips. He loved her hips, loved the story they told of her strength and her love for their husband, the attempts to start a family of their own, squandered by the gods. The dress pooled at her feet and he took her hand to help her step out of it. 

She lifted her hand to his cheek, pulling him back in for a kiss before slowly stepping towards the bed. Daeron waited until she was comfortable and gave him a nod before crossing back to Valarr.

Valarr held his hands up for Daeron to grab, hauling the prince to his feet and walking him backwards to a chair. His trousers fell as he stepped, catching his ankles and tripping him. He fell into the chair with a grunt, resigning his grip to the arms. Daeron reached between Valarr’s legs, smirking at the light of hope in his eye extinguished when he grabbed the edge of the seat and not his attention-starved cock.

Daeron pulled the chair to the center of the room to give Kiera the clearest view, unobstructed by the bedposts. Valarr watched him, jaw hanging open, cheeks red as he bent down to untie the laces of his boots, pull them off and cast them aside. His trousers followed, his black dress left in piles around the room.

“I want to be offended—you are my undoing, and you would run from the task.” Valarr looked up at him with a grin. “Always you return and take me against my protest.”

“Your protest is weaker than my sobriety,” Daeron countered, sinking to his knees between Valarr’s legs, his feet crying relief now that he was off them. “If the rest of my life be spent unmaking you, my prince, I would take my last breath satisfied.”

“Let us hope it will be a long life then. I need you.”

Daeron forced the pain from his chest, smiling and nodding in agreement. He wanted nothing more than to follow through on his claim, to serve Valarr as his destroyer and creator. To be his Hand, one day. He might’ve been a good husband. No one will ever know.

He put his hand on Valarr’s thigh, pausing long enough to leave the feeling of the heat of his palm before gliding over skin. Valarr tensed as he got closer to his groin, whining when Daeron’s hand simply moved past his twitching, weeping cock. He touched his stomach and his ribs, pleased at the violence of his flinch. His fingers trailed up Valarr’s arm, also bruised to an extent, to his collarbone and throat. Valarr slouched in the chair, breath becoming shallow as his body reacted to the touch.

“Where else have you allowed another man to break you?” Daeron asked, gaze teasing but the shadow of a threat lurking beyond. Valarr swallowed, his throat moving beneath Daeron’s thumb. The dreamer lowered his hand to Valarr’s chest, pausing over his heart to feel its racing beat.

“Your brother would have tried if you were gone another day, I think.”

Daeron squeezed the meat of Valarr’s pec in his hand, a rough handful of flesh he knew for certain Aerion would mistreat if given the chance. He rubbed Valarr’s nipple, twisting and pinching it between his fingers while the prince hummed his satisfaction lowly.

“Daeron,” he pleaded, his voice weaker than it was a mere moment ago, more desperate. He looked up at his husband’s colored eyes and smiled softly. Valarr wanted him. Aerion could rot.

Still, he felt the stab of jealousy and the desire for retribution. Valarr was injured and it was someone else’s fault, at minimum only one other, but likely more. He knew his cousin would not have been unhorsed easily if at all.

Quickly, before Valarr could expect it, Daeron slapped him across the face with the back of his hand, signet ring still on his finger. Valarr gasped, working his jaw through the feeling as he stared at Kiera. When Daeron looked, she had one hand between her legs, stroking lazily, the other on her own breast, cupping and squeezing. She smirked, jerking her chin to turn his attention back forward. Valarr’s tongue moved, licking the inside of his cheek to check for blood. And then he looked at Daeron.

“You break for me. Only in death are you free of me, no matter how many times I run away.” Red blossomed across Valarr’s cheek, the sigil of Daeron’s ring imprinted by his jaw. “Aōhon iksan se ñuhon iksā.”

Valarr’s eyes blew wide at the Valyrian words. “I am yours and you are mine.” He rasped the translation, nodding in agreement.

There would be a day, soon, that he would have to continue living without him. If this was all he had left, his last chance to do something good, he would use it to love Valarr. Kiera as his witness. If the gods were watching, they had no right.

His hand on his chest, Daeron pushed Valarr against the back of the chair, and flashing a smile, opened his mouth to Valarr’s cock. The prince’s body jerked, a clear attempt to release, blocked by his instinct to be in control. He hissed, brow tightly knit together as he watched Daeron lick and suck him. 

