Chapter Text
By Prince Maekar’s very own words and blessings, Ser Duncan was already appointed a White Cloak shortly before Aerion returned to Summerhall.
It was easy to believe that the decision partly happened due to his youngest son’s influence, with how much Aegon spoke highly of the giant knight, aside from his obvious display of strength of course … and the knightly quality. That, Valarr could see (and soon understand albeit unwillingly why his father did what he did.)
Still, it tugged something in him when Maekar eventually deemed Ser Duncan fit to attend personally to his recently banished son. An arrangement made perfect with the timing—which had Valarr quietly wondering if it was mainly the reason that Ser Duncan was appointed at all, or if it was a deliberate act of killing two birds with one stone.
His cousin returned a little skinnier than Valarr remembered him to be, but just as haughty, every little bit of spoiled princeling that he remained to be. His skin was tanned from the Essos’ beating sun, a delightful contrast against his ever fervent silver white hair. Though there’s a stillness in him now that’s very easy to miss. The kind that appeared often after he worked his jaw shut whereas he’s supposed to spew insults like dragons would wildfire.
What a nice change of scenery could do to even the cruelest flame.
Valarr enjoyed it, tracking the strain in Aerion’s willingness to be the tiniest bit nicer, if not for the sole reason that it shall keep his cousin out of trouble longer than it used to, before Lys.
(And there was this … a change of manner as well, that Aerion somehow had learned and adopted, in ways more prominent than simply branching his new preference to favor eastern silk for his daily wear. It was something that clung to the curl of his smile, the tilt of his head so he could stare at one from under his lashes. Allure, but weaponized.
Baring one’s teeth less did not equal lessening the venom behind, after all.)
Ultimately, Valarr would rather keep him close now more than ever, with the King’s final days upon the Iron Throne drawing thin.
Which meant, as the next heir in line, his own ascent.
And inevitably, his marriage.
When his father was still alive, Baelor had divulged to Valarr the throne’s interest in the young alpha prince’s betrothal and the potential line ups for the betrothed. Valarr had listened solemnly to the weighed consideration his father put upon each choice, whose princess or omega prince’s hand that he’d best take, which alliance most favorable to support Valarr’s oncoming reign.
“Have you anyone in mind?” His father had asked.
“Give me a few days, and I shall let you know.”
“I’m not talking about the betrothals. Not in the sense of serving the alliance, what I meant.”
Valarr took a second to understand. “No, Father, I don’t have a lover.”
Baelor nodded slowly, gaze casted somewhere else in his study. To anyone else, it would seem that it was the end of the conversation, but Valarr was not only his blood, he’s also patient.
True enough, the silence merely prompted him again. “Your uncle proposed a … suggestion,” Baelor started, the hesitation hidden almost seamlessly beneath assured words. “And I might be inclined to agree, if you can share my reasoning.”
“What is it?”
Who was he trying to fool, truly, Valarr had already figured out the proposition before his father laid it upon them.
“That you are to marry Aerion.” It was Valarr’s turn to nod slowly, entirely unsurprised at the name drop of his omega cousin, as Baelor carried on, “Nothing could satisfy the alliances better than let them know how we favor our sacrament above other banners. Maekar believes you two make a great pair. Your cousin can be volatile, yes, but he also refuses to have him submit to another alpha outside our bloodline. You on the other hand already have his respect, first as family and later king.”
Already Valarr was conjuring the image of Aerion in mind. Young, arrogant, devastatingly pretty Aerion, with his rich inviting cider scent clinging like fragrance to his skin, one that he never seemed to care enough to conceal and instead found amusement with how it caused alpha knights and lords alike stumbling upon one another’s toes. Valarr can understand why Maekar found the idea of a non-Targaryen alpha commanding Aerion into submission unsightly. The thought alone grated him a little—fleeting, unwelcome.
Valarr returned a resolute gaze to his father before giving his acquiesce. “I’ll marry Aerion.”
