Meee

“She didn’t even pretend to care about you, did she?”

“Not for a second,” Ginny snapped. Then her expression softened as she looked at you. “That’s why I like you. You’re not here for any of that rubbish.”

Back then you had smiled and laced your pinky through hers, swearing on it.

Now, whenever it was even remotely brought up - like when Angelina tried to hangout with the two of you to get a date with Fred - you had to force yourself to smile. Even as your heart twisted.

You hadn’t intended to fall for one of Ginny’s brothers, but sometime in the past four years, you had. Something about Fred’s clever jokes, his chaotic grin, and the way he always found time to check in on you had chipped away at your resolve. You had fallen slowly, helplessly, painfully. And you had said nothing. Because of the rule.

Because you loved Ginny.

You remembered her smile that night, soft and genuine.

“If I ever find out someone’s only here to get to one of them,” she said. “I’ll never forgive them. Promise me you’ll never do that.”

“Of course,” you had sworn.

You meant it, back then. You couldn’t have predicted you would genuinely fall for one of them. And you still meant it now, in your own twisted way. You had no intention of doing anything about your feelings. Loving Fred from a distance didn’t count. Did it?

But lately it had become harder to look away. He was noticing you. Not the way he noticed everyone else. Not with the performative charm or cheeky quips he tossed around like fireworks. No, he was watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Catching your eye across the dinner table. Sitting closer than he used to, finding reasons to touch your arm when he laughed. Or maybe you were imagining it.

But you and Ginny had rules.

And you were already breaking rule #1.

———————————————————————

The Burrow was chaos, as usual.

The second you stepped through the crooked front door with Ginny, the scent of fresh bread and stewed onions wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The air was humid with the smell of summer earth and something sugary baking in the oven. A breeze drifted in from the open kitchen window, carrying laughter from the garden and the sounds of someone - probably Ron - grunting as he lugged trunks upstairs.

“Welcome home!” Molly was fussing as she grabbed each one of them by the face and planted a big kiss on their cheeks.

“Gross, mum!” The boys groaned and wiped their faces with their sleeves as they came into the house.

“My darling girls!” Molly greeted the two of you, pulling both you and Ginny into a tight hug.

“Hey, Mrs Weasley,” you greeted with a warm smile. You’d spend so much time here that the Burrow had come to feel like your second home, and the Weasleys like a second pair of parents.

“Oh, how you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you!” The stout woman patted your check affectionately, then stepped back to gesture to the already set table.

“Lunch, everyone! On the table, NOW!” Molly Weasley’s voice thundered through the house with such maternal command it could’ve made a mountain walk.

You hadn’t even had time to protest when Arthur took your trunk before you were swept up in the current of Weasley children charging into the kitchen like a herd of hippogriffs. Chairs scraped. Plates clattered. Elbows jabbed for better positioning. It was always a game of survival when it came to getting a good seat at the Burrow’s table.

Fred emerged from seemingly nowhere at your side, grinning like he’d just won something. “Well, well,” he said in that voice of his - low and amused, with just enough of a lilt to make your stomach flip. “Guess this seat’s mine, yeah?”

He reached for the chair to your left, the one you’d secretly been hoping he’d take, and yet, also dreading he would. It was instinct. Panic. Self-preservation.

You placed your hand firmly on the back of the chair before he could pull it out. “That one’s taken,” you blurted out a little too quickly.

Fred raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “By who?”

And before your mouth could catch up with your thoughts - before you could invent some excuse or redirect him to the other side of the table - Ginny shoved past Fred, bumping him with her hip.

“By me, you great big git. Rule #3, remember? Now move!” she snapped cheerfully, shooting you a triumphant smile as she slid into the seat beside you.

Fred snorted, placing a dramatic hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “Betrayed. By my own blood.”

He dragged himself to the far end of the table with a theatrical sigh, collapsing into a chair beside George. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he stole a bread roll before the basket had even hit the table, catching you looking just in time to shoot you a wink.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks.

Ginny leaned over, scooping potatoes onto your plate. “Honestly, you’d think they’d learn by now that we always sit next to each other. I think he did it on purpose just to mess with us.”

You forced a laugh, stabbing at a carrot with more force than necessary. “He’s insufferable,” you said weakly.

But your heart was thudding too loudly in your chest to believe it. You had wanted him to sit next to you. Just a little.

You could still feel the ghost of where his arm would’ve brushed against yours. How his knee might’ve bumped yours under the table. You could imagine it far too easily. Close enough to smell the spice and smoke of his cologne, to hear every stupid joke murmured just for you.

But then you looked at Ginny, happily chatting to her mum about the drive there, glowing with sun and freckles and trust. And the guilt returned with full force, crashing like a wave over your ribs.

You weren’t going to mess this up. Not this.

You promised yourself right then and there: You would stay away from Fred this summer. No matter how many times he winked at you. No matter how charming his smile was. No matter how much your hands itched to reach for his under the table.

He was Ginny’s brother. And you were Ginny’s best friend. And those two things could never, ever mix.

———————————————————————

Your first few days at the burrow passed without a problem. Ron kept to himself mostly, sending letters back and forth to Hermione and Harry in between practicing quidditch with the twins. When the twins weren’t out in the field zipping about on their broomsticks, they were locked in their room. No one quite knew what they were up to in there, except for the intermittent explosion that shook the house and earned a few lectures from Molly. Percy was off on some sort of internship at the Ministry of Magic. Which of course left you and Ginny to your own devices.

Your plan of avoiding Fred had been going splendidly. The only times you would see him were during meals, and with the buffer of the whole family present there were no issues that had arisen. He’d not tried again to steal Ginny’s chair by your side. You’d worked to memorise his and George’s schedule, knowing what times to avoid the bathroom or the kitchen for snack break. You’d even taken to using the bathroom at the latest possible time, once the house had gone uncharacteristically quiet and you knew everyone else was in bed.

Hence why you were there now. The bathroom mirror was fogged with steam from the shower someone had taken earlier - probably Ron, based on the trail of damp footprints leading down the hall to his bedroom. You stood at the sink in your pyjamas, brushing your teeth, the tap running low to mask the silence.

You leaned closer to the mirror and wiped a clean patch of glass to check your reflection. Your hair was a bit of a mess from a full day of hanging about the garden. Your skin a little tinged by the sun. The dim golden light from the hallway behind you spilled in from the half-cracked door, soft and flickering like candlelight.

The door creaked further open. You flinched, mid-brush. And then you nearly choked on your toothpaste.

Fred stood in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing a towel over his wild and wet hair, a pair of well-worn pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Water glistened on his shoulders. His freckles were more pronounced under the soft bathroom light, and his grin was…absolutely illegal.

You turned back to the sink immediately, hoping the toothpaste foam in your mouth would distract from the fact your pulse had just shot up like a firework.

“Evenin’,” he said casually, like this was completely normal.

You didn’t answer - mostly because you couldn’t speak with a mouth full of mint and panic.

Fred moved behind you, stepping inside without hesitation and reaching for a comb that sat on the bench. You could feel his presence, radiating a warmth that pulsed just inches away from your spine. The tension twisted tighter with each breath. You were practically vibrating.

“You always brush your teeth this dramatically?” he asked, his voice low and amused. “Looks intense.”

You spat your toothpaste into the sink and grabbed your cup to rinse. “Just thorough,” you muttered, praying your voice didn’t sound like it was shaking.

Fred leaned on the counter beside you, one arm braced as he turned his body toward you. “Right. Very serious business, dental hygiene. Sexy stuff.”

You gave a tight, nervous laugh and tried not to look at his collarbone, or his chest, or the single drip of water trailing down his sternum. You tried. But Merlin, you were failing.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” you asked, drying your hands quickly, your eyes fixed anywhere but on him.

“I was,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But then I remembered the bathroom gets much more interesting around midnight.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smiled, cocking a brow. “You’ve been sneaking in here late every night like you’re hiding something. Thought I’d investigate.”

“I’m brushing my teeth, Fred. Hardly a great mystery of the universe.”

He leaned a little closer, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. His voice dropped an octave, teasing but edged with something heavier. “Well, maybe I’m the one with secrets.”

You hated that your stomach flipped. That your legs felt suddenly unsteady. That this was exactly the kind of moment you’d dreamed about for years, and yet now it was the last thing you could afford.

You cleared your throat, stepping back. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

“And yet here you are,” he said. “Cornered. In a bathroom. With me.”

He was still smiling. But his eyes - those hazel eyes - searched yours with something more than just mischief. There was a weight in them. A question. A hope.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Fred, put a bloody shirt on!” The moment shattered like glass.

Ginny appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing immediately as she took in the scene. Fred shirtless and grinning, you red-faced and stiff near the sink.

Fred didn’t move. He just glanced at Ginny over his shoulder, as if annoyed to be interrupted.

“What?” he asked, unbothered.

“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, elbowing past him. “You can’t just wander around half-naked like some trollop!”

Fred looked delighted by that. “Trollop? Really, Ginny? You wound me.”

She made a face. “Honestly, you’re like a feral cat.” Then, without hesitation, she wedged herself firmly between you and Fred, standing like a barrier. Completely oblivious to the electric tension that had just been vibrating in the room.

Fred smirked at you over her shoulder, lips twitching, like he knew exactly what he’d done.

Ginny turned to you, unaware. “Ready for bed?”

You nodded mutely. Behind her, Fred gave you a lazy wink and finally retreated, tossing his towel over his shoulder as he strolled out of the room like he hadn’t just flipped your entire emotional state upside down.

Ginny looked at you and scrunched her nose. “Honestly. He’s so weird sometimes. Sorry you had to see that.”

You managed a smile, small and tight. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”

But as you followed her down the hall toward the room you were sharing, your heart was still racing. Your skin still buzzed from his nearness. Your mind - traitorous thing - kept replaying that moment when he’d leaned in, eyes soft, voice low.

And you knew then, with a certainty that made your stomach sink, that this summer was going to be really, really difficult.

———————————————————————-

It had been five days since The Bathroom Incident - a title you’d privately christened it with during your increasingly dramatic internal monologues.

And for five blissful, tormenting, nerve-fraying days, Fred had been…good.

No more shirtless intrusions. No surprise appearances when you were alone. No wandering conversations with too much eye contact and not enough space between your bodies.

Just casual, everyday Fred Weasley. Joking with his siblings, tinkering with George, throwing fruit across the kitchen, absolutely no more cornering you against a sink like he wanted to eat you alive.

You’d convinced yourself it was over. That he’d gotten bored of teasing you and moved on. That maybe you were in the clear.

Until this morning.

You’d just woken up, sunlight stretching warm fingers across your face through the open window, when you heard it.

“We’re going into town for the Sunday market!” George’s voice rang out through the hallway. “Come on, grab your shoes!”

You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes as Ginny barged into the room already half-dressed, tying her hair up with a ribbon. “You’re coming too,” she declared, tossing your shoes toward the bed. “It’ll be us and the twins.”

Your stomach turned. Just the four of you. On a sunny day. Walking into town. All together. You, Ginny, George - and Fred.

Before you could argue, Ginny had already bolted back out of the room, mumbling something about losing her favourite jacket.

You took less than five minutes to pull on a cute outfit and brush your teeth before you waked into the hallway, trying not to look like you were internally screaming. At the bottom of the stairs, Fred was waiting.

He leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in a sweater rolled at the sleeves and worn jeans. Casual. Comfortable. Dangerous.

The second he saw you, a slow grin unfurled across his face like a cat who’d spotted a cornered mouse.

“Well, well,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was just for you. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get you all day.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pushed off the railing and took a step closer. Close enough that you caught the familiar scent of spearmint and gunpowder. “I mean, I’ve barely seen you all summer. I was starting to worry I’d developed a contagious rash.”

You folded your arms. “Maybe you have. Have you checked?”

“Oh, thoroughly. I’m in top condition.” He winked, words dripping with innuendo.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a small smile. He saw it - of course he saw it - and leaned in just a little more.

“You know,” he murmured, “I’d accuse you of hiding from me if I didn’t already know you were.”

Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest. Before you could deliver a scathing comeback - or worse, blush - Ginny’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Fred stepped away with impeccable timing, shoving his hands into his pockets and grinning innocently as Ginny reappeared with a cropped jacket and her hair now tied in a messy ponytail.

“All right,” she said, tossing her eyes toward Fred. “You better not make me carry everything again.”

“No promises,” he said, already leading the way out the door.

The walk into town was bright and breezy, the gravel path crunching beneath your shoes. Fields blurred gold and green beside you, and wildflowers nodded gently in the tall grass. Ginny was by your side for the most part, until she got into a long conversation with George about quidditch and the two walked ahead, occasionally darting into little bursts of sibling bickering. It left you and Fred side by side more than once, though you always kept just enough space to pretend it wasn’t wanted.

The Sunday market stretched along the village square in a mismatched quilt of tents and booths. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, honeycomb, spiced nuts, and something fried you didn’t dare question. Laughter floated above the hum of shoppers and merchants calling out their deals.

You kept close to Ginny, using her as a human shield against Fred’s increasingly amused glances. The two of you stopped at a table of handmade jewellery, and your fingers drifted toward a delicate pair of crystal earrings shaped like intricate flower clusters. They caught the sunlight just right. Clean, simple, quietly beautiful.

You picked one up, turned the tag over. Too much. Not outrageous, but more than you could justify. You set them down gently.

“Cute,” Ginny said, glancing over your shoulder. “But you’d probably lose them in, like, three days.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Ginny laughed and moved to the next booth, where a ridiculous plaid hat caught her eye. George followed, already pretending to model one for her.

And suddenly, it was just you and Fred again. You glanced up. He was already there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours. He nodded toward the earrings. “Those were nice on you.”

You blinked. “I didn’t try them on.”

“I imagined them on you,” he said easily, his voice low and teasing. “I have an excellent imagination. In fact, I can picture anyone, anywhere in just about any position.”

You rolled your eyes. “You really never turn it off, do you?”

He stepped closer, the crowd bustling around you like a river splitting. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been flirting with me all morning.”

You snorted. “I have not.”

Fred tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Okay. Not flirting. Actively ignoring me. Which is basically the same thing, just in reverse. It has the same effect.”

You laughed despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still here talking to me.” He leaned in, voice dropping, “What does that say about you?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but then Ginny reappeared, holding up a hat so absurdly shaped it looked like a squashed owl. “Do I look insane or fabulous?”

“Both,” George said immediately.

“Perfect,” she grinned.

Fred stepped back again, and just like that, the moment dissolved.

The walk home was slower, the sun dipping lower in the sky. You carried a small paper bag of sweets Ginny had insisted on buying, and Fred whistled absently as he kicked pebbles down the lane. You didn’t speak again. Not really. But you felt his presence the entire way.

Back at the Burrow, the house had returned to its gentle, midday hum. You’d taken a shower first, and Ginny had waited until she heard the water stop before swapping places.

By the time you stepped out, dried off, and slipped back into your clothes, it was nearly time for afternoon tea.

You returned to Ginny’s room, searching for a brush to untangle your wet hair. And there, sitting neatly on Ginny’s bed, right where your pillow had been, was a small white box tied with a black ribbon.

Your heart stopped.

You looked around like someone might leap out from the closet yelling “Gotcha!”

But no one did.

You approached slowly, eyes wide, and lifted the box. Inside - tucked in soft tissue paper - were the earrings from the market. Delicate. Dazzling.

With them was a folded note in crooked handwriting: Couldn’t let them get away. Thought you might wear them next time you’re trying so desperately not to look at me. - F.

You clutched the box like it might combust in your hands. Footsteps creaked from the hallway. Ginny.

You moved fast - heart hammering - shoving the box into your trunk, the tissue and ribbon crumpled in your fist. You nearly tripped getting the top shut before the door opened.

Ginny strolled in, towel around her hair. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the blue shampoo bottle. I think one of the boys messed with it.”

As she unwound the towel, her usually ginger locks dropped around her shoulders in a curtain of green. You forced a smile, heart still galloping, hands still tingling.

“Oh Gin,” you said, covering your mouth, every nerve in your body on high alert. “Let’s get that fixed up. I’m sure your mum will have something to help.”

