Fic: Winter Dreams
Fandom: Inception/Game of Thrones
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1804
Notes: Originally written for a prompt on the kink_meme. The anon requested a story where Arthur was Renly and Eames was Loras. This is my take on things. I cleaned it up and am finally posting it tonight in honor of the GoT season two finale.
Arthur leaned against the balustrade as he watched the eldest Stark girl attempt to trot subtly after Eames. The girl really wasn’t accomplishing much. Even if the other man’s stride wasn’t longer, the speed at which he was trying to shake the girl off left little room for her pretty compliments.
Arthur rolled his eyes, pushing off of the stone. He lazily adjusted his tunic before brushing brusquely past a servant and down the hall. His supple leather boots barely made a sound on the floors of the Red Keep.
“A most glorious day, my lord,” a lesser knight murmured to Arthur as he passed. Arthur didn’t break stride, returning a: “Indeed, Ser Hamlin,” and only vaguely wondering if he had gotten the name correct.
He fell in stride with Eames and the Stark girl, startling the latter when she realized that she was suddenly not alone with the great Knight of Flowers. Arthur refused to grin, telling himself it would be a childish move, reminiscent of his brother.
“Why, my dear Lord Baratheon,” Eames murmured, ducking his head in a farce of a show of proprietary respect “What honor you give us with your presence.”
Arthur rolls his eyes again. But before he allowed the Tyrell to capture his attention he turned to the she-wolf, eyeing her with a disinterested expression. “Sansa, is it?”
The girl stumbled into a curtsy, murmuring “At your service, my lord.”
“Does Joffrey not require your presence?” Arthur noticed Eames suppress a smirk from his periphery “My nephew gives an arms demonstration on the morrow does he not?”
“O-of course!” Sansa’s eyes darted everywhere but the two men. A flush was working its way up her neck and into her pale cheeks. “I bid your leave.”
Arthur waves a hand and then turns to Eames as soon as the girl is far enough down the hall. He levels an unimpressed look at the knight. Eames’ grin widens.
Eames takes a halfhearted glance around at the mostly deserted corridor before raising a hand to rest on Arthur’s cheek “Must you be so coarse with the northern barbarians?”
Arthur moves to the wide window, letting the sultry sun of the City wash over him, salt from the Blackwater Bay could be scented on the breeze. He supposed that Summer was truly dying and that this was most assuredly an Autumn day now. He remembers the Stark sigil:
“Winter is coming…”
“You entice them too much,” Arthur finally replies. His stance is tense.
Eames presses closer to Arthur’s side “Who?” he murmurs “The northern barbarians?”
“The young lasses,” Arthur spits out, “You very well know to whom I refer.”
Eames shrugs “It’s not like they’re the ones that share my bed,” Eames noses along Arthur’s neck, letting his lips drop on the sliver of collarbone that is visible above the Baratheon lord’s tunic collar. Arthur’s frustrated with his day, and can’t be bothered to tell the Tyrell off for doing such a foolish thing in public.
“Well, my bed,” Arthur points out for the sole pleasure of being contentious.
Eames chuckles, as Arthur knew he would. “And you do have a most comfortable bed, my lord.”
“I wouldn’t call them northern barbarians,” Arthur mutters to his lover, his hands clenching uncomfortably against the smooth stone of the window and thinking of his small council meeting earlier in the day “House Stark would be a fearsome enemy for the throne to have. For the kingdom to have.”
“Ah, but you would have me to protect you,” Eames drags a heavy hand down Arthur’s shoulder and arm. “A tournament winning knight to pledge his loyalty and life to you.”
Arthur finally gives the other man a soft shove, sending the man back a couple of inches. Warm air from the bay comes through the windows. Arthur can smell all the different scents of the city carried along with the salty scent of the waters.
“You were to meet with our King, were you not?” Eames’ question was more than nosy, it was curious. He knew exactly what was begetting Arthur’s foul mood. It was his nature though, to push when he saw an opening. It was akin to striking with a sword.
Predictably Arthur replied “My esteemed elder brother was three flagons gone to ale, and a whore upon his lap when I arrived. No doubt he wouldn’t have cared to remember that we had a meeting at all.”
Eames didn’t reply, but he did pivot on his heel, tugging the youngest Baratheon lord behind him. Arthur didn’t protest, and he allowed himself to be pulled down a stair and towards the suites that had been allotted to the Tyrell host. The Tyrell servants and Eames barreled past without a worry, carefully they averted their eyes as the two men passed. They had been trained well.
Arthur didn’t care to wonder whose secrets the servants had been trained to hold first. Eames’, or the knight’s sister, Margaery.
