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The first time Aerion's foot brushes his, his lord uncle scarcely notices, just goes on rambling to Father about the importance of whatever errand Grandfather sent them on last week like either of them really care. Aerion knows his father well enough to know this front of annoyance he insists on affecting is merely a ploy to exhaust Uncle's attentions and he knows his uncle well enough to know that he knows this too.
No matter. Aerion has tricks, too.
Aerion eyes Uncle's goblet, watches as a ringed finger circles the rim, absent yet measured. Aerion's toes curl.
The second time, Aerion lets his foot trail further, lingering just above his uncle's ankle before retreating. Baelor pauses. Barely a fraction of a second and without even taking his eyes off Father, but this only emboldens Aerion further.
His uncle prides himself on being unshakeable, even if he hasn't so much as said it, and Aerion prides himself on shaking him. Mother used to say Baelor had the patience of a saint, gentle and unending as the Mother's, but sixteen years have taught Aerion that all men have their limits. The third time, Aerion kicks him.
This time, Baelor blinks, slow. He turns his head to him without a word and just one look from those eyes is enough to send a thrill running up his spine. Father looks between them, questioning. Aerion shrugs. They go back to their much more boring conversation, which, truthfully, they should be grateful he interrupted it. Still, he doesn't want the spectacle to end quite so soon, so he keeps his boot to himself for the next few moments, chewing and swallowing and chewing and swallowing until they all seem to forget anything had happened at all.
Aerion starts slower this time, toeing his way up from heel to calf, particularly aware of the way Baelor's back straightens and jaw tightens. His uncle is like a harp string, pulled too taut and pulled tauter still, until all that grace spills into ugliness. He wants his uncle to snap, wants it so violently and desperately the desire consumes all else, but Baelor only gives him a pointed look and nudges his foot back with his own.
"What do you think you're doing?" Daeron hisses, when Uncle Baelor has gone back to arguing with Father.
"I don't know what you mean," he says, mouth full of beef.
"You're shaking the fucking table."
Aerion runs his tongue over his lips, slow and salacious.
"You lack vision, brother." He lowers his voice, leaning in so only Daeron can hear. "I am merely taking—" He presses his foot into the space just above Baelor's knee. "What I deserve."
His uncle inhales, long and slow. Aerion can picture him now, brows creased with that stern set to his mouth he always gets when Aerion is involved. Just the thought sends his pulse racing.
"Mayhaps you should try it." He looks pointedly at Valarr who regrettably lacks his father's fire, not that it's stopping him from giving Aerion the most wilting, murderous glare his soft little cousin is capable of. Aerion scoffs. "Or not."
Daeron frowns, but quits interfering, so Aerion goes back to work.
"It would do you some good to at least pretend at pleasantries," his uncle is saying, in that low, distracting way he does, so really, who is to blame when Aerion's foot wanders a bit further this time? His foot trails up Baelor's calf and past his knee and between his uncle's thighs, making it half-way up before he feels iron-tight fingers wrap tight around his ankle, locking him in place. His uncle's rings dig into his flesh. Aerion's breath hitches.
Across the table, Valarr looks about ready to rip Aerion's head off, while Matarys just looks between them like a lost little dog. Meanwhile Daeron busies himself by staring at the wall and emptying his glass, but Egg, the brat, gives him the nastiest little stink-eye Aerion's ever witnessed as if Aerion doesn't know exactly where he sleeps at night. The only thing that really worries him is Father, who narrows his eyes and tilts his head in silent warning.
He drops his foot.
"Have you no shame?" Valarr hisses, when Uncle Baelor is sufficiently distracted.
"What need have I of shame, sweet cousin?" he shoots back.
"Your perversion stains this house."
"And yours, what? Brings honor to it?"
Aerion nudges his boot against Baelor's ankle. Baelor glances at him. There's a flush on his cheeks and a droop to his eyes that only Aerion knows isn't the wine. Baelor frowns. Aerion smiles demurely, aware of Father's watchful gaze.
"Is something the matter?" Baelor asks. He looks between them, tired. Aerion tilts his head in question. He can feel Father's gaze like a noose around his throat. The silence drags.
"No," his cousin says finally. His jaw clenches. Aerion pops a cherry tomato into his mouth.
Baelor hums, seemingly appeased, but he gives Aerion one last look before turning back to Father. It might have set him straight at any other time, but there's a slowness to it, a softness beneath the glare that Aerion knows must be the doing of his little secret.
He'd stolen the vial last week, when he'd graciously volunteered to take a mysteriously-poisoned Egg to the Grand Maester's chambers. The ungrateful whelp had squirmed the whole way there so much Aerion had wondered if he should have just let Rhae take him. So really, the vial was only rightful recompense for his trouble.
