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In the warm sunset light, Daeron's violet eyes looked almost pink, Valarr noticed.
He was just a year younger than Daeron, but his cousin seemed so much more experienced in his eyes. Well, I think I know why, he thought to himself. Prince Daeron was seventh in line for the throne; Valarr was second. Daeron could spend his days—and nights—however he wanted (much to the dismay of Prince Maekar, his father), for the most part, though he chose to spend a great majority of them in his cups; while Valarr had to tour the Seven Kingdoms with his own lord father, Prince Baelor, and learn statecraft and politics and history, sword and lance, and how to behave, like the heir to the heir should. It meant that Valarr was never in one place for too long, while Daeron lazed about in Summerhall for months on end, especially during the hotter seasons.
Though Valarr did—at times—wish he had more time to just be, he never resented his duty. He knew that that was what he had been born to do, and that the Seven Kingdoms would one day be his to rule, and that it would pay to be prepared. Valarr liked to be prepared.
Unfortunately, it also meant that Valarr wasn't a child anymore, but he didn't yet know how to kiss. That was the one thing his family had neglected to teach him.
“Well, I know how to do it,” he said quickly, when Daeron incredulously replied, you don't know how to kiss? to his request. “In the abstract.”
A cousin is as good as anybody else, Valarr thought, and we just happen to be home at the same time. Home wasn't King's Landing, and it wasn't Dragonstone either. Home was Summerhall, with its lush greenery, cool sandstone walls, and high windows; with its crisp, fresh air; with its tall arches and fluted pillars. Home was Summerhall, with its quiet water gardens. It had been a hot, oppressive day—the long spring would soon be coming to an end, giving way to what promised to be an even hotter, more oppressive summer. The most comfortable place to be in the palace would be the inner courtyard, either in or around the water, maybe under the shadow of the palms that grew tall in there. Valarr knew that if Daeron had not left the premises for the promise of better drink and company somewhere else, he would be found there.
And he was. Valarr lingered by the courtyard entrance for a heartbeat, taking him in.
Daeron was lounging at the edge of one of the natural pools, like a lazy dragon basking in the warmth of the sun. He had a wine goblet in his hand, because he always did, though the sun hung low on the horizon and he had just woken up—Valarr knew that because he had asked the household staff to inform him if Daeron left his stuffy chambers at all that day, which he often did not. When the word came, Valarr tracked him through the cool winding corridors, as if partaking in a treasure hunt, like they used to do when they were younger. There was his reward.
His cousin looked beautiful and carefree in his summery clothes. Valarr had never been able to tell if his hair was blond or just a light shade of brown, though they had spent so much time together as children—today, disheveled and shining under the diffused sunlight, it looked golden. Summerhall became him.
“Too hot an evening to stay in your chambers?” he had said sheepishly, and then in Valyrian, almost immediately after and without waiting for an answer, “Could you teach me how to kiss, cousin?”
Daeron opened his eyes and balked at him. He looked stunned.
In truth, Valarr didn't know why he'd chosen Daeron for this lesson. He knew he wasn't unsightly. He did have that Dornish look about him, but his father Baelor had told him that many a lady would surely fancy Valarr's kind face, two-tone eyes, and brown hair with its singular silver stripe. And he was a prince of the blood, after all. There had never been any shortage of passionate advances—and marriage proposals, now that he was old enough. His mother had managed to hold back the tide thus far, let him grow up, come into his own; but Jena Dondarrion, though a formidable woman, could only do so much. He'd one day have a wife, sooner rather than later—and be expected to kiss her. He'd like to be prepared for that too.
Daeron looked up at Valarr, setting his goblet aside carefully. He wasn't wearing any shoes, and his trousers had been rolled up to just under his knees, so he dipped his feet in the cool waters of the pool as he sat up straight. The low sunlight hit the water and reflected glimmering waves onto his face.
“… In the abstract?” He smiled. It wasn't a mocking smile, which at the same time comforted Valarr and made everything so, so much worse.
