it's n★t the energy reeling

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.

But 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. It pleases him.

His 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.

He's pale. Pale silver-gold hair that makes him look as if he's got no eyebrows, a maiden's violet eyes, fair unblemished skin.

You're different, tanner because you're not afraid of a hard day's work, with an abundance of dark Baratheon hair. You bet Daemon doesn't even have chest hairs, the pampered royal brat.

Historically, Targaryens and Baratheons share a good relationship. Your great-great-grandfather was said to have been best friends with Aegon the Conqueror; the Queen Who Never Was herself is your cousin. At tourneys, no relationships break when a duel is fought, only egos are bruised. That is, house ties are preserved, personal ties are certainly broken.

You never had one with Daemon to begin with.

Four lances of yours splinter and Daemon is yet to be unseated, their debris scatters over the crowd. Your horse grows restless, she kicks her feet and whines each time you meet your squire anew.

Endurance isn't her strong suit. She is yours for her speed and her strength, a strength that compliments yours. She's done three lances before, never four, never this fifth that is to come.

You've never done four either, and neither has Daemon. It speaks of your matched skill.

But this one, the fifth, is the one. The Targaryen Dragon has three heads, each antler of your Baratheon Stag has five tines.

Gods willing, this is it. You reach your squire first, you start your charge first. You've the advantage, Daemon's only hope is that he has strength enough to unseat you or resilience enough to remain—but you have established before your belief that the Prince has never worked a day in his life.

He knows not the strengthening of one's body for the mere task of carrying grain sacks or other. He holds not the same strength as yours.

In the instant that your lance collides with his body, you look him perfectly in the eye. He loses the eye contact when he falls, when his face spells anger as well as panic, but you keep your eye on him.

Once Daemon is on his feet, he yells, "Sword!"

Sore loser, but you expected this, and you won't back down.

Horses aren't Daemon's favorite mount, he's got Caraxes after all; after those skills, swordsmanship comes first. A Challenge of Arms occurs every day in a battlefield somewhere in the world. Swordsmanship should be every man's first skill.

Daemon is so utterly Targaryen marching towards you, with his looks and his armor and his shield, but right now he is not fighting for his family name. He is fighting for his own glory.

After being challenged, you are too, because it means that Daemon thinks the unseating was a fluke and underestimates your fighting skill.

Battles with shields are oh so boring, especially when faced without a mace. He knows this, as do you.

You toss your shield aside, nod at him, he understands you. With a scoff and a shrug, Daemon throws his aside too, and the crowd roars.

He wastes no time in striking. You parry, he continues.

You don't tiptoe around each other like ballerinas, judging your opponent's next strike, dying with anticipation.

Each strike here is followed by another, received equally by a parry. Sparks fly with each collision, a sign of perfectly matched skill, of harmony?

You back off far enough that Daemon—his body and breaths reminding him of how much toll a prolonged exchange begs—does not follow immediately.

Then you switch in some way only you know. Judging by the way Daemon charges after catching his breath, he doesn't notice it.

More blows are exchanged. Ripostes after parries are blocked until you dodge instead of parry. You gain a new angle and you strike him with the flat of your blade. It finally lands.

The Rogue Prince becomes disorientated because why have you just hit him with the flat?

The momentary confusion allows you to strike again. More crucially, you get his hand. You don't knock the blade from his hands, but you push it aside. His chest becomes exposed.

You kick. It's hard, all the plate armor and the weight of a full grown man—but you're stronger than he.

Daemon falls flat on his back again. You hold the tip of your sword above his neck.

Many men have died during this tourney already, by accident or by Challenge of Arms taken to its bitter end—so when you stay your blade, it is mercy.

When you stay your blade, it is house politics once again. A Targaryen dead is a bad omen, especially worse by a Baratheon hand. Such a thing would be public, outward rebellion; it would seem as though you are challenging the throne.

Above him, you are the very paradigm of the your house. Your face is red with strain as well as anger, your chest heaves animously, your hair is strung about or matted with sweat. Yours is the fury.

"I yield." Daemon says, the first words he's ever spoken to you.

"Wise." You reply, tossing your sword aside for the squire.

As much as the contest was fair, as much as you beat him twice, this isn't over. You have slighted his name and his glory, and he will not let it stand. You have a little brother, don't you?

"You think this will fix your ego?"

Daemon's caught you just after the squire's helped you undress for the night. You're in your breeches, and yet you keep your ground.

The Rogue Prince holds a dagger, simple, practical. Your death will silence whispers that you are greater than him, sure, but it will cause plenty more trouble. He is known to be selfish, anyhow.

"Oh, no, certainly not. But it will grant me great satisfaction."

He does not sneak like a thief, he stands like a warrior—although a cowardly one. He stands tall, shoulders square, dagger hand stretched not so far that you can kick his elbow and make him drop the blade.

Well, if you're going to die, you're going to die swinging. "Everybody in the Seven Kingdoms will know that I have beat you, Daemon. Twice, at that. You may not have any honor at all, but you will live with the knowledge that you were a coward if you kill me tonight."