Anyhow his prize seems to be working. His ever-eloquent uncle begins to stutter, grasping for words that never eluded him before. He rubs at his eyes and slurs his words and only half-heartedly rebuffs Aerion's efforts beneath the table. Irritation grows on his uncle's face, but it is nothing compared to the bone-deep exhaustion Aerion can see settling in.
Aerion's satisfaction grows.
He perhaps grows overeager in his satisfaction, because the eleventh time, Aerion barely grazes his uncle's toe before Baelor crushes his foot beneath his heel, grinding his bone into the floor with a ferocity that sends all the blood left in Aerion's head rushing straight to his crotch. The whole table jolts with the motion and all at once, the room goes silent save a choked noise that dies in his throat.
It is a wonder Aerion does not soil his pants right then and there.
"Aerion…" Father starts, low, both question and warning. There is no excitement to be found in drawing Father's furious gaze, nor amusement as with his cousins. He had hoped Father's good mood might have spared him the worst of his scrutiny but now he thinks perhaps he was wrong. "What've—"
"Forgive me," Baelor interrupts, rising. "I fear I must take my leave." He addresses the table, but he places a hand on Father's shoulder and tilts his head, a look passing between them. Aerion's guts twist. His mood sours. Even dosed with inordinate amounts of milk of the poppy, his lord uncle radiates authority. "It seems the travel has taken a far greater toll than expected. Please, excuse me. Do not stop on my account."
Baelor leaves after that, Aerion's gaze following him each faltering step of the way. He bites his lip. His foot aches. As soon as his uncle is out of sight, he turns back, only to see Father staring straight at him, eye practically twitching. Beside him, Egg keeps his expression carefully blank, but Aerion can tell he's enjoying this, the ingrate.
Around them, the conversation resumes, though much more subdued. Daeron makes plans with Valarr to delve into town, while Matarys begs to come along. Rhae has gone back to pestering Egg about some girlish nonsense, while Daella keeps tugging on Father's sleeve to recount some encounter she'd had with a cat.
As soon as Father turns away, Aerion rises, forcing a yawn.
"I, too, have had a long day, Father, so I will be—"
"Sit. Down."
Aerion is silent for the rest of dinner.
-
Aerion waits for all of forty minutes before he slips out of bed and makes his way to his uncle's quarters, pleased to find Ser Roland standing watch outside. Father had been cross for the remainder of the meal, but really—when is he not? All he'd had to do was wait for darling Daella to put him in a good mood again and just like that, Aerion was off, that unfortunate little mishap forgotten.
"My prince," Crakehall says, looking him up and down like Aerion's not like to have his eyes torn out for his insolence. A shame that he's in a bit of a rush tonight. "You are here late."
"Yes, well—I must speak to my uncle at once. This is a matter of great importance. Business of the crown and such."
He steps toward the door, meaning to pass him entirely, but Crakehall steps between them, palm solid against his chest. Aerion looks up, annoyed. It is not proper for a dragon to look up at his lessers. Aerion puffs out his chest, indignant.
"Is that so," Crakehall murmurs, in a tone so amused, Aerion considers pausing his little foray to have him whipped in the streets.
"It is," he says instead.
"And it is so urgent that you cannot wait 'til morn."
"Yes."
"His Grace seemed quite exhausted when he arrived. I do believe he is sleeping."
"Then I will wake him."
"Is that wise, my prince?"
Aerion frowns.
"Are you dull, Ser Roland? Do you understand the meaning of the word 'urgent'? Did you perchance hit your head on the journey home? Mayhaps I should call the maester."
Crakehall raises his hands in surrender.
"No need to get nasty," he says, stepping aside. "Do what you will."
Aerion shoves past him, dipping into his uncle's quarters. He shuts the door behind him, pleased to see the candles are still lit, and listens for Ser Roland's retreating footsteps before locking it. Then, he turns to his prize.
"Uuuuuuuuncle," Aerion singsongs, stepping inside. He toes off his trousers and kicks off his shoes as he approaches. His shift lands somewhere on the desk. All the while, Baelor does not so much as grunt. Aerion glows with pride.
He climbs atop the sheets next, taking in the wondrous sight of his uncle, lips parted and softly snoring. He looks at peace now in a way he only ever does with Father or Valarr, not a hint of his usual sternness left to mar his features. Aerion inhales. So rarely is he able to admire his uncle's features. He is always so cross beneath the surface, like he cannot decide whether to beat him or ignore him entirely and knows he cannot do either.
(Sometimes, Aerion envies his golden, yellow-bellied cousin. If he were Baelor's son, perhaps Father would look upon him something other than that repugnant sadness that belies only awful, gnawing disappointment.)