Valarr was in no way as clean as he liked to be. Ashford could draw him a bath but unless he was in his chamber in Dragonstone, he claimed he felt perpetually dirty. Daeron didn’t care how unclean his husband was, he was used to sleeping half upside down in the mud surrounded by pigs. Valarr valued cleanliness and precision, and Daeron loved to drag him down into the dirt and the mess.

“Slower, Daeron. Fuck!” Valarr’s fingers slid into Daeron’s hair, tangled and matted from days of neglect. He tried to force Daeron to slow, but only succeeded in urging him to pick up the pace. If he slowed, he would move so slow Valarr would have no choice but to watch every inch disappear into Daeron’s mouth. He’d done it before and enjoyed the lewd, almost disgusted look on his face, but this was not the time for that.  Daeron had been gone, left to his own devices and Valarr to his and only one had years of experience hiding his emotions from the realm and only the other was dedicated enough to cut the instinct from his mind.

He moved his hand, massaging Valarr’s broken ribs with a firm but non-aggressive pressure. He needed Valarr to feel him, to ingrain this memory not only in his mind or soul, but in the very marrow of his bones. They were kin—only a dragon could burn away the lasting presence of each other, and the dragons all were dead.

Valarr whimpered, finally rearing his head back at the stimulation, gasping for breath that would struggle to fill his lungs. With his free hand, Daeron rubbed Valarr’s thigh in circles as he bobbed his head. His hand moved higher as he rubbed the thick muscle. Valarr tensed as he made sense of Daeron’s actions, his mind still grasping for control despite his temptation to let go completely. Daeron was going to fuck the sense from him entirely, and then he was going to rebuild him.

Valarr’s legs spread at Daeron’s touch, making room for his hand. “Fuck, Daeron. No,” he groaned, tugging at his hair. With one great push, he pulled him off. Daeron smiled, a string of spit and slick struck from his lips to the tip of Valarr’s cock. He shifted his hand swiping his fingers over his slit, drunk on Valarr’s sharp breath, and stuck them in his mouth. His husband watched closely as spit dripped from his tongue.

“Yes. Ñuhon.” No matter the protest, Valarr opened his legs for Daeron’s hand. His breath slowed, jaw slackening as he adjusted to Daeron’s fingers. 

Valarr winced, tightening his grip on Daeron’s hair as he pushed the tip of his finger into his hole. Daeron’s focus narrowed to Valarr’s eyes and the weight of his breath while his fingers worked to loosen him.

“I’m still,” Valarr sighed between words, “mad at you.”

“I know. You haven’t forgiven me yet.”

“If I do,” a shaky gasp, “will you stop this?”

Daeron slid a second finger in beside the first, infatuated by the mad look in Valarr’s blue eye. “No. You wouldn’t marry me if I did.”

Against his will, Valarr whimpered, slouching further in the chair to get closer, canting his hips. He laid his head back, eyes closed. And he let go.

Daeron chuckled to himself while his free hand wrapped around Valarr’s cock, stroking him at a slower pace than before. The prince’s body went slack, moving only to breathe and twitch at the touch. His sounds came more freely, soft moans and grunts filling the room. Kiera’s noise followed soon after, slow and shallow. It made him happy, the combination—his husband and his wife close, brought to the edge from his actions.

Valarr’s moans turned husky as his back arched. He bit down hard on his lip, groaning as his release coursed through him, cum spilling into Daeron’s hand. He panted while Daeron pulled his fingers out, cleaning them on one of the many discarded shirts nearby.

Pushing himself to his feet, Daeron bent over the chair, hair framing his vision of Valarr’s face. The prince groaned, eventually smiling up at him.

“Ñuhon,” Valarr sighed, lifting his hand to Daeron’s face to pull him close. Grinning, Daeron kissed his man, slid his tongue past his teeth. “Daeron.”

“Valarr. I’m not done with you yet.”

He groaned, “The tourney. I’m exhausted.”

“Then this will be the best night of sleep you’ll ever have. This is retribution. This is my service to you, and the sun will rise with my debt paid.” Valarr swallowed, searching Daeron’s eyes. “I will be your undoing. I will be your pain. Even if someone exists that could stand in my place, would you let them?”

