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The Fourteen Flames are painted on the ceiling of Aerion’s chambers.
He’d not had the chance to see much of his brother’s rooms before, both of them having spent far more time in Summerhall than they had in the Red keep. In both cases, the spaces that Aerion carves out for himself resemble a dragon’s lair – warm, glistening with riches, well-protected from anyone other than his own kin – but it’s here that he feels at the height of his strength, it seems; something that is sure to change as soon as he enters their ancestral home as its sole heir for the first time.
Prince of Dragonstone. Daeron had dreaded the title when it had become clear that their father would take the Throne, but it had taken a rather simple conversation for him to be free of it and inherit Summerhall as his domain instead, leaving that dreary island and all the horrors that go with it to the person that truly wants it.
Aerion, of course, had not let that go unappreciated. He had eyed Daeron all through the coronation with a sort of intensity that he knows all too well and he had not been the least bit surprised to find himself pursued in the aftermath, nor, in fact, to end up gazing at the fiery hell on Aerion’s ceiling, his entire body alight with his brother’s particular, peculiar affection – his lips and teeth at Daeron’s throat, the arduous rhythm of his hips, the vicious, desperate love painted onto his features driving Daeron to cling to him, thighs wrapped around his waist, arms wound around his neck, engulfing him entirely.
Aerion, rather predictably, doesn’t seem to mind his predicament at all. He whines every time he bottoms out, as if in response to Daeron’s own gasps – delighted, devastated, so determined that it feels like he means to carve out a space for himself in Daeron’s body. He’s selfish in his pleasure, though he’s not likely to realise that leaving his lover’s body covered in bruises and the bloodied marks of his teeth does more for his gratification than it does for anyone else’s, and Daeron allows it happily. It’s hard not to when it gets him the hazy adoration in his brother’s glazed-over eyes. Back in the hall down below, Aerion had looked at their father as if he’d seen a god, the unwelcome bitterness that the sight had brought along soothed by the sight he makes now as he fucks into him, frantic and hurried like any separation, no matter how minute, is a terrible loss. You love him, Daeron thinks, hearing the moans wretched out of his throat as if from a distance, but you love me better. You love me best.
“Ah, Aerion,” he manages, breathless even to his own ears. The world had narrowed down to the scarce space between them, overheated as if it. “Touch me.”
“Demanding,” his brother notes, his tone lacking the poison if not the bite. Still, he follows orders, letting go of Daeron’s waist to wrap a hand around his aching length, grinning savagely at the way it makes him shudder. “Is this how it is to be from now on? Our crown prince,” he croons, the flush over his cheeks spreading all the way down his chest. It’s a becoming sight, even if he’s feverish with whatever rush he’d been chasing all day. “As you wish, Your Grace. Fuck,” he whispers, straining down for a kiss as he resumes his pace, relentless and unforgiving, and Daeron kisses him back; kisses him quiet. Selfish, he thinks again, but it’s all right – for one shining, glorious, terrifying moment, the two of them are almost one and the same.
~.~
King Maekar, the first of his name, is resplendent in front of the Iron Throne as the crown is placed upon his silver head. The stained glass lining the walls of the main hall breaks the rays of the sun into a thousand different colours and Aerion’s eyes had strained to take it all in for what feels like a small eternity, splendid and hypnotising despite the relentless irritations that the world around him provides.
It’s a tight fit on the steps leading up the dais, crowded in between his siblings as he is. They’d been dutifully arranged in birth order, but Aemon had migrated off to the side at some point or another, having switched places to go speak to Aegon, so Aerion has Daella’s voluminous skirts pressed into him on one side and the tail-ends of Daeron’s elaborate doublet on the other, the air stifling with perfume, rich fabric and candle flames and looking up at the Throne is the only reprieve, his father’s face, grim and resolute, an enthralling sight as he lowers his head to accept his crown. His eyes stray downwards and next to him, where Daeron’s eyes are locked onto their sire as well.
His dreams frequent him almost every night these days, Aerion knows – dragon dreams, terrifying and vivid, making him whimper and wince in his sleep. It’s made him avoid his marriage bed and has him stumbling into Aerion’s instead, and it thrills him; knowing that his brother’s shame is best hidden in his embrace.