You took her by the shoulders and led her out of the room, mind still stuck on what you were leaving behind.

The earrings were hidden. The note, too. Your secret was safe. Though now, you were technically at risk of breaking another rule.

#2. Never lie to one another.

———————————————————————

The kitchen of the Burrow smelled like butter, thyme, and the kind of warmth only a Weasley home could conjure. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the cooking. You stood at the counter beside Ginny, a cutting board in front of you and a particularly potent batch of onions halfway sliced beneath your trembling hands. Your eyes stung fiercely.

“I swear, I think I’m going blind,” you sniffled, blinking rapidly as tears dripped down your cheeks.

Ginny laughed, pointing her wooden spoon at you. “Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. It’s just an onion!”

“I’m not being dramatic, my eyeballs are melting—” You let out a soft, strangled laugh, wiping at your face with your sleeve and slicing again.

The two of you had been helping Molly for the past hour, peeling vegetables, shelling peas, and listening to Celestina Warbeck crooning softly from the wireless. The afternoon sun cast long strips of light across the warped wooden table, and despite the heat and chaos of the kitchen, it was cozy. Familiar. Safe.

Or at least, it had been, until the back door suddenly burst open with a crash.

“—AND HE SCORES! WHAT A MOVE FROM THE LEGENDARY BEATER!”

“OH, SHUT IT, YOU OVERGROWN GNOME—”

Fred and George exploded into the kitchen like a pair of firecrackers, both sweaty and flushed, yelling in Quidditch commentator voices as they barrelled through the doorway. George had a quaffle tucked under one arm. Fred was lunging for it like a seeker gone mad.

Molly spun around from the stove. “Boys! Absolutely not! Not in my kitchen!”

But it was too late. Fred dodged Ginny, slipped on the corner rug, and stumbled directly into you. You barely had time to gasp before the impact jolted your arm. The knife in your hand slipped.

“OW! bloody hell!” You recoiled instinctively, dropping the knife and clutching your hand. Blood was already rising fast to the surface of your finger, running in a hot, red line down your palm and onto the floor.

“WHAT did I just say?!” Molly’s voice could’ve curdled milk.

“Fred!” Ginny shouted furiously. “You idiot!”

“Oh, shit, you’re crying!” Fred’s eyes widened as he saw your tear-streaked cheeks and the blood on your hand.

You glared at him, though your vision was blurry. “It’s the onions, you twat!”

But your voice trembled. From the pain. From the sheer overwhelming chaos of it all. And - fine - maybe from Fred being way too close again.

Fred looked properly horrified now. “Merlin, I didn’t mean to. I was just…George was…right, c’mere. I’ve got something that’ll help. C’mon.”

Before you could protest, he was already gently but insistently guiding you toward the stairs, his hand warm on your back. You wrapped a kitchen towel around your bleeding finger, trying to keep the pressure steady as you glanced back at Ginny.

“Go, go,” she called, exasperated. “Before you bleed into the mashed potatoes.”

George had dropped the quaffle and was already picking up the knife from the floor, apologizing to Molly in the most unconvincing tone possible.

You followed Fred up the stairs, your heart pounding harder with every creak of the steps. You told yourself it was just because of the injury. The adrenaline. The pain. Not because you were heading into Fred Weasley’s bedroom for the first time.

The door clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in.

His room smelled faintly of parchment, broom polish, and something warm and boyish and entirely him. It was surprisingly neat for a Weasley. Trunks were stacked in a corner, shelves cluttered with joke prototypes, and Quidditch posters pinned crookedly across the walls. There was a pair of socks hanging off the end of his bedpost. A sweater crumpled on the floor. But it felt lived in, personal. Like stepping into a corner of his world you were never supposed to see.

You froze awkwardly in the doorway.

“You can sit,” Fred said, waving a hand at the bed. “I promise my mattress doesn’t bite.”

You managed a weak laugh and perched on the edge, careful to keep your hands to yourself.

He crouched in front of a trunk and rummaged around. “Right, here. We just finished a batch of this last week. Might sting, but it works miracles.” He pulled out a small tin with a garish orange and purple sticker slapped across it.

You squinted at the label. “WWW? What’s that stand for? ‘Weasley’s Weakest Work’?”

Fred grinned, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Close. Thirty-three percent correct, actually. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. George and I, we’re starting a joke shop. After Hogwarts.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Wait, seriously?”

He nodded, pride sneaking into his voice. “We’ve been designing products for years. We’ve got a whole trunk full of prototypes. Salves, candies, decoy spell crap. You’d love it. You’re basically our ideal test subject - easily injured and highly opinionated.”

“Charming,” You snorted. “So is that what the hexed shampoo fiasco was all about? Ginny was furious. Her hair was green for days.”

“No, that one was just for fun,” Fred sat beside you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm. He gently peeled the blood-soaked towel from your hand, and you hissed.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft. He dipped his fingers into the tin and dabbed the salve onto your cut.

It was cool and tingly and smelt like peppermint. Within seconds, the pain dulled, and you watched in shock as the raw skin knitted itself closed.

Your mouth fell open. “That’s…actually brilliant.”

“I know,” he said smugly, wrapping a thin bandage around your finger. “And, don’t worry. It won’t scar. Just reapply twice a day.”

“How are you not rolling in money already?”

He laughed and you smiled, until you realised you were still holding hands. Neither of you moved. And the silence that settled between you wasn’t casual anymore. It buzzed. Tense and breathless.

Fred’s eyes lifted to meet yours, his thumb unconsciously brushing over the inside of your wrist. “Why’ve you been avoiding me?”

You blinked. “I haven’t.”

He tilted his head. “You have. You’ve been dodging me like I’ve got dragon pox. Why?”

You tried to smile. To brush it off. “Maybe I just don’t like you, Fred.”

He leaned in, his voice low and serious now. “Or maybe it’s the opposite.”

Your breath hitched. He was so close you could see the golden flecks in his eyes. Count each of the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose

Before you could answer - before you even knew how to answer - the door burst open.

George stood there, eyebrows raised. “Alright, you two, break it up. Dinner’s ready. And Mum’s not in the mood to wait.”

You yanked your hand back, your face going hot.

Fred sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Cheers, George. Great timing.”

George grinned knowingly and stepped aside. You stood quickly, muttering a thanks under your breath and rushing out the door, heart hammering, head spinning.

This summer was going to ruin you. And you finding it a lot harder to mind at all.

———————————————————————

The attic smelled like dust and old wood, warmed faintly by the day’s leftover sun and lit only by a string of enchanted fairy lights that twinkled like stars overhead. The ghoul in the corner moaned softly to itself, chewing on what remained of Fred and George’s bribe - a sticky handful of Drooble’s gum and a crumpled chocolate frog box. For now, it was satisfied. Mostly.

When you climbed through the attic hatch behind Ginny, the stale air hit your face like a wave. Ron, Fred, and George were already sprawled across the mismatched rugs and floor cushions in a circle, a deck of enchanted cards floating lazily in the center.

“There you are,” Fred said as you and Ginny slid the hatch shut behind you. His eyes flicked to yours briefly and he smirked like he had been waiting specifically for you.

You tried not to react, though your stomach was already betraying you with its little flip. He looked far too smug for someone sitting crisscross in moth-eaten socks and a Quidditch tee.

“About time,” George chimed.

“Don’t push it,” Ginny said, elbowing her brother before tossing a pillow to the ground and flopping down.

You settled in beside her, your knees brushing the woven edge of the rug, directly across from Fred. Unfortunately, he was watching you. Still. And you knew he hadn’t stopped.

The bottle of firewhisky came out shortly after. Fred uncorked it with a flourish, holding it up like it was some ancient treasure.

“Compliments of the cabinet behind Dad’s broom collection,” he announced.

Ginny laughed. “Mum’s going to have your head if she finds out.”

“She won’t,” George assured her, “unless someone blabs.”

“Ron,” said everyone at once, and Ron flushed beet red.

The bottle made its way around the circle, and eventually it landed in your hands. You hesitated only a moment before lifting it to your lips. The whisky burned hot, sharp, and smoky as it slid down your throat. You exhaled, eyes watering slightly.

“Easy,” Fred said from across the circle. “Don’t want to fall asleep before the game starts.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, and passed the bottle back, straight to Fred. His hand brushed yours as he took the bottle from your grip. But instead of drinking right away, he rotated it slowly and deliberately in his hand, fingers lingering around the mouth of the bottle. Then he placed his mouth right over the spot your lips had touched and drank without breaking eye contact.

The burn in your throat came back tenfold, but for a completely different reason.

He licked a drop from his bottom lip and grinned. “Tastes better this way.”

Your breath caught. Ginny, completely oblivious, was already giggling at something George said. The cards were floating again, but your world had narrowed to that lazy, firewhisky-laced smirk and the way Fred’s eyes lingered just a beat too long.

Goosebumps erupted down your arms.

The moment passed too quickly. You tried to pretend it hadn’t affected you, that you weren’t wondering what it would feel like to close the distance between you, to feel that heat not through shared glass, but skin.

The shuffled deck split evenly amongst them and a chaotic, barely-rule-following game of Exploding Snap ensued. There were chips of lightning, minor burns, and raucous laughter as the ghoul muttered irritably in its corner. A slightly scorched card flew past Ginny’s head and she ducked with a cackle.

Eventually, the ghoul grew bored. With a loud metallic CLANG, it started knocking on the pipes behind it, clearly unhappy that its stash of goodies had run out.

“Right, time to clear out,” George said, already grabbing the cards and stuffing them into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.

“I’ll bring more sweets tomorrow,” Fred muttered toward the ghoul, who let out a pitiful moan in reply.

George and Ginny were the first down the hatch. You were about to follow when Ron knocked over an old crate, sending it crashing into a pile of dusty cauldrons.

“Shit,” Fred hissed. You all froze.

Footsteps echoed below. Heavy ones. Then the creak of a bedroom door.

“Mum,” George whispered, eyes wide. “And Dad.”

There was no time to think. There was only enough time for Ron to jump down before George scrambled to shut the attic hatch. Ginny looked back at you from below.

“We’ll come get you when it’s safe,” she whispered, and then, click. The hatch was sealed.

You and Fred were completely alone.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft flickers of the fairy lights and the distant, irritable tapping of the ghoul’s fingernails on wood.

Fred let out a breath. “Well, I guess we’re trapped.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous exhale. He held up the bottle of firewhisky. “Still got this. Want to play truth or dare while we wait?”

You tilted your head. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”

“We’ve got time. And no escape.” He patted the floor beside him.

Despite your instincts yelling at you not to agree, you sat. Not too close, but close enough to catch the cinnamon-heat smell of him, firewhisky and warmth.

“Fine. But I go first,” you said. “Truth or dare?”

He leaned in, elbow resting on one knee, still holding the bottle between two fingers. “Dare,” he replied, too fast.

You rolled your eyes. “Predictable.”

Fred raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you said, drawing your knees up, “you’re always the first to take risks. Always the showman. But when it comes to being genuine? You flinch.”

A beat of silence. Fred’s smile dropped an inch. Not gone, just softened. “You think I can’t be genuine?”

You shrugged, heart hammering. “Prove me wrong, then. Pick truth.”

“Fine,” he said. “Ask me a truth.”

You studied him. The freckles, the messy hair, the too-confident posture covering something far more careful underneath. “Why haven’t you told anyone about the joke shop?”

That made him pause. The flicker in his eyes changed, turning sharper. More focused.

Finally, Fred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Because Mum thinks it’s a waste of time. Childish. She wants us to join the Ministry. Be ‘respectable’ like dad. But I don’t want that. George doesn’t either. This—” He held up the firewhisky like it was part of the dream. “—this is the only thing I’ve ever felt is really mine.”

Your chest swelled at the honesty. “I think it’s brilliant,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, something unreadable softening his features. Then he smirked again. “My turn. Truth or dare?”

You panicked. “Truth.”

“Do you like anyone?”

Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”

His eyes glittered. “Who?”

“That wasn’t your question,” you shot back quickly, hiding your fluster behind a smirk of your own.

Fred chuckled. “Alright. Touché.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Truth or dare.”

He yawned dramatically. “Truth. And see, I didn’t even flinch.”

“Are the rumors true about you and Angelina Johnson?” you asked, voice just slightly sharper than intended.

Fred let out a bark of laughter. “What? No. That wasn’t me.”

You raised a skeptical brow.

“It was George,” he said, dead serious. “They got caught snogging in the common room, and everyone assumed it was me since I took her to the Yule Ball.”

You blinked in surprise. “Wait, really?”

“Yep. She’s more into sensative gits than charming ones, apparently.” The air between them grew charged. Thicker. He sat up straighter. “Truth or dare?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then answered, “Truth.”

He leaned closer. “Who do you fancy?”

Your stomach twisted, pulse thudding loud in your ears. “I change my mind,” you blurted. “Dare.”

He grinned like he’d won. “Thought you might. In that case…I dare you to kiss me.”

The world stopped.

“I’ll take a drink instead.” You offered, reaching for the bottle.

Fred turned the firewhisky upside down and a single drop ran from the lip of the bottle.“We’re out.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “What a shame.”

You were frozen in place, mind trying to come up with a fourth option that didn’t seem to exist.

Then, slowly - so slowly - he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it easy for you.”

You couldn’t breathe. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of your earring - the ones he had bought you from the market. You watched him realise it, watched his lips twitch upward.

“These suit you,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. He was so close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the faint red in his lashes, the faint smell of firewhisky and citrus and boyish heat.

Your cheeks burned. The world felt like it was tilting slightly sideways.

Fred said softly. “All you have to do is give in.”

You wanted to. Oh Merlin, you wanted to. Your lips parted. Your eyes flicked to his. But then the attic hatch creaked open.

“Oi,” George called, voice echoing. “Coast is clear.”

You jumped apart like lightning had struck. Your skin still buzzed where his hand had touched you.

Fred stood slowly, offering you a hand. You took it before you could think better of it.

Nothing had happened. But it had almost happened. And you didn’t think you’d ever stop thinking about that almost.

Neither of you said a word on the way down the ladder. But your ears were still ringing, and yu couldn’t shake the ghost of his voice murmuring, ‘All you have to do is give in.’

———————————————————————

You never usually woke up this early, but sleep had been impossible after last night.

The attic. The firewhisky. His voice, low and teasing, asking if you fancied someone. The way he dared you to kiss him, and the way your body had wanted to obey more than it ever had anyone. You’d never felt anything like that before. That tightrope between longing and fear, between want and wariness. Between what you craved and what you shouldn’t want.

You’d almost done it. Almost leaned in. Almost let yourself fall.

The early morning air was soft against your skin as you walked through the garden behind the Burrow. The grass was cool and damp with dew, the sky still tinted with pale grey and lavender. There was a hush to the world here, like it was holding its breath, just like you were.

You moved slowly between the rows of wildflowers and gnarled trees, trying to clear your head. But all you could think about was him - the fire in his eyes, the way his gaze flicked to your mouth, the smell of firewhisky.

You shook your head, willing the memory away, when a low voice broke through the quiet. “What are you thinking about?”

You nearly leapt out of your skin. “Bloody hell—” you gasped, spinning around. But before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, warm and strong. His hand.

“Shhh! It’s just me,” Fred said, his voice low and urgent as he pulled you further into the field.

You struggled instinctively, swatting at his arm until you were both well out of view of the house. He released you the second you were far enough away, and you whipped around, shoving his chest hard.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” you hissed, your heart thundering in your chest.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was tension under the smirk. “I needed to talk to you. Alone. And you’re a lot harder to pin down these days.”

You crossed your arms. “So you thought sneaking up on me and dragging me into a field was the best option?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You glared, but the corner of your mouth twitches before you catch yourself. “What do you want, Fred?”

He exhaled, the teasing edge dropping as he takes a step closer. “Last night. Why didn’t you kiss me?”

Your throat went dry. “We’re not playing truth or dare anymore. I don’t have to answer that.”

“I’m not playing either,” he said. His voice was low now, and earnest. And he was closer. You could smell him again - cinnamon and something warm and boyish, still clinging to his skin.

He stepped forward again and gently took your arm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. It sent a flicker of heat up your spine.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” he confessed. “So why didn’t you?”