Valarr frowned, visibly offended by the thought. “Never.”

Daeron moved to wrap his arm around Valarr’s waist and pull him up. It was a luxury, he knew, to be in control of such power. Valarr was first son of the first son of the king, raised and trained to suit the title. He could subdue Daeron without trying, had done so in the past and put him in his place. All that strength and might focused on him and then yielded to him.

Of the three of them, Daeron’s authority was never lasting. He ached for control, yes, but only momentarily and only when their pleasure was derived from his use of it. They trusted him and the mere fact that anyone could was enough to keep him satisfied. He enjoyed this equally as much as having his head shoved so far into the pillows he struggled to breathe, Valarr spitting insults meant to humiliate him, and then being kissed and told he was invaluable. They were masters at being what the other needed, never being told explicitly what that might be. ‘No’ was a sign they had work to do, there were other words that would make them stop.

So for all his words of protest, Valarr was exactly where he wanted to be. His impulse needed to be overwritten, his mind would not submit without force.

They’d discussed it, of course they had. Daeron was drunk the first time he pushed Valarr to his knees and made him only as valuable as his mouth was capable. Unwillingly at first, but then soothed by Kiera, Valarr admitted to the way his body reacted to Daeron’s graceless, brute force. It was not necessarily a desire to be used that led him to ask for more, though certainly the switch from being served to being made to serve was attractive. Valarr was alone at the top of the mountain, perhaps he liked the reminder of what such a beast looked like from its base.

Daeron shoved Valarr, wetting his lips with his tongue as the prince stumbled towards the bed. Before Valarr could turn around, Daeron gripped his shoulder, forcing him to kneel atop the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. With any luck, his knees would bruise in the shape of the carvings.

Kiera watched him closely as he stepped to the vanity to retrieve a glass jar of oil, lips parted as she sank further into the massive mound of pillows at her back. Her eyes dropped to his hand at Valarr’s hip, his grip iron with intent to leave his mark. Valarr reached for her ankle, just to have something to hold, and they allowed it. He was touchy like this, unafraid to cling to what would support him.

Daeron leaned over him, kissing his freckled shoulder blades and the bruised line where he would’ve been forced against the hard edge of his armor while his fingers untied the leather cord of his trousers. Finally free, his cock stood at attention, stiff and dripping as he spilled the oil into his hand. His breath hardened as he worked his hand over the length, slicking it to ease his entry. He dragged his tongue up Valarr’s spine and buried his free fingers in his hair at the sound of his husband’s filthy groan. Valarr’s body shook, the extent of his energy wasted on worrying for a man that would run back to him every time.

Daeron hummed at Valarr’s shoulder, waiting for him to look at him before speaking. “You may be spent, but you are mine to use.” Valarr’s lungs seized as Daeron lined up, his breath halting in his throat. “Breathe, Val.”

“Daeron,” he rasped, eyes widening as his body recognized the slow push. “Fuck,” he groaned, “fuck.”

The man let out a groan of his own, gripping Valarr’s hip as he sank fully into the wet heat of his husband. Valarr’s hands squeezed around Kiera’s ankle and the blanket beneath him. Daeron allowed him a moment to adjust, listening to his heavy panting.

“Valarr,” Kiera cooed, voice light with pleasure. He picked his head up to look at her, brows angled weakly. “Your husband has come back to you.”

“Until I forgive him,” Valarr said into the sheets, “he’s your husband.”

Kiera chuckled before looking up at Daeron and giving him an affirming nod. At a slow enough pace he knew Valarr would find infuriating, Daeron moved, rocking his hips. Indeed, the prince buried his face and groaned a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“I’m here, Valarr, returned to you.” Daeron spoke lowly at Valarr’s back, kissing the muscle of his shoulder. “Until death, I will always come back to you. I’m yours. To fuck and break and mend. As long as my heart will serve me, it will serve you just as well.”

Valarr swore beneath him, Valyrian curses muffled by silk and velvet. He crushed the blanket in one fist while the other strained to only lightly grip Kiera’s ankle, his hold shifting constantly to avoid hurting her. Daeron kept his hand in Valarr’s hair, smiling at the white streak between his fingers, a tithe of the blood oath they swore simply by existing. 