“Don’t you need more time?”
What for? It’s Aerion, Valarr did not say. “No need, Father. Uncle Maekar is right. Aerion will need me.” Moreover, his control.
And wouldn’t it be akin to holding a golden rein?
It was unofficially decided then that Aerion shall be engaged to Valarr. It remained a secret between him, his father, and Maekar alone, to be disclosed only years later in the future when the weight of the crown was one drop away on top of Valarr’s head. Too many listening ears could lead to too many attempts at swaying the decision, even without that they were still prone to change their minds with the perpetually shifting political nature in the realm.
Not even Aerion was made aware. He never exactly bowed to Valarr, but as his father had said, his respect was carved. Present in the way he’d let Valarr walk in front of him or agreeable enough to accept Valarr’s lead during their weekly hunt. The curl of Aerion’s lip as he addressed him with “cousin” was sometimes a challenge wrapped in sneer, but other times also an acknowledgement.
Valarr couldn’t say he’s bothered to demand more. Not at the time, at least. And still he’s growing restless at the notion that there would be plenty of opportunity once they are properly bonded.
Maekar was meant to announce the betrothal once Aerion completed the time for his punishment. Before it made to the public though, Valarr intended to tell Aerion himself. To test the waters or the limit, it served the purpose all the same.
Which brought him back to this moment as spring in Summerhall gradually creeped on to an end.
Ser Duncan the Tall, apparently now turned a personal White Cloak to Aerion.
The knight shadowed Aerion as he lounged like a gigantic lazy cat in the inner garden. The small table beside him holding up a bowl of sweet fruits and a teapot likely consisting of honeyed milk.
They were the only ones hanging about, not yet realizing Valarr’s figure was nearby, the soft sound of his footsteps lost in the breeze as the prince and the knight were too engrossed in their own conversation.
The sight had Valarr halting his approach. He couldn’t recall a time where Aerion was any less hostile to the ex-hedge knight. The Trials of the Seven, now an aching memory tucked away in the far recesses of his mind, resurfaced as a ghostly reminder to how their interaction was supposed to end.
And yet here he was, listening to the rhythm of their easy back-and-forth that bore no knives embedded within the words.
“… you’re telling me that Essos has better storytellers,” was the tail end of Ser Duncan’s words.
“Did you even hear a single fucking word I was saying, you big oaf?” Aerion’s reply lost its bite. The roll of his eyes were vivid in the way he sighed exasperatedly. “It’s not essentially about the tale, but the relevance one holds to reality. How true.”
Ser Duncan hummed. “It’s a good tale nonetheless, my prince. Perhaps because it is told by you. You have a knack to be one. A storyteller, I mean.”
Aerion shot a glare. “Are you mocking me?”
“Why, no, I wouldn’t dare! Please forgive me, my prince, I didn’t—ah. What I meant to say is that you have the … voice for it.”
“What of my voice?” Aerion demanded.
Even from a distance, Valarr could hear the beginning of fluster from Ser Duncan’s end. What he said next, after a couple of awkward coughs, was enough to freeze Valarr’s composure completely.
“It’s quite soothing, my prince, very soft, and dreamy. Like a … like those blossom flowers that I only see during spring. I-I apologize, I’m not good with metaphors, but.” Ser Duncan cleared his throat once more. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
The following silence kept Valarr’s eyes glued to them both. He could hardly make sense of what he saw and heard. The smell hit him like a final seal—and of course Ser Duncan was an alpha himself—of pines and wood husks, chasing after Aerion’s own sweet cider before entwining with it.
Reeked of wanting.
Aerion was momentarily speechless, his mouth clamped shut, caught between shock and the immediate need to mask it—Valarr would know. This Aerion’s very own brand of flustered pride. However, he didn’t seem seconds away from lashing out at Ser Duncan. Nor he stepped away.
Valarr’s jaw ticked before he was aware of the motion.
