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Valarr has always been called his Fathers son.
One of his first memories, Grandsire Daeron looking down at the small boy upon his lap with a grin.
“You've your Father's looks, little dragon.”
It was a comfort, once, or at least he'd like to think so. A thing that passing lords and ladies would fawn over in an introduction, the praise of a knight in the training yard when he'd pull off a proper maneuver, the words of his Mother, a smile upon her face.
During the war, when Matarys was little more than a babe and his Father was more memory than man. She'd pull him into her arms, cradle him as if he could still fit fully in her lap and hum songs he's now long forgotten. Her fingers threaded carefully through his hair, almost too gently to feel.
She'd whisper, tell him tales of Blackhaven's bottomless moat, folklore about Storm Kings long since past, and the supposed witches that traveled through their foggy ancestral lands. Yet there was one topic she always came back too, something he'd beg to know more of. Baelor Targaryen.
She'd always grin when he asked, Mother loved it when he wanted things for himself, loved him most when he allowed himself something not expressly given. But there was something else in her expression, a tightness around her eyes he'd never been able to parse.
Sometimes he tries to think back on it, but all that appears is Matarys's cobalt blue in her stead. People always said that as well, that for how much he resembled their Father, Matarys was just as clearly the spitting image of their Mother.
Only he wasn't. Looking at Matarys was like looking at a younger version of himself, a younger version of their Father, inverted with Mother's red hair and too dark a pair of eyes. Not that he'd ever say that, not when Matarys held so few memories of her. Anytime someone made the comparison his little brother would brighten with pride, and he'd never wish to take away such a comfort.
Yet still it left a simmering beneath his skin. Over ten years had passed and each mention of her had Valarr feeling a little more heartbroken. He was forgetting the shape of her hands, the curve of her smile.
“My little storm,” She used to murmur, saying his heart was that of a Storm King come again, the proof of it clear on his face, “Dark as the eye of the storm, with a twin gaze as blue as the sea," she'd grab the few strands of Targaryen white on his scalp and twirl them between her fingertips, "with a lightning streak to match."
It was Matarys four and tenth birthday feast, a large celebration befitting the second son to the heir of the throne. He looked lovely, straight red hair just hitting his shoulders, a wide smile upon his usually reserved face. Matarys has always been somewhat shy, content, happy even to fade into the background. It was usually a easy feat with the number of cousins always in attendance, but he shone today in his place of honor at the high table. He was wearing a red doublet with a scale pattern woven into the fabric so dark purple they almost looked black, an ode to their Mother's house. He'd had perhaps a few too many cups, a comely flush high on his cheeks.
Valarr loves his brother, more so than most anyone else, but as another guest came up to congratulate him and spoke of his likeness to the long dead would be queen consort he knew he could no longer stay here, he felt volatile, on a knife's-edge. After softly saying goodbye to his then pouting little brother with a parting hug he drifts from his seat, no particular destination in mind but a desperate calling to leave firm in his gut.
The noise of the party slowly fell away as he walked further into the Red Keep; he used to be frightened of it as a child. The tapestries on the walls spoke of a violent glory that never emboldened him as it did his cousin Aerion, but left rather a sense of foreboding.
Would that be him one day? embroidered onto a tapestry for Targaryens generations away? Would they know of him only through this? Through the suffering he'd enact for a realm that was won through violent conquest? He looked at the image of a Targaryen long since past and frowned. He couldn't name who they were, who their immediate family was.
If no one remembers you as you were, are you even remembered at all?
His throat was dry, shoulders beginning to hunch, instinctively trying to make himself smaller. Matarys was four and ten today, soon he would be a man grown. Everyday he got closer in age to their Mother's when she passed, everyday the image of her was slowly morphed into him in Valarr's minds eye.
People still push for their Father to marry, though he had three brothers with plenty of heirs between them the crown prince having but two children was seen as a liability. He said he wouldn't remarry, and Valarr was as certain that his Father had not lied as he was certain of his Fathers love for him, but ultimately it wasn't his decision to make, it was Grandsire Daerons.