You swallowed thickly, knowing this was a dangerous game. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Maybe not. But I think I deserve one.”

You stayed silent, your heart in your throat, body humming like live wire. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your wrist.

“You want to know what I think?” he asked, and you looked up at him, caught in that impossible gaze. “I think you’re just as interested in me as I am in you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

You opened your mouth, but your voice barely came out. “You’re wrong.”

It was shaky. Unconvincing. Pathetic.

Fred lifted a brow, unimpressed. He leaned in until you could feel his breath brush your cheek. “No, I’m not.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Your whole body was screaming to close the distance, to surrender.

“Why won’t you just say it?” he whispered. “I’m standing right here, telling you that I…” His voice faltered for the first time, softens. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.“I care about you. I want you. I have for a while now.”

It hit you like a punch to the ribs. The tenderness, the honesty in his voice. Your chest tightened. “I do too,” you admitted, your voice betraying you. “But I shouldn’t.”

Fred frowned, still not understanding what was holding you back. “Why not?”

“Because of Ginny,” you said, the words ripping from your mouth. “Because she’s my best friend. Because I made a promise. Rule number one. Her brothers are off-limits.”

Fred blinked, then let out a sharp breath and laughed under it, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding? That’s what’s stopping you?”

“It matters.”

“Not to me,” he said, stepping closer, impossibly close now. “And Ginny doesn’t have to know.”

Your breath stilled. “Fred…”

“All you have to do,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers grazing the earring he gave you, “is give in.”

You shivered as his thumb traced the shell of your ear. His touch was so soft, so gentle, it was almost unbearable. You should have pulled away. You knew that.

But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in. Just the smallest tilt of your chin. Just enough. But that’s all he needed.

Fred cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. It was everything you imagined and more. It was hungry and hesitant all at once. Warm and desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long. His lips melded into yours like he’d somehow already memorised the shape, and you melted into him without thinking.

The world fell away. There was only the sun-drenched field, the soft birdsong in the trees, and his hands anchoring you like he never wanted to let go.

And for a single, breathless moment, you didn’t want him to.

———————————————————————

The grass was still wet with dew as you and Fred made your way back to the Burrow, your fingers entwined with his, warm and certain despite the slight chill in the air. The morning was quiet. Hushed and golden in a way that made it feel like the world had agreed to keep your secret, if only for a little while.

You couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could he.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” you murmured, voice still breathless from the high of it - of him.

Fred glanced sideways at you, that lopsided grin tugging at his lips, his eyes still lazy with affection. “I can,” he said simply. “Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”

Your heart fluttered helplessly. “Have you really felt like this for that long?”

Fred nodded, squeezing your hand. “Since you called me insufferable for making that potion explode in the common room. You had ink on your cheek and told me I was going to fail out of Hogwarts.”

You laughed, a quiet sound that felt like summer. “That was third year.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

You bit your lip, glancing down at the way your hands fit together so naturally, like they’d always belonged there. “I wish it didn’t feel so complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said gently.

You didn’t respond right away. You just walked with him, each step soft and heavy all at once, and the closer you got to the crooked silhouette of the Burrow, the heavier your chest became.

As the back door came into view, you felt Fred’s fingers twitch against yours. You both knew what had to happen. You dropped his hand, carefully, reluctantly. Like letting go of a lifeline.

You reached the back door first and stepped inside.

Ginny was at the kitchen table, flipping through the Prophet, but her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the creak of the floorboards. They landed on you. Then on Fred. Then back to you.

She looked suspicious. “Where were you two?” she asked, casual, but not really.

You didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered too long on the space between your hands. Your stomach twisted.

“I, uh…I couldn’t sleep,” you said quickly. “Went for a walk.” You shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Fred must’ve had the same idea.”

There was a beat of silence. The paper in Ginny’s hands crackled as she slowly turned the page. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Uh huh,” she said, noncommittal. Then she looked back down at the paper.

You forced a laugh and stepped past her into the kitchen, your heart thudding wildly as Fred moved behind you without a word. You felt his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken questions. Ones you didn’t want to answer.

Because now it wasn’t just Rule #1 you’d broken. You’d lied to her face.

Rule #2. Never lie to one another.

You told yourself it was just a little white lie. A protective one. A harmless one. But it didn’t feel harmless. It felt like the beginning of something you couldn’t take back.

———————————————————————

You’d spent the whole day glued to Ginny’s side. It wasn’t like she noticed. She just thought you were in a good mood, maybe a little extra chatty, a little too agreeable. But every time she laughed, or looped her arm through yours, or offered you a bite of the plum she was eating on the porch swing, your stomach twisted tighter and tighter.

Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know what you’d done that morning. That you’d walked into the garden one person and come out another. That Fred had kissed you like he meant it. And worse, that you had kissed him back.

Worse still: you had liked it. You had wanted it.

And now, you couldn’t look Ginny in the eye without feeling like your whole skin was buzzing with guilt.

So you stuck close. You did the dishes with her. Helped her weed the vegetable patch. Laughed too hard when she told you that joke about Seamus Finnigan and the exploding butterbeer. You didn’t so much as glance in Fred’s direction during dinner, even though you could feel him looking.

It was late now. Everyone had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth with heavy limbs and hollow thoughts, the kind that came from trying too hard to act normal. Your eyes were tired. Your mouth still ached faintly from the press of his.

You reached for the towel when suddenly a strong hand clamped over your mouth. You gasped, but before you could scream, you were pulled backwards, into the tiny shower room, the door snapping shut behind you with a soft click as it locked.

You shoved at the hand, heart racing, until it dropped away. You spun around, your back to the wall, and saw him.

Fred. He was slightly out of breath from the effort, hair mussed, eyes bright.

You glared at him, even as your pulse stuttered. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

He grinned like he’d been waiting all day to see you. “I missed you today,” he said simply.

And then he kissed you. There wasn’t any teasing this time. No playful smirk. Just heat. Sharp and overwhelming. His hands framed your face, and yours found his shirt and fisted there, like maybe you could anchor yourself to him and forget what you’d done.

You kissed him back like you hadn’t been thinking about anything else since sunrise. And for a moment, there was only him.

But then, your hand slid up and brushed against the chain around his neck and your chest cinched tight.

You broke the kiss, breathless. “Fred—”

He looked at you with dazed affection, lips parted. “What?”

“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I feel so guilty about Ginny.”

His brows drew together slightly, but he didn’t let go of your waist. “I really don’t think she’d be upset.”

You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”

“I know she loves you,” he said. “And I know if she thought we made each other happy, she’d be glad for it. I think we should tell her.”

You felt the words land inside you like tiny, cruel promises. “No! We can’t tell her,” you said, voice firmer now. “We can’t tell anyone.”

Fred’s hands loosened. “No one?”

You nodded. “Promise me, Fred. Please. You can’t say anything.”

He looked reluctant. “Even George?”

You hesitated, because of course George already knew. He probably knew before either of you did. “Even him,” you said anyway. “If he knows anything already, then you need to make him promise not to say a word.”

Fred exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. I promise.”

You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs. He reached up, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and smiled gently.

You kissed him one more time. Slow and lingering and filled with the quiet ache of knowing this wasn’t going to get any easier.

And so it began. The start of something you couldn’t name yet. A kiss in the garden. A locked door. A promise made in whispers. The beginning of a secret.

———————————————————————

You’d gotten so used to hiding it, you almost started believing you could keep it hidden forever.

It became a rhythm. A dance you and Fred had perfected over the past few weeks. A series of glances and touches and moments stolen between the cracks of your everyday life. You lived for the quiet thrill of it. The way your heart leapt when he leaned in just a little too close in the hallway, or the way your pulse skittered when he brushed your pinky with his under the table at dinner.

Sometimes, he’d manage to sit beside you, his thigh pressed against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and steady like a secret only you were allowed to keep. His hand would rest casually on his knee until it inched over to yours, fingers tapping, tracing lines across your skin no one else could see.

And when he couldn’t sit beside you, he’d claim the seat directly across, his foot nudging yours under the table until it became a full-on game of footsie that had you biting your lip and looking anywhere but at him. Every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d grin like he was proud of himself. Like he was daring you to keep playing.

You were hopelessly smitten. And for the first time in a long time, really happy.

Fred made you laugh when things felt heavy. He kissed you like he meant it, even in the briefest snatched moments. He told you you were brilliant, and brave, and beautiful in all the ways no one ever had before. And you believed him.

It was dangerous, yes. But it was yours. Until the day it wasn’t.

It was late afternoon, the sky hanging heavy with sun and heat, and most of the Weasleys were outside flying or napping or doing chores. Ginny had been reading on the porch when you told her you needed to grab something you’d forgotten in the backyard.

That was a lie. Fred had told you to meet him in the broom shed.

You slipped away quietly, past the rose bushes and around the back of the house where the old wooden shed waited beneath the trees. The door creaked as you opened it and there he was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.

You didn’t even make it two steps before he pulled you in.

His kiss was warm, familiar, and tasted like the honey biscuits Molly had made for tea. You melted into it, hands sliding into his hair, your body fitting against his like it belonged there.

“I’ve been waiting to do this all day,” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled into the kiss. “What if someone finds us?”

“They won’t.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “George is on Ginny duty. We’ve got time.”

You were about to respond - about to tell him you’d missed him too - when the shed door flew open.

You jolted back like you’d been burned. Ginny stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, lips parted in silent disbelief. Behind her, George winced and muttered, “Shite.”

“I knew it,” Ginny said, her voice low and trembling. “I bloody knew it.”

You stared at her, frozen. Every part of you was suddenly cold.

“Ginny—” Fred started, stepping forward.

She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were locked on yours, betrayal carved into every inch of her expression. “How long?” she demanded. “How long has this been going on behind my back?”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out.

George stepped forward. “Sorry mate, I tried to stop her—”

“You knew?!” she rounded on George like a storm, her fists balled at her sides. “You knew and didn’t say a word?!”

“I only found out recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “And it’s not my business—”

“Not your business?!” she shouted. “She’s my best friend, Fred is my brother, and you’re my other brother! How is this not our business?!”

“Ginny, please,” you finally managed to say, your voice soft, cracking. “I wanted to tell you. I swear I did.”

“But you didn’t!” she shouted. “You lied to my face. Every single day. Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“No, Gin, I never—” You stepped toward her but she stepped back.

Her face was red with fury, her eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than anyone.”

Fred reached for her, voice low. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t defend her. Don’t pretend this was nothing.” She looked at you again, and it nearly broke you. “You broke our rules.”

And then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the shed. George gave Fred a grim look, then jogged after her.

And just like that…it was over.

The warmth, the secrecy, the giddy, fluttering joy that had filled you so completely. It all shattered in the space of ten seconds.

Fred turned to you, hands raking through his hair. “Bloody hell.”

You were shaking. “I didn’t know what to say. I froze.”

He pulled you into his arms, held you like it might fix things. “She just needs time.”

You nodded against his chest, but your heart wasn’t so sure. Because you hadn’t just broken the rules. You’d broken Ginny’s heart.

———————————————————————

You tried for days. Tried to talk to her, to explain, to say something, but every time you got close, Ginny slipped away like smoke.

You followed her into the garden the next morning, calling her name as she picked harshly at the overgrown mint leaves along the back fence. She didn’t turn around. When you got close enough to speak, she stood up and walked inside without a word.

Later, you found her in the kitchen, arms folded tight, back resting against the counter as Molly spoke to her in a low voice. You hovered in the doorway, unsure, heart thudding against your ribs. Ginny met your eyes for a second - just one second - and then looked away like it hurt.

You tried again on the stairs, whispering her name as she passed. She didn’t even glance at you.

You hated this. You hated how silent everything felt. How your chest ached with things unsaid.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the hills on the third day and the Burrow settled into its evening hush, you were exhausted from trying. And Ginny still hadn’t said a single word.

You crept up to your shared bedroom slowly, quietly, like maybe she’d be soft again if you just approached the right way. You reached for the doorknob, turned it gently.

Locked.

You knocked. “Ginny?”

Silence.

You knocked again, a little louder this time. “Ginny, please. Can we just…can we talk? Please?”

Nothing. Not even a shuffle from the other side. You pressed your forehead to the wood, eyes stinging.

After a long minute, you sighed and padded back down the stairs. The Burrow was quiet now. Most of the lights were off, save for the soft, golden glow from the living room. You curled up on the couch, wrapping yourself in one of the worn knitted blankets, tucking your knees to your chest. This was where you’d been spending your nights lately, not wanting to bother Molly or Arthur about other sleeping arrangements.

The silence felt louder than Ginny’s anger. It echoed. You must have sat there for almost half an hour before you heard soft steps on the stairs.

Fred. His hair was a mess, like he’d been lying in bed unable to sleep too, and his eyes found yours with immediate concern.

“You okay?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.

“She locked me out again,” you murmured. “She won’t even look at me.”

Fred’s brow furrowed as he sat beside you, draping his arm over your shoulders and tugging you closer. “I’m sorry.”

You let your head fall onto his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen her this mad. She’s not even yelling anymore. She just…won’t see me.”

Fred let out a breath, warm against your temple. “She’ll come around. Ginny’s stubborn, but she’s not heartless. She just needs space.”

You nodded, letting the quiet settle between you again. It wasn’t the happy silence from the shed, or the secretive warmth you were used to with him. It was heavier. But his presence still helped. Still steadied you.

He rubbed circles into your arm, resting his chin lightly against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

You closed your eyes. “I hope so.”

And then the bottom step squeaked. You both turned.

Ginny stood in at the bottom of the staircase, holding an empty glass. Her eyes landed on you curled beside Fred. You saw the moment it hit her. The twist of disgust, the flick of her lip curling as she scoffed softly.

She didn’t say anything. Just rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel.

You threw the blanket off and jumped up. “Ginny, wait!”

She was already halfway up the stairs, empty glass still in her hand.

“Please, can we talk?” you called, following her up.

She didn’t even pause.

“Ginny—”

She reached the bedroom door, yanked it open, stepped inside. You made it just in time to catch the door slamming in your face. The sound echoed through the Burrow like a curse.

You stood there for a moment, fingers resting on the closed door, throat tight, heart cracking a little more. You didn’t even knock this time. You just turned and walked back downstairs.

Fred was waiting. His expression softened as he saw your face. “She slammed it again?”

You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.

He opened his arms. You walked straight into them. And for the rest of the night, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch. Not saying much. Just holding on.

———————————————————————

The next morning was unbearable. You sat between Fred and George at the breakfast table, the tension thick enough to slice with a wand. Ginny was across from you, lips pressed into a thin line, her toast untouched. She didn’t look at you. Not once. She didn’t even speak. Not to Fred. Not to George. Not even to Molly when she asked if she wanted more pumpkin juice.

Fred’s knee bumped against yours under the table. You didn’t move. But you didn’t lean into him either. You were ashamed. It hurt, having Ginny’s silence weigh this heavy on your chest.

After breakfast, Ginny stood without a word and disappeared up the stairs, her braid swinging sharply behind her. The door to her room slammed moments later.

You didn’t follow this time. You knew better now.

Fred glanced at you, eyes soft. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”

You let him lead you outside into the warm morning light, the sun stretching long and lazy over the Burrow’s messy backyard. The garden was overgrown in the loveliest way. Wildflowers sprawling into vegetable patches, vines curling along the fenceposts. Fred brushed his fingers against yours as you walked, and when he caught your eye, his smile was crooked and bright like he was trying to make things better without saying it out loud.

You stopped in front of Arthur’s old work shed.

Fred pushed the door open and gestured inside with a dramatic bow. “Milady.”

You rolled your eyes. “What exactly am I meant to be admiring in here? The rusted rake or the giant spider in the corner?”

He grinned. “Neither. Just trust me.”

You stepped inside cautiously, brushing past hanging tools and stacks of flower pots, turning just in time to see him still grinning at the threshold.

“Fred?”

“Sorry,” he said in a singsong voice, and with a swift flick and a slam, the door shut. The lock turned with a click.

“FRED!” You pounded your hand on the wood. “This is not funny!”

