wretched girl

The Small Council had dragged on far longer than it should have, though it always seems to these days—endless droning voices, veiled criticisms, eyes lingering just a touch too long, sensing something is off about him. 

Aegon had sat through it all with a tight jaw and a goblet that never quite stayed empty, shifting in his seat more than a king ought to. By the time he finally makes it back to your shared chambers, the irritation sits beneath his skin like a fever. 

The heavy wooden doors shut behind him with a dull thud and, for an instant, he just stands there, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying—and failing—to collect himself. 

You’re already in bed, of course, given the late hour, reclined back against the pillows and reading from some thick tome without a care in the world. It’s hard to keep a straight face, to resist the urge to smirk as he paces and pulls at himself like a caged animal. 

Fitting. 

His gaze finds you immediately, something conflicted flickering across his face before it settles into that same familiar expression you’d become so accustomed to over the past few weeks: petulant and defensive. He rolls his shoulders once, as if he can shrug the feeling off and turns away with a quiet scoff before undressing. 

You make no secret of closing the book in your hands then, of setting it aside on the small table by the bed before righting yourself once more. 

His cloak falls away first, spilling into a dark, satiny puddle at his feet, then the rest—layers peeled away with little care, tossed aside in uneven heaps of fabric. He doesn’t rush exactly, but there’s a tension in every movement, each part of him restless. Your gaze lingers all the while, watching as he strips, as the agitation he so poorly tries to mask bleeds into every abrupt movement. 

It’s been days. 

Days since he’d drunkenly agreed to ride down to some brothel in the city, days since some turncoat spider had made you aware of his comings and goings, then days of silence, followed—at last—by this: a deal struck that has left him in constant awareness of the cage locked firmly in place, of the dull, maddening pressure he cannot ignore, no matter how much wine he drinks or how long he lingers at council tables pretending to listen. 

His hand pauses briefly at his waist as he undoes the last of the fastenings on his trousers, fingers brushing there—still, only for a second—before he forces himself to continue, teeth clenched. 

By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left of the day on him, which is how he typically prefers it—bare skin, freedom to breathe, and all that. But you’d manage to take even that, even simple relaxation, from him as every time he’s undressed, there’s nothing to hide the stark, unyielding presence of the cage secured around his flaccid cock, the faint glint of stiff metal impossible to ignore. 

Aegon exhales sharply through his nose, brows pulled taut as he traipses to the bed. 

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he mutters, not quite looking at you at first. There’s no real bite to it—not the kind he’d use with anyone else, at any rate. With you, even like this, his voice melts into something more intimate. “Sending me off to sit through council with this damned thing on.”

He pauses then before sighing once more. When he speaks again, his voice is edged with something dangerously close to a whine: “It’s been days.” 

“You knew very well how I feel about you going to that damned place,” you remind him, mild enough to dull the edges of the comment without losing its weight. “But you still went,” you continue, brow raising as he comes closer, “do not pretend like this correction comes as a surprise to you.”

Speeding his steps, he crosses the room in a few quick paces and climbs onto the bed beside you, all restless limbs and lingering heat. He hovers there, tense—and then finally gives in. 

He shifts closer, pressing into you as an arm slides around your waist while he drags you closer with a frustrated scoff before burying his face against your shoulder like he hates himself for still wanting you. 

“...it’s cruel,” he mutters, voice muffled now. His grip tightens, fingers curling into the fabric at your side. “You know it is,” he complains, letting out another small, petulant sound, “and you’re not even sorry.”

“You did swear, over and over, if I remember correctly,” you murmur, head tilting thoughtfully before flicking your eyes to him—not to his face, but lower, to the metal locked around his length, your gaze deliberate, “that you hadn’t touched a single one of them.” 

“I—I told you, I didn’t do anything! I hardly even looked at them,” Aegon insists, voice rougher than he means it to be as the words tumble out with the same defensiveness he always wears like armor. “I told you—I swore it. And you—you still—” He gestures sharply at the cage, frustration flashing in his violet eyes.

“Perhaps you didn’t,” there’s no accusation in your tone, no raised voice, if anything it’s worse—measured, considering, as though you’ve already weighed the truth of it and found it lacking in some way that matters more. “But you were there,” you continue, quieter now as your fingers idly smooth the silk of your robe, like all of this is of very little consequence. “You still thought it acceptable to spend your evenings at the Street of Silk like some bored little lordling with nothing better to do.”

You give him another glance, silently relishing the scowl that scrunches across his face.

“And now you sit in council like that,” you murmur, almost lightly, though there’s no mistaking the firmness behind your words, “and expect me to feel sympathy for you.”

He stays quiet for a few long seconds, blinking dumbly before swallowing thickly, throat bobbing as he says, sulky: “You don’t believe me.” 

It’s not a question. 

Your hand comes up to rest at his shoulder as he leans into you somehow more, and you let him, of course—let him press in close and take what he so clearly wants without asking. Still, he tenses beneath your words. The accusation hangs there, familiar and damning, and his jaw clenches reflexively. 

His breath is uneven against your shoulder, his body betraying him even as he tries to cling to the last shreds of wounded pride. 