Would he make him do so to appease the small council? He oft spoke of the importance of being thought of fondly by their vassals, could that steer his opinion?
The idea made him feel sick, his Mother made to be a footnote in the lineage of his family, another woman taking her place as Baelor Breakspears queen.
“Valarr?” arose a voice from behind him, “What are you doing so far from the festivities?”
A hand reaches up to cup his cheek, “Sweet boy,” his Father soothes, worry clear in his tone, “Why are you crying?”
He hadn't noticed he'd begun crying, but he couldn't quite get himself to stop. Why today of all days had his composure cracked? He should be out there with his darling brother, not monetizing their Fathers time.
“It's nothing Father,” He tries to reassure, hands coming up to wipe at his face fruitlessly, “Matarys has grown so much, it's hard not recall the young boy he once was.”
Baelor's gaze softened, “Aye, it feels like just yesterday I had you both under my arms, small as little Rhae.”
Valarr tries to brighten at the mention of his youngest cousin, but judging by the twist of his Fathers eyebrows at his expression he was not successful.
"That's not all that this is about, is it my son?" There was no accusation in his tone, eyes soft as ever in their regard for him. If his Father knew the upset he'd been nursing all night surely his expression would sour.
His tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he searched for an appeasing answer, but none came forth. They stared at one another in the soft glow of the hallway for a few long moments before his Father sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in our rooms my love," It was spoken as a statement but Valarr knew if he protested enough he'd be allowed to turn back to the feast. The set in his Fathers face was that of concern not command.
Valarr nods after a short pause, ",,,Yes, I think I've worn-out my hospitality for the evening Father."
Baelor smiles, crows freat wrinkling in a way that made Valarr's stomach turn, the grip on his shoulder going lax to instead play with the small hairs at the base of his neck, "Come then, sleep shall be helpful in ailing what thoughts plague you."
His Father did not give any pretense to him sleeping in his own bed, leading Valarr to the main chambers onces they entered the heirs rooms in Meagors holdfast. It warmed him that his Father felt so much concern, usually sleep in his Fathers bed was a small affair, a question asked after dinner resulting in a small pile of limbs in the morn. To have him not pose the question at all was relief, Valarr did not know if he had it within himself to give in to the comfort if it was not forced upon him.
Baelor strut into the room, waiting for Valarr to come inside and close the chamber doors, then got into the usual routine of getting ready for sleep, "I asked Maekar to keep an eye on Matarys and make sure your brother is put to bed with your cousins before nights end, so there's no need to trouble yourself with it Valarr," he spoke easily into the air, eyes focused on himself in the full length mirror near the bed, deft hands taking off his cloak before turning to him with a smile.
"Come," It was a command this time, "won't you tell me what's troubling you?"
Valarr shuffles to his side in front of the mirror, more embarrassed at his behavior in the hallway than truly upset anymore. Watching the puffy redness of his face as his Father pulled him this way and that, taking off his cloak –Dark purple with red accents, Matarys wanted to match– and grasping the back of his doublet.
Valarr breathes deep and exhaled through his mouth, how to word this? The pain that's been spreading through his chest as of late. He's always been sentimental, cousin Daeron says it's because he's the eldest of their generation, Aerion says it's because he's gotten so good at hiding the 'dragon' that he's turned himself soft.
Matarys says it's because he's as good as a man can be.
Valarr doesn't feel much like a man, Father undressing him for sleep while Mother's ghost looms in the back of his mind. He feels like a little boy hiding from harsh words behind his Mother's skirts.
Baelor taps his fingers on the now bare skin of his shoulder, a light reminder that he would like his question answered. Valarr bites his lip, he's stalled long enough.
"Do you," he falters, still unsure of himself, "Do you miss Mother?" That's not what he meant to say, but it falls from his lips all the same.
His Father completely pauses, expression so caught off guard in the mirror Valarr cannot help but feel shame, "Of course I do."