"I will forget you in a fortnight." He shows no reluctance, your words mean nothing.

You'll die swinging, yes, but now as he nears and your mortality comes into doubt, fear grasps you. You reach for your diplomatic skill, "You wish to kill me because I have beat you in the tourney—so challenge me, beat me fairly. You would've felt disatisfaction if I did not fight today, just as I am unable to fight right now."

Daemon stops at a distance where he could stab you if he wanted. He scoffs... and then actually considers it.

You're dead, you think. Daemon raises the dagger. Its steel blade shines. Your eyes track it. Your breath catches.

The blade is tossed aside, lodging into a table leg. Your eyes snap onto Daemon, half-expecting the Prince to strangle you with his bare hands instead.

He does something of the like, grabbing a handful of your hair and tilting your head back. He stands closer, so close you have to crane your neck because he makes you. "I challenge you, then. Whoever cums first loses."

The Targaryen Dragon has three heads, but they don't correspond to the amount of lances a Targaryen will go through; they tell of the three competitions Daemon Targaryen challenges you to.

He kisses you. Straight away, he tugs at your hair and bites your bottom lip. He practically moves and parts your lips himself with that bite, and promptly enough he forces his tongue in your mouth.

It's forceful, used to seduce you, for fighters only understand the language of strength.

More than that, it speaks of his anger. Your own bubbles in your chest, beginning to make your blood boil. You've just brushed death aside and now you are growing angry at the man who nearly dealt it, rightfully so.

You kick Daemon's calf so forcefully, the man tumbles onto his knees, below your level. You take the opportunity to squeeze his cheeks, force his mouth open, and spit in it.

And then you give him no recovery, you kiss him, keep his mouth preoccupied. He fignts, of course: to get back on his feet, but you step down on his thigh; to pull away, but you keep a tight grip on his jaw.

Eventually, he swallows. It's no inevitability, a man does not need to swallow as he does breathing, but it happens anyway. The reason does not matter to you, the fact he's done it does.

You give him reprieve enough to pull back, a reward of sorts, until he catches your shit-eating grin.

"Bastard."

Daemon has some advantage in that you are in your breeches already, but a man like he is as impatient as any unwieldy beast. You slip off his assassin's coat and he lets you, readily. He rises higher on his knees, and you undo his laces and let his trousers drop.

The grin you find on his face is characteristic. The position is not. It debauches him.

Daemon competes with no decorum when he pulls down your breeches and pops your cock out of their confines. When he gets his mouth on you, without hesitation, the warmth of his mouth is like a blanket on a cold night.

Later, when he's sinking to his limit, when his mouth undulates around you with a suppressed almost-gag, the heat of his mouth is like a fire. Dragonfire, heat and death in a single breath.

He's good at this, good at taking your cock, at bobbing his head—and he keeps his eyes on you, arches his back.

Beyond the physical pleasure, he knows of the rumors circling around about the kind of company you keep. You like him like this on his knees for you, you find him fucking hot, you enjoy his muscles, his pale skin, his lack of hair.

But he sucks you off eagerly, and he knows how to, because Daemon enjoys brothels and whores. That is known about him. And men are good, for they produce no bastards.

If he's good at this—because he is good at this, it must mean he enjoys it.

"You blow whores like this too?"

Spit, he drew a line at, but not at your cock?

"Fuck off." Don't suggest it, he means. But his expertise implies it, the avoidance of teeth, the work of his tongue.

The competition remains. If he wins, you are 2-1, still the winner—but 3-0 is a better score.

You know why Daemon is so eager to suck you off, and it isn't just because he is attracted to your strength, he wouldn't have suggested the competition so readily otherwise. Daemon is eager because he wants to win it.

He's playing dirty, he is, giving you pleasure and taking none himself, eliminating any possibility that he will not turn out victorious... you know how to play dirty too. That is known about you.

An orgasm built so slow it will sneak up to him, such is your strategy.

Daemon does not question it when you pull him off your cock. He interprets it as your lust, great and roaring, and he interprets yout languid demeanor as characteristic of you, interprets it to mean that you are a pussy who likes it romantic.

You're a Baratheon. It takes four partners to make you satisfied. It pains you too to go slow, to go through the prepping of four fingers, but it satisfies you that this is for competition. That is the only thing holding you back from fucking him raw.

By all means, Daemon is not a man who lets himself be sieged, he's a doer; but you do not allow him to surmount you on the bed.

You pin him down, your differences in strength finally stark. His feet plant onto your abdomen to stop you, but you press yourself against him such that he cannot even push a toe between the proximity of your bodies. His attempts are nullified, you are on top—but not dominant.

He stares you in the eye, retaining his ire, retaining his ground. It's a dare. Come at me, try it. Get going.

The competition plagues his mind as well, past the immense pleasure that comes when you finally pierce him after the slow agony of fingers. The only reason he lets you take him is because he knows that you'll give in to instinct... even though you don't right now.