“I went because I was bored,” he mumbles, though the words sound thin even to him, “because I—because I didn’t want to sit here and—”

Be judged, be scolded, be reminded that despite being the eldest, he is still not the best nor most fit for a role he never asked for at all. 

He cuts himself off, shaking his head, causing pale strands of hair to tickle your skin. 

“You think this is easy?” His fingers twitch at your side, restless. “Being watched like a damn prisoner in my own court? Being sent off to sit through hours of petty bickering while you—” Another frustrated noise escapes him, half-whine, half-grumble. “While you leave me like this?”

You smile without meaning to, small at first—barely there against his hair—but it’s there all the same, impossible to hide once it starts. Because he’s ridiculous like this: angry, sulking, and insisting he hates every second of it while draped over you like he cannot bear a centimeter of distance. 

“You are being very dramatic about this,” you murmur lightly, fingers drifting up into his hair at last, scratching at his scalp in a reward he absolutely does not deserve and yet always manages to coax from you. “A prisoner? Truly? Shall I have the maesters write songs of your suffering?”

Aegon shifts again, unable to stay still for very long, canting his hips forward as if to emphasize the point—as if you’d conveniently forgotten the smooth, polished metal cage glimmering faintly in the low candlelight. 

When you offer no solace, nothing more than a teasing, amused glance, the fight seems to drain out of him all at once. 

“...you know I hate it,” he admits, voice faltering, too raw to hide behind anger now, “being locked away from you, being—being kept like this.” He turns his face into your shoulder, breathing in the scent of you as he tries to steady himself. “You could at least pretend to care,” he murmurs, petulant and wounded in equal measure, “instead of—of watching me squirm like it’s some fucking game.”

“Mm, I suppose it has been difficult for you,” your voice lilts with something perilously close to amusement now, “following me around the Keep with those big, wounded eyes, sitting at my feet whenever you have a free moment, climbing into my lap the instant we’re alone…” 

Tilting your head just enough to look at him properly, you cannot keep the smirk off your lips now. 

“All because your cock has been locked away for a few days.” 

There’s no cruelty in it, not really. If anything, you seem far too entertained by the whole thing. 

“And yes,” you continue smoothly, thumb brushing along his temple, “I do believe you’re telling the truth.” The honesty settles between you easily and you nearly cackle at the way his head lifts up, eyes wide, brows furrowing as his lips part.

“You—what?” he blurts out, words sticking, all indignation. 

“You went drinking with those insufferable lordlings you insist on keeping around,” you say, the faintest note of exasperated fondness threading through your words, “and I’m sure you wanted to seem like such a big, impressive king for them.”

You pause, letting your free hand trail lower, gliding lazily down his back in easy, absent strokes—not nearly enough to soothe the ache in him, only enough to keep him aware of you, as if he could ever not be. 

“Then why in the Seven Hells have you left me like this?” 

His protest is almost shrill with betrayal, even as he melts while you touch him, any anger crumbling in an instant. He makes a small, wounded noise in the back of his throat, pressing into your hand like a starved thing.

“Can you truly blame me?” you muse smugly. “It’s quite amusing to see you squirm.” You lean in just enough for your lips to brush his temple. “Besides, you become so terribly affectionate when you’re frustrated.”

“You’re cruel,” he mutters, blinking up at you and scowling, though the effect is ruined by the way he’s already nuzzling back into you. “And don’t—don’t laugh at me, I can hear it in your voice—”

Aegon’s fingers flex at your waist possessively as he drags you even closer, desperate to erase any space between you. He’s trembling, quiet—breaths coming unevenly as he wrestles with himself. You can see the conflict working through him as he struggles through the frustration, the need, with the way he can’t seem to stop touching you, even like this. 

Then, finally, his voice drops—low, rough, edged with pleading. 

“Please.”

The word is barely audible, a small crack in his armor. 

His nose brushes your collarbone, his lips just shy of pressing to your skin as if he’s afraid to admit how badly he needs it. 

“It’s been days,” he says in a hushed tone, fragile. “I’ve been—good. Haven’t I?” He isn’t sure, he never really is, but he looks up at you anyway, lashes damp and eyes hazy with want. 

“Oh, silly boy,” the words leave you in a silken croon, almost pitying, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing outright at the look on his face. He tenses at the sound, even as your fingers continue their path through his hair, combing carefully through the pale strands in stark contrast to the way you look down at him—like he’s something terribly pretty and terribly pathetic all at once. “You thought this was about punishment?” you ask, one brow lifting. “No, love, if I truly wished to punish you, you would know it.”

A soft hum vibrates from your throat as he presses closer without even realizing he’s doing it, worn thin after days of frustration, nearly purring in your hands.

“I know you’ve been good, you’ve been so good for me lately,” you say with the gentlest condescension, tilting his head up toward yours with a few fingers tucked beneath his chin. 

“Following me from room to room…” You stroke your fingers through his hair once. 

“Looking at me like you’ll die if I leave you alone for longer than an hour…” Twice. 

“And now begging so nicely for me…” A third time. 

He inhales hard, blinking up at you—caught, pinned, yours in every way that matters. 

“You—” his voice wavers, catching in his throat as you praise him in that teasing way that makes his stomach flip. “You’re mocking me,” he accuses weakly, though there’s no real heat or protest in it—only a faint, trembling huff beneath the words. 