His voice is soft, eyes not meeting Valarr's in the mirror in favor of staring at the back of his neck, "I miss her everyday my love, " he leans forward and wraps Valarr is a gentle embrace, "But I still see her constantly, I see so much of her in you."
Valarr swallows for lack of words. The sentiment is nice, but it coils something ugly deep within Valarr's gut. He knows he doesn't resemble Mother, has been reminded of it all his life. Baelor saying otherwise almost feels like a betrayal of trust, that's he'd lie about something so important in the face of Valarr's current vulnerability.
The discontent must show on his face because Baelor squints in answer, brows drawn together, "You don't believe me, little dragon?"
Never one to speak out of turn Valarr shakes his head. He doesn't trust his voice to not give away the turmoil inside at the moment, knows that while his anger burns now he'd be left with guilt and shame later if he let it control him.
Baelor hums, apparently coming to a decision, and Valarr knows that whatever it is he's decided he will not be swayed from it, "I suppose I shall just have to show you."
Valarr doesn't have time to question that before a hand comes up to his chin to turn his head, and his Fathers tongue descends into his mouth.
It's gets overwhelming very fast.
Valarr is no stranger to kisses, he used to play kissing games with his cousins Daeron and Aerion as a child, and it wasn't unusual for Matarys or Father to give him a peck on the lips when parting. This was not like that, this was all consuming.
He brought his hands up to curl into the fabric of his Fathers clothes, mind blank as Baelor's tongue invaded him. He hummed in response, clearly happy at Valarr's easy acquiesce as if Valarr's would ever have the thought to refuse him.
For all that Baelor took he took slowly, the caress of his tongue wasn't rushed, the hand on his chin sliding down to his chest, a confident but leisurely exploration of all Valarr had to give.
Valarr somehow regains higher cognitive function and sucks on the offending appendage, the action hesitant and messy. He wants to grasp Baelor back in everyway possible, following mindlessly when Baelor retreats slightly, drawing a huff of laughter in response.
There's a unconscious pout on his lips when he opens his eyes –when did they close?– Baelor's smiling face greeting him warmly. There's a faint sense of humiliation at how bare he feels compared to his Fathers ever composed expression, not to mention how physically bare he is as well.
There's a hunger in Baelor's gaze that Valarr's never seen before –or perhaps has never had the context to notice– as he drinks in the sight before him. Valarr's sure he looks a mess, but his Father doesn't seem to mind, hand coming to rest upon his waist. Fingertips threatening to slip beneath his britches teasingly.
Valarr finds his voice, "Father, what is,,," what are you doing to me? ",,,what are we doing?"
Baelor tuts like the answer should be plain to him, "If my words cannot convince you my actions will."
He then gives a sharp tug at the fabric of Valarr's trousers, the force suprising, jolting him forward as the sharp sound of tearing fabric rings through the room. Valarr gasps, air not cold but the feel of it on his skin sudden.
Baelor grips at his uncovered length with no hesitation and the pulse of blood rushing so fast to it makes him near lightheaded. There are words he should say, a precedent he should at least try to set, but all that exists in this moment is his Fathers hand.
"You've grown to be so pretty Valarr," Baelor breathes out, focus on his hand working away in the mirror, "Your skin flushes just as hers did, you know."
Valarr didn't know, is beginning to think he knows very little at all.
Baelor begins to press open-mouthed little kisses into the skin of his neck, turning them so Valarr is in front of the mirror, crowding at his backside. Valarr can feel tears springing at the corner of his eyes, senses overwhelmed. There is no beauty in this he things but dares not say, for surely Father would press him to say otherwise.
It takes very little time at all for his peak to approach, the rhythm of Baelor's hand growing faster with the help of slick dripping from his tip. Yet just as quickly as he started his Father's hand moves away, gripping his hip instead.
Valarr whines at the loss of touch, there's no other word for the sound that slips out of his mouth. Baelor tuts again and shame courses through Valarr in reply.
“It's right here my love,” Baelor cradles his jaw with a calloused hand, thumb slipping past his lips as their eyes found one another's in the mirror, “Can't you see? She's right there staring back at you.”