He’s beautiful like this, thoughtful and solemn, hands locked together at his back, his hair bright as beaten gold in the morning light where it’s tied off with a bow on the back of his head. He looks the part of a future king, or does his best to, and his distant gaze come into focus when he notices Aerion watching him, a tentative question crystallising on his face through reluctant, pleased surprise.
“What is it?”
He takes him in – the opulent clothing, the glint in his sapphire eyes, the promise of the future stretching out in front of them – and smiles.
“Mother would have made a lovely queen,” he says, Daeron’s bewildered nod making him step a little closer still, the heat of his proximity suddenly far less oppressive than it had been just moments ago.
~.~
There are many kinds of shame to be found in this world, Daeron knows from experience, and few of them are pleasurable, but this one is.
He had never been particularly dishonest about what he is – to his father, to his siblings, to his wife. They all know and their disappointment at the predictably poor state of his behaviour is a familiar, bitter thing to swallow, but he swallows it all the same. He hides little from anyone – sees no point in it – but he’s rarely treated with any solemnity in that matter. He’s so far removed from his sisters that he rarely pays much mind to whatever it is that they might have to say, Aemon and Aegon tolerate it with the sort of love that exemplary family members tend to strive for, his father is prone to dislike towards any and all mention of anything out of the ordinary and Kiera treats it with the distant, dutiful patience of a spouse who had received a twisted, thorny shadow of what she had been promised.
Aerion, on the other hand, worships the thing that ruins him with fervent intensity, whispering of wonder and legend and magic the likes of which most of their kin had forgotten, and loving him for that is the greatest shame of all.
“My little dreamer,” he whispers, the rough, calloused tips of his fingers roaming down his face – gentle, reverent. He has his moments of clarity, bouts of love pressed between the cruelty of his usual sort of affection, and Daeron hates those more than he could ever desire them, the glimmers of hope that they bring unbearable in their intensity. He could choke on that hope; could sink and drown and melt away. His brother’s movements had turned slower, almost torturous, and he grins wildly when Daeron clenches around him in retaliation. “Daenys reborn. You’ll be the one, hm? The one to show us the way to glory.”
Daeron finds it in himself to laugh, bitter and delighted all at once. His brother is the maddest of their litter, but he’s lovely when he wants to be, the grandeur that he paints far too tempting despite the delusion that it’s shrouded in. He wants to believe him and knows how dangerous it is and can’t help himself despite that.
“Father would be thrilled to hear that, I’m sure.”
He gasps at the next thrust, almost punishing him for the reminder. Aerion moans again, as if unable to stop himself; as if it’s not his own doing. “Much as I love Father,” he says regretfully and another bout of laughter bubbles up at the thought of any family but their rotten house having a conversation such as this in such a moment, “there are things in this world that he fails to understand.”
“My future glory as king, for one, I’m assuming.” He trails a line of kisses up his brother’s neck just to have him lean into the caress like a cat would, easy and unabashed and quiet in his affection.
“For one,” Aerion echoes and responds in turn, nipping at Daeron’s cheek. “He has no appreciation for the arcane.”
“Warriors rarely do,” Daeron quips, if only to enjoy the indignant look he gets in return. “With one rather notable exception, of course.”
Aerion relents at that, pleased. “Of course.” He had always loved that, it had seemed; being the only one in any aspect of life. Even in his best, kindest years, back in their childhood, the yearning to be the first and the best at everything he puts his mind to had festered deep inside him, fuelled by their father’s hunger for more, more, more.
“Aerion,” he begs, tearful and needy and so, so close as pleasure pulses up through his body with every frantic thrust of his brother’s cock inside him. “More.”
Aerion’s smile grows, unsettling and breathtaking as it always gets when he means to love. “Always, sweet thing.”
~.~
The painter had been in the process of moving them around for what has to be the twentieth new position by the time his father’s patience had finally run out.
“Good fucking gods.” The King arises from the seat arranged for him in the midst of all of his children and tugs both Daeron and Aerion by the sleeves, placing them right behind his chair, one of their hands on each sides of its backrest. “There. Is this symmetry enough for you?”
“Of course. Of course, Your Grace.”
His father does have an eye for beauty, much as he’s sure to deny it if it’s ever brought up – he cuts an intimidating figure in his crown and his makeshift throne and he’s sure to be immortalised just so, surrounded by so much of his legacy that they can hardy fit on the canvas with all of their wives and the occasional child, and Aerion slips into the new position rather easily, offering a serene smile to the painter just as Daeron does the same.