But footsteps were already retreating. You waited - furious - for him to open it again. But the minutes passed. The shed was warm and full of the smell of soil and sun-dried wood, and you were trying to decide whether you were more angry or confused when the door creaked again.

You stood quickly, hope flickering. “Finally.”

But it wasn’t Fred. It was Ginny. She stepped in with a suspicious scowl, looking over her shoulder. “What—?”

Before she could finish the thought, slam. Click.

You both lunged for the door.

“FRED!” Ginny shrieked. “GEORGE!”

“LET US OUT!” you yelled right behind her, slamming your fists against the wood.

But their voices were muffled and maddening on the other side.

Fred called, “Not until you talk!”

George chimed in, “Properly! No hexes, no storming off!”

“Absolutely mental,” Ginny muttered, crossing her arms as she turned her back to you and marched to the far end of the shed. She plopped down on an overturned bucket, staring hard at the dirt wall.

You stayed near the door, arms folded just as tightly, silence stretching between you like a curse.

It must’ve been hours.

The heat in the shed grew heavier, sun filtering through the tiny window above. Your legs began to ache from standing, but sitting felt too vulnerable.

And then, finally, Ginny broke it. “If you wanted to snog my brother that badly, you could’ve at least warned me,” she said coolly, not looking at you.

You bristled. “It’s not just snogging.”

“Oh, please.” She barked a laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around like a pair of teenagers and I found you in a bloody broom cupboard. What else is it supposed to be?”

“It’s real, Ginny.” You stepped closer. “We actually care about each other. It’s not some fling, this means something.”

She turned sharply, fire in her eyes. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s worse,” she hissed. “It’s worse because you didn’t just hook up with him. You fell for him. And then you hid it from me. Lied to me. Every single time I asked where you were or what you were doing—”

“Okay, did lie,” you interrupted, chest tightening. “I did…and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Ginny snapped. “You just didn’t want to deal with the fallout.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?” your voice rose. “Look at how you’re reacting! You won’t even listen—”

“Because you went behind my back!” she shouted. “I told you everything. Every crush, every stupid thought I had about Harry or Michael, or whoever, and you were pining over my brother the whole time!”

You stared at her, stunned by how deep her voice cut.

“I just…I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought we were friends.”

That one hurt the most. “We are,” you said, stepping forward. “Ginny, I love you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t want to risk you thinking this was some betrayal. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to fall for him. It just happened. And for years I kept it a secret because I refused to act on it so what was the point? And then it just got worse. And I hate that I made you feel like this. I never meant to. You mean too much to me.”

She looked at you for a long time. Then she sighed, sitting down heavily on a crate. “So…how long has it been happening?”

You hung your head low. “Since last week.”

She raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s…actually not as bad as I was expecting.”

You nodded. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but he was so persistent, and…I gave in. And it’s been…honestly, it’s been amazing.”

Ginny pursed her lips. “And he’s serious?”

“Completely,” you said. “He treats me like I’m the most interesting, maddening person he’s ever met. He actually listens. And he makes me feel—” you paused, blushing a little, “—happy. Really happy.”

She let that hang in the air. Then she exhaled. “Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“I mean,” she shrugged, “I still think you’re an idiot. But I can live with it.”

You smiled, hesitantly at first, and then fully when Ginny rolled her eyes and opened her arms. You nearly knocked her over hugging her.

“I’m still mad,” she warned into your shoulder.

“I deserve that,” you admitted. “Completely.”

You stayed like that for a long moment. Then Fred’s voice piped up from outside, smug and singsong: “So! All good now?”

Ginny shouted, “If you ever lock me in a shed again, I swear I’ll turn your ears into flobberworms.”

George snorted. “We’ll take that as a yes.”

The door clicked open. You and Ginny stepped out, blinking in the afternoon light, shoulder to shoulder again.

Fred looked at you like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. You gave him a small smile and nodded.

All was not perfect, but it was healing. And that was enough for now.

———————————————————————

Dinner at the Burrow felt normal again.

The clinking of cutlery, the smell of roasted vegetables and gravy, the soft hum of conversation. It was like everything had fallen back into place. You sat beside Ginny again, your shoulders occasionally brushing. She’d even nudged your arm when you reached for the salt before her, and when you made a joke about Ron’s plate being stacked like a tower, she actually laughed.

It was subtle. Soft. But genuine.

From your other side, Fred was watching you with that familiar twinkle in his eye. His foot tapped yours beneath the table like it couldn’t stand not touching you, and when you glanced at him, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.

Molly glanced between you and Ginny, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly as she set down a fresh loaf of bread. “Well,” she said, voice light, “I must say it’s nice to see you two getting along again.”

Arthur looked up from his stew and nodded. “Things were a bit frosty there for a while.”

Ginny gave a dramatic eye roll and stabbed a potato. “Yeah, well…I got over it,” she muttered, shooting you a sideways smirk.

Ron frowned and pointed his fork between the two of you. “Wait. What were you even fighting about in the first place? You’ve been whispering to each other all evening. Did I miss something?”

Fred, sitting beside you, let out a soft breath - part exasperation, part amusement. Then, without warning, he reached beneath the table and gently laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm, calloused and familiar. It made your chest tighten, just a little.

And then, just as Ron took another bite of chicken, Fred lifted your joined hands into the air. Like some kind of victory signal.

Everyone froze. Ron choked. Ginny groaned. Molly gasped, then squealed so loudly that even the ghoul in the attic probably heard her.

“Oh! Oh, I knew it! I just knew it!” she cried, practically launching herself out of her seat. Her chair scraped back as she rushed around the table, arms outstretched like she might hug the both of you into oblivion. “You’re together?! You’re really…! Oh I’m just so happy!”

“Mum,” Fred muttered, ducking his head as you laughed and tried to brace yourself for impact. “Breathe, yeah?”

She didn’t listen. Her arms were around your shoulders in a second, pulling you into a tight, motherly hug that somehow managed to be both suffocating and comforting.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said to you, eyes misty as she cupped your cheek. “I always hoped it would be you.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted her approval until that very moment.

Across the table, Ron raised his eyebrows at Fred and gave him a slow, impressed nod. “Well, you actually pulled it off,” he said, clearly trying not to smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you, mate.”

“I aim to surprise,” Fred said, squeezing your hand gently under the table again.

You leaned into his side, heart fluttering. Ginny rolled her eyes again, but this time…she smiled.

“To make myself clear, rules two and three are still applicable,” She pointed between the two of you with a warning glare that held to real heat behind it.

“And rule number one?” You clarified.

“To hell with rule number one. It was stupid anyway,” she shrugged, and you beamed.

———————————————————————

Aegon decides, somewhere between the sermon and the sea wind, that funerals are for everyone except the dead. 

Laena cannot hear the droning prayers, or feel the salt spray dampening the dark cloth of everyone’s sleeves, or see the way her daughters stand hollow-eyed beside Daemon. She can’t know that half the court has come all the way to Driftmark only to stare at one another from beneath lowered lashes. 

But Aegon can. 

He can hear all of it, see all of it, feel all of it pressing in on him with the weight of his mother’s hand at the back of his neck, even though she hasn’t so much as brushed past him in well over an hour. 

Seven Hells, he can hear her voice echoing in the back of his head. 

“Stand straight, don’t slouch.”

“Do not fidget, it’s impolite.”

“Do not drink so much, you should set a better example for your cousins.”

“Do not laugh, we’re at a funeral.”

“Do not shame me.”

She hadn’t said any of it aloud but she doesn’t need to. He’s heard it all enough times to know the words by the set of her mouth or the glare in her gaze. 

So he stands where he has been told to stand, a little apart from the worst of the mourning but not far enough away to be accused of wandering. The sea crashes darkly against the rocks below, throwing up bursts of white foam that disappear almost as soon as they come. The sky above Driftmark is heavy and grey, seeming to drain the color from everything. 

Since when had the world decided that grief had to be so damned quiet? 

Aegon hates it—everything about it. 

He hates the way the collar of his overcoat scratches at his neck. Hates the cold bite of the wind against his cheeks. Hates the way every adult keeps arranging their face into some solemn, pinched expression, as though sorrow is another bit of court dress to be worn properly. 

He hates most of all that he is expected to understand it. Not death, he understands that well enough. Things die. People die all the time—mothers, wives, children, babes. 

Even dragons die. 

But this—all of this standing and staring and murmuring, all this careful sadness made public, made nice and polished for other people to witness—he does not understand. He doesn’t know what anyone wants from him, of all people, except stillness and stillness has never been something he knows how to keep for very long. 

Aemond stands beside him, still as a damn statue. Of course. 

His hands are folded behind his back, chin lifted, his mouth pressed into a thin, polite line. He looks like a boy trying very hard to appear older than he is and, what’s worse, is that he’s somehow succeeding. 

Irritating little git. 

Aegon rocks back on his heels, then forward again, blowing a deep lungful of air out from between his lips. “Fucking hell,” he curses when the wind blows his hair into his face again. 

“Stop cursing.”

“We’re not even in earshot of anyone that matters.”

“It’s impolite, it’s a funeral.” Gods, it’s as if his mouth opens yet their mother’s voice comes out. 

Aegon gives him a sidelong glance, swallowing down another mouthful of wine from the goblet clutched in his hand. “Have you been counting the words like some septa?”

“I don’t need to count to know you have the manners of a dog.”

He huffs under his breath, too quiet for anyone to overhear: “A formidable dog, at least?”

Aemond doesn’t so much as smile at that and somehow, that makes it even funnier. Aegon quickly lowers his gaze before the laugh bubbling in his chest can become something louder and earn him one more of Alicent’s cold looks. He drags the toe of his boot once through the pale grit beneath them instead, making a short, ugly line in the ground. 

Aemond watches him do it. “You’ll get dust on your boots.”

“A great tragedy.”

“Mother will scold you.”

“You say that as if she wouldn’t find a reason to anyway.”

“Well, you’re always doing something worth scolding.”

Aegon turns his head just enough to look at him fully, the bitter taste of wine on his tongue. “You’re in a foul mood.”

“We’re at a funeral.”

“Yes, and somehow you still manage to bring the mood down.”

Aemond’s mouth tightens, but his gaze moves away first, back toward the gathered mourners and the line of noble families arranged in neat clusters near the cliffside.

Aegon looks too, because there’s nothing better to do, because someone long ago decided that funerals must be unfathomably dull. Velaryons in sea-dark colors. His own family in some unsettling mix of reds and blacks and greens, as if no one can quite make up their mind. 

Everyone is where they’re meant to be, he supposes, wearing exactly the faces they’re meant to wear. 

His grandsire speaks quietly with Lord Corlys. His mother stands beside his decrepit father, her hands folded and her jaw tight. Helaena lingers near them, fussing over something small moving between the stones at her feet, doubtlessly some many-legged thing that makes his skin crawl. Their cousins are near Rhaenyra, looking decidedly strong. 

The corner of his mouth twitches at that thought and he has to try very hard not to laugh, as if it’s his fault he’s the only one with humor in this wretched family. 

Then, his eyes land on you. 

You’re not beside him now, though you had been earlier, close enough to mutter that everyone looked like they had swallowed spoiled milk. The comment had nearly made wine come up his nose as he tried not to choke on his own laugh. 

Of course, you’re too far away now to save him from boredom or from Aemond’s scolding. 

You’re standing with your family near the edge of the gathering, the little cluster of Wyldes looking slightly out of place among so much silver hair and sea-born pride. Your cloak is black, what one would expect from a funeral, though yours keeps slipping down one shoulder no matter how often your mother reaches to correct it. Your hair has been pinned back too tightly, he can tell because you keep flexing your hands as you try to resist touching it. 

Your mother leans down and whispers something in your ear, probably to straighten your shoulders or to stop frowning, perhaps something about how that’s unbecoming for a lady. 

Aegon watches your mouth press into a dutiful line for all of three seconds before you glance up, catch his eye across the distance, and roll yours. 

He bites the inside of his cheek. Aemond notices, of course he does. 

His eyes flick from Aegon to you and then back again, sharp in that annoying way of his, as if he’s constantly collecting little things about people and storing them away for later. 

Aegon takes another drink before Aemond can say something unbearable. Unfortunately, that only seems to encourage him. 

“I overheard Lord Wylde speaking with grandsire earlier.”

Aegon hums absently into the rim of his cup. “Condolences.”

Aemond ignores him. “They mean to begin seeking possible matches for her soon.”

That catches Aegon’s attention, if only because it is infinitely more interesting than listening to old men mumble about the Stranger and the sea. 

His gaze drifts back toward you automatically. You’re not listening to your mother at all. Instead, you’ve bent slightly at the waist to whisper something to one of Laena’s daughters—Baela, he thinks—who promptly snorts hard enough that she has to disguise it as a cough when Rhaenyra glances over. 

Aegon grins despite himself. 

“Wonder who the poor bastard’ll be,” he says. 

Aemond turns to look at him, pale brows furrowing slightly. “You’re close with her.”

“Mm,” he swallows another mouthful of wine, “she follows me about. That’s not the same thing.” 

It’s a lie, or at least not quite the truth. You don’t follow him about, you have a knack for simply… finding him—you always have. 

You find him when he slips away from lessons halfway through the afternoon, sprawled lazily beneath some tree with a stolen bottle in hand. You find him when he’s hiding from Alicent after spending the night in some dank corner of the city. You find him during feasts when the endless droning on becomes too much and he disappears onto balconies no one else bothers with. 

You find him when he’s angry.

Worse still, you know what to do once you have. 

Sometimes you make him laugh, other times you sit beside him in silence until whatever foul mood he’s in finally passes. Once, after Alicent had slapped him hard enough to split the inside of his lip for making some smartassed remark about his father, you’d snuck to his door with a wedge of lemon cake wrapped in cloth and announced, quite seriously, that he looked so miserable he may die from it. 

Aegon had laughed then, despite the way it made the cut on his lip sting. 

Aemond, ever determined to ruin perfectly good moments, says, “You write to her when she returns to the Stormlands.” 

He scoffs. “Because she writes first.”

Another half-lie. 

The truth is that your letters arrive first because you’re far more patient than he is. Aegon rarely lasts more than a fortnight before boredom overtakes him and he sends one anyway, usually written carelessly and blotched with wine stains because he can never be bothered to wait until he’s sober. 

Sometimes they contain nothing of importance at all. 

Helaena has acquired another horrid insect, she tried to get me to hold it. 

Mother has threatened to skin me alive this morning and we’ve only just broken fast. 

The cook made those little honeycakes you like again.

Once, he’d received a reply informing him that he was perhaps the most dramatic person in all of the kingdoms. He still has that letter somewhere. 

Aemond watches him, his expression narrowing just slightly. “You could marry her.”

Aegon lets out a startled bark of laughter loud enough that a few nearby heads turn before he quickly lowers it into a cough. “Her?” he repeats incredulously. “Gods, no.”

Aemond’s face remains a mask of perfect seriousness, causing Aegon to roll his eyes as if the reason why he objects so is terribly obvious. 

“I’ve known her since we were small,” he explains, pausing to down another sip of wine. “It would be like marrying you.”

“That sounds dreadful for the both of us.”

“There, you see? You understand.”

Aemond doesn’t rise to it. “She doesn’t look at anyone else the way she looks at you. I’d have thought you’d noticed.”

Aegon snorts, brows furrowing before he schools his face back to placid boredom. “You sound like some old woman gossiping over a needlepoint.”

“And you sound oblivious.”

“Well, one of us must remain charming.”

That finally earns him the faintest twitch at the corner of Aemond’s mouth, gone almost as soon as it appears. His brother remains quiet for a moment, staring off in your direction while Aegon nurses the drink in his hand, halfway wondering where that servant with the tray of goblets has gone off to. 

Then Aemond says, quieter this time, “You will likely be made to wed Helaena anyway, I suppose.”

Ah, there it is. The shadow hanging over every facet of his being like a stormcloud. 

Aegon groans dramatically and tips his head back at the grey sky overhead. “Then the matter is settled,” he breathes, heaving out a sigh. “Helaena is strange, Wylde is impossible, and I am doomed either way.”

“She’s not impossible.”