Valarr felt drunk despite having little more than a glass of mulled spirits at the feast, a whine sharp and needy spilling out of his throat. He ground back against his Father, hips jittering in place as the hand still at his side rubbed circles over the skin in the same motion as the thumb petting his tongue.
He closes his eyes, moving on instinct alone as he sucks, humming around the digit in his mouth, spit slowly spilling down his chin. He was so close he could feel it– could practically taste the heat beneath his skin. The back behind him shifts, his Fathers face nuzzling against his as he turns into the curve of Valarr's neck. Smooth skin bristling against Baelor's finely trimmed beard.
The hand on his chink turns positively bruising, thumb pushing down till his jaw gives way to open-mouthed gasping breathes. “Sweet boy,” Baelor croons, “my sweet boy won't you look for me?”
Valarr's gaze flutters, the humiliation felt at seeing his current appearance fighting against the baser instinct to do as his Father wished. There he was, left bare as a babe in his Fathers arms. Cock standing at attention, hips trembling in anticipation at the hardness grinding against him through Baelor's breeches. His cheeks were flush with arousal, splashes of colour dancing down his face, across his neck and chest.
Drool trickles uselessly down his slack-jawed face, sweat had made his hair damp and to his horror his sniffling had brought not just tears but a runny nose. Sullying his Father with all the worst of him.
“S‐sorry,” he pleads. Though, with the thumb in his mouth it more resembles ‘s-sowwy’, “ ‘m so sorry Father. Please, I need it I-I need you please.”
Baelor soothes his left hand from its grip on Valarr's hip to his middle, fingers teasing back at the hair gathered near the base of his son's cock, “Shh shhh my love, you've done so well sweet boy there's no need for apologies. You're perfect can't you see? All of this you've given me, won't you see the truth?”
Valarr's face twists in confusion. No he's not, he's tainted this, tainted them somehow. He's sure of it, sure of his greed in needing his Fathers reassurance, in wanting this type of love. He shakes his head, movement not quite dislodging the digit in his mouth.
Baelor's eyes narrow, the movement of his hands tapering off. He pulls his body back slightly and despite his guilt Valarr felt the distance like a missing limb.
“You do not even dare to look,” his hands move away, spit covered thumb falling to his doublet and smearing the saliva against the cloth. They make eye contact with one another once again in the mirror, “Very well, then I shall have to make you.”
As soon as the words are out Baelor grabbs him at his sides and pulled him forward from behind until they are standing so close to the mirror Valarr had to squint to focus his eyes. Across from him there was but one center of interest, gone was the flush tip of his prick or the red of his cheeks, no more could he see the wet of his skin.
Facing him was a pair of blown out eyes. One dornish brown the other blue. It was a pretty blue, soft and gentle looking with the glistening of tears. It tugs at him, a part of him reeling with a sense of longing he doesn't quite understand.
His Fathers hand reaches up to his cheek, thumbing at the teardrops beneath his pale blue eye so gently it did nothing but cause a fresh wave to spill over, “There she is, ever present in your gaze. She's looking out at us right now, seeing how good you have been, our perfect son.”
Something in Valarr's chest surrenders, the boy going slack like a puppet bereft of strings. He gasps, relief carving a space beneath his ribs. Yes, it was her. She still looked out upon the world, he still held her notice.
Valarr turns his head, expression full of wonder as he held his Fathers gaze, “Father- Father she is beautiful.”
A sharp intake of breath, “Yes, yes she is. The most beautiful creature I've ever bear witnessed to,” his gaze fixed on the whole of Valarr's visage.
Baelor's hand snaked down to grab hold of his member, teasing forgone in favor of giving him a tight squeeze. Vallar hiccups, jerking into the touch like a startled fawn. Baelor gave a chaste kiss to his brow, rolling his fingertip around the head of his boy's tip as it sluggishly spent precum.
“That's it, just like that my love,” He soothes against his hair, “You've been so good my little dragon, perfect for me.”