Clicking your tongue, you shake your head as though the whole thing is highly amusing. 

“All because I put a little cage around your precious cock,” your gaze drifts deliberately downward before trailing back to his face, grinning at the way he jumps at even that tiny scrap of attention. “It really is fascinating,” you muse, fingertips trailing down to the nape of his neck to feel him shiver, “the tighter I keep you wound, the sweeter you become.”

Your nails scrape lightly at the back of his neck, soothing him while he melts into the touch. His eyes slip shut for a second before he forces them open again, not daring to miss a single flicker of your expression.

“Fascinating,” he repeats hoarsely, something between indignation and awe curling into the word. “You—you enjoy this, watching me fall apart over—over nothing.” His fingers grab greedily at the fabric of your robe, clinging. 

“Mhm,” you hum, “perhaps I should leave you like this a while longer, keep you all nice for me.”

His hips shift restlessly, a small, aborted movement—as if he can’t help but still seek friction even with the cage locked firmly in place. He lets out a quiet, frustrated sound, his forehead dropping to your shoulder again. 

“Don’t leave me like this any longer,” he mumbles, pleading, “I’ve been—I’ve been good, you said so.” His breath is warm where it gusts over your collarbone. “You could—you could take it off now, reward me.”

Chuckling, you pet over him, trailing your hand downward over his throat, his chest, the tense line of his stomach—every touch is unhurried, lingering just enough to keep him wanting. And every time your fingertips stray toward the cage, you change direction, silently relishing the strained whimpers you earn in return. 

“Look at you,” you whisper, sounding almost fond now. “Begging so prettily over a reward you haven’t even earned yet.”

“Please,” he adds, hardly audible.

You let the word hang between you for a second before sighing as though considering his request, as though it’s just the most inconvenient thing for you. 

“Well,” you murmur, thumb brushing along his lower lip, “perhaps you do deserve something.” The hopeful shift in his expression is immediate. Gods, he truly is pathetic when he thinks he’s about to get what he wants. “But,” you continue smoothly, tilting his chin up once more, “good boys should be eager to please first, shouldn’t they?”

Your fingers skim downward again, this time catching lightly at the thatch of pale hair just beneath his lower belly. 

“You know I—” His hips thrust forward instinctively, seeking something, anything. Of course, the cage stops him cold and he lets out a frustrated groan as his cock tries to harden in vain. “Tease,” he says lowly. 

“To earn your reward,” you murmur, carefully drawing out each word, “I think you should do something for me.” You pause, then finish, voice sweet as honey: “Use that clever mouth of yours properly for once.” 

His gaze snaps back to yours, lips parting in silent understanding. The shift in him is instant, any sulkiness fading as his pout vanishes, replaced with hunger. 

Aegon adores this—the one thing he’s always been talented at. 

His grip firms at your waist before he’s even fully processed the command, breaths already coming faster, pupils blown. 

“You needn’t ask twice,” he gasps, already lowering himself between your thighs like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. His hands slide up your legs reverently, trying to memorize you before he pauses, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your knee just to make you wait—to steal whatever retribution he can get. 

He smirks up at you, looking far too smug for someone who’s been begging for mercy all night. 

“You could’ve just told me to kneel,” he points out, the words already coming out breathless as his lips trail over your skin. “Would’ve done this hours ago.”

You can’t help but laugh at that self-satisfied remark as you slide one hand into his hair, tugging at it before he can disappear fully between your thighs. 

“Oh, no,” you murmur, voice warm with amusement as you tighten your fingers just enough to make him choke around a sound, “I don’t want you kneeling at all.”

Before he can properly question what you mean, you drag him back up before pushing at his shoulder, guiding him backward onto the mattress instead. The movement is smooth, quick, and purposeful, silk dragging across his bare skin as your robe loosens while you climb over him, straddling his thighs. 

“You are far too eager, practically trembling for it,” you tease idly, brushing his hair back from his face as he stares up at you, panting. Glancing down, you hum—pleased—as his cock gives a feeble twitch in the cage. “Even after all that carrying on about how mean I’ve been, too,” you continue, grasping at his jaw, “funny thing, aren’t you?”

You lean down just enough to press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips before pulling away again. Then, you move once more, shifting until you can grasp at the intricately carved headboard for balance as you settle over him more fully, his pale hair brushing the insides of your thighs. 

“Mm,” you hum, smoothing one hand possessively through his hair as the other stays braced on the headboard, “that’s much better, hm?”

A choked noise tears from his throat as you get comfortable atop him, his hands jerking up to grab at your hips, afraid you’ll change your mind if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. His chest heaves, his entire body strung taut beneath you as his lips part and he tilts his head up, trying to chase after you, only for your grip in his hair to stop him cold. 

“Tell me something,” you murmur warmly, fingers tightening to keep him from getting to your cunny. Smirking widely, you lower yourself just enough to let the tip of his nose glide along the seam of you only to pull away just as his tongue darts out to get a taste. “Is this what you wanted so badly?”

