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Summary
His hand slid smooth up over Baelor's thighs, slipping under the folds of his coat, "they all want to be the Hightowers, they all want to put their hands on a dragon…" his eyes flickered down to the ring Baelor worked over with the pads of his fingers, "are you imagining it's the tightness of my arse?"
Baelor's hand flew quick and bruising to the boy's jaw, leaning forward in his seat to put the submission of Aerion's position into perspective, "if you're such a dragon…" he shifted his hand and plunged his two middle most fingers into Aerion's red-stained mouth, sliding over the slickness of his tongue to press at the back of it until he gagged, "spit fire at me, boy… do it; show me that you are what you claim to be- that you're an old God in the body of a sorely mistaken young man."
~
Aerion gets a stern talking to