“I haven't had much… opportunity to practice.” None at all, in fact, but he kept it to himself.
There were other things Valarr kept to himself, of course—such as how his perfectly rational reasoning for asking this of Daeron (he's in the right place and at the right time, we're family, we were close friends once, I need to learn now) was nothing more than just an unconvincing excuse. Deep down, he knew this, though just thinking about it made his face heat up like he was about to spit fire, like one of the Targaryen dragons of old. He had feelings for Daeron. A huge, awful, embarrassing juvenile infatuation with him—for months now, if not years, since the time when they were nothing but kids playing together in those very gardens.
Valarr used to spend more time in Summerhall before his responsibilities as second in line to the Iron Throne caught up with him, and almost every second of it had been spent with Daeron. Back then, Matarys was too young to roughhouse, and so were Daeron's younger siblings—both older brothers, they'd found common ground in sharing their many burdens and few delights. Valarr confided in Daeron about the pressure of being a future king; Daeron, in turn, found in his cousin someone who understood what it was like to be afraid to disappoint your father. They both knew what it was like not to look like the image of the traditional Targaryen prince—that the smallfolk saw no familiarity or guarantee of legitimacy in their lack of silver-gold hair and, in Valarr's case, striking purple eyes. It had made them the best of friends from the moment they could talk; and, at Summerhall, no corner had been left unexplored and no stone left unturned by them. They knew the palace as well as they knew each other, like the back of their own hands, like each other's faces.
And Daeron was kind, so kind. The Seven knew he had his own issues to worry about—and yet, he'd always had a comforting word for his cousin when Valarr needed it. It meant more to him than he would ever be able to put into words. In return, Valarr lent Daeron his strength. It had been Valarr whom Daeron always came to whenever he needed the courage to do something that terrified him, which was another way of saying any of his princely duties, or for someone to be patient with him—if it hadn't been for Valarr, Daeron would never have learned Valyrian. His father Maekar had long lost his own patience trying to teach him. It was their language now, yet another thing they both shared.
They had been boys together, and Valarr's feelings for Daeron had only grown, alongside all else.
When Valarr's duties started keeping him from returning to the palace as often, he hoped some distance would put his heart at ease, and even made some half-hearted attempts at getting over his childhood infatuation, and yet—
Maybe this will get it over with. Maybe I'll feel better once I kiss him.
“It's the least I can do for you.” Daeron said, getting up, still smiling. He didn't sway, so Valarr knew he wasn't drunk yet, which was unfortunate—maybe it'd be better, less embarrassing, if Daeron didn't remember this the day after. “I'm not a very good teacher—well, not very good at much of anything, really, but I'll do my best.”
He felt so childish. “You're good at a lot of things,” he replied, already blushing in anticipation of what was about to happen.
“You're the first person who has ever told me that.” Daeron laughed it off, but it rang hollow. Valarr knew him better than that, but chose not to press the issue. “Will you take my hand?”
Daeron's hand felt cool and damp in Valarr's, a grounding sensation amidst the dry heat all around them. Valarr's hair had started sticking to his forehead a little bit, though he didn't know if he should blame the weather or his anxiety. He felt conscious of his own breathing (in, out; in, out) as Daeron led him to a more secluded spot, down the stone stairwell that led to the lake; a little alcove with a rounded bench shaped like a half-moon, hidden away by tall bushes and low-hanging willow trees. We used to come here to play ironborn reavers, Valarr recollected, trying his hardest not to think about what was about to happen. About how much he wanted it. This is fine. This is okay. This is normal. Everyone has their first kiss eventually. It does not need to be a huge fuss. I'm a prince of the realm, second in line to the Iron Throne. I am brave, have always been.
Then, Daeron sat them both down and turned to face him, and Valarr could not avoid what was right in front of him any longer. When he made his request, just minutes ago, none of it had felt real. He had forced himself not to think about it, to just find his cousin and ask. It could not hurt to just ask. If you're scared, do it while scared, his father always told him, so he did. He had not spared much thought as to what to do after, even though he had known from the moment he set out that Daeron would never have denied him.