Valarr nods dumbly, eyes near unseeing as he gives into his Fathers ministrations. She has been here all along and he'd just been too doltish to see. This, this was for her. Giving into what he wanted, letting go of his inhibitions to ask for what has not already been freely given.
“Yes, yes, yes,” He chants, hand seizing his Fathers arm. His breaths came out in little pants with every word, grinding fully into Baelor's hand. Baelor leans over his shoulder and spits on their joint flesh, helping the way for Valarr to comfortably thrust in and out of his hold.
Valarr was floating, “Yes Father, Father please, please,” he wasn't even sure what it was he was asking for at this point, his every nerve felt alight, “P-please.”
Baelor knew what he needed, he always knew, “Come for me, my little dragon.”
A woman's voice echoed in his mind, “My perfect storm.”
Valarr cries out, hips twitching as he paints the mirror and his Fathers hand. His chest trembles while Baelor gives a few last tugs, milking his release for more. He pulls him backward, smiling softly at the soiled image they made for together in the mirror. Image coated in the proof of their sins.
Valarr watches on, lightheaded in a way he'd never felt before. It felt like hours yet couldn't be more than moments before his head was turned, his Father's tongue invading his mouth in the gentlest of dances. He kisses back sloppily, tongue giving kitten licks to the offending appendage.
Baelor shutters against him, gathering saliva pooled inside his mouth and pushing it forward into Valarr's. He watches with hooded eyes, entranced as Valarr swallows it involuntarily, giving way to him instinctively.
He raises a hand to Valarr's neck, playing with the damp baby hairs that curled at the base before rising up to his crown. With one last open-mouthed kiss he pushed down on his head, leading his son to the floor.
Valarr follows with no complaint, folding down to his knees in front of Baelor with a dazed look in his eyes. He leans into the hand carding through his hair, following its lead, urging him to lean into his Fathers legs, nuzzling into the heat of Baelor's clothed cock.
He whimpers when Baelor lets go, a wounded expression blooming across his face but Baelor hushes him, “Shh my little dragon, you were so good for me, wouldn't you like a reward? To feel how much regard I hold for you?”
His head feels like cotton, the words taking time to register but once they do he nods fervently. He always wanted for his Fathers regard, no matter how much he was told of the pride that he brought forth, there would never be a limit on the greed he held for Baelor's attention.
Baelor pets his cheek, happiness clear in his dual coloured eyes. He pulls away, Valarr leaning to chase him but he held a hand aloft in a clear bid for him to stay, so stay he did.
Valarr watches on with devotion as his Father undresses before him, his doublet the first article to fall. He's seen all of his Father before, it wasn't unusual for him or his brother to be in the room while their Father undressed. Their set of rooms in Meagors holdfast were all connected to one another as rooms for the heir, and there were many nights where his Father bid them stay with him in his chambers, just as their Mother had years ago.
It didn't take long for him to completely disrobe, the long expanse of his skin on display for Valarr to study. Things he's never before let himself linger on. He had a beauty mark on the lower left of his stomach, very faint stretch marks could be seen in the area between his pelvic bone and his legs, the proof of his two and tenth year when he grew three inches in the span of two months, an anecdote he's given nine year old Valarr when he'd asked if he'd ever grow as tall as his Papa. There was a jagged scar on his right thigh, skin raised in a curled pattern as is someone stabbed him with a dagger before twisting.
Valarr wants to map it out with his tongue.
He's itching for something to do, hands limp in his lap as he waits for permission to reach out, to touch. It's torturous, the waiting. His only reprieve the fond smile on his Fathers lips, not that's he's looked at it much for the past few minutes. How could he, when something he's pretended not to think about for years is now right in front of him?
Baelor hums again, a pleased noise. Matarys says it's the dragon in him purring, but Valarr doesn't rightly know if dragons purred, if they did no text he's read has confirmed. He swallows, the sound so loud in his head he's sure his Father hears it in the quiet room.