His voice falters on a ragged gasp of your name, hips shifting restlessly beneath you as if he can’t stand how close you are without letting him touch. “You—you know it is, you know I—fuck—” he pants, fingers scrambling over you before digging into the softness of your thighs. “Please, I’ve been—Gods, I’ve been good, haven’t I? You said so,” he whines, wrecked as his nails scrape lightly against your skin. He stares up at you with glassy, pleading eyes. “Let me—let me earn it! Let me show you!”

“You’re very pretty like this, all eager for my approval,” you chuckle almost absently. Your fingers tug at his hair again, only briefly, before your expression softens into something a bit warmer, more yielding. “Fine,” you sigh with mock disinterest, like all of this is such a chore. “Go on, show me how badly you want your reward.”

You lower yourself into the cradle of his hands, silk pooling around your thighs as you let him have what he’s been begging for. Aegon makes a sound like a dying man granted absolution.

Guttural. Muffled.

He tugs you closer, forcing you to well and truly sit as he quickly goes to work, tongue moving against you as if he’s been starved for it. 

“There,” you whisper, already winded at the first real touch of his mouth, “that’s it.” For all his complaining and sulking, for all the pathetic looks he’s given you across the Keep, he becomes frighteningly focused the instant you finally let him have what he wants. 

“Fuck,” he gasps between feverish, open-mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging worshipfully along the center of you before he dives in deeper, messier, wanting to memorize the taste of you. “You—you feel—” the words dissolve into a groan, his grip on your thighs tensing as he tilts his head to lick deeper, his nose pressing against the softness of you. 

One of your hands stays at the headboard, fingers digging into the wood, while the other gathers your robe out of the way, holding it aside so you can watch him. What a sight he is: face pressed between your thighs, lips swollen already, flushed cheeks damp with slick. 

He looks up at you—hazy, pleading, already ruined. He laps at your clit once, twice, three times, steady and deliberate—just the way he knows you like—before sealing his lips around it and sucking, the vibration of his muffled groan sending shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. 

“Aegon—” his name breaks from you as his mouth drags over you again, slower this time, in a way that feels almost cruel after how longingly he’d begged for you only moments ago.

He pants your name into your slick heat, lips glistening as he pulls back just enough to suck in a lungful of air before lunging back to you. His tongue presses into you, fucks into you with short, frantic thrusts. “Missed this,” he admits between licks, hardly audible between your legs, “missed—fuck—the way you taste.”

Your hips rock instinctively against his mouth, chasing the pressure without shame now, and the sound he makes when you grind down onto his tongue vibrates straight through you. 

His hands slide up to grab at your hips once more, dragging you somehow harder down toward his mouth as if he needs you closer, like he can’t stand even the smallest gap between you. His eyes flutter shut, brow furrowed with the effort of not devouring you whole.

“Greedy boy,” you pant, tugging again in his hair as another gasp spills from your lips. Your head tips back briefly at the eager way he laps at you before you force yourself to look down again, unwilling to miss the sight of him like this—completely consumed by it, already ruined just from being allowed between your legs. 

“Tell me—” he gasps, hot against your folds as he stops to circle your clit again. “Tell me I’m doing good.” The plea is muffled, lips brushing you with every word, but Gods he needs it. 

His plea for praise nearly undoes you, forcing a small laugh to bubble from your lips, though it comes out shakily—catching in your lungs when he flicks his tongue at you again, causing your grip on the headboard to slip slightly. 

“You—you are,” you manage, hardly able to get a sound out between pleasured moans as your thighs tighten around his head, “doing so good.” 

The praise, combined with another roll of your hips, forces a sound from Aegon like he’s been stabbed—punched-out as his entire body shudders beneath you as if your words alone have him close to unraveling.

His breath is ragged as his tongue presses inside you again, trying to drink down the sound of your approval. His hands grab at your hips in an urgent bid to drag you down harder against him despite the ache in his lungs. He seals his lips around your clit again and gives a series of deliberate sucks, relishing the noises he’s able to pull from you. 

“You—you feel so good,” he moans, tilting his head just enough to suck in a lungful of air. His violet gaze is unfocused as he looks up at you again, staring at you like you’re the only thing left in the world worth worshipping. “You taste perfect—Gods, I could—I could stay here forever.”

A fractured whimper escapes him when you tug him back into place and press yourself to him, the beautiful way you command him making his hips spasm uselessly into the air, the cage still locked in place. The frustration of it, the feel of those sadistic metal bars digging into the sensitive skin of his cock as it tries in vain to harden in the device, only makes him try harder. He circles his tongue around your clit in maddening strokes before flattening it completely, dragging it up the seam of you in a way that makes your breath hitch each time he does it. 

“Please,” he pants, voice wrecked, lips swollen and slick. “Let me—let me make you feel good. Wanna—Gods—need it.” His mouth seals over you again, his tongue flicking hard against your clit in rapid, relentless strokes as his fingers dig into the softness of your thighs. 

You try to answer him—you really do—but the second he tugs you toward his lips again, any words you’d had on your tongue collapse into a broken sound instead. 

His name leaves you like a plea this time, shaking at the edges as your fingers hold him tighter to you. The persistent drag of his tongue, the needy noises he keeps making, the way he holds you down against his mouth, terrified you might take this away from him—

Seven Hells. 

Your thighs flex hard around his head as another gasp tears from your chest, your arm trembling where it braces on the headboard to keep yourself upright. Your robe has long since fallen open around you, forgotten entirely now in favor of simply feeling him. 