He climbs over him and straddles his thighs. He slaps his uncle's cheek. Still, he does not stir. He does it once more, harder this time, knuckles cracking against bone and blood and flesh, and watches, entranced, as his mark forms, red and blotchy ugly as a stain. Aerion's breath catches in his throat.
His gaze drifts. He traces the flutter of his lashes, the curve of his lips, the jut of his jaw. His uncle's nose is crooked. Uncle Baelor always seemed so untouchable, but he'd broken it twice, both times in defense of his brothers. He wonders, distantly, if Daeron would do the same for him. His brother is more like to crack his skull open chasing another drink.
It should dull his interest, really, for what dragon lets a mortal maim him in such fashion? But the thought only thrills him further, the thought of all that dormant anger, simply waiting to be awoken. His uncle may try to hide his true nature behind tepid smiles and kindly words, but he is a dragon through and through. Father has always told him so.
That is why Father loves him. His uncle is strong. Respected. Desirable. Father looks on no one else with the affection he does Baelor.
The thought aches, somehow.
He pushes up his uncle's shift. He pulls down his uncle's drawers. Aerion inhales, sharp. The sight of his uncle exposed makes his mouth water, his cock sprouting from a garden of perfectly groomed hairs. Aerion bites his lip. He tightens his fist. His uncle is fat and thick and heavy in his hand, even soft.
Not that Aerion is at all surprised. His uncle is a beast in prince's clothing, but now, here, there are no more specious silks nor courtly pleasantries left to hide behind.
He gives him an experimental tug. Baelor's thigh twitches.
Thoughtlessly, Aerion presses his mouth to the crease of his uncle's hip and inhales deep, relishing in the scent of earth and wood layered beneath his expensive soaps. Baelor's hairs are coarse against his upper lip; his balls rest heavy against his cheek. Aerion lasts all of two minutes before he takes one into his mouth, tongue lapping desperately along its contours as if to map out every uncharted inch of him. His uncle's cock is the only thing that stirs. Aerion pulls off with a pop.
He takes his time licking his way up, the tip of his tongue trailing from root to tip with uncharacteristic care. He stares up at his uncle. He maps the length of his neck, the flush over his cheeks, the way his lips fall open, just a bit. His spit-moist lips caress his uncle's tip, teasing, if only his uncle were awake to tease.
He takes him into his mouth. It's only his tip, but Aerion's jaw shudders with enormity of him. He wraps his fingers around him and licks, twirling the flat of his tongue between the tip and hood and savoring every note. Softly, Aerion moans.
A sound escapes his uncle's throat. Aerion's eyes flit up and suddenly he can't look away. His uncle looks so handsome even like this, loose and languid and utterly at his nephew's mercy. For a moment, Aerion almost wishes Baelor were awake to feel this. To see him. Would he look at him then? Or would he cast his gaze elsewhere even now? He takes him deeper and watches, enrapt, as his uncle's eyes flutter beneath his lids and his cock hardens in his mouth.
He imagines, for a moment, his uncle's gaze softening. The way he looks at Valarr. The way he looks at Father.
He imagines knuckles against his cheek, gentle, soothing a blow that never comes.
Aerion pushes the thought aside. Cousin and Father may pull gentleness and weakness from Baelor, but only Aerion can drive him to fury, only Aerion can set him aflame, only Aerion can pull from him strength. His uncle needs a match, not a nursemaid, and who better than the most favored of his most favored? He forces him down further and gags. He pulls off, breathless. He stares at the string of spit connecting them. When next he looks upon his uncle's sleeping face, Aerion imagines fear.
He forces himself down the entire length of it this time, throat spasming as his head pushes past that tight ring of muscle, and keeps his gaze solely on his uncle. Baelor would be furious if he woke. He would rip him off and throw him to Father to be beat bloody and caned. His uncle tastes like salt. Like earth. Like iron.
He wonders, vaguely, if Baelor would deign to do it himself.
Aerion moans. His eyes water. Slick spills from his tip. He ruts against the bed.
Finally, he pulls off, gasping desperately for breath.
Aerion wastes no time. He climbs his way up, positioning his hips over Baelor's, thighs trembling and lungs burning all the way there. He reaches behind him and grasps his uncle, feels the weight and wet and width of him. Slowly, he presses him inside. Aerion inhales, sharp. It's only the tip but he feels as if he's being split in two, so thick is his lord uncle. He'd expected Baelor to be big—he is blood of the dragon—but all the songs in Westeros could not capture his enormity.
But Aerion is of the dragon too, a dragon made flesh in an age of dead myths and lost glory. If a woman lacking the blood could take his uncle, why should Aerion not?