Before long Arthur had been pulled into Eames’ private rooms and he realized with a start that he hadn’t ever been in them. The symbol of House Tyrell, a rose, was laid all about the room, from discarded waistcoats to Eames’ bright, polished armor standing resplendent in the corner.
“Should I feel nervous?” Arthur raised an aristocratic brow, turning slowly to face Eames “That the most honorable Knight of Flowers has taken me to his private bedchamber?”
Eames grins back at him, his voice husky when he speaks “You should feel nervous that the most honorable Knight of Flowers is about to take advantage of you in his private bedchamber, my lord.”
Arthur felt his tensions begin to melt as Eames’ eyes roved his body hungrily. He could already feel his body stirring in response, even though the other man hadn’t approached or touched him yet.
So, naturally, in typical Baratheon fashion, Arthur raised a hand to Eames in clear challenge. He motioned with two fingers, once.
Eames was crushing up against him an instant later. Their mouths mashing together in a clear battle for dominance, as it always was. It had been like this when Eames had been his squire as well; the other man had always pushed the bounds of authority. He had always wanted to be more than he was; he acted like a knight when he was nothing more than a squire and he acted like a high lord now, when he was nothing but a knight.
Arthur gave a noise of protest, and bid remonstrance. He bit hard, down on Eames lower lip. In retaliation Eames hauled the other man into the air, and then flat down on the bed of soft silk and thick furs. Arthur noted that the Tyrell rose was embroidered on the satin pillow next to his head.
“This isn’t a joust, Tyrell.”
“You’re a pretentious prick, you know that?” Eames muttered. He ripped at Arthur’s tunic until he had it off, and then reached down to wrestle with the ties of Arthur’s breeches.
Arthur didn’t respond, but did let out a low whine when Eames’ heavy hands brushed against his hardening length. He reached out to grasp skin for himself, managing to remove the other man’s layers in a quick fashion. He ran his hands over the Tyrell’s chest, free of coarse hair as it always was.
Eames gripped Arthur’s hips fiercely when he finally freed the dark haired man’s straining cock. Then he wasted no time in nosing against Arthur’s stomach, licking a line straight down until he wrapped his lips around Arthur’s cock, swallowing.
“F-Fuck,” Arthur bit out. His eyes clenched shut briefly, and all at once he was overcome with the sensations that the other man caused him, overwhelmed as he always was. This prize of House Tyrell was his prize, and his dream. “You’ve the mouth of a whore.”
“Aye, and you love it more than you would with any whore, my lord.” Eames leans back to say the words, and then noses down to suck at Arthur’s balls.
Stern hands reached up to push against Arthur’s abdomen, keeping him from bucking up from the bed. When Arthur growled low in his throat, trying to throw Eames’ off and make the man swallow him deeper, he was thwarted and hands pressed even harder into his stomach. Eames chuckled, the feeling of the motion reverberating in Arthur’s flesh. He turned his attention back to Arthur’s leaking cock, his cheeks hollowing from his efforts in no time.
Eames approached this game the same way he approached a tournament. It was quick, hot excitement mixed with raw, loose skill. He knew exactly which movements would have the Baratheon lord keening aloud, falling to pieces in his grip. He owned the atmosphere around him, asserting him ambitious dominance.
The Tyrell let Arthur roll his hips, keeping an eye on the man’s clenched fist and listening avidly to his grunted moans and exclamations. He ran a tongue over the other man’s head, taking time to lap at his slit before he purposefully surged the man’s hips forward and took him deep.
Arthur couldn’t be held responsible for the cry that he let out at the move. He could feel his release building, and finally he forced his eyes open to look down at the other man. He was mesmerized by the sight, same as he always was. He let the other man’s name escape from his lips, quiet and breathless.
Eames’ locked eyes with him, and within moments Arthur was arching off the bed. Eames let Arthur’s length drop from his mouth, licking his lips and swallowing the other man’s essence in a way that would have made Littlefinger’s whores proud.
“Slag,” Arthur muttered when he let Eames kiss him, more softly than he had earlier. He could taste himself on those plush lips.
“Did I score well?” Eames asked, cheekily “Perhaps I even did well enough to win this tournament?”
Arthur laughed, and he hooked his arms around the other man so that he could flip him onto his back, their bodies pressed close together.
“Let me show you the skills of House Baratheon,” he replied “The same implacable, bullheaded way we won this kingdom.”
Eames laid back against his pillows as his lover began to trail nips and kisses down his chest. For now he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Winter would ever come. With Arthur crouched close, touching and kissing him it felt like it would be Summer forever.
The Knight of Flowers didn’t know about a future of wars and loss, of a red witch and dark magic, or of a siege that would threaten his life. Eames knew about Arthur, about the present, and about what it felt like to reach down and wrap his hands in his attentive lover’s hair.