And he is everywhere—messy and devoted enough that every praise seems to drive him deeper under. 

“Gods,” you pant, forcing yourself to stare down at him again even as pleasure blurs your vision. His expression is nearly trancelike, his gaze focused on you as if he could live on your approval alone—oxygen be damned. 

His tongue flicks over you again, pressing on your clit in a way that has your back arching as a startled cry breaks free from your lips, your grip on the headboard slipping entirely. You nearly lose your balance as your weight is forced entirely onto him, but when you scramble to right yourself again, Aegon holds you there with an iron grip. 

“Oh, fuck—” you moan, grinding hard against his mouth. And when he groans beneath you—hungry—that’s what does it. 

Pleasure crashes through you all at once, overwhelming enough to make your head spin. Your thighs tremble around his head as you come apart with a helpless gasp of his name on your lips, gripping his hair hard enough to pull a few strands out by the root. 

For a long moment afterward, you can only stay there atop him, breathing hard, forehead pressed weakly to the headboard while you try to gather yourself once more. When you do finally manage to shift off of him just enough to gaze down at him again, your expression softens into satisfaction at the smug, proud look on his face. 

“Good boy,” you praise, voice rough with pleasure. You stroke lazily through his hair once before easing yourself off of him reluctantly, sighing as you collapse beside him atop the pillows. Panting, you turn your head toward him with an exhausted smile. “You look terribly pleased with yourself.”

Aegon huffs out a quiet laugh beside you, licking at his lips while he stares up toward the ceiling as if in awe, his hair horribly mussed and his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Gods above,” he pants, fingers trembling as he reaches out to brush a hand over your side, “you—you taste—” He cuts himself off with a rough groan, his thighs pressing together instinctively as another wave of frustration rolls through him. 

The cage. The godsdamned fucking cage. 

He huffs as he turns his head to stare at you, trying to silently will you to unlock him. “I—I earned it. You said I was good,” his lower lip wobbles, though there’s no bite in his words—just raw  need as his fingers trace absent circles against you, as if he can’t stand not touching you. “I—fuck—I felt it; you liked it, you shook.”

His entire body thrums with need, hips shifting again as the cage presses restrictively over him and his expression crumbles into something pathetic. Whatever he tries to say next gets cut off by another strained noise, his hand drifting down to grip his own thigh instead—squeezing, trying to distract himself from how badly he’s aching. 

“Can’t—can’t even think,” he admits lowly, his breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants. “Just—just you. Just please.”

“Shh,” you soothe, rubbing a gentle hand over his pale chest. “I told you, you did so well,” you say softly, humming when his shoulders loosen some beneath your touch, “I said you’d get rewarded and I meant it.”

The way he immediately perks up at that nearly undoes you all over again and you have to press your lips together for a second to stop a laugh from escaping you at the hopeful look that flashes across his face—that instant, sweet certainty that you’re about to unlock the cage and give him exactly what he wants. 

Instead, you lean in and kiss his temple once before murmuring, “C’mere.”

Slowly, guiding rather than forcing, you coax him toward you, turning him until his back is pressed to your chest as you settle back into the pillows, leaving him seated between your spread legs. His breath catches, confusion flickering across his face as his body stiffens reflexively before he forces himself to relax. 

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” you whisper near his ear, smoothing your hands over his shoulders and biceps as he gives a puzzled huff.

His swallows hard, certain you’re up to something but unsure as to precisely what it could be. 

“What—” his voice comes out hoarse as he twists in your arms, trying to get a look at you over his shoulder, “what’re you doing?” His pulse jumps beneath your fingers, breath uneven, his skin warm with the flush of anticipation. “This—this isn’t… What kind of reward is this?” He shivers, cutting himself off with another whine as his hips cant forward, seeking friction that isn’t there. 

“Why’re you so tense?” you question, almost affectionate enough to disguise the amusement threaded through your tone. You brush your lips over the side of his neck when he squirms again before draping your legs over his thighs, making sure he can’t close them. “A moment ago you were begging me to touch you,” you hum quietly, “and now I am.”

One hand glides up his bare chest, unhurried as ever as you trace the shape of him, dragging your nails lightly over his skin. He twitches in your hold as if struck with a live wire, letting out a helpless little noise. 

“I’m only giving you what you wanted,” you croon. You let your touch wander without urgency, drifting over his sternum, feeling his heartbeat stutter whenever you linger. Every reaction earns another soft hum of approval from you, even as his body rocks, like he can’t decide whether to arch toward your touch or pull away from it. 

And his cock—Gods, his cock is still locked away, kicking with every teasing brush of your fingers. He squirms again, restless, thighs trying to press together instinctively, as if he can hide the way the metal glints between them, the way he’s leaking already, the way his whole body trembles with need. 

Your fingertips brush tauntingly near one nipple before moving away again, only to return a second later with maddening purpose—a featherlight scrape of your nail, then another. Barely enough. 

“You know,” you start, low in his ear, “I can’t help but wonder what your little friends would think of you now…”

“Don’t—don’t talk about them,” he manages, voice thin as his fingers twist in the sheets. “I—I don’t care what they think—”

Liar.

