#mataerion

He shoved Aerion back onto the pillows, his hands roughly tearing the thin fabric of the shirt. Aerion only cried out in approval, pulling his legs up, inviting his cousin into his world of vice. Matarys acted blindly, his movements wild, stripped of Baelor’s knightly grace or Maekar’s cold method. He took Aerion as if trying to destroy him, sinking his teeth into the omega’s shoulder to stifle his own moans of shame.

Aerion writhed beneath him like a snake, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. When it was over, and Matarys’s heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, Aerion ran a hand across his sweaty brow.

"Now you are one of us," he whispered. "You can no longer judge them."

Matarys recoiled as if struck. He began to dress hurriedly, his hands shaking so violently he could barely fasten his belt buckle. He could not look at Aerion. Only one thought pulsed in his head: What have I done?

He crept out of the chambers, glancing around like a thief. The stench of his own arousal felt so thick he was certain anyone he met would know the truth.

The next morning, Matarys met Valarr and Daeron near the stables.

"You look terrible," Valarr remarked, his face pale from chronic lack of sleep. "Still awake because of what you saw?"

Matarys looked away, feeling bile burn his throat.

"Yes," he lied. "I couldn't get it out of my head. We have to do something about this, Valarr. It’s... it’s wrong."

He felt like the ultimate hypocrite. Every word about Baelor’s honor now felt like ash on his tongue. He knew that if Valarr ever learned of his deed, he would never forgive him. His brother believed in justice, while Matarys had just become part of the very darkness they intended to scatter.

Daeron felt as though he were drowning in wine, but even the strongest Arbor Gold could not wash the images of the past weeks from his memory. He had seen too much. But worst of all was the estrangement he felt from Matarys. His cousin had grown sullen, avoiding conversation, and smelled not of the training yard’s iron but of the same heavy, musky intoxicant as Aerion.

That night, Daeron could not sleep. The walls of the Red Keep whispered to him of sins. He wandered the dark corridors, clutching a half-empty bottle, until his feet led him to the Godswood. There, beneath the twisted branches of the weirwood, he saw Aerion.

"You’re drinking again, Daeron," Aerion’s voice rang out not as a reproach, but as an invitation.

Daeron stopped, breathing heavily. His eyes were clouded with tears of helplessness.

"You’re a monster, Aerion. You’ve destroyed them. You’ve destroyed Matarys. I see it in his eyes."

Aerion approached slowly, his steps noiseless. He reached out and took the bottle from Daeron’s fingers, taking a long swallow.

"I didn’t destroy them. I helped them. Maekar no longer has to be eternally second, and Baelor no longer has to be eternally perfect. They are just men, Daeron. Just like you. Full of fears and loneliness."

He stepped in close, and Daeron felt his brother’s warm breath on his lips. Aerion smelled of night flowers and hot skin.

"You fear your dreams, brother. Dragons burning the world. But here, with me, the fire doesn’t hurt. It warms."

Daeron wanted to push him away, but his body betrayed him. He was too weary from the struggle. When Aerion pulled him down onto the soft carpet of old leaves beneath the white tree, Daeron offered no resistance.

It was different than it had been with Matarys. There was no fury here, only despair and a thirst for oblivion. Aerion was gentle, but the gentleness was poisonous. He caressed Daeron, whispering in his ear that now he wouldn't need to drink to fall asleep. Daeron felt the last wall of his defense crumble. He wept, burying his face in Aerion’s neck, while the other simply stroked his head like a child’s, all the while clutching him.

Morning found Daeron in his bed. He didn't remember returning. His head throbbed, but a strange, dead emptiness reigned in his chest.

At breakfast, the table seemed like a battlefield where everyone hid their wounds.

Valarr sat at the head, haggard and alone. He looked at Matarys, who wouldn't raise his eyes from his plate, and at Daeron, whose hands were not shaking today for the first time, but whose gaze was focused on Aerion.

"Cousine," Aerion suddenly called out, cutting through the silence. "You are far too tense today. You should come with us to hunt in the Kingswood. Your father, my father... we will all be there."