It's a waiting game. Daemon focuses on patience.

His hole will lure your orgasm out of you. His endurance is greater, he knows it. You'll want to fuck into his heat without an ounce of decorum or care; with all the savagery and primitive nature in the world.

But you don't show it, now. You trap his cock between your bodies, let it grind each time you thrust, give it friction until it swells red; and you keep fucking him slow. But slow is not his preferred, it's easy to tell.

So you ramp it up, give him the promise of something greater, and Daemon eats it straight out of your hand.

When the first moan comes out of him, you feel—beyond the hot, sticky sweat of your bodies—the first spurt of his pre against your skin.

He's still impatient, but he complies, his own strategy. Your behaviors are both uncharacteristic, throwing away your desires, your love for hard-core hard and fast, for the sake of the competition.

You can tell he is only on his back and he is only taking you because he wants you to lose—at least, initially. The more rampant, frequent friction you give him, the more he likes it.

Try as he might to close his mouth, needy moans spill past, and his hot breaths hide not his pleasure.

Impassive is not the way that you like him, admittedly. You enjoyed the way he pulled your hair and the thrill he gave you with that dagger. Daemon Targaryen is simply not the same when he is not taking action, cowardly or not.

You shall have to contend with your carnal desires, with the pleasure of his tight walls around your cock you experience each time you fuck into him. He has not taken many a man, you're sure; these walls are not entirely virgin, but they are almost certainly unpainted.

You can't finish, not like this. He affects you more than you thought. It's more than the squeeze of your cock, it's the softness of his hairless body—like a maiden's—and it's the defiling of him, taking him for yours.

You can't finish, not before you've won. You just can't tell if he can sense your own impatience, if he can notice that the tight fistful of his hips don't match the gentleness of your thrusts.

You can't tell if he looks down on you so much that he thinks you as pathetic and romantic as this.

Daemon will survive this encounter. He will live to tell the tale that you're a pussy, that you only believe in making love, that you're too scared to take like a proper man. Whether you finish first or not, he won't be afraid to spark rumors—but if you fuck him the way you like, the way that has men and women alike screaming, he just might reconsider.

You're not afraid of playing dirty, you're afraid of playing untrue to yourself.

"Fuck it."

If he didn't know your scheme, he realizes it now with a gasp. You've got half of your cock stuffed inside of him when you suddenly press the rest inside—imagine what sort of sound he lets out when you pull back and push in your entire length the next thrust.

"Cunt." Daemon chokes out, grabbing a handful of your hair the way you like it. He tugs, but what use is tugging your head when the head of your cock is the real culprit to his misery?

"Do you want me to fuck your cunt or not?" Your voice is irritated, but your face betrays a dirty grin.

How many men can say they've fucked the Rogue Prince into the mattress?

"No." Daemon bites back. His chin juts forward, his teeth nearly do get you.

"Stalemate is worse than a loss."

You don't stop. You fuck him harder, fuller. His cock throbs against your stomach, you know he wants it this way too.

His cock gets more friction this way too. It's unfair to him, but again, you fight dirty: pleasure so overwhelming he won't be able to hold back.

He gets stimulation from both sides, it's not your fault he didn't protest to much from your fingers, not your fault he didn't see that part of your scheme when you pressed your bodies together.

He likes this better. He loves whores, but he doesn't make love to them. He fucks hard. In that, at least, you both agree on.

But you're sure he's worse than you; of course he is, he's Targaryen.

The pleasure is already so overwhelming that his body is squirming, that his dick throbs, that his hole pulsates—that his mouth spills with sounds ramping in volume.

Somewhere in the tourney camp, some party still roars. These sounds of his are not uncommon, especially not from your tent. Whisperers will feast.

They're not rare either, but his yell is. It's no battle cry, no argument, no frustration—there is no denying the cause of it.

Certainly not because he spills his orgasm straight after.

You've won.

But that is no concern of yours. Daemon with his eyes shut, Daemon harmless, Daemon vulnerable, it's new and enticing.

You've won, but first you want to finish. You don't fuck him for glory or honor, you've won already, now you fuck him because he incites such an ardor in you.

"You're fucking infuriating." You say, but fuck, does he turn you on, does he make you feel hot, does he bring out the adrenaline in you.

Three times you've beat him, three times he has made you want.

You give it to him.

He has no choice but to take it, and it's utterly hot in real physical temperature and real conceptual desire. The last of your spurts decorated his balls and the rest of your cock when you pull out of him, and somehow it gives him back his consciousness.

He's lost.

Daemon pushes you away, regaining his strength. He's lost for the third time in a row, and you've defiled him—worst of all, he fucking enjoyed it.

"Fuck you, and your fucking horse and sword and this Godsdamned tent."

He collects his dagger, collects his clothes, and then he's gone into the night faster than a disastrous wind at Storm's End.

All storms find their way to the Baratheon Seat eventually, and Daemon Targaryen is but the strongest one.

To take his revenge, he says.

You clash swords in the courtyard by evening, and by night, you clash swords again in your chambers.