There was another response in the tip of Aerion’s tongue right when his nose twitched, having upon a new scent undoubtedly coming from Valarr himself, of firewood, leather, and above everything familiarity. Violet eyes slid over until it met Valarr’s mismatched ones.
He stood at the same time Ser Duncan turned to face him as well.
“Cousin,” Aerion greeted through his teeth. It would appear aggressive to anybody else, but Valarr boldly advanced until his scent washed over the remaining pines and woods.
Aerion coiled as if about to brace for a strike when Valarr reached one hand to brush his short hair, but just as fast the tension rolled from his shoulders, and he readily accepted as Valarr’s pheromones mingled with his. Despite not being as tall as Ser Duncan, the difference in their second gender made certain that he was still physically superior to his cousin.
Valarr’s touch lingered on Aerion’s bare neck, enough to incite a shiver and what certainly would have been a snarl, before he let go with a quiet, “Meet me in my quarter.” He paused, adding, “There’s something we need to discuss.”
Face scrunched, Aerion looked like he would rather answer with a sneer just for the sake of it. Valarr held his gaze. Steady, not pointed (or wouldn’t it be a threat otherwise?), and it was all that was needed for Aerion to recognize the gravity of his words.
“Sure,” he said bedgrudgingly.
So much more amenable, indeed, be blessed Lys.
Valarr tilted his head as he watched Aerion’s retreating back from the garden, hair catching sunlight like melted silver. His absence left him alone with Ser Duncan.
“You get along well with my cousin,” he said softly, “in spite of what happened.”
“I … I’d like to believe Prince Aerion tolerates me better now, Your Grace.”
Valarr studied the knight in silence. The honesty in his words was unmistakable, so was the flickering of hope that did not escape Valarr’s scrutiny.
“Aerion is not famous for his patience.” The lack of it, really.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Yet you endured him well.” At the hesitation on Ser Duncan’s expression, Valarr continued, “He doesn’t always reward kindness.”
“It was my duty to serve him nevertheless, Your Grace.”
Why did Maekar assign him as Aerion’s private guard? The question floated to the front of Valarr’s mind, no longer a curiosity. It would not be the first time a guard had taken a fancy to his cousin, as it was bound to happen to the only omega boy in the current royal line.
Truth be told, it was a trait Maekar certainly benefitted from for a long time. Alpha knights tended to protect better when it concerned an omega they were interested in.
The real question was a matter of when. Aerion’s return couldn’t have been more than a fortnight ago.
Valarr did not call Ser Duncan out for it. For the painfully obvious display of affection and whatever else he possessed that had Maekar see this arrangement necessary. (The plain sincerity, for one, next to the strength and skills.)
What he voiced out loud, though, was merely a reminder: “Only dragons can lay a claim on one.”
It might have been a warning as well. Valarr did not bother to clarify which.
Ironic, since it was usually Aerion who did the threatening.
“That you do, Your Grace.” Ser Duncan inclined his head, not looking away once. There was no defiance underneath his shrouded gaze. He didn’t mean to challenge.
When Valarr eventually left, the knight remained rooted to where he stood.
It was the next hour when Valarr finally cornered Aerion in an empty hallway, on the other side of where Valarr’s chamber was located.
“I told you to see me in my quarter.”
“Not my fault I grew bored while you took your time.”
Valarr’s eyes narrowed slightly but he wouldn’t give Aerion the satisfaction of his annoyance, flimsy though it was. Instead Valarr simply motioned for Aerion to follow him to his chamber, which the boy heeded without questions.
“So, what is it we ought to discuss?”
The door to the chamber closed behind Valarr while Aerion strolled further inside.
A few heartbeats passed. Valarr pondered how to approach the object, though it wasn't like it mattered in the first place, for Aerion was not one for preamble.
He called before he could reconsider, “Zaldrīzoti.”
Aerion abruptly whipped his head at Valarr, wide eyes tinged with the slightest bit of confusion at the nickname, before a flush climbed up and rested upon his cheekbones.