“She absolutely is,” Aegon gestures vaguely toward you with his cup. “Last moon she threatened to stab a guard in the hand with a dinner knife because he called her sweet.” 

Aemond considers this. “Did he deserve it?”

“Yes,” Aegon says immediately. “But that is hardly the point.”

The years march on regardless of what he wants. 

That is perhaps the cruelest thing about time, Aegon thinks later—that it moves on whether you’re happy or sad or adored or ignored and it doesn’t care either way. 

Driftmark fades into memory. Aemond loses an eye. Rhaenyra leaves King’s Landing. Alicent grows sharper where Viserys grows softer, the rot in his body worsening with every turn of the moon. Helaena grows somehow stranger, murmuring things beneath her breath that make the maids glance at one another uneasily. 

And Aegon grows older. 

Unfortunately. 

And drinks. 

Fortunately. For him, at any rate. 

There are new expectations that come with age. More lectures from Otto, more cold looks from Alicent, more muttered conversations that stop the moment he enters a room. He stays in his cups more, sleeps less, and learns very quickly that people forgive a prince for nearly anything so long as he smiles when doing it. 

None of it makes him particularly happy. 

Tonight least of all. 

The Great Hall of the Red Keep glows gold with candlelight and roaring hearths, music swelling through the air loud enough to rattle against Aegon’s skull. Lords and ladies crowd feast tables in jewel tones and velvets, wine spilling freely while servants weave carefully between bodies carrying platters with roasted meats and sugared fruits. 

Somewhere near the center of it all sits Aegon himself, polished and dressed and displayed like a prized fucking pony. 

His betrothal feast. 

Gods. 

He takes another drink. 

Beside him, Helaena carefully nudges a little beetle across the table with one slender finger, entirely uninterested in the musicians or the noble guests watching them with poorly concealed fascination. 

“It doesn’t like the heat,” she murmurs softly, mostly to herself. “Its legs curl when it’s frightened.”

Aegon glances down at the tiny thing crawling near her untouched supper and hums distractedly. “Mm.”

She peers at it with genuine concern. “I think it misses the garden.”

“You should let it inherit my place at the table. It would likely enjoy itself more.”

That earns him the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Despite her weirdness, Aegon thinks she’s always had a better sense of humor than Aemond. Not that that’s a difficult competition to win. 

Across from them, Otto looks deeply pleased with himself. He hates that more than the feast. 

His grandsire sits straight-backed and composed as ever, hands folded neatly before him while lord after lord offers congratulations as if this entire miserable affair had been his cleverest political victory yet. 

Like it hadn’t been expected for damn years by now. 

Alicent watches him from further down the table with the same expression she’s worn all evening: wary, tense, waiting for humiliation the way other mothers would perhaps wait for music to begin. 

Every time he lifts his cup, her eyes sharpen. 

Each time he laughs too loudly, her jaw tightens. 

Aegon considers getting properly drunk simply out of spite. 

Viserys, meanwhile, looks almost sentimental about the whole thing. Sickly and half-decayed though he is, there’s something horribly hopeful in his face tonight, like he truly believes this feast means something good, something whole. 

A family united, a son settled, a future secured. 

Aegon nearly laughs into his wine. As if binding two miserable people together before half the realm could somehow make either of them less miserable. 

He glances sidelong at Helaena again. She’s still watching the beetle. Not unhappy, exactly. Not frightened. Just… elsewhere, as she so often is. 

For some reason, that thought makes his chest tighten. 

Neither of them got much of a say in this, did they? 

The musicians swell into another song and somewhere nearby, a lord already deep in his cups bellows loud enough to startle half the servants carrying trays through the hall. Aegon automatically reaches for another goblet of wine before realizing his is still-half full. 

He drinks it down before grabbing a new one anyway. 

Pathetic. 

And then—

A flash of dark teal silk near the entrance catches his attention. At first, he doesn’t think much of it—just another noble family arriving late, and no doubt bringing with them another round of tedious congratulations and bows. 

Then the figure turns slightly beneath the candlelight and he stills. 

It’s you. 

For a moment, he can only stare.

He knows the shape of your laugh before it leaves your mouth, knows exactly how your brows pull together when annoyed, knows the particular look you get in your eyes whenever you’re about to say something that’ll either make him laugh or get the both of you scolded. He knows you, which is perhaps why the sight of you now unsettles him so badly. 

You pause near the entrance while one of the guards announces House Wylde far louder than necessary, your father already stepping forward to greet some old lord from the Reach while your mother smooths an unnecessary hand over the skirts of her gown. 

But he barely notices any of them. 

Instead, his attention catches on strange little things all at once. The familiar curve of your mouth, the same eyes that used to roll whenever he complained about something stupid, the stubborn tilt of your chin that always appeared whenever someone attempted to tell you what to do. 

Then, he notices… other things, too. Unfamiliar things. 

Your hair has been pinned carefully away from your face, woven with delicate gold that catches in the candlelight whenever you move. Your gown fits differently than the dresses you wore as a girl, dark teal silk clinging softly at the waist before spilling toward the floor in heavy folds. A necklace rests against the bare skin of your throat and Aegon finds his eyes lingering there for a beat too long before jerking away. 

Seven Hells, since when had you started looking like that?

No—that isn’t right. You’d always looked like that, perhaps. 

And perhaps, he’d simply been too much of an idiot to notice. 

Aegon takes a long swallow of wine that does absolutely nothing to help. 

You move further into the hall alongside your parents, smiling politely whenever someone stops to speak with you. Not your real smile, he notices immediately. No, simply those careful little court smiles that everyone must learn eventually. 

Pleasant. Measured. Appropriate. 

Some lordling—Celtigar maybe, or one of the Lannisters, he truly doesn’t care enough to determine which—leans too close while speaking to you. 

Much too close. 

His fingers tighten hard around the stem of his goblet before he even realizes they’ve moved and then, the lord says something that makes you laugh politely and his lips pull into a tight frown as anger floods through him so quickly, he can feel his cheeks flush with it. 

Ridiculous. 

It’s only because he knows the sort of men that flock around ladies during feasts like this—smug little pricks drunk on their own importance and whatever inheritance awaits them. He’s seen enough of them to know that they’re all uniquely tiresome. 

Besides, you’re his friend. 

That’s all. 

Which is precisely why he’s always hated foolish men around you, of course. 

The lord moves closer, leaning in to whisper something directly in your ear and before he even realizes he’s raising his cup, he’s downed half of it in one go. 

Then, as if somehow sensing him, your eyes find him across the hall and you smile. Not that strained, practiced one, not the carefully demure one you use at court meant for lords and ladies and strangers.

No, this one is easy and immediate—wholly yours. It’s the exact same smile you’d give him when you were children sneaking out of lessons together or passing gossipy notes beneath the table during feasts or mocking half of the court from secluded balconies high above the city. 

Somehow, that makes it worse. Something unpleasant twists low in Aegon’s stomach. 

Before he has time to make any sense of it, you’re already excusing yourself from the conversation and weaving through the crowded hall toward him. The musicians swell louder around you, candlelight flickering gold across your face as guests part instinctively to let you pass. 

He straightens unconsciously. 

“Prince Aegon,” you greet as you finally stop beside him, your lips curving with unmistakable amusement. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

He snorts into his cup before he can help it. “Are they?”

“That is usually what one says at a betrothal feast, yes.”

“Mm, then you may direct them toward my grandsire,” he mumbles, gesturing vaguely further down the table where Otto is still carrying on some conversation that is doubtlessly boring enough to make a Septon beg for mercy. “He seems the happiest of anyone present.”

Your laugh comes soft beneath the music and Gods, he knows that sound—has known it for years. 

You glance briefly toward Helaena, who had apparently gotten up without his noticing and had gone to sit by Alicent. “She looks lovely tonight.”

Aegon follows your gaze automatically, watching as his sister—his bride, Seven Hells—absentmindedly twirls a lock of hair through her fingers, entirely detached from the festivities unfolding around her. 

“She looks trapped,” he says before he can stop himself. 

Apparently, the words land heavier than he intended as your eyes immediately flick back to his. For once, there’s no trace of mischief in you, only understanding—and somehow that’s worse. 

You’ve always been able to look at him too directly when he lets something a bit too honest slip loose. 

“And you?” you ask quietly after a moment, your voice nearly drowned beneath the music. “How do you suppose you look tonight?”

He huffs softly through his nose, dragging the rim of his cup against his lower lip. “Drunk, I imagine.”

One of your brows lifts. “You look unhappy.”

You don’t say it accusingly, not like anyone else would, not like Alicent or Otto or Aemond. There’s no irritation in it, no judgment, or disappointment—not even pity. 

Just recognition, just enough to make his stomach twist into knots. 

Aegon suddenly becomes painfully aware of the noise around him again—the music, the laughter, the scrape of goblets against tables, a hundred conversations unfolding at once while crowds of people weave through one another. 

Too many eyes. 

And yet, somehow, being with you again makes him feel strangely separated from it all, like you’re tucked into some quiet little corner of the world no matter how crowded the hall becomes. 

He takes another drink, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. 

“Well,” he drawls after a moment, forcing some crooked bit of humor back into his voice, “it would be terribly rude of me to appear joyful at my own wake.”

That earns him a soft snort. He swallows thickly at the way his heart flutters.

“There you are,” you murmur. 

“Was I gone?”

“Briefly,” your gaze flicks meaningfully toward the wine in his hand. “Drowning, perhaps.”

“I prefer floating,” he quips too quickly for his own good. “Sounds much less tragic.”

Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his doublet as you shift closer so a passing servant can squeeze by you with a tray of steaming dishes. The touch lasts no more than a second, but he feels as if he’s been branded by it. 

Gods, he’s no better than a fucking blushing maiden. 

He’s touched you a thousand times before over the years. Hands tugging at sleeves, shoving shoulders, fingers hooked around wrists while dragging each other through corridors or down hidden staircases tucked away in the Keep. 

But this—

This feels different somehow. 

Perhaps he feels different. 

Your hair smells faintly of something floral when you lean nearer to be heard over the musicians, just sweet enough that it catches annoyingly in his head. Your posture is straighter than it used to be too, the restless roughness of girlhood sanded softer by time and court expectations. 

And yet not entirely. 

There’s still something sharp in you beneath all the silk and gold. Something that had once threatened guards with dinner knives and climbed castle walls in embroidered slippers simply because Aegon said you couldn’t. 

Shit. 

He suddenly, fiercely, does not want you to leave his side. The realization unsettles him enough that he drains the rest of his wine again before quickly motioning for a nearby attendant to fill his cup once more. 

You notice, of course. 

“You’ll make yourself ill.”

“I’m making myself tolerable.”

“You’ve never managed that a day in your life.”

“There she is,” Aegon says quietly.

Your expression softens at that in a way that makes something twist beneath his ribs, something warm and dangerous. 

The conversation lulls briefly as another cluster of nobles approaches the dais to offer their congratulations to Viserys, though he hardly hears a word of it. 

You glance toward your parents across the hall, watching your father deep in conversation with Lord Fossoway and another older man Aegon vaguely recognizes from the Stormlands. 

Then you sigh, barely noticeable to anyone except him. 

“What?” 

Your lips purse slightly and you shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

You huff a quiet laugh at that, gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting back to his. “I managed to fend him off for some time but,” another sigh, “my father has become terribly interested in marriage prospects lately.”

The words hit him strangely and his grip tightens around his goblet again. “Oh?”

“He seems to think that if we put it off any longer, I’ll be some old hag—no longer suitable for a decent match. I believe he’s narrowing things down, one way or another.”

Narrowing things down. Something coils low in Aegon’s stomach at those words before he fully understands why. 

Still, he forces a crooked grin onto his face anyway. “Anyone I would know?”

“Mm, a few.”

He means it as a joke when he says, “Well, then, Gods help you.”

But you laugh softly and begin counting them off on your fingers anyway. “There’s a Blackwood heir somewhere. A Baratheon cousin, I think. Someone from House Rowan that my mother seems particularly determined about—”

“Don’t,” the words leave him too quickly, pouring out like cider from an overturned carafe. “Don’t marry any of them.”

Your lips press closed and for the first time since approaching him, you go utterly still. 

Aegon realizes, distantly, that he’s set his cup down hard enough for wine to slosh over the rim and onto the tablecloth. 

You blink at him once before a laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “And why not?”

“Because,” he says fast—far too fast, “they’re all cunts.”

You stare at him for a beat longer this time, amusement slowly fading into something more careful, more searching. “Aegon,” you begin slowly. 

“Ah! There you are!” The interruption cuts cleanly through whatever you might’ve said next. 

He turns sharply toward the approaching voice, annoyance flashing hot and immediate through him at the sight of some aging lord already smiling too broadly as he approaches the dais. 

You step back slightly at once, court manners settling over you like armor being hastily fastened. It feels wrong. 

Aegon presses his hate for it down somewhere deep as the moment slips away before either of you can catch hold of it again. You offer him one last look—strange and thoughtful and far too perceptive—before dipping into a graceful curtsey. 

“Enjoy the rest of the feast, Your Grace.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He blinks, watching as you disappear back into the crowd of lords and ladies, dark teal silk vanishing slowly between music notes and the flicker of candles. It’s only once you’re gone that he realizes something quietly horrifying:

For the last several minutes, he hasn’t thought once about Helaena. 

Or duty. 

Or his mother. 

Or the countless expectations that weigh so heavily on his shoulders. 

Only you. 

Only the curve of your lips and your hand against his sleeve and the thought of some Blackwood or Rowan or Baratheon lord touching what he has somehow always believed belonged beside him. 

Only now does he seem to realize that he’d spent half his life searching for you in every room. 

Several nights later, Aegon still cannot fucking sleep. 

This is, admittedly, not terribly unusual. He’s never slept particularly well sober and only somewhat better drunk, but lately even wine has stopped dulling the endless noise in his head. Thoughts keep circling one another like vultures, sharp and restless and impossible to escape. 

You. Always you. 

He sprawls across the mess of blankets tangled at the foot of his bed, staring up at the dark canopy overhead while a half-empty bottle of Arbor red hangs loose from his fingers. Firelight from the hearth skitters low across his chambers, throwing long shadows against stone walls littered with abandoned jackets and books he’s never even bothered to open. 

He doesn’t even like this wine, but he drinks anyway. 

Because the alternative is thinking too clearly and Seven Hells, he’s had enough of that these past few days to last him a lifetime. 

He thinks about your letters, which is probably the most humiliating part of all this. 

Not your mouth or your lovely neck or the way your hand had felt against his sleeve, not even the low cut of your gown, though those thoughts plague him too. No, what truly ruins him are the bloody letters—little scraps of you scattered across moons and years. 

He remembers one arriving after he’d fallen and nearly broken his wrist after Sunfyre’s saddle had gotten tangled around his boot. You’d written nearly an entire page mocking him for nearly being defeated by a cord of leather and his own pride. 

Another had included an awful little sketch of Otto that looked more goat than man. He remembers laughing so hard at it that he’d had tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Gods. 

Aegon drags a hand down his face as more memories surface whether he wants them to or not. 

You stealing figs from the kitchens and stuffing them into his pockets because he’d refused to go to supper after arguing with Alicent. 

You sitting cross-legged beside him on some balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay while he complained endlessly about lessons and duty and being a prince. 

You asleep against his shoulder in a carriage years ago, mouth parted slightly, your hair in complete disarray while rain hammered against the windows outside. 

And then the feast. 

The look on your face when he’d told you not to marry any of those damned lords. 

The silence that lingered afterwards. 

The way you’d said his name. 

Aegon groans softly and tips his head back harder against the mattress. 

“Fuck.”

Because there’s another thought beneath all the others too, ugly and unavoidable. 

Helaena. 

His betrothal. 

The fact that in a matter of weeks he is expected to stand before the realm and vow himself to his sister while all he can think about is the possibility of some Baratheon prick putting his hands on you. 

It all feels rotten somehow. Cruel. Not only to him, but the both of you. 

Aegon drains the last of the wine from the bottle and sits up abruptly before he can think himself into another spiral. The room tilts faintly as he rises to his feet. 

Good, he thinks. Maybe I can calm myself down properly after all.