The heir and the spare. Aerion’s newly acquired bride-to-be had been the first to utter that, if certainly not the last, and it had been then that Aerion had truly let the thought settle in his mind. It had been unimaginably distant, once – the sons of a fourth son don’t stand to inherit much at all even if they happen to be princes. He had never considered the possibility that they would end up here. One day, Daeron would be the protector of the realm and, as is traditional, Aerion would remain in court to advise him. Their summer king, bathing in the revelry and hazy oblivion of power and the dragon by his side, making sure that Westeros is brought to heel if it ever dares consider itself too big a bite for his brother. He’s giddy just thinking about it.
The concept only seems to tire Daeron out, however. He leans onto the back of the King’s seat rather heavily, his smile more hesitant than regal, but then, most of everyone is tired of this by now, endurance wearing thin as they hold their poses and the man’s charcoal traces the rough outline of their existence to colour in and perfect later.
This is what will be left of us one day, Aerion thinks, paint and parchment and nothing more, and his hand shuffles closer to his brother’s, fingers intertwining behind the blades of their father’s crown.
~.~
Dancing, Daeron had always found, requires too much attention to itself. He can hardly pay any of it to his dancing partner in result, let alone hold any conversation that might be occurring. Still, he tries when prompted, as he supposes a future king might have to.
“Your father seems to have done well,” Kiera remarks with a nod toward his brother and cousin, both seemingly having a much easier time of it than Daeron himself does and twirling around the hall with far more vigour than he could imagine mustering just now. “She looks— more content than I would have guessed.”
Daeron steals another glance at them with a smile that likely doesn’t reflect the same ease at all. “She’s been prepared for something of the sort her entire life. She knows her duty.” A beat passes as he does his best to manoeuvre them out of the way of Daella’s enthusiastic dance with a lord whose name he can’t quite recall just now. “He makes her laugh, I think.”
“Oh, perish that thought.”
But sure enough, Daenora’s laughter – far too loud for someone of her station, unrestrained and calling a strange, vaguely intrigued grimace to Aerion’s face – echoes around them a moment later. His brother is indulgent in the way he always is for Father, so carefully constructed that it makes him want to laugh, too. His dragon is more of a snake, wound tight around everyone who had ever tried to love him and the willing victim he’d found in Daeron had made him drop the pretence years ago – why try to fool someone who relishes in the suffocation? – but he keeps it up dutifully around his betrothed and his King, tireless in the quest to be loved for someone he can never be.
One of these days, Daeron might gather the words to tell him that he needn’t bother. They’d both spent over three decades stumbling blindly into the arms of lovers and friends and family and had only ever found each other in the dark at the end of it all. They’d been doomed to each other since Aerion’s very first breath.
Kiera regards the happy couple with the sort of interest that Rhae reserves for the bugs she keeps pinned to a sheet of parchment back in Summerhall. “She’d rather think him a jester than a madman to ease her own mind?”
“Not a notion that you’re unfamiliar with, I’m sure, darling.”
He’d spoken in jest, but the idle, morbid curiosity on his wife’s face abruptly melts away into the cold cautiousness of the early days of their marriage and they spend the rest of the dance in silence, his future sister by law’s mirth still echoing from across the hall long after the music had faded.
~.~
By the time they end up in the part of the winding stairway that leads to the royal family’s wing, he and Daeron had remained entirely alone. Aerion smiles at the surprised little sound he receives for his efforts and the way it dies on its way out as soon as his brother turns around, face growing sour even as his body relaxes.
It had been just this morning that they’d woken up wrapped up in the – rather extensive, he’d reflected – sheets on Aerion’s bed, and being a light sleeper had worked out in his favour: they’d had just enough time for him to allow himself the luxury of fucking his brother awake, teeth worrying the side of his neck and one hand pressed against his mouth once he’d finally roused, his fist tightening in the satin below them just as he’d started pushing back in earnest against Aerion’s thrusts, taking the fingers pressed over his lips into his mouth and drawing a shudder out of him at the sensation.
“Thought you’d be in your silks by now,” Daeron had slurred out, voice heavy with sleep, “at Father’s feet, batting your lashes at his crown.”