Little dragon.
He took a sharp inhale, and with that a lungful of air tinted with Valarr’s gradually calming scent. When he spoke it sounded a little strangled and a great deal suspicious. “What do you want?”
“You’re pretty when you’re not mean, cousin.”
Aerion bristled under Valarr’s somber gaze, taking his careful voice as mockery. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Valarr frowned. “Watch your tone.”
It was the first time in such a long, long stretch of period that he used an alpha command on Aerion. Seven, the last probably occurred when they were still freshly presented. He never had the urge to, content to let his uncle and other times his father take the responsibility to rein in the coarse omega.
This one wasn’t precisely a strong command, but it delivered nonetheless as Aerion ducked his gaze unwillingly. The edges of Valarr’s eyes softened. He then took his betrothed’s chin up.
“Aerion,” he started. “When I am king, we are to be mated.”
His cousin blinked, brows furrowed. “Does my father know?”
“You know the answer.”
Aerion scoffed at that. “He arranged it, then.”
“Him and my father, years ago. Before Lys. Before the Trial.”
The admission seeped into the quiet atmosphere blanketing them, especially concentrated on Aerion’s part. If there was little to no comfort to be found in it, Aerion’s face did not betray anything.
It was even almost offhanded when he shrugged. “Okay.”
“You don’t object?”
“It’s not like they would’ve given me a choice in the first place.” Aerion crossed his arms over his chest and leaned closer to Valarr, head tilted upward as he asked in a whisper, “Except if you’d like to.”
It’s a tease, Valarr realized, intertwined enough with the ugly truth as it was. It didn’t stop him from responding with all the graveness he could muster, “I would not.”
Aerion’s teeth were sharp as he laughed. “Of course. You, the Prince of Dragonstone. You flaunt yourself to others like a noble little—”
He wasn’t getting the chance to finish his sentence as Valarr caught his wrist, fingers encircling delicate bone and fine fabric alike, tugging until Aerion bumped into him. The harshness was less of a necessity and more of a precaution.
“I’m not to blame for it,” Valarr said, tone calm, undisturbed. “You were after all promised to me.”
With his other hand, he once again tipped Aerion’s chin so they could see eye to eye. The strong smell of cider was all he breathed in, probing at his nerves and control just as he knew what his own scent did to Aerion. He could sense the exact second where Aerion’s body went slack in his hold. And then—
A flick of pink tongue.
The trap snapped shut when Valarr’s eyes zeroed in on the movement. The next thing he knew, Aerion had both his arms wrapped around Valarr’s neck. An embrace made feel like a snare only because of the wicked smirk that looked at home on Aerion’s face.
It was just appropriate that Valarr’s hand found an anchor on the dip of Aerion’s waist. His silk felt smooth like water surface on skin, leaving little imagination to the actual sensation underneath where it’s naked.
“I hoped you would’ve told me sooner.” Against Valarr’s jaw, Aerion purred, “Ñuha zaldrīzes.”
My dragon.
Valarr pressed his thumb into the silk. “Is present time unseemly?”
“It could’ve saved me a lot of confusion. To be frank, cousin, you’re a quiet man. I hadn’t had a great time guessing whether you’re planning murder for me or just dissociating. And turns out ….”
“Turns out?” Valarr swore he knew what Aerion was about to say. Except, he wasn’t all that correct.
Aerion pressed his body flush against Valarr’s front. “You tell me.”
The tension snapped almost violently as Valarr surged to meet Aerion’s lips in the middle.
Valarr’s grip on Aerion’s waist provided guidance as he steered him back until stone met silk and spine. The wall answered with a dull thud, and Valarr followed, crowding him, caging him without thought.
It was far from being Valarr’s first kiss, yet it was also a crash he could never anticipate nor rehearse.
Because it burned.
Aerion’s mouth felt scalding.
