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“You know,” Baelor's tone is soaked in amusement, it is palpable even with his back turned. “There's no need to hover.”
Valarr clicks his tongue, hand resting atop the hilt of his sword. “I'm your sworn sword.”
“Yes, of that I'm highly aware,” Baelor turns, at least, his face illuminated by the yellowing warmth of the candles. “We are in peace times, my son, there's no need for all this pampering.”
“When I was a child you'd go mad if I spent a second out of your line of sight,” Valarr sighs, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension built up from having been standing in the same spot for hours. “How am I any different from you?”
Baelor chuckles at the memory, fond, softened. “I had yet to wash the blood leftover from Redgrass off my hands, Valarr. That was different.”
It is an unfair hand to play, in truth—Valarr doesn't have enough battle experience of his own to tackle on the Breakspear. He knows that it's ridiculous to even stress about the prospect of an attack, but he's always felt at his safest when his guard is as high as the walls of the Keep.
His souring mood dulls whatever fondness was in Baelor's face. The king sighs, tilting his head.
“Come,” He commands. “Sit, drink with me.’
Valarr goes. Of course he goes.
His armor clinks as he walks, he rids himself of his gauntlets and struggles to fit in the wooden chair with the bulk of it but he manages. The solar is kept dimly lit, moreso at these late hours, and he's half-hidden behind the shadows portrayed upon the walls by the candles.
Baelor pours him a cup of wine, a strange sight, unbecoming of a king—Valarr's heart kicks in his throat, he reaches for it with shaking hands and takes tentative sips at first, then he's drowning the sweet-bitter liquid down his throat. Plump, pink lips are wetted by the wine and he wipes his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, grateful that he's donning all-black tonight.
His father has aged, and gracefully so. His once black-gray hair now reminisces the mountains of the North, coated in white and gray, down to his beard. There are age lines pulling at the edges of his face, of his eyes, and wrinkles scattered across his features that serve as a reminder of the passage of time. He's handsome, to a point that's bothersome, but he's aged. Valarr doesn't know what to do with his own heart and how he feels about seeing his father grow older.
Valarr feels uncomfortable in the silence, so he fills it, “Will I be sent to the Riverlands?”
“Would you go?” Baelor asks, cocking one of his brows. “I thought your place was by my side.”
Warmth spills down his chest due to those words, his cheeks become flushed. “Yes, of course,” He stutters, retracting his own question. “I just thought… I don't know, forget about it.”
Baelor crosses the threshold of the solar, coming to stand before Valarr. His own cup of wine has been forgotten upon the desk, which is littered with unsent letters and clean parchment.
His presence is more than enough to make the young prince shrink into his seat, but it's always been difficult to shy away from his father’s attention—Baelor has never been the kind of man to take a simple no for an answer, less so from his own flesh and blood.
One of those calloused, tender fingers comes to tilt his chin up, pushing a soft gasp out of his son's lips. Their mirrored gazes meet, burning right through each other. Valarr wants to cower, to hide, to be like his old self and shy away from his father's ministrations. Inside he feels no different than he did at six and ten, it's as if he were a young child in a body that's too big, too wrong. All these sensations return with a powerful intensity anytime they're like this; close, alone, under the privacy of a solar or a chamber, teetering at the edge of an unstoppable moment.
“Speak clearly, Valarr. I would like to hear what you think.”
Valarr sucks in a sharp breath. “The Riverlands are a… tough spot, to put it simply. Some of the men in the garrison are still green,” He explains, surprised that his own voice isn't faltering. “Not that I am somehow more experienced, but I am the best sword and the most prepared, you made it so."
Baelor hums, nodding. “I did, yes.”
“... And when it comes to dealing in politics and matters that require a level of understanding beyond that of any simple noble's, I would also be the most reliable to carry such a weight.”
“You would be,” Baelor agrees, simply. “Ask me, then.”
Valarr blinks up at his father, his king. “What?”
“Ask me to let you go, Valarr.”
“Father.”
“Mh?”
Baelor's fingers abandon his chin, coming to trace the sharp line of his jaw. The king isn't the only one who's changed—Valarr, at six and twenty, has turned into quite the sight.
Not only is he widely recognized as a strong, skilled warrior, a valiant knight, but he's fawned upon by ladies and lords across the kingdom for his natural, boyish beauty. He has lost some of the softness from his earlier years but he has kept the charm. Many have said he resembles a younger Baelor without the scarring and the broken bones that changed his features. Baelor has always seen more of Jena in him, though.
