Maekar clicks his tongue, scoffs, "You're already together all the time. You don't want to be his sworn shield, then you'd be to blame if Aerion were up to no good, noble blood or not."

You shift in your stance, visibly shrinking under his gaze.

Aerion wants you to be his sworn shield. You hardly know what the title means. Your father has no sworn shield, nobody at your House does. You have rotating guards is all.

Maekar raises a brow. When you don't say anything else, he sighs, "Being Aerion's sworn shield means accompanying him at every hour of the day, even to the fucking latrines. You will only be relieved of your duty when the moon reaches peak height, and you will take it up once more the next morning at dawn."

"Aerion–"

"–asked it of you. I know." He cuts you off, "But do you really plan to follow that boy until the end of time?"

Because you remain, still, after that, standing there like a foolish petitioner, Maekar knows you haven't given up yet. From the Prince, you will receive disappointment; but from Aerion, you will receive torment disguised as jokes.

Maekar sizes you up. Why were you knighted? Well, you're impressive at tournaments. You've unhorsed several knights that had decades of experience (and decades of aging) over you. You have potential, but he imagines the throes of a real war will unhorse you...

You're too fucking young for him to desire you like this. Maekar doesn't wonder why you're a knight—you've got the charm for it—he wonders why you incite in him the ire of want.

Is it your devotion? You would do anything for his son, most of the time you follow him around like a lost pup. Other times, you're his accomplice.

Is it your looks? The strong build of your body, the breadth of your back, the veins in your hands as you grip a sword?

Is it your youth? How forbidden it feels to have you?

For as much as Maekar neglects spoken decorum and guestly gratitude, he doesn't sneak a toe out of line. He defers to his brothers, all older than him. He does not cause scandal of his own. He's responsible for his children.

Maekar is a noble, royal, a Targaryen—as far as he is down the line to the Throne, his actions reflect back on his family.

Can't he just have one thing for himself?

"Do something for me first."

You perk up like a puppy for food.

"Come here."

It has never not been pleasing to walk a man in full-plate like a mutt, for each individual piece of metal clicks against the other like tea cups in the afternoon.

Once you've reached him, Maekar points down with his eyes. You take the hint and kneel, good. How obedient you are.

His hand finds your chin, tilts your head up for him. You stare up at him with such reverance. No doubt Aerion has indoctrinated you with the same "daddy's around, better behave" behavior. Or do you look up to him because you respect him so much?

As his hand slides up your cheek and your temple, he wonders if you will lose respect for him. As it ends at your hair to grip, he wonders if he will corrupt you instead.

"Do you know what it is I am asking from you?"

You nod your head yes.

"And do you want it?"

Another nod.

Maekar clicks his tongue twice, not disappointed, but like a release command, "Go on."

You take his cock out of his pants delicately, not because he is as fragile as porcelain, but because you're afraid that one misstep will take this opportunity away from you.

Maekar notices this; notices that, when he grips your hair a little tighter as you wrap your lips around his tip eagerly, you flinch.

The deeper you take him into your mouth, the more he notices: you want him too.

Is it respect that you hold for him, or lust?

Reciprocated desire does not make this situation any less taboo.

His hand comes down to your jaw, gently massaging and coaxing it open. "It's all yours," He says, "you don't need to treat it like a once-in-a-lifetime delicacy. I won't take it away from you."

If Daddy says so.

Needy, you take the rest of him in your mouth. The rest, up until your nose presses against his pubic hair—the carpet matches the drapes—it brings his hand back to your hair.

It makes him wonder, has his son claimed this mouth too? Not because he likes the idea, it repulses him to high heaven, but because you're good at this.

You don't look up to him for approval, it seems you don't much care for it. You just bob your head, slip him out of your mouth only to take him back in, use your mouth like Maekar's cock is some sweet delicacy.

You just want to suck him off, to have him.

It's that youthful determination, Maekar reasons, and that youthful energy, the benefits of your age. He has to be at least two times older than you.

The guilt eats away at him, but it mingles with the pleasure that you bring to him. Blood rushes down, pleasure bolts up like a fire spreading through his nerves, all-consuming, burning the guilt away—not completely, charred shame remains.

But it does nothing to resist you. His grip on your hair, harsh as it is, does not push nor tug.

Breathing and heaving, you don't make him a mess with your tongue or your wet mouth or your elusive teeth, you make him a creature of desire.

"That's it, boy. Like you mean it."

And you, too, work him like you're hungry.

He wonders if he's the first thing you weren't allowed to have, if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, suckling on it like a tit—'till you came of age, 'till you decided to stick to Aerion like sweat on a hot day and finally meet his father.

Noble blood is yours, the best training and tutors were yours, knighthood is yours, a friendship with a son of the most important family in the world is yours. All in your youth.

And now he.

He wonders this because you blow him like you're desperate, like you'd been waiting for so long. If you don't control yourself—and he's sure you won't, not that he protests—he'll be gone in minutes.

Or now.

It comes without warning. You have him finishing like he's in his youth too, uncontrollably, fully.

There's no flinch from you, just swallowing. Your mouth contracting around him as you do feels like a parting kiss, for soon, you've left him.

And there you are, still on your knees, but now Maekar can focus on your figure. You're like a pup waiting for a command, the paradigm of obedience.

Maekar's hand finds your jaw again, soothing the aches that are surely there or sure to come. "Inform Aerion of the decision."

You sit up, taking the place of a beggar, "Might I ask another favor?"

The reverance of a petitioner but the entitlement of a king.

You are not allowed to have him in daylight, not as you have had him now in privacy and in shadow. Not with your lips, not tenderly on his own nor wrapped around his cock, the giver of pleasure. Not with your hands, not with anything but a respectful conversation.