He pulled Valarr’s head up, forcing him to look at Kiera. She smiled at him, breathing her own moans into the heavy air as her fingers worked between her legs. Daeron wanted to taste her, replace her fingers with his tongue. She would never allow it, not with Valarr in such a state, and he could bully down his husband’s defenses, but their wife would never be subjected to such crudeness.

As he sped up, Daeron listened for Valarr’s choppy assortment of grunts and moans. He’d held himself up, assisted by Daeron forcing his head up, but he was exhausted and certainly not going to gain energy by being fucked witless. Daeron’s hands moved to his shoulders, roughly squeezing the tense muscle, working his thumbs into it. Valarr groaned, head bowing. 

He dragged his hands—dirty, calloused things—down, groping Valarr’s ribs and waist with very little hesitation. He moved slowly to contrast his hips, intentionally adding pressure to his injuries and the places Daeron knew were most sensitive. Valarr jerked when his fingers pressed at the space between ribs, whimpering and grinding his jaw.

“I wouldn’t give you up for anything,” Daeron murmured lowly, more of an observation to himself than a comment for Valarr to hear.

Nevertheless, the prince did hear. His hand relinquished its grip on Kiera, moving to wrap around Daeron’s wrist. It held only for a moment before the strain became too much and returned to her.

“Daeron,” Valarr choked out. “Harder, Daeron, please. Fuck.”

With his hands back on Valarr’s hips, he obeyed. Daeron pulled farther out each time, only to slam home, grinding his hips roughly. Valarr cried out, his back arching as Daeron split him open.

There was no one else Valarr asked for. He had Kiera the whole time. He wanted Daeron. Daeron may have been a drunk and a coward, but perhaps he wasn’t really a fool—he knew how lucky he was to repeatedly be chosen, knew his presence was a service to be given. Valarr chose him.

“Mine.” Daeron snarled as the taut chain of his body creaked with the strain of his pleasure. Mine. To obey and serve. Mine. To witness and endure. Mine. To have. Mine. To love. Mine.

Until death. Until tomorrow, if he was lucky enough to have even a few hours.

Daeron wrapped his arms around Valarr and crushed him in his hold as his pleasure coursed through him. Valarr screamed as his body convulsed through its orgasm, muffled into the bed. They sagged against each other, panting as the stars in their vision faded and the haze of the room cleared. Kiera was moaning still, not yet finished, though obviously close.

“Kie, let me—” Daeron started when his eyes reached hers.

“No.” She said with a smile. “You have other concerns.” Her eyes dropped to the man at her feet still twitching and whimpering in the withdrawals of pleasure.

Daeron took a deep breath, pulling out to the sound of Valarr’s whine. He wrapped his arms around him, scooping him up before stepping up onto the chest and laying him on the bed. Valarr’s eyes were closed, wet lips parted as he breathed. The red on his cheek had settled slightly, the outline of Daeron’s hand and ring still visible on his skin.

Daeron came to his knees between Valarr’s legs, lowered himself to kiss his chest as he lay across it. His hair framed his vision as it fell around him, his lips lightly tracing bruises and pale scars and freckles. Valarr moaned low in his throat, content with being doted on now that he’d spent the very last of his energy.

“You don’t have to forgive me, Valarr.” He kissed his collarbone between murmured words. “But I cannot have you go on thinking you are what I run from. That, I will not allow.”

Daeron pulled back slightly, meeting Valarr’s exhausted gaze. With his eyelids drooped so low, Daeron could only see the brown of his left eye, not the section of blue that bled in. He wondered how many had caught it, how many took the time to notice it was not an even split of color. He remembered being fascinated with them as a child, awestruck by the depth his cousin contained even before he knew he could scratch the surface.

“My fear will kill me where I stand if never I move forward,” Daeron whispered, a snarl curling his lip at the danger of vulnerability. “I don’t want to die, Val. Neither do I want to infect you with my vile misgivings. What good I am, I want to give to you, nothing else. So I run.”

Valarr took a breath, his hands gliding up Daeron’s torso to cup his face. Daeron let himself be pulled in and when prompted, met Valarr’s tongue with his own. Valarr valued cleanliness, yet he never hesitated to taste Daeron’s wretched, disgusting mouth.