There's a hand back on the top of his head, a yank not quite painful forcing his gaze upright into mismatched eyes. There's a fond exasperation in that expression, it's a common look for Baelor to hold, "I've seen fit to give you a reward, little dragon," fingers drag against his scalp, if he were truly a dragon he'd be a claimed one, "Won't you take it?"
Ever the dutiful son, Valarr does as his Father commands.
Leaning forward is easy, Valarr has felt magnetized towards Baelor his whole life. Every moment trying to live up to what Baelor deserves a son to be, if this is what that expectation has turned into he'll surrender his all to it happily.
He's not looked away, hand coming up to grasp the cock in front of him as he watches his Father drink in the view of him below. It's larger than his, though not by much. He's slightly girthier, and there a bit of a left leaning curve to the length that makes Valarr's stomach flutter in nerves. 'What would that feel like?' he wonders.
The hand in his hair encourages him further still, so he tentatively tilts forward and gives the head a lick. It's salty, kind of gross if he's being honest with himself, but so entirely Baelor that he can't help but melt into it. Growing confidence he licks a long strip from tip to base and it earns him a slight hitch in his Fathers breath, and suddenly he knows he would rather be here than anywhere else in the world.
He suckles the head into his mouth much like he did his Fathers thumb what feels like eons ago, tongue swirling left to right, trying to pull as many new noises from him as possible. There's a delightful shame inside him, a hunger for more that sits heavy and grows with each exhale. He's so good, he's making his Father happy. There are hands in his hair and a prick in his mouth and his Fathers eyes are so dilated he can barely see their opposing colours.
Valarr leans in more, determined to take more into his mouth, to take it all. Tears start to stream down his face again and he faintly wonders when they stopped to begin with. Baelor is big and imposing in his mouth, lips stretching obscenely wide, the idea earlier that Valarr almost matches him in size seems ridiculous now.
It takes multiple tries to take it to the base, crying all the while. His throat feels sore in a way it never has before, each breath feels like it's not giving him oxygen at all and the floating sensation is back in full force. He wills himself to calm down, trying to still his wildly beating heart to no avail.
He doesn't think he can do this, is sure of it but his Father is still looking down at him with those adoring eyes and so he knows he will anyway.
He swallows around the length, throat clenching around the intrusion and then he chokes as Baelor's hips thrust forward in response. The hand on his hair yanks him but there's nowhere else to go, he's as close as possible.
"So good Valarr," Baelor grits out, he's blushing too now, expression reminiscent of the flush Matarys possess when he wakes Valarr up for comfort from a nightmare.
Another sharp thrust, two, three, four, on and on it goes but Valarr's not there to feel the sting. He's drifting, drunk on the feeling of being good.
"Just like that, so close sweet boy," His Father sounds almost as drunk as he feels, his voice breathy and reverent, "so good my perfect little dragon."
He could have sat there on his knees for hours, held his Father in his mouth till morning came, but before long Baelor's words fell to noises. Nothing but the sound of slick dripping down Valarr's chin and Baelors panting breaths to be heard. Then suddenly–
Flavour. A burst of salty musk at the very back of his tongue, all movement halting for a moment before Baelor pulls out. Valarr coughs, semen slipping down the side of his mouth even as he tries to swallow it all. He looks up, blinking away still flowing tears.
Baelor seems awestruck, a devotion in his gaze. Valarr lifts up his arms, a clear bid too be held and Baelor is quick to give in. He's brought up onto shaky legs, guided to the bed with gentle hands, "Come my love, let's get you cleaned up."
His Father leaves his side for but a moment, returning with a cloth that he soothes over Valarr's damp face. He takes his time, trailing down his chin with careful caresses. He brushes a thumb under the skin of his blue eye, kissing the skin ever so tenderly before laying him down.
Valarr feels like a doll, tucked into his Fathers side. He shuffles closer, Baelor running his fingers through his hair. He kisses him again, this time lightly on the shoulder.
"You did so well my love," The hand tangled in his hair slides down his back in a warm embrace, Baelor's voice full of affection, "Ever your Mother's son."
Valarr smiles in response, then dreams.