The thought of anyone seeing him like this makes his stomach clench as shame and heat tangling in his gut. 

You laugh softly under your breath, circling your thumb lazily over one nipple—relishing the way he whimpers despite himself—while your other hand smoothes down his stomach, holding him firmly against you whenever he tries to squirm beneath your attention. 

“Their supposedly strong king,” you continue, honey-sweet with taunting affection, “reduced to a shaking mess over, well… hardly anything at all.”

He gasps your name raggedly, hips twitching forward into nothing, just air and the cruel, empty lack of friction. “Please,” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore.

“You had your fun with your drinks and whores, sneaking about at all hours of the night without a care in the world,” you whisper, nipping at the sensitive skin just beneath his earlobe. “Now I get to have mine.” 

Your thumb continues its lazy circle over his nipple while the hand on his stomach drifts lower at last, fingertips trailing down the tense line of his abdomen until they just barely touch the metal between his legs. You feel the way his entire body reacts to that tiny bit of contact and smile against his skin, pleased. 

He chokes out a ragged noise when your fingers finally brush over the cage, his entire body jerking violently as if struck. His hands fly to grab your wrist, his nails biting into your skin, but he doesn’t pull you away, doesn’t stop you—just holds on, trembling like a leaf in a storm. 

“There it is,” you say, pleased, “such a little thing always causing so much trouble, hm?”

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked already, chest heaving as his cock pulses uselessly in its confines. “You—you’re cruel, you’re sickening, you’re—”

His words dissolve into a whimper when your fingers linger there for a moment, tracing along the metal with maddening care, before slipping lower instead, purposefully bypassing what he’s aching for to trail lingering strokes over the insides of his thighs first, as if he’s something fragile. 

“You’re leaking already and we’ve hardly even started,” you muse. “Such a messy king.” Another chuckle slips from you when he twitches again, jolting in your grasp. “You must’ve spent all evening like this,” you continue, curling your fingers loosely around his stones, stroking them with easy affection that feels far too gentle for the sounds it’s pulling out of him. “Sitting through your council meetings trying to pretend you weren’t aching under the table.”

His hips buck forward instinctively, seeking more, seeking anything, but the movement is fruitless—the cage denies him even that small relief. He makes a broken, wounded sound as his head tilts back against your shoulder. 

“I wasn’t—” He goes still, fingers tightening around your wrist. “I wasn’t thinking about it—not—not all evening—” All lies; he’d thought about nothing else. He’s sat through each council meeting, court session, supper, everything for the past few days with his jaw clenched, his thighs pressed together, his cock throbbing in its prison. He’s barely heard a word anyone’s said all week, like his head’s been underwater. 

And now—

Now you’re touching him and it’s better and worse all at once, it’s too much. “Please,” he sobs, the word splitting in two as he shakes under your touch, “please, please, just—just let me—” He can’t even finish the sentence. 

His pride is gone. 

Any of his earlier defiance is gone.

All that’s left is need. 

“Shh, sh,” you shush him as another wounded sound tears out of him, “just feel it.” Your touch eases further instead of intensifying, steady strokes and careful pressure meant to keep him aching. Your fingers roll lazily around his stones, fondling them with easy affection while you feel the way he tenses against you, every muscle drawn taut. His hips rut uselessly again and you chuckle, lips brushing his temple. 

“Goodness,” you whisper with warm amusement, “you’re so full.” Your hand cups him more firmly, weighing his stones in your palm. “Heavy, too. No wonder you’ve been following me around the Keep looking half-mad. You must’ve been absolutely miserable.”

You go on for a few moments longer, long enough to feel him melt further into you and for his desperate noises to soften into mindless, lazy huffs. 

Then, finally, you sigh. 

“All right,” you say at last, scratching lightly through his hair with your free hand. “Perhaps I have teased you enough for one evening… I’ll unlock you.” A small laugh escapes you immediately after you say it when he jolts again, brought back to life by your promise. “But only if you promise to be good for me, to listen to every word I say,” you continue, pausing to press an indulgent kiss to the side of his neck. “Can you do that, sweet boy?”

“Yes,” he gasps quickly, the word tumbling out of him in a rush. “I—I can, I will, I swear—” His fingers loosen their death-grip on your wrist, sliding instead to clutch at your thigh, nails digging into your skin like he might float away otherwise. He’s already panting raggedly, his skin fever-hot where it presses to you, his cock aching where it’s trapped. 

“Breathe, listen to me carefully,” you murmur, sliding your hand up to rest it on his lower belly, holding him steady against you. “You are not allowed to finish until I tell you that you may,” you rub circles into his skin as you speak, “and if you do… I’ll ruin it, put the cage right back on, and you can spend another week aching for me. Do you understand?”

It takes him a second to nod, but when he does you let out a pleased hum, grinning over his shoulder. 

“Good boy,” you praise, kissing his shoulder. 

It’s only then that you finally move. Purposefully, you reach up and slip the thin chain from around your neck, lifting it carefully over your head until the small key hanging from it catches in the dim candlelight. 

“You’ve been thinking about this silly thing all week,” you murmur when he tenses at the sight of it, throat clicking audibly as he swallows, “haven’t you?”