He snatches another bottle from the table near the hearth, shrugs a loose coat over his shoulders without bothering to fasten it properly, and slips from his chambers into the quiet halls of the Red Keep. 

Most of the castle is asleep at this hour and the corridors are dark save for scattered torchlight burning low in iron brackets along the walls. Somewhere distant, he hears the muffled sound of guards changing posts and the soft crash of waves far below the cliffs. 

He walks without much direction at first, or at least he tells himself that as he stumbles down twisting corridors, across narrow staircases, and past silent courtyards silvered by moonlight until he finds himself outside in the sprawling gardens. 

The night air is cooler outside, damp with the scent of grass and blooming flowers. Pale light from the moon spills across winding stone paths and marble fountains, turning the gardens soft and dreamlike beneath the dark sky overhead. 

Aegon takes another long drink straight from the bottle as he wanders deeper among the hedges. 

He should go back upstairs, or perhaps go into the city and get properly drunk or fall into the arms of some Silk Street whore. 

He should stop thinking about you long enough to survive one miserable night in peace. 

Instead, he rounds the corner of a flowering hedge and stops dead. 

You’re there. Alone. 

For one stupid, stuttering heartbeat, Aegon can only stare. 

You sit perched along the edge of a fountain, one hand trailing lazily through the water while the other gathers the skirts of your nightrobe closer against the chill. Your hair is no longer pinned into those careful court arrangements he’s become accustomed to seeing these past weeks. It hangs loose down your back instead, slightly tangled from sleep or wind or both. 

It’s… intimate, somehow. Too intimate. 

His breath catches.

He’s seen you muddy and furious after falling from horses. Laughing so hard you snorted wine on your fourteenth nameday. Windswept atop castle walls. Tearful after your grandmother died. Half-asleep during lessons with ink smudged across your cheek. 

He’s seen you a hundred different ways and somehow never like this. A painful knot tightens in his chest. 

As if sensing him, your head lifts. Your eyes find him instantly, standing half-hidden beneath an ivy-covered archway. 

For a beat, neither of you speaks or so much as moves. 

Then your mouth curves slightly, into another of those easy, genuine grins. “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” Aegon answers automatically. 

“Brilliantly observed, Your Grace.” 

There it is, he thinks. That easy rhythm between you, old as childhood and just as instinctive as it slips back into place so naturally that, for a moment, something inside him unclenches. 

He steps fully out from beneath the archway at last, boots crunching softly against the gravel path as the bottle in his grasp hangs loose from his fingers, catching your attention immediately. 

“Ah,” you murmur, “and here I thought you’d lost your touch.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose despite himself. “You wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been rather difficult to find these past few days.”

You have a way of wringing the truth from him like no one else can. Gods, you see through him like he’s made of glass. 

Ever since the feast, he’s been doing something deeply pathetic, even for him: seeking you out in every room while simultaneously avoiding being alone with you long enough to think too hard about why. He skipped suppers, vanished into the city, drank himself stupid more than once, and spent an entire evening hiding from his own family in the Dragonpit like a sulking child. 

Anything to avoid this—to avoid you. 

Aegon lifts the bottle to his lips mostly for something to do before realizing he’s already more than half-drunk and any more will only make him sloppier. And—godsdammit—he finds himself suddenly caring quite a bit about not being sloppy around you. 

“I’ve been terribly busy being celebrated,” he says instead, once again concealing anything genuine with dry humor. 

You stare at him for a long few seconds before snorting softly. “Aegon,” Seven Hells, the way you say his name nearly undoes him all over again. “You have never once allowed ceremony to keep you from being a nuisance.”

That manages to draw a wry smile from him. “Fair enough.”

Silence settles after that. He’d be uncomfortable were it anyone else, but with you it’s just easy silence. The fountain trickles softly behind you while the Sept tolls the late hour in the distance. Moonlight catches silver against the water trailing from your fingertips and Aegon becomes abruptly, painfully aware that he’s staring. 

Of course, you notice too, stilling your hand against the water’s surface. “What is it?”

He opens his mouth, silently pleading with his mind to come up with something—anything—sensible. But nothing comes. 

“I—I don’t know,” he admits finally, voice rougher than intended. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. 

Your expression shifts slightly, amusement fading into something more cautious and quiet. “You’ve been strange ever since the feast, you know.”

“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?”

“Aegon.”

Shit. 

He scrubs a hand through his hair and starts pacing before he can think better of it, boots carrying him along the curve of the fountain. The wine bottle knocks lightly against his thigh with every step. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he finally mutters, earning a startled blink from you before your expression softens into a slight smile. 

“That sounds dangerous.”

He laughs once under his breath, chest tightening. “About you,” the words fall between you both like a stone dropped into still water. 

Your smile disappears and Aegon immediately regrets having a mouth at all. 

“Not,” he says quickly, “not in some strange way. Or perhaps it is strange. I don’t know. That—that’s why it’s fucked, isn’t it?”

You stare at him now, as still as one of the stone statues stationed among the flowers. The night suddenly feels too warm, the hedges too close. 

“Aegon,” you say slowly, carefully, “what are you trying to say?”

He wishes very badly for a bottle of something stronger than wine. Or perhaps for death. Either would suffice. 

Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and drags a hand over his jaw, buying himself another useless second. “I thought—I thought I understood what you were to me.”

“And what was that?”

The answer comes more easily than he expects, falling from his lips as easy as any curse or crude joke ever has: “Safety.” He hears the way your breath catches in your throat and your lips part, but he keeps going, forcing himself to before he loses his nerve entirely. “You were the only person I never had to perform for,” his voice lowers slightly. “I didn’t have to be a prince with you, or a son, or—or a disappointment.”

“Aeg—”

“And now,” he says, looking at you fully for perhaps the first time in his entire miserable life, “now I look at you and I cannot fucking breathe.”

Silence. 

The fountain trickles endlessly between you and you stare at him like he’s cracked the world wide open with his bare hands. 

He laughs once then, low and self-pitying. “See? Strange, as I said.”

“No,” you say softly, voice so quiet he wonders for a second if it was merely the wind. 

“No?”

“No,” your fingers tighten slightly in the folds of your robe gathered in your lap. “Just late.”

Those words hit like a blow, stopping him in his tracks. His mouth parts slightly, though no words come out. He feels gutted—carved open from the inside and splayed out uselessly. 

Suddenly, horribly, he understands. Despite everything, despite every single small thing he’s ever been through, every moment he made himself look like an utter fool, he’s never felt more hopelessly moronic than he does now. 

All those looks everyone but him noticed. 

All those letters. 

All the times you found him without needing to ask where he’d gone. 

All those years. 

In one quick instant, you’ve somehow managed to make him feel both like a god and like little more than a flea all at once. 

“Do you know how long I waited for you to notice?” you ask softly, head tilted just slightly. 

Shame burns hot beneath his skin. His cheeks sting as blood rushes to his head. 

“Why—why did you never say something?”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh and your next words come out as little more than a sigh: “You called me your brother once.”

Oh, shit. Aegon physically winces, jaw clenching. 

“That was,” he says weakly, licking his lips as he slowly shakes his head, “incredibly unfortunate wording on my part.”

“Yes.”

“I was—fuck, I was an idiot.”

“Yes.”

“Cruel?”

That softens you slightly, just enough to pull a quiet laugh from you. 

“No, you’re not that bad,” you murmur after a moment. “Just blind.”

He steps closer before he can stop himself, dizzy at the thought that you’re not angry, not truly, though he feels you should be. He wouldn’t blame you if you were, if you were vengeful enough to make him bleed for it the way he suddenly feels he deserves. 

Moonlight spills across your face as you look up at him from the fountain’s edge, your hair loose around your shoulders, lips parted ever so slightly. 

Gods. 

“You have always been mine in the only way that mattered,” he says quietly, the words scraping painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. “Now I want more,” he whispers, heart skipping at the way your breath catches, “even though I have no right to it.”

For a second, neither of you say anything. Then you slide slowly from the fountain’s edge to stand before him—close, far too close. He can smell the faint sweet scent of you again, can feel the warmth radiating from your skin despite the cool night air while you look at him for a long, unbearable moment. 

“I tried very hard not to want you,” you whisper, each word warm on his lips. 

“That’s not an answer.”

A tiny, sad smile pulls briefly at your mouth, shoulder shrugging. “It’s the only one I have.”

And then you kiss him.

Your hand rises to his cheek as your lips meet his and—fuck—may the Mother save him. Aegon’s been kissed before, plenty of times. He’s been touched and wanted and indulged since he was far too young to understand any of it properly, and yet—

None of it had prepared him for this—for the ruin of your hand against his face, for the way your mouth softens against his like something precious being handled too roughly. 

He makes a quiet sound low in his throat before he can stop it and suddenly, he’s kissing you back hard enough to make you stumble a half-step into him. The wine bottle slips forgotten from his hand, thunking into the grass below as his fingers find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer while your hands slide up into his hair. 

It feels like drowning and dying and being saved all at once—like finally getting a proper lungful of air after years spent choking. 

The kiss deepens almost despite him, desperate in that terrible way starved things often are. Aegon tastes honey and wine and you, and he thinks vaguely that he could become addicted to this frighteningly fast and just as he brushes the tip of his tongue along your bottom lip…

Your hand presses lightly to his chest and reality returns all at once, ugly and unwelcome as you pull back just enough to breathe, your forehead pressing briefly against his. 

“Aegon,” you whisper shakily, fingers grabbing at his coat. 

He’s still dizzy enough to chase after you before stopping himself at the last second, blinking like he’s waking from a dream. 

“You’re promised to Helaena,” you continue, the words cutting into him like a knife—that same damned blade at the center of everything. 

He closes his eyes, nodding, though his hands tighten at your waist. “I—I know.”

“Then what are we doing?”

A careless laugh spills from his lips then, rough and breathy. “Something horribly foolish.”

He hates the way your expression twists as he stops to look at you—properly look at you, standing there beneath the moon with swollen lips and tangled hair and hope flickering dangerously in your eyes—and suddenly, the answer he’s been hopelessly seeking for days now becomes frighteningly clear. 

“No, I—I don’t think this is foolish at all, really,” he says quietly, stronger this time as his gaze sharpens and he pulls you closer. “This is the most honest thing I’ve done in a long fucking time.”

He sees the question in your gaze but doesn’t move to answer it—not yet. For the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t simply want to endure what comes next. 

Not this time.

Not if there is even the slightest chance of keeping you. 

Dawn creeps slowly through the Red Keep, yellowed and pale beneath a sky still bruised by the last remnants of night. 

Aegon still hasn’t slept. He’d tried, briefly, returning to his chambers with your taste still lingering maddeningly on his tongue and stared at the ceiling until the darkness began to feel suffocating. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you standing beneath the moonlight with your hands tangled in his hair and hope glinting across your face so fragilely it frightened him. 

Something honest. 

The words had lodged themselves somewhere deep in his chest and refused to leave, so he’d done the impossible instead—he’d stopped drinking. 

Well—not entirely. He’d still had enough wine to keep the shaking at bay, but hours had passed since the gardens and the fog in his head had thinned enough now that he could no longer pretend this was some drunken impulse destined to sour by morning. 

If anything, sobriety has only made it worse. 

Which is how he finds himself standing outside his mother’s chambers just before sunrise looking deeply haunted while two exhausted Kingsguard stare at him with, frankly, understandable suspicion. 

He ignores them, this is nothing new. 

One of the guards pushes open the door after a moment’s hesitation and warmth spills out immediately, heavy with incense and the faint scent of lavender oil. 

Alicent’s chambers are quiet at this hour with no court ladies bustling about, no maids rushing to prepare gowns or fetch correspondence—just the low crackle of the hearth and soft morning light filtering through the windows overlooking the city below. 

His mother sits near the fire with embroidery gathered loosely in her lap, though from the way her needle has stilled halfway through a stitch, she’d clearly lost focus long before he entered. 

She looks tired, he notices. No longer the sharp, composed mask of placidity she wears before court, emotions hidden away beneath rigid posture and jewels and carefully arranged hair. 

For a brief instant, guilt twists unpleasantly in his stomach and he nearly leaves. But before he can, she looks up, blinking and brows furrowing at the sight of him. 

“Aegon?” There’s immediate surprise in her voice. Wariness too—maybe because of the odd hour or because he’s sober enough to stand straight. Or perhaps because sons like him rarely come seeking their mothers at all unless something has gone terribly wrong. 

He steps closer before he can lose the meager amount of confidence he’d been able to build in himself. “I need to speak with you.”

One of her brows raises and she glances to the window before looking back at him. “At this hour?”

“Yes.”

The doors finally shut behind him and for a few breaths, neither of them speaks. Alicent studies him carefully and he can practically see it when she realizes he isn’t drunk—isn’t slurring his words or swaying or mumbling some crude nonsensical remark. Certainly not drunk enough to explain away whatever this is. 

That seems to unsettle her more than anything else he’s done. 

Slowly, she sets the embroidery aside and smooths the skirt of her nightgown out before looking at him again. “What’s happened this ti—”

“It’s about Helaena.”

Everything in the room stills. Alicent goes rigid instantly, shoulders tightening beneath her chemise while something guarded and exhausted settles over her face. 

Suddenly, Aegon feels twelve years old again. 

“I cannot marry her,” his voice comes out shakier than he wishes and the words land hard and ugly between them. 

His mother’s expression hardens immediately. “You will.”

There it is—something familiar. Duty. Finality. The thing that has always existed between them more comfortably than affection ever has. 

“Mother—”

“You will not humiliate your sister because you have grown bored of loyalty before it has even begun.” 

The sharpness of it cuts deeper than he expects, perhaps because some part of him had hoped—stupidly, pathetically—that she might somehow already understand. 

He flinches before he can help it, face twitching to the side as if he’d been slapped. 

She notices that too.

Ordinarily, this might be the point where he would laugh cruelly or make some cutting remark before storming off to drown himself in wine and whores for the remainder of the day. Instead, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, he stays. 

“I’m—I’m not trying to humiliate her,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then what is it you’re trying to do?”

“Spare her,” he whispers, swallowing thickly. 

Alicent blinks once. The anger doesn’t disappear from her face but something beneath it flickers faintly—confusion maybe, or surprise. 

“She’s done nothing wrong,” she says carefully. 

“No,” he agrees immediately, the answer coming too fast to be anything but sincere, “she hasn’t.”

“So why punish her?”

“That is what I’m trying not to do.”

She stares at him then like she no longer recognizes the shape of him—like he’s sprouted a second head or vowed to become a maester. 

Aegon laughs once under his breath, low and uneven. “You know what I am,” he mutters, beginning to pace because suddenly standing still feels impossible. “I drink too much, I disappear for days, I—I make a spectacle of myself whenever anyone expects otherwise. I know that.”

“Aegon—”

“No, let me finish,” he drags a hand through his hair sharply enough to tug at the roots. “Helaena deserves someone gentler than me. Someone who will not resent her for being tied to him. Someone who will not turn duty into—fuck—into cruelty simply because he was miserable first.”

His mother watches him carefully now, not with anger anymore but something worse—attentiveness. 

“She’s your sister,” she says softly after a moment. 

“I know.”

“You care for her.”

“I do,” his voice cracks unexpectedly on the last word and he hates himself for the way the backs of his eyes sting, the way his throat tightens. “That is the fucking problem.”

The fire snaps softly between them, logs settling as smoke trails up the flue. Alicent’s gaze narrows slightly then, something thoughtful moving behind her eyes. 

“There’s someone else,” she says—not a question. Aegon goes still, not having expected her to figure it out, and when he doesn’t answer quickly enough, that alone tells her everything. She closes her eyes briefly and then nods to herself. “Lord Wylde’s daughter.”

Again, not a question. 

All he can do is look away toward the window, jaw clenching tight enough to ache. 

“You would endanger a royal match for a girl you played with as a child?” Alicent exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“No,” his answer comes automatically, making his mother look up in surprise. The movement draws his gaze back toward her and there’s something worryingly raw in his face now, stripped bare in a way she hasn’t ever seen from him before. “I would end it,” he says quietly, carefully picking each word, “for the woman who knows me better than anyone in this world.”