“I don’t want your good, dreamer. A snake is immune to its own venom, a dragon will never burn in the fire, and I relish in the suffering you deliver. Your misgivings are my own, Daeron. Ñuhon.”

Daeron felt in that moment like he might never drink again. He didn’t need the rest of a long life to prove what had just been said, perhaps this would be enough—a day’s eternity given purpose in Valarr. But the gods knew he wanted it.

Valarr kissed his throat, no doubt tasting the liquor and sweat of days passed. He opened his mouth, bared teeth and tongue. And as if to prove to Daeron the truth of his statement, he bit him, the snake’s venom recognizing its own and settling. Nails raked his shoulders just as his fingers had bruised Valarr’s hips, neither anything short of a claim.

In their focused attention, they’d provided Kiera with exactly what she seemed to be looking for. Her breaths turned to gasps and she finished on her fingers with a trembling, satisfied groan. Valarr still clinging to his neck, Daeron watched with a smile as her chest rose and fell, a red blush settled on her dark skin. She took a moment to return as well, eyes falling to his when finally she opened them.

“Have I done well, princess?” The cheek had returned to his voice now that the serious business was taken care of. Daeron, deliverer and defender of the broken, was done. Now he got to be Daeron, husband of Kiera and Valarr, love of his love.

Kiera grinned, shifting to lay beside Valarr. “Yes, princess,” she returned the title as she always did and lifted her slick fingers to his mouth. “You’ve done very well.”

Daeron hummed at the taste of her as he cleaned her fingers with his tongue. Their scents mixed in his nose and only then did he hear thunder outside the window, rain striking stone. Her fingers moved to his hair next, twisting and lightly tugging it.

Valarr’s hands moved down Daeron’s back and the prince scoffed when he reached his hips. “You’ll fuck me, but not even remove your trousers. You’re a rake, Daeron Targaryen.”

Daeron smirked and kissed his red cheek. “To remove my trousers, I would have had to remove my boots. I did not think you would appreciate my bloody footprints on the floor or the bed.”

Kiera’s hand froze and Valarr’s breath halted so abruptly, his lungs made a noise as they seized. She sat up, inching her way down the bed and to the floor. Daeron only watched Valarr, the hurt in his eyes, as Kiera untied his boots. He hissed and groaned when she pulled them off, the pain striking from his toes up into his calves. Valarr’s hands cradled his head as it bowed against his chest.

In Kiera’s silent horror, Daeron could actually hear blood dripping onto the floor. He breathed against Valarr’s skin, squeezing the sheets when she finally brought a cloth to his feet to clean them. It was agony, no less than he deserved, but he’d accumulated so many of the same punishments over the years that he’d be surprised if there was any flesh on the bottoms of his feet that wasn’t scarred over.

What was it Valarr had said about his father? Maekar loved his children, but only they and the gods knew how bad at it he was.

They cleaned each other up as they originally intended. Kiera saw to Daeron, carefully cleaning and dressing his wounds, wiping away the days of dirt from his body. He cleaned her as well, craning his neck for a kiss any time her mouth came close, trailing his lips over her body in gratitude and adoration. And then the two of them saw to Valarr, who only watched them patiently, in love with their care for each other.

They laid in bed, Daeron on his stomach in the center, looking at both of them as their hands grazed his skin and hair. He told them what he remembered of his time alone, excluding all the bits about how much of a wreck he was, his dream, and how he’d undeniably failed to keep Aegon safe. They laughed at his stories, cursed lightly at him for his stupidity.

He listened to Valarr, defenses not yet returned to stone, as he talked about the tourney. Aerion made jokes about his cousin’s boredom in Daeron’s absence, but it wasn’t boredom the prince felt. He faced very few challengers, none of real merit, and instead was forced to sit outside his tent for days on end and try to rebuke the horrible thoughts that told him Daeron was never coming back. He tried to go with Maekar and the Kingsguard to search for him, but his enlistment in the tournament forbade him.

When Daeron apologized, Valarr looked at him, curiosity in the blue of his eyes, melancholy in the brown. He did not have to forgive him, Daeron assured him again, but eventually, he did. They were different people after all, no matter if they were the same coin, they had their own sides.