Aerion had felt his face flushing with indignation rather than desire, incensed and unwilling to admit it, though it had likely shown plainly enough in his voice. “I would not be worrying about my silks. Your clothing for the ceremony,” golden threads and brocade and a thousand splendid little details fit for an heir, “is tossed in a wrinkled pile somewhere in your rooms.”
He’d mocked his brother for this cautiousness towards their father and doubly so for the envy he’d tried his best to stomp down on before Aerion would recognise it for what it is, but he’d found reluctant understanding bubbling to the surface as he’d watched Daeron watch his own feet intently and spin his wife around the grand hall, catching his eye on occasion, the look in them studying and thoughtful in a way that had made him feel far too seen. His own dancing had gone relatively smoothly, though Daenora listening to him with surprisingly earnest interest had not stopped his attention from wandering back to his brother, the cautious, guarded expression painted over his face not something he’d been the recipient of too often. Neither of them had spent much time trying to impress one another, far too familiar with their own oddities and failings for that, and it had made him bitterly jealous to see him try for someone who would never be able to appreciate it like Aerion himself would.
It had made him far more determined to demonstrate the same in turn and it makes him far more vicious now, tugging his brother by the wrist and into his bedroom, descending upon him as soon as the door is closed, dragging him down until Daeron folds under his touch, as pliant and willing as always.
It’s not long before he gets him onto the bed either and Aerion is far too eager to tear the seemingly endless layers of clothing off of him, careless with the delicate fabric like he rarely would be otherwise, watching it all pile into a shimmering pile of velvet and lace from the corner of his eye, his hands wandering their way down Daeron’s body, so worshipful that the sensation steals his breath out of him.
He would die before he says it – or would die from the shame of it if he does speak – but being with him is the only relief there is; the only respite from a world that seems to understand so little. Aerion groans as he sinks inside him, feeling his brother’s body wrap around him like a vine, suffocating in the best way he’d ever known. Daeron knows that, too, or he suspects, and there’s an inkling of gratitude for not having to say it, especially when his heels dig into Aerion’s waist, urging him on like one would a horse. It’s terribly enticing to be treated like a tool, malleable and perfectly at the pull of his own blood. He’d spilled plenty of it on their father’s command, but this manages to be more visceral, somehow – the desperate heat in his brother’s eyes, fingers turning into claws as they sink into Aerion’s back. He breaks skin more often than not, his nails coated in crimson whenever he finally lets go and it’s just as well. He likes being able to feel it in the aftermath, countless pinpricks of pain rushing down from his shoulder blades, unreachable and impossible to scratch.
That’s what Daeron is: death by a thousand cuts. He’s never, ever allowed to know that Aerion would bleed out at his feet if asked. He’s too much of a fool to have it in his nature to abuse that knowledge, but he’s so used to his family’s derision that he accepts it more easily than he ever would if devotion is what’s on offer, but he seems to enjoy the glimpses of it that he gets when they’re together well enough. He holds all of their collective lives, the very foundation of their house, in the palm of one hand and it’s as much of a burden for him as it is an omen for Aerion, blinding in its horror and its beauty.
His brother doesn’t want it and it doesn’t matter. Aerion will get him where he needs to be by himself if needed; shower him with all the reassurance and affection in the world in exchange for the precious gift that he is. He had been the first one to see him as he is, all the way back in their childhood – he had fallen ill one time and, on a particularly feverish night that had had him sweating through his nightclothes and had had Aerion praying for one of the few times of his life, had grasped him by the wrist and stared at him with glassy, teary eyes, whispering promises of fire pouring out of Aerion’s lips. He’d been waiting with bated breath ever since.
“My little dreamer,” he marvels, breath hitching at the way Daeron whines and laughs and wraps himself even tighter around him. His brother is a needy, desperate, lovely thing, wet lashes blinking up at him with the dismayed sort of love that he knows so well. It hadn’t been so once, but it’s as good as it’s going to get now and he would do horrendous, nightmarish things to keep it from being taken from him. “Daenys reborn. You’ll be the one, hm? The one to show us the way to glory.”
He’ll deflect, Aerion knows; shy away from the thought itself as he always does, but for a moment – a single, glorious instant stretched out into a glittering eternity in his mind – he watches as the words catch and take root, his hair fanned out onto the pillow shining in the candles’s half-light until all Aerion can see is gold, gold, gold.