Some quick Baelaerion smut
CW: Targcest. Slapping. Rough oral. Orgasm denial. Abrupt ending. Unedited. MDNI
"Lord Ashford is demanding your charger as payment to Ser Humfrey for your conduct today."
Baelor lingers by the door, his nose crinkled as if faced with an unpleasant smell. Aerion can't really blame him for that - all of Ashford smells like sheep shit, if you were to ask him, but he doubts his uncle's perfect image would ever slip enough to offer his host the insult of noticing.
No, this disgust is inspired by something else, something more immediate, intimate. Followed him all the way from King's Landing.
"My conduct has won me the tilt. If Ser Humfrey needs a horse that badly, he should not have lost."
"Your conduct won you nothing but hate today, Aerion. Did you not see the riot that nearly broke out?"
Aerion spits. "A few peasants armed with -."
"Those few peasants have gathered to see their champions fight honest and fair. You could have bested Hardyn easily and won their respect had you -!"
"And what would I do with their respect?" Aerion steps into his uncle's space, revels in the obvious desire the older man fights to back away. Aerion thinks of the hammer falling hard enough to break the anvil, years of complacency passing by unmarked by death or ascension. Maekar had built his reputation at the base of his brother's [veneration?]. Aerion would not be the same. The dragon took what should be his. "Rule?"
Baelor speaks of mercy in the small council, paints it as wisdom to separate him from his namesake, the soft king his precious commonfolk compare him to.
They are alike in that at least, uncle and nephew - know who to act for, and how. Aerion plays the perfect heir for his father, the only one the man is like to have; and Baelor does the same for his. For the realm.
His uncle who finds him like this, always seeks him out to dispense his mercy whenever Maekar cannot, is more Breakspear than Blessed.
The slap lands hard, stone setting cutting across Aerion's cheek. It had been a palm-side strike. He remembers the crown prince twisting his ring anxiously, like a lady too nervous to pick at her wedding feast. Aerion laughs as he wipes the slash of blood away, red and hot against his knuckle.
He's always burned brighter than other men.
"You will not rule," Baelor grits, stepping close enough that the stitching of their doublets catch. His uncle had followed Aerion to his rooms after the guards had rushed him off, though he'd lingered so long by the pitch soothing ruffled feathers that the young prince had been able to divest his armor.
"Then do you mean this speech for your son?" Aerion challenges, pale eyes locked with his uncle's dark gaze. The blood of the dragon runs thin in him. Baelor deserves the crown less than -
There's a clatter as Aerion is shoved against the wall, the spindly table placed beside the bed knocked aside when Baelor grabs his nephew by the throat. What finery Lord Ashford could afford to decorate the space with shatters on the floor, delicate glass crunching under heel as the older man crowds close. Aerion can feel the ring pressed tight against his thundering pulse, and his vision goes murky at the edges a - a crown for the heir, red red red.
"Valarr can yet behave himself as befit a prince," Baelor hisses, his breath hot against Aerion's jaw.
Aerion tilts his face towards his uncle as best he can, his mouth hinged open around a breathy laugh. He thinks for a moment his uncle will kiss him if only to shut him up, but he doesn't. Never does. He lets the moment linger too long instead, watches as Aerion's nerves mount, left on a knife's edge, before placing his hand on Aerion's crown, shoving him until his knees buckle and his shins crash down hard on what remains of the clutter they'd knocked over. The angle is snug already, one of Aeiron's knees wedged between Baelor's feet with the other spread wide, the hinge of his hip stretched deliciously taut. Aerion rocks up against it, feels the muscle there tighten warningly; this, and no further.
They've never been very good at that.
With his grip on Aerion's skull, Baelor pulls him forward until his nose presses against the older man's crotch. Aerion hates it, hates how much the smell of him - rich leather and horse, the subtle clinging tang of Dornish incense - settles something within him. He fights it, shoving at Belor's thighs as he tries to pull away, but Baelor hooks his thumbs between his teeth and laces his fingers behind his nape. He tugs Aerion back into place, a prize stallion led by the bit.
"Insolent brat," Baelor hisses, shifting his grip so he can hold the young prince in place as he opens the stays of his trousers. "Would have done better to leave you with your sisters."
In Summerhall, he means. Hidden away with the rest of Maekar's whelps. His father might be content to let the blood of the dragon rot away, forgotten, but Aerion would have flown across the land himself for a chance to prove himself against his cousins. He bites the knuckle lodged within his jaw even as Baelor frees his cock, the sting of his teeth garnering little more than a hiss.
"Behave," Baelor warns, the toe of his boot arching to press against Aerion's shaft. The pain does nothing to diminish the throb of his pulse there, a keen emanating from high in Aerion's throat. Baelor's lip curls, disgusted, but his grip pivots to cup the young prince's jaw, yanking his mouth open with his fingers digging harshly into Aerion's cheeks.
There is no slow feed, no teasing of the taste on his tongue. Aerion's been to whorehouses with Daeron before; he knows most men like to draw this part out, indulge themselves in pillow soft lips and kitten licks. Baelor has never taken such time with Aerion. Has never bothered to let his nephew become accustomed to the weight of his spear on his tongue before shoving it down his throat. Aerion chokes, fingers scrabbling against the prince's legs, but Baelor only pulls him in closer, the hand that had been gripping his own base now threaded in Aerion's hair.
"Stop whining," the prince grits, his cock shoved so far down Aerion's throat that he can't. "So eager to prove yourself…"
He relents when Aerion's vision starts to blur, slapping his cock against Aerion's face when he allows the other man to catch his breath. With his jaw still held open, Aerion's breaths become loud and exaggerated, his drool left to spill over the swell of his lip. Baelor catches it with the head of his cock some moments later, feeds it back to him as he pulls Aerion back onto his shaft.
"You're more use to me here, you know?" The prince asks, almost conversationally. Aerion isn't sure if he means than in the lists, or in Summerhall - realizes, for once, he doesn't care. "What am I to do with a feral little dragon?"
Use it, Aerion thinks, briefly fancying himself the Balerion to his uncle's Aegon. Keep it.
But you can't keep a dragon, and the pits had marked the beginning of the end of their house's power, and a dragon could only be used as much as they let themselves.
So Aerion lets himself.
Among the small council, the crown prince is known for his mercy, but it's not how Aerion knows him. Aerion knows him like this: salty skin and breath like a bellows, and iron fist in his hair. People talked of his namesake, how weak, but there's no room for that here, when his thighs flex against Aerion's palms and the iron grip in his hair keeps him close. His foot is still pressed against Aerion's cock and he rocks against it when he can manage, his own pleasure forgotten in his effort to get enough air in his lungs.
Maekar finishes with a choked off groan, his hips stuttering to an end with his cock lodged deep in his nephew's throat. He stands there, panting for a moment when he slips free, his gaze trained carefully on the mess of spit and drool on the front of his slacks. He doesn't say a word to Aerion as he collects himself, his careful facade slipping back into place. Baelor drags his palm down his face, calluses scratching over his neat beard. He steps back, and Aerion whines at the loss of pressure against his cock. Finally, Baelor's mismatched eyes meet his own, but Aerion finds only shame and regret there.
It makes Aerion's stomach turn, his cock flagging. "And was that befit a prince?" He needles, knowing full well the fight has left his uncle but needing more. "Or do I still have much to learn from Valarr?"
He expects another slap, goes so far as to brace for it when Baelor lunges as if he might. But Aerion's too eager, and Baelor is not as easily led. The prince tuts, his jaw working around the words he doesn't let spill, and then he's gone, and the room is left cold and silent without him.
Aerion will have to find his fight elsewhere tonight.