Valarr endured the faintest scrapes of teeth as he closed his eyes and deepened the kiss, relishing in the irresistible heat that took the shape of Aerion’s mouth, the wet noises of their entanglement. How Aerion’s lips parted under the pressure.
Aerion made a low sound that started from the back of his throat. It dissolved the moment Valarr pressed even closer, one knee slipped between his thighs and grazed at the right angle just so. Aerion’s skull struck the stone again, not at all softer this time, and instead of complaining his fingers tangled into Valarr’s collar as if to anchor himself.
He slipped his tongue between Valarr’s teeth, which Valarr welcomed by sucking it earnestly. Every gasp and moan Aerion let out, he swallowed it.
“Zaldrīzoti,” Valarr murmured once they parted, lips still hovering but far enough to allow the word to spill.
Aerion licked the corner of Valarr’s mouth once more before leaning back, his palms resting on Valarr’s chest. “Should I get used to the name?”
“Yes.” No more elaboration. But in Valarr’s mind, the truth of what he had told the knight echoed, Only dragons can lay a claim on one.
Aerion’s pheromone rose and circled around them not unlike a playful dragon’s tail. His lips were shiny and striking red, violet eyes hooded as they stared up at Valarr, neck bared in offering.
Valarr caressed Aerion’s jaw down to the expanse of his pale skin. The tempting mating gland waiting to be claimed as Aerion’s purr urging him on, his fingers sliding down to tug at Valarr’s belt.
“Dohaeras.” Aerion leaned his forehead against Valarr’s. Serve.
Diving down, Valarr nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent thick and cloying like drips of honey. He dragged his tongue in a languid strip along the place he knew would yield the sweetest taste.
A shudder moved through Aerion.
He resisted the urge to break the skin bloody even when Aerion kept encouraging him, rocking the lower part of his body forward until there was no room for him not to feel Valarr’s half hardening length.
It was a testament to Valarr’s entire control as he felt the growing heat between Aerion’s legs, where his knee had slotted between them from before.
He could take him now. The pull was close to urgency—the ease with which Valarr could manoeuvre him around and bend him over, laying a claim at last to what had been his right all along. Aerion was not in his usual armor, too; just donned in drapes of silk beneath the chainmail across his chest.
The empty bed was calling, a promise, a few strides behind them.
In the end, Valarr crushed the impulse with a littering of kisses along the span of Aerion’s neck, each one aiming to bruise. Aerion gripped at his shoulders as his own knees buckled. Valarr kept him upright to ensure his mouth remained attached to the column of his throat. His pheromone flared, firewood filling the chamber and surging around the omega in his arms.
Valarr pried himself off of him before his every nerve ending could burst.
The haste would not do. It was meaningless when Aerion was already his.
Still, he didn’t want his withdrawal to linger like a rejection. With that in mind, Valarr took Aerion’s hands and raised the knuckles so he could press his lips against them.
He brushed aside a stray silver lock from Aerion’s face. Only after then did he put a respectable distance between them. The motion spoke for itself, of Valarr’s intention to put an end to their mingling.
Aerion, flushed and bright-eyed, for his part did not look reproached. The collar of his shirt did nothing to hide the marks Valarr had left.
“I am to meet with the Hand later,” Valarr told him, already turning away. “Stay if you wish.”
“Valarr.”
Aerion’s voice carried across the chamber. When no words immediately followed, Valarr paused by the door and inclined his head slightly.
Once more, Aerion demanded, “Dohaeras.”
The word settled into the silence before vanishing into the remaining tension. As Valarr waited for the next drop, Aerion raised his chin in defiance. The upturning curve of his lips was as cruel as it was taunting.
“Next time,” he said evenly, “be more fierce.”
All men must serve. But they were of dragon's blood.
It was easy to cast it aside—no, equalize it—as another word for to conquer.
Valarr stepped out through the door without bothering with a reply.
Next time. Yes, their marriage looming on the horizon was already carving a next time, and along with it an ample opportunity to show Aerion all the manners that a servitude could take.