Slowly, Aerion lowers himself, taking, taking, taking, like he was born for him. He relishes in the burn of him, in the knowledge that it is his good, virtuous uncle cleaving him open, inflicting agony and pleasure in equal measure. It is only when Aerion is fully seated that he is able to take it all in. His thighs are shaking; his skin is covered in sweat. Beneath him, Baelor stirs: a twitch of the lips, a jerk of his thigh, then—nothing.
Moments pass before he moves. It stings at first, but he pushes past the pain, focusing on the raw motion, until all that remains is sweet pleasure and the slow drag of his uncle's veins against his walls. Aerion moans, loud. He quickens his pace and takes his uncle's wrists, pulling his hands closer and closer until they rest flush against Aerion's hips. He basks in the heat of his grasp, because for all claims, Aerion's blood has always run devastatingly, disappointingly cold.
He presses Baelor's hands closer, losing himself in undulation and callouses against his skin. At one point, Baelor stirs; his fingers twitch in Aerion's grip and his head jerks to the side as he groans, but not once does Aerion slow. If his uncle were to wake—well. That would be unfortunate. Uncle Baelor would be angry, most like, and Father, even worse since the matter concerns his precious Baelor. Still—fifty good lashings should be enough to buy back Father's affections, and truly, there is nothing in this world Aerion could do that would draw Father's fury forever. His father is blood of the dragon, but even dragons protect their own.
Pressure builds within him; his grip is so tight he's certain he'll have uncle-shaped bruises against his hips. He lets go and buries his fists in sheets behind him, losing himself in a high only his uncle could give. He wants to defile him, wants to sully his pristine honor, wants to leave a mark so deep not even death could wipe it away. What would the court think, he wonders, if they knew? The Hand stole his nephew's virtue; he dirtied himself in the flesh of his beloved brother's blood. Perhaps then, Father would not look at him so.
Perhaps then, Father would—ah—
Aerion groans, guttural and low, as he comes, hole spasming around the length of his uncle's cock. He spills over Baelor's belly, bathing him in white, and folds over him, mouth open as if to devour this tiny, transient fraction of his uncle. He presses his forehead into his uncle's dampened neck and inhales the scent of salt and sweat and the barest trace of soot.
Aerion shifts, then frowns. His uncle is still hard. Aerion pushes himself up, wincing. Let no one say Aerion Brightflame could not please his lord uncle.
Even the smallest motion seems to light his every nerve on fire. He draws his hips up, then sinks back down, ignoring the way everything in him begs him to stop. He grips his Baelor's chest. His nails dig into the meat of his breast, pressure just shy of drawing blood, though every part of him sings to spill it. He rides him with purpose and he has to bite his lip to hold back the humiliating noises bubbling from his throat as blood fills his cock once more.
Aerion can feel Baelor twitching inside him. He watches his uncle's face, intent, drowning in the sight. His uncle is perfect like this, mouth open and pliable. He only wishes he could see his eyes, his mismatched pair that distinguish himself even in a line of dragons, ones that were his and his alone until Valarr came along, stealing even this part of Uncle for himself.
He fucks himself like he has something to prove, though the notion is ridiculous. Aerion is of dragon's blood, of Baelor's blood; he need prove nothing and yet—
Baelor's cock twitches as he comes, hot seed shooting through him like dragonfire, filling him, claiming him, taking him, and just the thought of it makes Aerion come a second time. He sprawls over him, heedless of the way cum smears over his belly, and relishes in the sensation of his uncle's spend coating his walls.
Heat blossoms in his gut. He pants against his uncle's chest. Baelor softens inside him. He slips out.
Aerion allows himself to lie there awhile, head luxuriously empty. For a time, he thinks of nothing and no one but his uncle. His uncle snapping just for him. His uncle taking him, claiming him as a dragon should.
His uncle, broken and soft and pliant beneath him, more doe than dragon.
Aerion sighs. He pushes himself up.
He should not test fate.
It is possible that Ser Roland has merely disappeared to find his father and despite all Aerion's ponderings, he would prefer not to draw his father's wrath tonight.
He looks down. His mess stains his uncle's belly. Some of it even stains the hem of his shift. Aerion purses his lips, thinking. There's a mess inside him, too, leaking out slowly but surely. He brightens.
When he reaches behind him, it's to feel a mess of seed and saliva entwined into one sticky, sopping glob. Aerion rubs it between his fingers, disgust and fascination ever at war within him. Without a second thought, he shoves it into between his uncle's parted lips, the warmth and wet of his mouth going straight to his balls. If he were not so tired, he would crawl up just three more feet and force his uncle to clean him up entirely. Instead, he just wipes his fingers on his tongue like it's a towel and pulls away to admire his handiwork.
His uncle will be a mess in the morning, but Aerion has had a long day. Mayhaps he will think he had a particularly good dream. Aerion has certainly done his part in giving him one.
If anything, his uncle should thank him.