Still, Valarr found himself unable to face his cousin.
Then, he heard Daeron say, “May I kiss you?”—and before Daeron had even finished asking, he blurted out, “Yes.”
So, Daeron made the first move. He closed the distance between them, slowly, steadying himself with a hand on Valarr's thigh. Valarr had been looking down at it, his breath caught in his throat, but Daeron didn't grab his chin with a hand to make Valarr face him—he just pressed his nose to Valarr's cheek, gently guiding him to lift his gaze up, nudging the side of his face. He didn't know if it had been that or the feeling of Daeron's lips grazing against his for the very first time that had finally made his heart catch up with his nervous, racing thoughts. It was now thumping hard in Valarr's chest. God, they're so soft, he thought in that one second, his lips are so soft, just how I imagined. His eyes locked in on Daeron's then, Daeron's beautiful violet eyes, as he felt him smile against his lips.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered, and Valarr did as he was told. Gods, I hope he closes his eyes too. “There is no shame in being nervous, cousin. Hold my hand.” Valarr had always been good at following orders, so he wasted no time grasping at the hand on his thigh and resting them both there. He did not know what to do with his other hand, so he placed it bashfully on Daeron's thigh, just as Daeron raised his own to cradle one side of Valarr's face. Valarr felt himself melt into the touch, and Daeron took that as an opportunity to press his lips onto his cousin's again.
With his eyes closed, Valarr could only take Daeron's lead. When he felt Daeron's lips part ever so slightly, he did the same, earning a murmur of approval from his cousin. He could feel the soft wet skin on the inside of Daeron's lips now, and he tasted like wine, because of course he did—and Valarr had never liked drinking, never enjoyed the taste even of weak, watered-down ale, but he wanted more of that dry Arbor red that Daeron's mouth tasted like. He felt the urgent need to move his hand that was on Daeron's thigh to the back of his head now; he didn't know why, but he had to. He grabbed a handful of his cousin's hair and pulled Daeron closer, and then Daeron's tongue was in his mouth, and they were kissing, really kissing. He could feel Daeron's thumb stroking his cheek gently as their tongues slid and swirled together, slowly, and Daeron's light stubble rubbing against his chin.
His cousin was whispering something against his lips, Valarr realized. Was it Valyrian again? It was too quiet for him to understand. “What?”, he whispered back. When he opened his eyes, it was darker than he remembered being. We must have kissed for longer than I thought. The sun was dipping below the horizon, fast. We got lost in it.
“Beautiful,” Daeron whispered against his cousin's lips. “So beautiful. Always thought so. Always loved your freckles.”
“Can you even see them now,” he could feel Daeron's saliva on his lips and thought about wiping them, but decided against it. When he pressed his lips against each other for a second, before continuing, they felt slick. “In the dark?”
“I can always see them in my mind.” He was the one who sounded—and looked—sheepish now. Valarr's heart skipped a good few beats, dangerously. “You're a good kisser.”
I must be blushing again. “You're a good teacher.” It is a good thing that the light is dying.
”Am I, now? I learned it from the best.” Daeron looked at Valarr's lips as he said so. “And you learn fast, cousin. Though I don't think you've gotten enough practice yet.”
“Then give me more practice.”
This time, it was Valarr who closed the distance between them, taking Daeron's face in his hands and lips in his own in a kiss that was deeper, faster, more needy than their first one. Their teeth clacked, once and then again, and Valarr couldn't help but smile against the kiss. He could feel Daeron's hands grabbing his waist, and they were sitting closer now, legs almost intertwined on the bench—not close enough, Valarr thought, need him closer. Daeron was sucking Valarr's bottom lip into his mouth now, and his second kiss was so much better than the first, somehow, and he wondered if it would just keep getting better—or if it would even be as good with anyone else who wasn't Daeron. He felt breathless, hazy. Had someone asked him his own name there and then, he wouldn't have been able to answer. There was only one name in his mind.