And then it all came to ruin when a knock at the door turned out to be Maekar, the scruff of Aerion’s neck held tightly in his fist. Daeron climbed from the bed, wincing when his feet met the ground. He pulled a shirt over his head and followed his father and brother into the hall.

He could’ve killed Aerion right there, he thought. If it weren’t for Maekar, he might’ve.

How his brother had become this monstrosity… Daeron could only suspect it was for the same reason he’d become a drunk. He hated him and loved him in equal measure. In that moment, he thought his hatred might win out. But he could not look at his younger brother and see him as the fool everyone else saw. In his eyes, Aerion was still a boy, his hair was still long, still curly—his smile still kind despite its sharp edge.

With Kiera and Valarr, he shared only the necessary details: the trial, his part in it. He asked nothing of them, only to rid it from their minds and enjoy the peace that had surrounded them. It was quiet for a long time, Valarr falling asleep in the silence.

Then again, a knock at the door, this time, Aegon. He needed help getting out of the castle, asked Daeron to get him to Ser Duncan.

Daeron wanted nothing to do with it, wanted to curse at his brother for his part to play in the mess. Aegon had run away. He ran to Duncan. He was not kidnapped or tricked. It was his fault, really, but Aegon was a child. Ser Duncan had done nothing to hurt either of them, and indeed only spilt Targaryen blood in defense of the innocent—Aerion’s blood, which Daeron could admit, did not offend him by being spilt. Perhaps he would be safe in extending his apologies for his hand.

Valarr woke as he was getting dressed, features still relaxed in sleep. “Where are you going now?” He sat up, frowning. “You have your wine and your begging dogs and still, you dress to leave?”

With a quick glance, Kiera set her hands on Aegon’s shoulders and steered him out into the hallway. After watching the door pull closed, Daeron crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Valarr’s hair was a mess, his face red, a small bruise on his jaw forming where Daeron’s ring struck him.

“Begging dogs, there’s an idea. Perhaps I’ll turn you into one and we can see what fun that makes.” He joked but Valarr was having none of it, face as serious as it was when he first laid eyes on Daeron when he and Kiera had come to collect him. “What is your fear, Valarr?”

“A trial of seven is not a laughing matter, Daeron. You could be killed. I could have only hours left with you.” The irony was not lost on Daeron, how he had spent the past hours wrestling with his fear and making peace with it, only for Valarr to unknowingly identify it without a second thought. 

Made for each other… Valarr was born years before Daeron, knew what life was without him. He could do it again.

“Please,” Valarr’s voice trembled, his jaw feathering.

“I am not leaving you, Val. I’m helping Aegon out of the castle and coming immediately back. The gods are funny, but they will not strike me down before they would see me fall from my horse on the morrow.” Valarr swallowed, his eyes bristling with tears which Daeron jerked to wipe away before they could fall. He held his husband’s face, stared at him. “I’m coming back. To you, for you—always.”

“You don’t have to come back if you never leave.”

Daeron smiled and kissed Valarr’s forehead. “Aerion may be the aggressor, but I have played my own part in Ser Duncan’s death sentence. His cause is just, he should know I partake against my will.”

“Withdraw your accusation then, be done with this. Daeron, you can’t—”

“Valarr.” Daeron said, voice stern, sobering. “I have no choice in what happens tomorrow. This man is Aegon’s friend, perhaps his only true positive influence in the world, what with our family’s history of poor choices and worse tempers. I know I am coming back to you, that is a fact. Should Aegon not be allowed the same opportunity?”

Valarr frowned, but he gave no more resistance.

“Go to sleep, Valarr. You’ll have me in your arms soon enough.” He kissed his forehead again, fixing his hair before gently pushing him back down against the pillows.

Daeron felt Valarr’s scowl on him as he finished dressing and reached the door. His hand on the handle, he turned, meeting his husband’s intensity.

“Come back.” Valarr said shortly. “Or it’ll be me that hunts you down.”

Daeron smirked and nodded before leaving. He kissed Kiera on the cheek in the hall, shooting a worried glance at the door between them and Valarr. She understood and offered a gentle, knowing smile and sent them on their way.