His mother’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, her anger faltering around the edges as if she no longer quite knows where to place it. Then she blinks and seems to come back to herself a bit and suddenly, the ever-present hardness he’s used to is back in her gaze. 

“You are young enough to mistake… lust for love.”

He nearly laughs at that, though there’s nothing humorous in the sound that escapes him—something between a scoff and a wheeze. “If this were only lust, life would be considerably easier.”

“Aegon—”

“She has never been some—some passing fancy,” he cuts in roughly, pacing again now because merely standing under the weight of Alicent’s gaze feels suffocating. “Gods, she’s—”

He stops abruptly, chest heaving as he presses a hand hard against his mouth before dragging it down over his jaw. His brows are furrowed, eyes boring holes into some random corner of the room as he wracks his brain for the right words. 

How in the world is he meant to explain you to someone else? How does he explain that you’ve become so woven through the fabric of his life—of his very being—that he no longer knows where you end and he begins?

“She has never been an escape,” he says finally, speaking through a sigh. His throat tightens painfully and his vision swims with sudden tears, though he doesn’t bother to hide them. “She is where I go when I cannot bear escaping anymore.”

His words aren’t polished, they come out ragged and uneven and frightfully earnest in a way he usually avoids at all costs. 

But he means them entirely. 

For the first time in a very long time, perhaps since that horrible night Aemond lost an eye, Alicent looks genuinely shaken. The room falls silent for a long moment, their only company the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the Keep finally waking around them. 

“Does she… does she return your feelings?” she finally asks, her voice softer than Aegon has heard in a long time. 

Blinking hard, he looks down at his hands briefly before answering. “I—I think,” he says carefully, “she loved me long before I deserved it.”

His mother stares at him for a very long time after that and slowly, impossibly, some of the fight begins slowly draining from her, like someone lowering a sword they’re no longer entirely certain they should be holding. 

The silence stretches long enough that he starts to feel raw beneath it, skinned open and bleeding. He shifts uncomfortably where he stands, fingers twitching once at his side before curling tight against his palm. 

“Love,” she says finally, sighing as she leans back in her seat and stares off at some point in the distance, “does not make a marriage simple.”

“No,” he agrees, laughing once under his breath. His eyes drift briefly toward the dying fire before lifting back to her. “But maybe it makes it less cruel.”

Something flits over her face then—not anger or disappointment, but something softer, sadder. For a moment, she looks terribly young to him. No longer like a queen draped in green silk and finery, not the rigid, sharp-tongued mother forever waiting for disaster from her eldest son. 

Just Alicent. 

Just a woman who had been married off to a grieving king while scarcely older than the girl sitting beside the fountains with moonlight tangled in her hair. 

The realization settles uneasily in his chest, forcing him to look away once more. 

“You’ve never asked me to be happy,” the words slip from his lips before he can stop them, leaving guilt to settle quietly in his chest. 

“That’s not fair,” she snaps, recoiling as if struck.

“No, I suppose it’s not,” he says quietly, “but it is true.”

Her jaw tightens hard enough that he sees the muscle feather beneath her skin. For a heartbeat, he thinks she may lash out again, may sharpen herself back into something colder and safer. 

But she only looks tired—terribly tired. 

He swallows thickly, suddenly ashamed of the bitterness lingering at the edges of his voice. He scratches at the back of his neck, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and finally exhales—long and low. 

“I—I know why,” he mutters after a moment. “M’not stupid. I know what’s expected of us, I know what we are.” His gaze flicks toward the window where dawn continues bleeding pale gold across the city. “I know sons like me aren’t given the luxury of… wanting things.”

“My love—”

“But I am asking now,” he murmurs, finally looking back at her—looking properly—and whatever she sees in his face seems to still her completely. “Please,” he says quietly.

Seven Hells. 

He’s never been like this toward his mother, not since he was very young. Earnest and pleading and… small, almost. He can’t remember the last time they had a conversation that didn’t end in mocking or snapped demands or drunken babble. 

“And if I say no?” Alicent finally asks, her voice low enough that he has to strain to hear the words. 

For an instant, something foul twists through him, pricking at his insides like the thorny rose bushes in the gardens below. The old instinct to laugh, to shrug, to pretend this had all been some meaningless whim before she could reject it outright rears its ugly head, but he forces himself to still beneath her gaze. 

“Then I will obey you,” he says carefully, the words seeming to hollow out the room. 

They both know what obedience from him would truly mean. 

Not peace—never that. 

It would mean rot settling slowly into the cracks already splitting through him. More wine. More disappearing acts. More bitterness curdling inside him while Helaena spent the rest of her life shackled beside a man who resented the cage around both of them. 

It would leave him like his father—like her—a fact neither of them dares to admit aloud. 

And you—

You would marry elsewhere and smile politely beside some lordling while Aegon drank himself to death pretending not to think about it. 

All for the sake of propriety. 

He watches what little fight remains in his mother leave in slow increments, in small, fragile degrees, leaving only recognition behind—or grief. 

Alicent rises suddenly then, crossing toward the window with measured steps while pale dawn light spills across the floor around her. She folds her arms tightly across herself as she stares out over King’s Landing below, quiet for so long that Aegon’s pulse begins hammering painfully against his ribs. 

Please, he thinks silently, hoping the Gods somehow let her hear it, I have never wanted anything else.

When she does finally speak again, her voice has gone practical, careful in the way she uses when speaking to Viserys or Otto about political matters. 

“If this were to happen,” she says lowly, “your grandsire would be furious.”

He blinks once as a tiny, dangerous spark of hope flickers alive somewhere in his chest. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself—he hadn’t really thought he’d get this far.

“Your father already approved the match between you and Helaena,” his mother continues before he can speak. “Undoing it would create gossip throughout the realm,” her jaw tightens again, only for a second, “and Lord Wylde would need convincing, of course.”

She hasn’t said no. He hardly dares to breathe. 

“Helaena’s future would need reconsideration,” she murmurs, mostly to herself now. “The court would talk. Father would call it weakness—recklessness,” a bitter scoff escapes her as she shakes her head, auburn waves flowing about her shoulders, “and he would likely blame me somehow.”

“That does sound like him,” Aegon mutters, the corner of his lips twitching faintly.

She shoots him a look over her shoulder, though it lacks her usual sharpness. The silence that follows feels oddly delicate, like one wrong move may shatter it entirely. 

“But,” he says finally, his voice small, “you will try?”

She turns from the window at last, the first true rays of morning light catching against her face, illuminating the exhaustion there, the uncertainty, the grief of a woman who has spent most of her life sacrificing pieces of herself for duty and is now being asked to spare her son from doing the same. 

For a long moment, she simply looks at him. Her gaze is softer now, sweeter than he can remember her ever looking at him. 

“I will try,” she says, a small, tired smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

Aegon can only stare at her for an instant, violet eyes going wide. He had come here expecting anger and shouting, to add another disappointment to the growing mountain of them already piled between them.

He had not expected this—not expected mercy. 

The hope blooming painfully inside his chest feels almost unbearable and knocks the wind from his lungs. 

“Why?” he asks, unable to keep himself from doing so. 

She ducks her head from him at that, sighing as she clasps her hands behind her back and purses her lips, staring at the stone floor as though it may provide an answer. 

“Because,” she finally murmurs, “for once, I believe you.”

Something tight and aching lodges suddenly at his throat and before he can think better of it, before pride or embarrassment can stop him, Aegon crosses the room in a few quick strides and pulls his mother into an embrace. 

He feels her stiffen against him for a heartbeat before she wraps her arms around him, squeezing him almost tentatively, as though neither of them quite remembers how to do this. 

Maybe they never did. 

Even so, he rests his forehead on her shoulder, gladly letting her hair tickle at his nose. 

“Do not make me regret this,” she says quietly. 

He swallows hard against the thickness at the back of his throat and closes his eyes tightly, letting a tear slip free from the corner of one. “I won’t,” he whispers, voice wavering. 

She leans back just enough to look at him properly then and despite everything, despite the softness finally creeping into her face, there’s still some knowing glimmer in her gaze. 

“Do not swear things you cannot understand,” she says, though her expression gentles, “but try.”

He leaves Alicent’s chambers before she can change her mind or before he can wake from this strange, fragile dream and find himself once again trapped inside the same miserable life he’d resigned himself to years ago. 

The corridors of the Keep blur around him as he walks. Servants bow as he passes. Guards step aside. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of the Sept toll to announce the beginning of morning prayers, but Aegon hardly hears any of it over the thunder of his own pulse. 

She said she would try. Even now, the words feel impossible. 

By the time he reaches your chambers, the morning light has grown to a vibrant orange, spilling through the narrow castle windows and softening the stone walls into something warm.

He barely waits after knocking before swinging the door open. 

You’re already up, hastily rising from a seat by the window. You’re not dressed yet, still in that same robe from hours before. Your hair still hangs loose around your shoulders, still sleep-touseled, and there are dark crescents under your eyes like you hadn’t managed to sleep much either. 

Neither of you speaks for a moment as you simply stare at him—wide-eyed and worried and searching, hopeful in that careful way people become when they’re afraid to want too much. 

And Aegon—

Fuck, he can only look at you. 

Because now he’s here and now that this is real, he suddenly understands with awful clarity just how badly this could’ve gone—how easily he could’ve lost you before ever truly having you at all. 

“Well?” you finally ask, brows pulling together faintly beneath the weight of his silence. 

His throat tightens unexpectedly and he feels nearly lightheaded as he steps more fully into your chambers, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the door is closed. 

“I—she,” he starts, the words sticking in his throat before he barks out a breathy laugh, “mother says she’ll try.”

All at once, your shoulders sag with relief so sharp it looks nearly painful, your knees buckling in a way that has him striding closer before you right yourself. 

You’d been scared, he realizes, heart squeezing painfully in his chest. 

“It—it isn’t done,” he says quickly—almost apologetically—as he steps closer once more, instinct carrying him. “She only said she would speak to Viserys and try to sway him.”

“I understand,” you whisper, still smiling faintly despite the tears threatening to leak from the corners of your eyes. 

“Otto may have me killed.”

“That does seem likely, yes,” you breathe through a quiet laugh, startled by his words. 

There you are, he thinks, chest loosening at the sound of it—that familiar rhythm settling between you again as naturally as breathing. Gods, he thinks he could survive almost anything so long as you continue looking at him like that. 

You move closer then, until hardly any space remains between you at all. 

Aegon looks at you for a long moment before laughing under his breath, the sound of it almost disbelieving. “I truly thought she might throw something at my head,” he murmurs. 

“She still might.”

“Mm,” he hums, a wry smile on his lips, “perhaps later.”

Another quiet laugh escapes you again, gentler this time, before silence settles. He brings a hand up and cups your cheek, gliding a calloused thumb over your skin. 

“But I asked,” he says, the whispered words seeming to fill the room as a small part of himself marvels at the awe of that alone. Not whether Alicent said yes or no. Not Otto or Viserys or court gossip or political alliances—but at the fact that he asked at all.

He’s spent most of his life laughing before anyone else could laugh at him first and yielding before disappointment could ever truly settle. He drank and whored and joked his way around every genuine thing ever placed before him and even still—

He asked for you. He chose something for himself. 

You understand it immediately, of course you do—he sees it land across your face all at once as your expression softens so much that it nearly undoes him, nearly makes him weak in the knees like a naive fucking princess from one of those fairytale books girls all seem to fawn over. 

Slowly, you raise a hand and rest it on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the linen of his shirt. Your touch is so gentle that it makes him ache. 

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, nearly beaming. 

His breath catches enough to hurt and his hair stands on end as a shiver shoots down his spine like a lightning bolt, nearly striking him dumb. His mind reels—he cannot remember if anyone has ever said that to him, at least not honestly, not without expectation buried beneath it, not as surprise or out of pure obligation. 

For one upending instant, he thinks he may fall to pieces and cry like some pathetic fool right here in your arms. So, naturally, he does the only thing he knows how to do when emotions become too large to carry properly—he grins crookedly.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice thick despite his best efforts, “I may become unbearable after hearing things like that.”

“You already are,” you say without missing a beat, brushing a thumb beneath one of his eyes to catch the dampness there before it can fall. 

He laughs—quiet and helpless and more relieved than he thinks he’s ever been in his life before pulling you tightly against him and pressing his lips to yours at last.

This kiss is different than the one from earlier. That one had been desperate and frantic, starved and full of worry. This one feels almost reverent. Slow and lingering and warm with the joyous understanding that everything has shifted now, that you’ve both stepped into something neither of you can pull back from, not that you’d ever wish to. 

Your arms slide around his neck while his hands settle carefully at your waist, drawing you flush against him, and for once, Aegon doesn’t feel trapped by the future stretching out before him. 

When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his and he closes his eyes, breathing you in like you’re something sacred, something to be savored. 

Ever since he can remember, he had mistaken emptiness for protection. He’d thought that if he kept enough distance between himself and everyone else, kept enough of himself walled away—buried beneath wine and cruelty and laughter sharp enough to slice through flesh—then nothing could ever truly reach him. 

He’d gladly let his heart become shielded, armored like a knight—something hard enough to survive. 

You’d split straight through it without ever meaning to. 

A smile across crowded halls. A hand against his sleeve. Letters and years. A girl who kept finding him no matter how often he disappeared. 

And, Gods fucking help him, standing here with you in his arms, Aegon can’t help but be glad for the wound. 

Gooseflesh began to form along the bare bits of skin, your body’s way of urging you to go back inside the castle and seek out some semblance of warmth.   

Despite knowing that it was the logical thing to do, you didn’t listen. Instead, you brought your knees up to your chest, pressing your forehead against them and further curling into yourself, trying to lock in as much of your body heat as possible.   

Eventually you would have to go back inside the Red Keep, even if only to prevent hypothermia from setting in. But returning inside meant returning to reality; one that you knew you weren’t quite ready to face again.   

So, for now at least, you were content to sit here beneath the weirwood tree and risk freezing to death.    

A strange part of you considered whether death was a more desirable fate than the one you would soon face—though the thought alone was enough to spawn a feeling of guilt deep within your stomach, creeping its way up your throat and making you feel nauseous.   

Prince Aemond Targaryen was a decent man.   

Or, at the very least, he was far more decent than some of the men that wanted your hand.   

There were countless women who would gladly kill for an opportunity to take your place, and you knew that of all the things you should be feeling right now, grateful should be farther up on the list. After all, King Viserys’s youngest son was highly sought after for countless reasons.   

Aemond was undoubtedly intelligent. He had been studying intricate works of philosophy for nearly two decades, and you knew him to be capable of reciting the great histories of Westeros from memory alone.   

He practiced diligently with members of the Kings Guard, having gripped steel in his palms since he was old enough to stand. This meant his talent with a blade was nearly unmatched, leaving him highly revered for his dedication and talent, desired for his capability to protect those around him.   

And, as much as you wished to deny it, Aemond was an incredibly handsome man; even with the leather patch covering his missing eye.   

You were lucky to have ended up betrothed to him, someone that you had known for most of your life and knew would treat you fairly. You were lucky to be granted such a position, one that so many wanted.   

But try as you might, whenever you find yourself thinking of your betrothed, you can’t make yourself feel lucky, knowing that it was a fate you did not want.   

You just felt sick.   

So, instead of celebrating your impending union within the comfort of the Red Keep, hand-in-hand with your future husband, you sat in the dirt beneath the weirwood.   

Hiding—from both the future that awaited you and what would soon be left in your past.   

Unfortunately, the latter was much harder to hide from, given that your past had a nasty habit of always knowing exactly where to find you.   

“Seven hells, y/n! It’s fucking freezing out here!”   

The sound of Aegon’s voice was unexpected, nearly making you jump from your own skin. You lifted your head to look in his direction so fast that you smacked it against the tree behind you. A pained gasp slipped your lips, followed by a hushed series of expletives as a throbbing spread throughout the base of your skull.   

If anyone else were around, they likely would have scolded you for your vulgar use of language, marking it unladylike and improper. But Aegon only laughed at it.   

“Careful now,” he warned playfully, taking another few lazy steps in your direction, “can’t say my brother would be too pleased to hear that his betrothed bashed her own skull in just days before their wedding.”   