You let the key dangle for a second longer—just enough to make him squirm again—before bringing it down between his legs. The metal is unyielding against your fingers as you steady the cage with one hand and fit the key into place with the other. A soft click breaks through the quiet room, then another, before the lock finally releases. You ease the cage away from him at last, setting it aside beyond the pillows. 

Aegon shudders violently in your grasp, squirming as if he’d forgotten what it felt like to be free and he keens when you still don’t touch him right away. Instead, you wrap your arms around his middle, chin resting over his shoulder while you peer down and watch the way his cock pathetically twitches against his stomach, flushed dark and dripping already. 

“Mm, look at you,” you hum approvingly, “your poor cock doesn’t quite know what to do with itself.”

His hips buck forward instinctively, seeking anything, and the whimper that spills from him is broken, bitten out. His entire body trembles, his cock aching with every throb, untouched and starving. 

“Such a pretty little thing,” you say. “So eager, too.”

“You—you’re still teasing,” he accuses weakly, struggling in your grasp before going limp again. “You unlocked me, touch me, please.”

One hand slips down his body, letting him feel every millimeter of movement over his lower belly, thighs, and hips. Finally—blessedly, finally—your thumb strokes once, lightly, just beneath the head before retracting again just as quickly, giving him only enough to make him gasp. 

“Remember,” you remind him, “no finishing until I say.”

You take your time after that, touching him with maddening patience—indulgent strokes of your hand that never quite give enough friction to satisfy, only to keep you aching harder. Your grip remains featherlight, teasingly gentle as you stroke along his length. 

He whines—a high-pitched, keening noise that scrapes up his throat the moment your hand wraps around him. His entire body spasms, fingers twitching where they’re clutching at your thighs. 

“Gods—” his cock pulses in your grip, twitching into your palm as if trying to chase every second of contact. “I can’t—I can’t stay still, you—you’re—fuck.”

“So needy,” you whisper, lips brushing his shoulder as you let go of his length once more, moving your hand away as it gives a few feeble pulses. “That’s why we have to keep stopping,” you say softly, “so you don’t fall over the edge too soon, yeah?”

Your hand slides toward him again with agonizing slowness, thumb spreading the precum gathered at the tip before trailing back down just as leisurely, drawing the sensation out until his breathing turns ragged all over again… only to pull your hand away once more, resting it on his hips while his cock bobs at his belly.

“I-I’m trying, please,” he sobs, words dissolving into a shuddering moan as his hips rut, sending heat straight through you to sit heavy in your stomach. Your hand feels like fire to him. When you pull away again—when you leave him hanging—he keens, length dripping over his belly. 

“I—I hate you,” he gasps, the words weak as his voice is thick with desperation. “I hate you, I hate this, I—” His hips lift again, fruitless. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” you admit before you can stop yourself, the confession slipping out warm over his skin. “So good for me.” Your hand continues its movements along his length, keeping the pace measured no matter how miserably his body begs for more. You can feel every aborted thrust of his hips, every frantic pulse. 

When you rest your hand at his hip again, your free one trails back up his chest, nails grazing lightly over his skin before you begin to toy lazily with one of his nipples again, rolling it gently between your fingers while your mouth brushes against his shoulder. 

The reaction it pulls from him makes your heart stutter. Every nerve feels raw, exposed, alight with need. He barely registers that he’s crying, that silent tears are tracking down his pale cheeks.

“Oh, there it is, I felt that,” you murmur, unable to hide the pleased smile on your lips as you thumb over the sensitive nub once more. “Do you think you could finish just from this? Just from my touch up here?” you ask teasingly, lightly pinching at his nipple. 

“No—” his body seizes, cock jerking violently as his breath comes in short, panicked gasps. His hips buck forward again before he wrenches them still, shaking with the effort. “I—I won’t, I won’t, I swear it—”

When you lightly stroke over his length again, taking a second to spread the copious amounts of precum there with your fingertips, he whimpers, thighs trembling with the effort of holding back. 

“I—I need—” The words dissolve into a moan when your hand tightens around him just as your fingers roll his nipple again, causing pleasure to lance through him like a knife. 

He’s so close.

He’s so scared.

“Tell me,” he gasps, cock pulsing in your hand, “tell me I can—” He can’t even finish the sentence, he just trembles, utterly at your mercy. 

Real panic creeps in, his whole body locking up with it as if balancing on the edge of something far too intense to survive. 

“Shh, Aeg,” you murmur, softer now, soothing the frantic ripples in him, “look at me.” Your hand slows just slightly—not stopping, but moving at a pace that doesn’t leave him as wound up—while your free hand smoothes over his chest, holding him securely to you. “You’re all right, I’ve got you,” you say quietly at his temple when he turns his head to peer at you over his shoulder. 

Your hand moves in another measured stroke over his length as you press a few more kisses along his cheek and shoulder. 

“Go on, then,” you whisper, nodding to him. “Let me see how bad you need it.”

You feel it tear through him all at once—his body jolting hard against yours as the pleasured noises that pour from his lips morph into a shattered sound that makes heat curl viciously in your stomach. 

Relief crashes through him first. 

His entire body convulses, his back arching as his cock pulses, spilling onto his belly and over your fingers. His vision goes white for a brief, breathless instant as he groans out your name, hands scrabbling toward any part of you he can get to. Cries claw their way up his throat. 

