#vaeron

There were the history books, of course, the long lineages of snarled family trees which Maester Yormwill had set himself to fuse into the Young Prince’s mind by gentle repetition and a firmer rod, charged to do so by father. But these conjoining limbs of House Targaryen were rote, and ancient seeming too, for none in Valarr’s lifetime had ever again sought family with which to make more family.

His grandmother was a proud Martell Princess, his mother came from the loins of Stormlords, all his cousins had the blood of falcons or the light of dawn running in their veins, as strong as Dragonseed and better tempered for it, it was said. When the time came, Valarr and his brother Matarys would wed Stags or Roses or Merefolk. Even Uncle Aerys who had no children was married to a Quill, and that made perfect sense considering his love for inked parchment.

So being of the ancient frame of mind, turned inward to want Dragonblood when he himself was a Dragon, Valarr knew it was not a fate he was doomed to, instead, it was a kind wickedness. Or if Maester Yormwill was feeling generous, he might refer to it as a sickness. As bad or worse than being feeble of mind, another doom for which he was not destined.

Maester Yormwill oft assured his princely charge that he was very quick of mind and mild of temper, that he had no need to worry his family’s affliction would beset him. It was his mother’s Stormblood at work, saving him such decay in mind and body.

Maester Yormwill made no mention of why the touch, nay even sight or -gods forgive him- a phantom thought, of Daeron Targaryen made Valarr’s mind cloud and his fingers to freeze and all his blood to rush to his naval in fierce and blistering hot desire to consume his blood and be consumed in turn by him.

His diligent teacher did not mention or assure on this topic, for Valarr never told him of these ravings.

He was too young to understand what it was he was guilty of, so the lessons had never felt pointed. Indeed his mother told him he was too young to know what love meant- so how could he be blamed if he felt it? For one of his own?

He loved father, and mother, also Matarys. That, he was always assured, was right. As was Grandfather’s love for him, when he sat him upon his knee at council while he was still small, and how he would pat his cheeks when he was serving wine, or clap him upon a leather clad shoulder after sparring in the yard. It was good to love one’s family. Grandmother with her spiced cakes and warm stories, even his uncles, even Rheagal who was not well. He must be loved too, despite his frailties, for he was family.

Loving one’s family had to be clarified, he learned eventually.

Not the same day he learned he was wicked.

He learned first he had to be careful, before he learned he could not help being wicked.

When studying those snarled family trees, the Good King’s parentage was a most delicate topic, ancient and necessary but fraught with pain. Valarr never heard it spoken of in court without a wince, a polite stammer soiling the topic, as if the righteous thing would be to forget King Aegon and his pious little martyr of a wife, Queen Naerys. Forgetting them was all the same to Valarr, he preferred stories of Ser Aemon the Dragonknight- their brother, and the greatest of his time.

Maester Yormwill was not so enthused. Not when Valarr wished to study Ser Aemon, to mime him at play, and when no girl child was available to play Naerys, he loved the story so well that he would don paper cone and veil for headdress to play her himself, and would thus give Ser Aemon his favor with great pageantry and proper demureness.

The favor in question had been a ruby lipped childish kiss, and Ser Aemon had been played by Uncle Maeker’s eldest son in doeskin breeches and crimson tunic, complete with a straight birch twig for a lance and golden spun hair that shone bright under a southern sun.

His cousin’s lips had been cold despite the climate, and he had not closed his eyes as was proper with kissing. But Valarr made up for his failures with maidenly ardor, and Aerion, the king’s cruel champion and accuser of Naerys, was foisted to the very dust by a very well struck thwack to the back of his knees, landed by Ser Aemon’s birch twig.

Mother had laughed, Lady Dyanna had applauded; they did so love to see their children’s pantomimes put on with lavish care in the gardens of Summerhall.

But Maester Yormwill had pinched Valarr’s arm later that evening and told him he was too fixated on such things for a prince, and he was of an age to take care.

Perturbed by such chastisement, Valarr had sought out his father, and father was the only one to take gentle pains to explain to Valarr what such care meant. That sometimes, one could love one’s family too well, could be accused of the same for poor purposes. Yes, he said Ser Aemon loved his Naerys, but bad men had seen it and accused them of treason, and suggested that the Good King was of their making, and thousands of men had died because of it.

Love must be a cautious thing, if it were to survive, and not cost its lovers or a kingdom their lives.

So Valarr was very cautious when he sought Daeron out in the hall after baths three nights later, stepping close on tip-toes to try it again, that quick press of love and soft meeting of lips. He felt Daeron’s quick breath be stolen from his own gasping mouth, surprise or hunger, he did not know. They were only boys, naive and earnest, and Valarr being half a head shorter, suffered cramp in his calves just to reach those cold, primrose pale lips.

He wondered if Daeron would catch him and hold him to him briefly, as Valarr saw father do to mother before they had noticed his presence. He only felt the movement of Daeron’s lips on his, warming up with each clumsy press to his own. And he did not know if they had made a good king -like grandfather- by doing that, by loving each other so.

But he knew he loved him. And so he was cautious, but also enamored.

When they pulled apart, wheezing in their breath again, flushed with a strange heat and giddy in their confusion, Valarr saw it reflected in cousin. And a loneliness he had never diagnosed before, but felt all his life, was throttled fully and dealt a swift death.

They had been interrupted in this shy tryst when Ser Francys had sought them out for dinner. But Daeron had been leaning in, as if to try again, at his own impulse. And it did not matter that Ser Francys’ footsteps had made him pull away, that he had been interrupted- Valarr beamed all through pheasants and yams at the knowing that he had wanted to.

They shared studies on that pleasant holiday, and took care to rub elbows discretely, to pass each other quill and parchments with lingering fingers. Maester Yormwill made the business painfully cramped and subdued compared to those ferocious bouts of kissing they had begun to engage in at stables and in bath halls, but to that point it had been nothing more discouraging than the need to take care.

They fished and then they swam, and it was all of them together, but Valarr half drowned, so fixated was he upon the smooth curve of Daeron’s back and thighs, floating downwards in the current for a joke at being dead. The others laughed, Aerion and Matarys, Daella and Lady Celtigar’s boys, but Valarr felt his mouth go dry with longing to bite at him, see if he would melt as soft as butter on his tongue, if he would make those nice little noises as he dissolved and tumbled down to Valarr’s deepest belly.

That evening Daeron caught him in the library and with the same lack of discussion they had maintained throughout this childish escapade, took Valarr’s pert little face in his larger hands and shoved his tongue alongside him own, into his mouth, and there licked at his teeth and all about. Valarr did not find it as pleasant as those heady, pursed lipped kisses of before but it was rude and forceful in the way only hungry people are, and it delighted him.

“Will you come for my name day?” he asked his cousin as he sat astride Meleys, his chestnut mare, their holiday come to an end.

“I’ll ask father.” Daeron hedged doubtfully, but it was enough to make Valarr preen ever so slightly in a way not unnoticed by his mother.

“Goodbye.” he told the golden headed boy with care, feeling utterly foolish with saying such a mild thing when he still had the urge to bite him and swallow him down and take him quite everywhere there was to be taken.

Daeron’s smile was sadder than usual, crookedly perfect and his eyes were bright despite the cloudy weather; even the clouds mourned their cruel separation, “Goodbye, sweet Naerys.” he murmured with a great deal less care, and it made Valarr’s heart soar out of his chest until he felt quite dizzy without it.