He's grown tall, wearing his height proudly wherever he goes, more so if he's standing beside or behind the king. His brown hair is longer, with that silver streak running across it that Baelor has always loved to run his fingers throughout. He is charming, funny and quite good at befriending all sorts of people, from lowborn to highborn.
Baelor is as proud as he is haunted by this.
He runs his thumb across Valarr's lower lip, spine tingling as that pink, velvet tongue darts out to taste the skin of his calloused finger. Valarr sucks in the digit, hollowing his cheeks as if he were on his knees with a mouthful of cock. Baelor can't help the groan that abandons him.
“Please,” Valarr tilts his face onto his touch, craving much more of it. “My king, please.”
Baelor's gaze darkens. “What do you need, sweet boy?”
“You.”
It's a shy, soft plea. Almost guarded. Hidden under a layer of embarrassment, of white-hot guilt.
Baelor plans to crumble the very foundation of Valarr's shame—turn it into pure desire.
“Rid yourself of the armor,” Baelor's voice drops to a register so low, it's a wonder Valarr can hear him, even. “And your clothing, too.”
Valarr shakily nods, standing once again. His armor takes a moment to be dealt with, each piece is removed with a certain care, as if it were the last one of its kind. This amuses Baelor, who would burn through the last resources of steel across the realm to make Valarr all the armor he wanted, to forge him swords and show off the strength of their house in his son’s body.
It clinks down to the floor, Valarr too worried about dirtying his father's tables and rugs.
At last, he gets down to his clothing. Baelor does mourn seeing him donning fine, expensive fabrics across the Keep, he misses the sight of a dark cloak trailing behind Valarr as he rushed to his afternoon lessons or to have tea with his grandmother. Under his armor he wears fewer layers now, enough to keep him warm during the winter and less during the summer to not overheat. But it's simple, common. Regal, because it's Valarr donning them, but like everyone else's.
The white cloak is fixed on the chair's back, draped across it carefully, too. Valarr's body—now muscular, taut and grown—stands bare before him, kicking the breath out of his lungs.
Valarr turns crimson under his father's gaze. “Tell me what to do next, your grace.”
“Give me a moment,” Baelor murmurs as he closes the distance between them, splaying one hand across Valarr's freckled chest and with his other he cups the boy's crotch, which is halfway to hardening. “I'm admiring.”
“You've seen me before,” Valarr scowls, though he's bashful, red like an apple. “I've not changed.”
“That's what you think,” Baelor traces the outline of the muscles, of the parts of him where he's filled out and the ones where he's tighter. “Indulge me.”
Valarr sighs, but he's fond, it's showing in his eyes.
He tenses under his father's touches, gasping softly, quietly, whenever Baelor pinches his nipples or dips down his navel. His gaze is settled in his father's face, his throat working through nervous swallows as his hips twitch into his father's hand.
Baelor squeezes his cock, humming in acceptance as Valarr's hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his doublet.
They've had many years of practice, at first their couplings were fiery, almost aggressive. Valarr had been going through the rough patches of youth, ridden with grief and guilt, trying to be the living image of whatever Baelor wished him to be instead of working towards being his own person. That had made resentment settle in the boy, which he'd in turn taken out on his father after the events that occurred at Ashford and the tourney in which he'd almost lost his life in.
Then they turned almost sweet, patient. Baelor had been bed-ridden due to his injuries for a long time, Valarr had been there to care for him in every way.
His fighting days were over once he recovered, which changed Valarr, as he became highly aware that Baelor would no longer be able to fend for himself. The boy's purpose was changed; he had spent arduous, endless days and nights, weeks and months, training to become the finest sword there was in the whole kingdom. Through sickness, through bad days and through terrible weather—Valarr would be down there in the yard no matter what, swinging his sword and drilling with men until every bone in his body ached.
In the midst of it all, Baelor managed to learn his son's body well enough to know what made him tick, what drove him to the edge quickly and which spots in his body made him spill the sweetest noises.
“Father,” Valarr pleaded. “We don't have all night.”
Baelor chuckled, darkly. “Don't we?”
“I—I must return to my post.”
“Not if the king says otherwise,” Baelor grumbles, gripping the boy's chin with one hand, licking over his warm, plush lips. “If I need you here, you will remain here.”