You hold him  through it all the while, one hand still working his length while the other cards through his hair, grounding him as pleasure wracks his body. 

“That’s it,” you croon, grinning as he falls apart, “there you are—such a good boy for me.” You kiss at any part of him you can reach, praising him through it. 

But you don’t stop touching him, even after—when he’s trembling and trying to steady himself. Your hand keeps moving, more firmly and quickly than it had been before. 

Understanding hits him instantly and he tenses against you, all but vibrating in your hold. A soft laugh slips from you before you can help it, fond and wicked all at once. 

“Oh, no, you didn’t think I was finished with you already, did you?” you murmur sympathetically as another involuntary shudder runs through him. “Poor darling,” you say, unable to hide how much you’re enjoying this—the way he squirms in your arms, even from the gentlest touch. “You’re so sensitive after being locked away for so long.”

“Wait—” his voice cracks, hands flying back to your wrist and wrapping around it weakly as if he could stop you, but he can’t—he won’t—craving your touch even as it hurts. “I—I can’t—” he chokes out, his stomach fluttering with the effort of not squirming away, “it’s—it’s too much—” 

But you don’t stop, even as he sniffles and shakes his head, his body wrenching beneath your touch, length dripping with spent pleasure and half-hard in your grasp. The strokes of your hand that would’ve been unbearably pleasurable a few minutes ago are now nearly driving him mad with oversensitivity instead. 

“You were just begging me so prettily for attention, and now you don’t want it?” you say, lips brushing his damp temple as he shivers. “Besides,” you continue, stroking over him with one hand as the other works over the tip of him, making him grunt, “One reward hardly seems enough after you suffered for so long.”

He chokes out a sob as your fingertips torment the flushed, leaking head of his cock, tears spilling fresh down his cheeks. Every part of him feels flayed open, raw and exposed, but he can’t find it within himself to pull away. 

“Y-You’re cruel,” he gasps, finding his voice again as his hips rut involuntarily. Another keen tears from his throat as pleasure lashes up his spine—hot, painful, and too much. “S’too much—fuck, you know I can’t—”

“Give me more, my love, I know you have it,” you order, your touch remaining maddeningly consistent—relentless over his distraught cock. 

He can do nothing but obey. 

His vision blurs as another wave of overwhelming sensation crashes over him, his cock twitching weakly, his body tensing like he might spill again, but there’s nothing left. 

You feel his body give out a second later, tensing sharply as he sobs, thrashing weakly every so often. Finally, his entire body sags toward you, his muscles going slack as if all the tension has been drained out of him at once. He whimpers softly, turning his face just enough to press weakly into your neck. 

“Sweet boy,” any ounce of teasing is gone from your tone now as your hands go still at once, retreating to his thigh and stomach as you gather him close, holding him through the aftershocks. “You were beautiful for me,” you whisper, fingers smoothing gently over his skin while he pants, “so patient, so obedient—absolutely perfect.”

There’s no trace of laughter in your voice anymore, no cruelty, only soft affection as you bring a hand up to stroke your fingers through his hair in just the way he likes. A swell of tenderness rises in your chest at the state of him—completely melted in your arms, still twitching now and then from lingering sensitivity. 

“You—” he tries, fingers still curled loosely at your thighs, “you’re the worst wife in all of Westeros.” There’s no bite to his words, just exhaustion and relief and the quiet, helpless fondness of someone too ruined to even pretend to be angry anymore. His eyelids flutter, body sinking deeper into your hold. “Never doing that again,” he mumbles, though the protest is half-hearted at best, the words slurring as he nuzzles closer, the tip of his nose trailing over your collarbone as he turns in your arms. 

“The worst one, hm?” you chuckle, petting over him. “And yet you still crawl back into bed with me each night. How tragic for you.” Your hand continues its path through his sweat-damp hair as you let him curl against you, his breathing gradually beginning to slow. 

A few moments pass and he’s so still that you assume he’s fallen asleep, having at last given into exhaustion after being wound so tightly for so long. Just as you’re about to pull the blankets securely around him, he speaks—the words so soft they nearly vanish into the dark between one breath and the next. 

“Thank you.”

For a long while, you simply look at him lying against you—lashes fanned out over his still-flushed cheeks, all the sharp edges of him worn down. His fingers twitch weakly once before relaxing again, like even that small effort is too much. 

The warmth that rises in you then feels nearly overwhelming. 

“My love,” you whisper, awe threaded through the words. Your thumb brushes carefully beneath his eye, smoothing away the last traces of tears there before you press a kiss to his forehead. He’s already drifting by then, sinking steadily toward the pull of sleep while you hold him. All that noise from earlier, all of his pride, petulance, and dramatics have wholly melted away now—leaving only this soft, exhausted thing curled trustingly in your arms. 

“Sleep,” you sigh into his hair, “I have you.”

His body is so completely limp in your arms that you think he’s already slipped under—until your fingers thread through his hair again and he lets out the tiniest, sleep-slurred murmur. 

“...love you.” 

Then, his breath finally evens out completely, his body going heavy.

He’s gone.  Truly, deeply asleep for the first time in days.