Valarr was awake when Daeron returned, watching Kiera as her steady breath filled the dark of the room. He moved to the center of the bed, lifting the sheets and blankets for Daeron to climb under. Still, he faced Kiera, not yet giving himself up after the offense of his leaving.

Daeron was not drunk yet, not completely. He would still have a clear enough mind for this moment, thank the gods—no, fuck the gods. They were the ones taking this from him. If anyone, he should be thanking Raymun Fossoway and his hatred for Daeron’s Targaryen blood for refusing to serve him another cup of that delicious cider.

“My father came while you were away.” Valarr whispered in the dark as Daeron’s arms slid around him. “He asked me to fight with him.”

The thought was interesting, curious as he rolled it around in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Egg said that the Kingsguard would fight alongside the accusers, Daeron included. And he’d seen Ser Steffon Fossoway shaking hands with Maekar, Aerion wearing a proud smirk by their side. They had no need for Baelor to take up his arms, and indeed, he hadn’t even brought any. Heir to the Iron Throne, Hand of the King, Baelor Targaryen wouldn’t be caught involved in the entertainment of the Ashford Tourney.

Certainly, he wouldn’t be caught fighting for a cause as pathetic as the one set by Aerion and inadvertently supported by Daeron. Fighting against it, however… Baelor was as honorable as a knight as he was a man.

“Baelor wouldn’t fight for Aerion,” Daeron said finally.

“No.” Valarr’s voice was almost silent. “He fights for Ser Duncan on the morrow.”

Daeron felt his stomach sink, panic wrapping its spindly fingers around his heart. The dragon in his dream couldn’t possibly be Valarr, could it? There was no way, none at all. And yet.

Valarr turned and Daeron could only just make out the details of his face in the dark. Daeron kissed his cheek, felt his lips come away wet.

“You’ve been crying,” he murmured and lifted his hand to wipe away Valarr’s tears. His husband said nothing as he licked his thumb clean. “Ser Duncan’s cause is just. I would never blame you for supporting him. It is the right thing to do.”

“I told him ‘no’.” Daeron froze. “I agreed with my father, his cause is just. But there is a wrongness I feel in my bones at the thought of standing against you. I could not say ‘yes’ even if you yourself commanded it. I cannot force myself into a position where I could hurt you.”

When he could breathe again, Daeron spoke, still caressing Valarr’s cheek. “Your tone seems to allude to some idea of cowardice.”

“To go against what is right because I feel fear? That is cowardice by its very definition, no matter if my motivation lies in protecting who I love.”

Daeron smiled, kissed him again. “You are no coward, Valarr. You owe nothing to Ser Duncan. Baelor is only doing what he knows, nothing more. He asked you to give you a choice, not to command your morality against your will.”

Valarr kissed him this time, only pulling away when he was well and truly breathless. Daeron appreciated the sentiment, knew it well because it reflected his own. He ran to protect what he loved, Valarr was merely doing the same in standing still.

By dawn, Daeron sat unnervingly still in his saddle. He forbade himself to drink, kissing Valarr and Kiera in their bed before he alone rose to meet the day. They wished him luck and gave their love, both having agreed not to attend. It had taken some convincing late into the night to get Valarr to stay. Daeron might have been the least offensively skilled, but Maekar would never allow him to be a drunk if he wasn’t prepared to defend himself. And he’d given Dunk his word to lay where he fell and avoid conflict. He had a plan, they needn’t worry over him. As Kiera would say, they had faith.

It calmed him to know they would not be there. They could remember him softly, in the morning light, lips still poised in a kiss. They would not have to see his failure. 

He stared ahead, eyes focused on nothing as he stood in waiting. He was right, Steffon Fossoway would stand with the accusers. He’d made a deal with Maekar for a lordship in exchange for his support. Dunk delivered his call for aid, the effects of his voice settling over the tourney field thicker than the fog already was.

When the gate opened at Daeron’s side, he turned. Valarr’s armor was a black shadow, death in the pale light of the morning. His lungs seized in his chest, fear the chiefest of his emotions. He felt no betrayal—Valarr was strong in will as he was in body. It was not a shock the pull of justice had won him over.

But when his hands lifted to his helm and Daeron saw it was not Valarr, but Baelor in his son’s armor, all Daeron could feel was relief.