Valarr doesn't get to retort because his father's lips are on his own quite quickly, attacking him with a kiss that's as violent as it is passionate.
Blood flows between their lips, mixing in with the sweet taste of the wine. There's tongue and teeth and spit dribbling down their mouths. Baelor groans against Valarr's mouth as the boy ruts into his hand, pulling him closer and closer until they're flush together, chest to chest.
He's fully clothed, still. His cock is hard and leaking inside his breeches, staining his smallclothes. The contrast of his fine, soft doublet against Valarr's naked skin makes his son moan softly, sweetly. His nipples chafe against the fabric and he chases the feeling of being pressed against his father's body as they stumble back against one of the tables in the middle of the solar, where he kicks himself up to sit upon it.
“Off,” Valarr groans, clawing at his clothing. “Please, father. Take it off.”
“Insatiable,” Baelor sighs, though he pulls back, working through buttons and laces with a fiery efficiency. “I've spoiled you rotten.”
“Your own doings are not my mistakes to carry.”
“You sound like me, boy.”
Valarr snorts. “I wonder why, my king.”
Once dressed down to his breeches, Baelor kisses him again, slower this time. Their tongues melt against each other's, Valarr's hands cup his face and he's lodged in between the boy's thighs, his own hands coming down to caress his hips and the supple flesh of his firm, round ass.
Baelor ruts his own hardened, clothed cock against Valarr's, which is straining against the thin, sheer fabric of his undergarments.
They moan and gasp into each other's mouths, swallowing each other's oxygen and sounds. Valarr's fair, pale chest is pink and freckled, while Baelor's tanned skin burns, covered in coarse hair, muscles turned to soft, unguarded flesh. Valarr's hands turn to an exploratory path of his father's chest, all the way down to his crotch, where he undoes the laces of his breeches with a quick hand and pulls them past his thighs, all the way down to his calves.
Valarr's feverish lips turn to his neck, to his collarbones and chest—Baelor's cock twitches, he has grown sensitive over the years.
There's very few who'd dare question markings upon the skin of the king, and one of those people is sat on a table pleasuring him while the others remain a week's ride away in Summerhall. He has turned up to Small Council meetings with a bruised neck, has been bathed by servants who had stared at the purple and pink patches on his skin and said nothing, always reassured that no one would question him.
The same can't be said for Valarr, though. He is sworn under oath to not engage in this type of behavior, sworn to celibacy, to his duties.
Baelor can't leave marks, he can't bruise Valarr with his teeth or his lips as much as he'd like—Sure, most wouldn't dare question the crown prince, either, but risking his position among the white cloaks feels like something he would never do to his own son. Even if the prospect of people thinking they could ever have some sort of claim over him makes Baelor ill.
Valarr is his. His flesh and blood. His son. His knight. His to love, to fuck, to possess.
The boy's hand sneaks past the edge of his smallclothes, grabbing a handful of his hardened, flushed cock. Baelor sighs, leaning into the touch, knocking his forehead with Valarr's.
“That's it,” Baelor encourages as Valarr strokes him, softly, with a warm, steady hand. “Spit on your hand, son. Get me wet and ready.”
Valarr does just as he's told; he pulls his hand back, spitting a generous glob of saliva onto his palm, never peeling his gaze away from his father's.
The wet, slick pull of his hand makes Baelor grip him hard. He brings his own fingers to his mouth, wetting them too, sticking them before slipping Valarr's smallclothes past his thighs. Baelor preens at the sight of his flushed cock but ignores the weeping length in favor of brushing his fingers beneath his balls, past his taint.
With a lack of ceremony, he pushes a saliva soaked finger inside Valarr's puckered hole. Valarr's spine tightens, his legs kick beneath him as his movements on Baelor's cock falter—He's coated in a thin sheen of sweat, some of it due to having worn his armor for too long and the new, slicker edges of skin due to the arousal spiking through him. One finger becomes two, and before he knows it he's fucking into Valarr's fist like a lust-ridden adolescent while stretching him open on three of his fingers.
His gold, heavy ring presses against Valarr's hole every time he pushes his fingers deep, trying to find that spot that makes Valarr turn sweet and pliant, melting into a sugar puddle under his father's ministrations.