Valarr raised his eyes. He saw Matarys flinch at the word "we," and saw Daeron quickly look away. He felt the circle tightening around him.

"I have business in the city," Valarr replied dryly, standing up. "Enjoy the hunt."

As he walked out, he felt Aerion’s gaze on his back. Aerion knew Valarr was the last one left. And he knew that sooner or later, the knight in golden armor would also bow his knee.

The Kingswood met them with the heavy gilding of autumn leaves and the icy breath of a wind that drove clouds in from the Narrow Sea. The hunt was meant to be a reprieve, but it had turned into a silent procession of shadows. Baelor and Maekar rode at the front, their horses flank to flank, and between them, atop a snow-white pacer, sat Aerion. He laughed, tilting his face toward the sparse rays of sunlight, and his laughter scattered among the oak trunks like a taunt.

Valarr, who was forced to join, kept to the rear, feeling the heavy stares of Matarys and Daeron. His brother and cousin rode on either side of him, yet a chasm had opened between them. Matarys's face was a frozen mask of shame, while Daeron stared into the void as if he were watching his own funeral. Valarr did not know of their nights with Aerion, but he felt something had snapped.

When the group halted for a rest near Deer Creek, Baelor and Maekar stepped away with their huntsmen to discuss the boar's trail. Aerion seized the moment. He sauntered over to Valarr, who stood by his horse checking the cinch.

"You look as if you carry all the Seven Kingdoms on your shoulders, cousin," Aerion whispered, stopping so close that Valarr could feel the heat of his body. The omega reached out, appearing to flick an invisible speck of dust from Valarr’s doublet. "Your father is so happy today. Haven't you noticed? He has finally stopped being merely a knight in an iron mask."

"Do not dare speak of my father," Valarr spat, catching Aerion’s hand. His fingers squeezed the slender wrist until it turned white. "I know what you are doing. You are poison, Aerion. You corrode everything you touch."

Aerion didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips nearly brushing Valarr’s ear. His eyes, violet and deep as twilight, burned with a manic fervor.

"Poison? Or perhaps the cure? Look at Matarys. Look at Daeron. They no longer fear the dark, Valarr. They have embraced it. You are the only one agonizing over a 'honor' that no one needs. Not even your father."

Valarr shoved him away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw Matarys watching them from a distance, his brother's gaze was a wild cocktail of envy and guilt. Daeron simply uncorked another bottle, tilting his head back so he wouldn't have to watch another prince begin to teeter on his pedestal.

A few more days passed. Valarr tried to avoid Aerion, but the omega was everywhere. His scent haunted Valarr in the corridors; his voice echoed in the snapping of banners in the wind.

The collapse came at night, when a thunderstorm broke over King’s Landing. Valarr stood in his chambers by the window when the door quietly clicked open. He didn't turn. He knew who it was.

"Go away," Valarr’s voice was hoarse, broken.

Aerion entered soundlessly. This time, he wore no silks or jewels, only a simple nightshirt, soaked from the rain blowing in through the gallery windows.

"You are lonely, Valarr," Aerion said, approaching from behind. He placed his hands on his cousin's broad shoulders, and Valarr jolted as if struck by lightning. "Your father shares a bed with me. Your brother... they have already found their peace. You are left alone. Aren't you cold?"

Valarr spun around, intending to throw him out, but he met Aerion’s gaze. His resistance, built over years of upbringing, collapsed in a single heartbeat.

He seized Aerion’s face, crashing into his lips with such force that he tasted blood. It was not an act of love; it was a surrender. Valarr pinned him against the wall, tearing the wet fabric of the shirt.

When they fell onto the bed, Valarr acted roughly, almost with a sense of self-loathing. He wanted to sear the feeling away, to displace it with pain, but Aerion only wrapped his legs tighter around him, baring his neck for the bites. Every movement Valarr made, every shroud of arousal that washed over him, took with it a piece of the prince he had been only yesterday.

When it was over, Aerion lay on Valarr’s chest, tracing patterns on his skin.