“Is it possible,” he started, reluctantly, “to get drunk on someone else?”
Daeron pulled back and looked at Valarr, a puzzled look in his eyes. For a second, he worried that the sentence structure had been too complex for his cousin to understand. He could speak Valyrian well enough now, after years of practice, but not as well as Valarr could. But then, slowly raking his fingers through his cousin's hair, he replied, “Why? Do you feel drunk on me?”
At that, Valarr was quick to correct himself. “If the other has been drinking, I mean. You know what I mean. It's a stupid question, I know, but—”
It does keep getting better, Valarr decided, absentmindedly, when Daeron interrupted his line of thought with a kiss that made him lean back with force. He would've fallen if it weren't for his cousin's steady hands grabbing his waist, pulling him even closer, giving him yet another taste of the red wine in his mouth. Valarr reached for Daeron's collar as their lips crashed, and their kiss wasn't tender anymore, now. It was heady, hungry. He could hear his own blood rushing in his head, hot and fast, intoxicating. In that moment, Daeron was all he could think about. Daeron was all there was to him—Daeron's knee between his thighs, Daeron's warm wet tongue lapping at the inside of Valarr's mouth, Daeron, Daeron, Daeron.
And when his cousin let go of his lips and turned his attention lower down to his neck, licking and sucking at the pulse there instead, biting his own lip hard and grabbing Daeron's hair was the only thing Valarr could do not to—
”Leave a mark,” he whispered, or else he would've done something even more embarrassing. He felt like he could barely breathe, and sounded like it too. He used one of his hands, the one that wasn't too busy holding on to his cousin's hair, to grab and pull his knee close enough to rub against his own inner thigh, entangling their legs even further. “Daeron, leave a mark, p—” Valarr needed Daeron to leave him with something to remember this sunset by, to prove to himself he hadn't dreamed it. He would beg for it, if necessary. He wanted to beg for it. When he bit his own lip for a second time, to stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, he tasted blood.
But he wouldn't need to beg, after all. This was supposed to be a kissing lesson, Valarr thought. Whatever it is that they were doing, it wasn't just kissing anymore. Daeron's hands gripped his waist even tighter as he sucked hard on a spot right below his right ear, and Valarr just couldn't stop himself and hold it in anymore, no matter how much he wanted to, or how embarrassing it was—he pulled Daeron back up and moaned against his mouth, breathless and needy, as his cousin took his bloody lower lip in his mouth. Like a marriage ceremony in Old Valyria, and just the thought of it made him moan again. He felt one of his cousin's hands trail lower, slide under his shirt and into his—
Then, Daeron let his lips go and pulled away, suddenly. Valarr looked up at him. “Enough,” he said, with one heavy exhale. “Enough practice, cousin.”
Valarr had never ached so much for anything before, ever. He opened his mouth to protest.
“For today.”
For a second after that, it was very quiet in the dark of the alcove. The light was so low Valarr could barely make out his cousin's features, but he was smiling again now, he noticed. Daeron looked as beautiful in the lowlight as he did earlier, in the golden sunset of the water gardens.
“Thank you.” Valarr said, after a moment of looking at each other. It felt like the correct thing to say after such a lesson—and the prospect of more. They were both still out of breath. “I bit my own lip, by the way. It wasn't you. I am sorry for getting my blood in your mouth.”
“Our blood, remember?” Daeron corrected him. “We are of the same blood, Valarr. Like Aegon and his sisters.” There was something dark in his eyes as he said it.
Like Aegon and his sisters, Valarr repeated the comparison to himself, turning it over in his head. Daeron and I, blood of the dragon, like Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters.
“Well, I cannot deny you're getting better at kissing,” Daeron admitted, still smiling as he got up, “but I still have much to teach you, cousin.”
It was Valarr's turn to smile. In all honesty, he felt like he had gotten the feel of kissing by then—but, just like so many other things, he could keep that to himself as well. One more secret cannot hurt.