“Fuck,” Valarr whines. “Your fingers—father, fuck,”
Baelor licks over his dry lips, kissing Valarr's temple right after. “Tell me how it feels, my boy.”
“So good,” Valarr tilts his head, pressing his lips to his father's throat as he speaks, his voice vibrating over his father's pulse. “I love your hands.”
“Hm, that I know. You suckle on them like a starved babe, sweetling.”
“Love to feel them inside me, fucking me open,” Valarr murmurs, vulgar, unashamed. “I adore you, father. I adore everything you do to me.”
Baelor's heart soars inside his chest. The amount of love Valarr has for him has always made him weak in a good, positive way. Hearing him speak it out loud while doing such obscene things makes him as equally aroused as in love.
“Enough,” Baelor commands, slapping Valarr's hand away from his cock. “I think you're ready.”
Valarr nods, desperately. “Please.”
Baelor pulls his fingers free, cooing at Valarr as he whines in displeasure at the loss of them.
He rids himself of his smallclothes, too. Baelor grabs a handful of his cock right at the base, looking down to spit on it before spreading his saliva across his shaft with a rough pump.
Valarr stares, hungry, drunken. He's all pink and pretty, looking so tempting under the warm lighting of the solar. Baelor thanks all the existing, new and old, gods that he's the one who gets to witness his son like this and not some other fool who thinks themselves able to tame a dragon. No. A dragon cannot be tamed; it can only be ridden. Baelor holds the reins to Valarr's control, to his pride and his loyalty, and like a true dragonmaster he knows his mount better than himself.
The moment the head of his cock breaches through Valarr's hole, right into that hot, tight fit, he understands his ancestors so much better.
They moan in unison at the intrusion, Valarr's fingers dig into the skin of Baelor's back, dragging angry, red lines down the tanned flesh. Baelor pushes in until he's buried to the hilt, hips flush with Valarr's, heart pumping wildly inside his chest.
“Gods,” Valarr wraps his legs around his father's hips, shifting closer to the edge of the table. “You're so deep inside me, father.”
There is physical evidence of such a claim; the bulge in Valarr's lower stomach. Baelor presses a palm against it, swallowing a groan as he feels himself pushing into his son's body.
Back when he was smaller Baelor would love to force the boy down into a mating press, have his legs folded into his body with his cock hitting all the right places and spots. Valarr would adore this, he'd beg for it at times even if he was sore from training, struggling to get up from bed in the morning. It would make the king's fantasies run wild, rampant, and turn him into a lustful mess.
Now, he finds that he much prefers Valarr sat atop his lap, bouncing on his cock, showing off the perfect fixture of his muscles and the fullness of his hips and thighs. This—thrusting into Valarr's body in such a messy, unorganized way—feels plenty good, too. With Valarr's duties and the realm's troubles needing to be tended to, they find they have little time to indulge in long sessions of coupling and foreplay and passionate sex. There's quick, wet, messy moments amidst their days and then there's entire weeks during which they barely even get to dine together.
It makes the neediness, the intensity and love feel much more palpable. The hunger in between them comes alive, like a dragon's, their blood boils beneath the skin and all that's left is the absolute want.
Baelor thrusts into Valarr with little to no reprieve, lowering his hands to grasp onto the boy's muscular, fuller thighs as he uses this as leverage to drive his cock further into his son's hole. The sounds of their skin slapping together makes him grateful that he's made the decision to only keep Valarr as his guard most nights, if anyone else was posted up outside then they'd be in trouble.
“You feel lovely,” Baelor's lips graze the outer edge of Valarr's ear, making the boy shiver. “So full of me. All mine, my son.”
“Yours,” Valarr breathes, as if he were speaking in promises, against his lips. “Forever yours.”
“Mine,” Baelor thrusts once, sharply, knocking a startled gasp out of Valarr. He licks over the boy's lips, over his cheek and the arch of his nose, tasting sweat and skin. “Have you done this with anyone else, Valarr? Maybe one of your brothers in arms?”
“No, no, never—father, I am loyal to you,”
“Is that so? But you're quite young, I presume you've been taken to pleasure houses. I was a young knight once, too, and I knew better than to trust everyone around me to keep their oath as well as I did.”
Valarr's breathing is messy, weighing heavily. “I—I've never been to such a place,” He confesses, shamefully. “They've tried… they've tried to take me, yes, but I refused.”
“Hm?” Baelor's lips curl. “Have you never dreamed of burying your cock in a woman's cunt, sweetling?”
To make his point, Baelor's hand wraps around Valarr's forgotten, neglected cock which is weeping right against his lower stomach. Valarr moans at the first pump of his father's fist, hips twitching in rhythm.
“No,” Valarr shakes his head insistently. “Never.”
“What about other men?” Baelor squeezes the base of Valarr's cock, forcing a pained groan out of him. “Have you never looked at another man and thought of him doing this to you? Or, even better, you doing this to him?”
Valarr sobs out as Baelor grips the base of his cock to keep him from spilling, staving off his orgasm. “No! I do not desire any other men! Only you, my king! My father's attention is more than sufficient.”
“Attaboy,” Baelor releases his hold, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to Valarr's cheek. “My good boy.”
“Father, please—please, claim me, fuck me.”
“I shall fuck you tonight,” Baelor thrusts, balls heavy and tightening as his orgasm draws nearer simply by the mere proximity and sight of Valarr coming apart. “And the night before you leave for the Riverlands, so that you will ride all the way there with my seed seeping into your smallclothes.”
Valarr's face scrunches up in pleasure as Baelor resumes the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. His nails are dug deep into his father's arm, heels pushing down on Baelor's ass, pressing him impossibly closer.
Baelor has always been half-glad Valarr was born a boy, for he cannot get him pregnant; otherwise he knows that, if Valarr possessed a womb of his own, they'd have a whole litter of Targaryen heirs running across the halls of the Keep.
The fantasy of it has been enough to drive him to his own undoing in the past—When Valarr was younger, smaller, it was easier to look down at him and notice the feminine softness of his features. At times, Baelor would deliriously convince himself he was fucking his reborn-wife, who now lived and breathed within the body of their first born son. He'd imagine Valarr swollen with his children, paddling about the Keep with loose silks draped over his body and Matarys at his hip held as his own son.
Then Valarr grew into the fine, mature young man he is now, and those fantasies are better off left behind for the sake of his boy's heart.
Valarr's prostate is abused and prodded repeatedly as Baelor drives his hips home again and again, in a pattern that's akin to that of a hammer coming down on a stiff nail. His cock twitches in between their bodies and he gives a full-body shudder when he comes—His mouth is open wide on a silent scream, throat working and bobbing as he takes in gusps of whatever air he can manage to breathe in as his orgasm crashes over him.
His cock spills plentiful and clear against his skin until he's dry and done. Valarr half-collapses against the table, legs shaking, while Baelor chases his own release.
“I'm coming,” Baelor groans, nuzzling at his son's jaw, biting a tiny mark onto his neck. “Fuck—take it, son. Take all your father's seed.”
Valarr whimpers as his body is used as if he were a mere doll. Baelor's come is warm, sticky and a lot, filling him to the brim until it spills past his thighs and down the table, then to the floor.
Baelor remains still as a statue for a minute, catching his breath and letting the moment pass, then he's pulling out slowly. He reaches down for his own smallclothes to wipe away all the mess, to which Valarr makes an appreciative sound. His knuckles return to their normal tone as he stops gripping the table and then sits up, looking hazed and well-fucked.
A victory, Baelor's brain praises.
They kiss a bit more, lazily, wetly, before the hour turns too late and Baelor's exhaustion catches up to him.
Valarr dresses up in his clothes and armor once again, with much more efficiency and sharpness than he used while undressing. His cloak drapes and drags behind him as they walk out of the solar into the darkened corridors of the Keep. The path to his father's chambers is clear, all servants now fast asleep or keeping to themselves in other areas of the castle.
“You will go to the Riverlands,” Baelor says, commanding, as his hand wraps around the knob to the door of his chambers. “I expect you to return successful and prideful, you know this.”
Valarr nods, sharply. “Of course, your grace. I shall return victorious or not return at all.”
“Don't be so severe,” Baelor rolls his eyes, though his chest warms fondly. “If you return as a failure I shall simply see that you polish every armor in this castle with your tongue.”
“Ah,” Valarr flushes pink under the dimly lit corridor, swaying on his feet. “I assume you'll be watching me, then. To ensure I do a good job with the polishing, of course, my king.”
Baelor huffs, feigning offense. “Who else would you have supervising you, boy?”
“No one,” Valarr admits, foolishly loving and too caring. “No one else at all, father.”