You couldn’t understand how you hadn’t heard him approaching, knowing that stealth wasn’t exactly a quality the eldest prince possessed.   

Aegon was always careless and heavy footed, always quick to make his presence known; the opposite of his brother. But tonight, it seemed as if he’d borrowed upon Aemond’s skills–or, more likely, you had been too consumed in your own misery to pay any attention.   

“I’ve been looking for you, you know.” A boyish grin tugged at his pale lips, stopping at the base of your feet and looking down at you.   

For many it was an unusual sight to see Aegon smile, with most having grown used to the permanent scowl that seemed to grace his features. For you, though, it was a standard expression.    

Rubbing at the sore spot on the back of your head, you kept your chin low, refusing to look up as you spoke roughly, “My apologies, your grace. I wasn’t aware my presence was needed anywhere.”   

Aegon’s brow instantly cocked, forehead creasing as he took in both the bitterness and the formality of your statement.   

It was rare that you addressed him with proper terms and hearing them now made him feel uneasy. Your willingness to ignore the politics that threatened to consume his life was one of the many things Aegon adored about you, knowing that with you, he wasn’t the prince or even the King’s true heir—he was just Aegon.   

“Your presence is always needed.” He spoke without thinking, sharing the first thing that came to mind. When you stayed silent, he felt his face grow warm.  

Clearing his throat and trying to redirect, he impishly bumped his foot against yours to try and draw your attention. It didn’t work, your stare fixed to your lap. “Why are you hiding out here anyways?”  

“I’m not hiding.” You swiftly corrected him, finally lowering your hand as the pain in your head dissipated to a dull ache. “I just wanted some fresh air.”  

“You should have told me,” he said, once again failing to hold his tongue, “I would’ve joined you.”  

Restraint had never been a strong suit of his, yet it seemed to fail him further whenever you were around.  

Aegon had never quite gotten used to having someone who actually wanted him around. Growing up surrounded by those who only ever searched for ways to avoid him, he had grown familiar with loneliness.  

But then you came along one day, a scared little girl whose father had just secured a place in King Viserys’s council. Aegon remembered thinking that you seemed just as out-of-place as he did, trying to make a home of this unfamiliar land.  

Imagining that you were even half as lonely as he felt, he took pity on you, approaching you on a whim and cracking some awful joke to ease your mind. And, to his surprise, it worked. Laughter reverberated through your little body, spilling from your lips and urging him to laugh too.  

With one petty and uncharacteristic act of kindness, Aegon became your first friend in the Red Keep, and you became the first person to not just tolerate his presence, but to actually enjoy it.  

It became an addicting feeling for him, seeking out your company and using it to stave away decades loneliness. With you, he felt that he was always pining, always craving—always the opposite of himself.  

You smiled in response to his statement, though he was quick to realize that it wasn’t a kind one. It resembled more of a snarl, lips pressed tightly together, voice taut as you said, “I wasn’t in the mood for company.”  

Aegon’s body immediately went stiff, a pang of rejection coursing through him and making his face screw up. It was intentional, of course, as you knew him well enough to know he would take your comment personally. You hoped it would piss him off enough to make him leave entirely.  

Of course, though, things were never that easy with Aegon.  

“Alright, what did I do?” He asked gruffly, sounding an awful lot like a child waiting to be scolded.  

“What do you mean?”  

“To piss you off!” He all but whined, voice growing louder as his short temper began to rise. “What did I do to make you act like this?”  

You were stumped, left to purse your lips as you struggled to conjure an answer that didn’t involve you telling him the truth.  

Aegon had been on his best behavior as of late. It had been ages since you last heard of him visiting the Street of Silk and he hadn’t been allowing himself to fall too deeply into his cups.  

In many ways, it seemed that since your betrothal to his brother was announced, Aegon had been far more composed, happier, even—a fact that likely should have made you happy as well.  

But it didn’t.  

If anything, it made you miserable.  

With a deep sigh, agitated by your own complicated feelings and him, you answered with a half-truth, “You haven’t done anything, my prince.”  

The sound of that word, that fucking title, falling from your lips was enough to snap something within him, his quick temper getting the better of him.  

An annoyed growl ripped through his throat, stomping his foot against the dirt. Even without looking at him you could feel his lilac eyes burning into you, glaring down at you.  

“Stop that.”  

You played coy, repeating the phrase that had gotten a rise out of him. “Stop what, my prince?”  

In a selfish way, you wanted him to be angry, to feel even half as unhappy as you were right now.  

“Stop talking to me like my mother’s around!” He grumbled.  

Bold and fueled by your own misery, you pushed him further, “Is that a command, my pri-”  

Aegon cut you off before you had a chance to antagonize him further, shouting far louder than intended, “No! It’s not a fucking command!”  

You were instantly stunned, finally breaking as your gaze flicked up from your lap, staring at him with wide-eyes.  

This wasn’t the first time you had heard Aegon yell.  

After all, you’d grown up with him, having practically become the elder boy’s shadow. You had heard him yell at knights, at servants, and even his siblings—but this was the first time he had ever yelled at you.  

You expected to be scared, having found yourself the target of his short temper. But, in a strange way, you found that you liked it. For a moment, however brief, you were the target of his passion. Even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted, it was still something.  

Aegon clearly didn’t share those feelings though, regret swiftly washing over him. He took a deep breath, his head lowering as he attempted to calm himself.  

“You know that I would never command you to do anything.” He told you, much softer than before. A hand rose to his head, his fingers roughly tugging at his silvery locks. “I was only asking you to stop. As your friend.”  

You knew that his statement was meant as a kindness. A testament, even, that he would never use his position of power against you, viewing you as far more than one of his father's subjects. Knowing that, however, did not stop it from landing against your chest like a harsh blow, your lip curling in disgust at the sound.  

For years you had thought yourself happy to have Aegon as a friend. But, as much as you didn’t wish to admit it, you knew that you would be far happier to have him as more than that.  

As the two of you grew older, you found yourself tired of sitting on the sidelines, watching as Aegon lusted over every woman that crossed his path. You watched as he chased after servants and whores, throwing his attention and his cock at anyone who would pay him any attention.  

Except for you.  

Often it felt as if you were the only woman in the world that he didn’t want, even as you grew desperate for him. While Aegon seemingly craved your friendship, you craved him.  

Having become further vexed by your own thoughts, you let out a particularly loud huff, falling back against the weirwood tree and ignoring the way Aegon’s brows raised at your dramatic display. “Not for much longer.” You proclaimed, watching blankly as your breath turned to a cloudy mist amongst the cool air. “So you should get used to the formalities.”  

“Well what the fuck do you mean by that?” Aegon asked, sounding thoroughly exasperated.  

He found females to be entirely too difficult to communicate with. They were fickle creatures, prone to speaking in riddles and leaving him with a kind of headache that couldn’t be easily remedied. It was the reason he did his best to avoid them altogether, save for whenever one was crawling into his bed.  

You were an exception, however. The only woman he cared enough about to actually try and decode your cryptic speech.  

“I’ll be married soon,” you told him simply, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug, “it’ll change things.”  

 “Ah, yes!” Aegon commented caustically, laughing dryly, “My apologies! I forgot that as soon as you’re wed my brother plans to throw you in the Maidenvault, never to be seen again!”  

You cut your eyes at him, letting your head drop back against your knees. “So glad that you’re taking this seriously, Aeg.”  

The muffled remark made his laughter grow quiet, realizing that you clearly weren’t in the mood for his antics. For whatever reason, even if he didn’t understand it, you were serious about thinking that your marriage to Aemond would affect your friendship.  

Silence settled over the two of you, a suffocating and heavy sort of thing. The ground crunched beneath his boots, and you wondered if he had finally had enough of your temperamental behavior.  

It was a thought that should’ve brought you some relief, given that you had been purposely trying to piss him off enough that he’d leave you to wallow alone in your misery, but it didn’t. Instead, you only grew more agitated at the thought of Aegon running off to seek out the company of someone far more amenable than you.  

You went to lift your head, already considering pleading with him to stay, before you suddenly felt the warmth of his body pressing against your side as he sat on the ground with you.  

The close proximity quelled your building nerves, your muscles instinctively relaxing in his presence.  

“So you’re not angry at me,” he ventured, seemingly unaware of the fact that your heart was now in your throat, your mind too fixated on the way his forearm was pressed against yours, “you’re upset about your betrothal?”  

His tone took you by surprise, now lacking the humor it once held and sounding far more pensive. The newfound solemnity wasn’t enough to stop him from playfully jutting an elbow into your side though, silently urging you to lift your head.  

You obliged with his request, though you didn’t let yourself face him as you muttered out an answer. “I guess so.”  

“But why? This was what we wanted, was it not?”  

We—a simple phrase, inherently meaningless and yet still powerful enough to cause your chest to tighten.  

“We always agreed that when it came time for you to marry that it would be best for it to be someone here, right? That way you wouldn’t have to leave King’s Landing!”  

So you wouldn’t have to leave him.   

“Well, yes,” you huffed, cheeks beginning to heat as you struggled to find an easy explanation for your feelings, “but it’s just–I don’t know, this isn’t how I imagined things would go!”  

It was true enough.  

Perhaps Aegon’s only hope had been that you would be betrothed to someone nearby, unwilling to lose his best friend. But your hope had only ever been that you would be betrothed to him.  

“Is it Aemond?” He guessed, trying to think of any reason for your animosity. Without waiting for confirmation, he hastily started to form a defense for it. “I know he’s a bit of a twat, but it’s not like you’ll be expected to spend all your time with him! Dozens of women only ever see their husbands on special occasions, do they not? Like tourneys or fucking-”  

You threw your head back and grimaced, a repulsed sound coming from your lips at the reminder of the duty that would soon be placed upon you. Cursed as a woman, you would be expected to give Aemond an heir; a thought you’d been trying to avoid.  

“Seven hells, Aeg! It’s not about that!” You cried out, nose wrinkling.  

“Oh.”  

He sank back against the weirwood, his shoulders slumping forward as he did. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Does that mean you actually want to fuck my brother?” He cocked a brow at you, starting to motion to the left side of his face. “Even with the whole, ya know-”  

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh at the disgusted expression he wore. “You’re unbelievable.”  

“I’m just wondering!” Aegon defended himself, lifting his hands to his chest, palms facing outwards.  

“Well not everything is about fucking, Aegon.” You said sternly.  

“Sooo,” he popped his lips, giving you a sheepish grin that let you know he wasn’t planning to drop the question, “you don’t want to fuck him then?”  

Scowling, you reached over to swat roughly at his forearm, unable to hold back your amusement as you watched him try to scramble back from the strike, chuckling at your weak attempt to hit him.  

“No, Aeg. I don’t want to fuck your brother.” You clarified, rolling your eyes at his juvenile behavior. “Not that it’s any of your business in the first place.”  

The answer seemed to satisfy the eldest prince, moving back to settle against the tree with a smug smirk. “Then aside from fucking Aemond,” he jeered, “what’s the problem? We should be celebrating!”  

He leaned closer, delicately grabbing hold of your wrist and lightly shaking you. Your smile abruptly fell, posture straightening. Aegon didn’t notice the changes in your body language, only continuing his spiel.  

“This marriage will solve everything! Your father is pleased that you’re marrying a prince, and being with Aemond means that you won’t even have to leave the Keep! It all works out perfectly.”  

“You’re right,” you heaved out a breath, snatching your wrist from his hand and rising to your feet, “it clearly solves everything!”  

“Yet you’re still not happy.” Aegon acknowledged, mild amusement twinkling in his lilac eyes as he watched you begin to frantically pace back and forth beside him.  

“How could I be?” You scoffed, throwing your hands up as you spun roughly on your heel. “Here I am, being forced to marry Aemond-”  

“Yes, being forced to marry a prince, how dreadful.” Aegon droned.  

“I am signing away my life, Aegon!” You glared at him, keeping your voice low as you jutted a finger against your chest. “I am aware that the cards I’ve been dealt are much kinder than some others, but that does not make them desirable!”  

It felt as if your frustration had reached its peak, your words beginning to spill out without a second thought.  

“As soon as I’m wed to your brother I will be locked away in that fucking castle, good for absolutely nothing but supplying him with heirs! And should I fail at that, then I’ll be as good as useless!”  

It pained you to speak your thoughts aloud, unable to fight back against the guilt suddenly gnawing at you. Growing up Aemond had never been anything less than respectful towards you; but even so, you knew his respect would only extend so far.  

Patient as he may be, there was little in this world that mattered more to him than duty, and you knew he would be expecting you to fulfill yours, regardless of your own wants.  

Ceasing your incessant assault against the ground you froze by Aegon’s feet, now rubbing at your temples. “So yes, this marriage most certainly solves everything.” You spat, voice full of bitter sadness. “I'll be subjected to a cruel fate, where my worth will become equated to that of a broodmare and I’ll be forced to live my life knowing that I will never wed the man I actually want!”  

The subtle admission nearly went over Aegon’s head, your words spilling out so fast that he could just barely register them—but he did.  

The half-way-confession caught him off-guard, the color draining from his face as he processed it. Of all the issues he expected you to have with your betrothal to Aemond, he hadn’t once expected it to be because someone else had already claimed your heart.  

Thinking of it now, knowing it to be a possibility, only succeeded in causing his short temper to flare once again. Aegon’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging deep into the heel of his palm.  

“Who?”  

His voice came out unusually low, his eyes darkening as they landed on you. You instantly felt trapped under his gaze, lips parting only to fall closed once again, trying to think of a way out of the corner you’d backed yourself into.  

When you stayed silent, Aegon pushed himself to his feet in a single swift motion, easily towering over your frame and leaving you to shrink further beneath him.  

“If not Aemond,” he practically snarled, his lip curling as his brother’s name rolled from his tongue like a curse, “then who do you wish to wed?”  

You wanted to disappear.  

You wished that the ground would open up under your feet and swallow you whole.  

But you knew that there was no true escape from him, stumbling a half step back and tilting your head to the ground, doing everything in your power to evade his piercing stare until you could work up a lie that made sense.  

It nearly worked too, until a hand came to rest under your chin, firmly grasping it and shoving it upwards, forcing you to meet his stare.  

Aegon’s jaw was unbelievably tense, clenched tight as a barely contained rage swirled to life in his eyes, impatiently awaiting an answer.  

Now, unable to look away from him, you noticed how much he couldn’t stand this—the idea of you being the one to pine and crave for someone, for you feel anything for another. For some reason, one that no doubt left you perplexed, it was apparent now that Aegon had only accepted your betrothal with ease because he knew it to be out of duty—not love.  

“It doesn’t matter.” You whispered, biting your tongue to hold back the desperate admission building in your throat.  

You tried to hold onto the last few scrapes of your sanity, reminding yourself that confessing now would gain you nothing.  

If Aegon cared for you—if he loved you—then he’d had over a decade to admit it, or to even just show it in a way you could understand.  

“Of course it does.” He rebutted firmly, unwavering in his demand for an answer.  

His touch began to drift, fingers softly sliding along your jawline before the warmth of his palm came to cradle your cheek. It was an unusual feeling, having him so close, but you let yourself savor it, greedily lapping up every bit of intimacy he’d offer you.   

“Please,” he urged you, the scent of wine on his breath piercing your senses, “tell me who.”  

You weren’t sure you’d ever heard him sound like this before, his tone a near whine. It was the closest Aegon had ever come to begging you for something, and as you squeezed your eyes shut tighter, you found yourself losing all sense of reason, unable to hold back any longer.  

“You.”  

A breathless admission, one that held no expectations as to what he might say or do in response. A cynical part of you sought to brace yourself, half-expecting him to take it as a joke and laugh in your face at the thought of being with you.  

But Aegon didn’t laugh, even as his hand fell from your face, allowing the cold to kiss your cheek once again.  

Your eyes shot open at the loss of contact, stunned as you saw Aegon stumbling back from you, nearly tripping over his own feet. There was no look of amusement like you’d expected, nor one of disdain. Instead, to your surprise, he appeared to be hurt by the confession.  

Staring at him, too dumbfounded to speak, you watched the way his bottom lip trembled, lilac eyes turning glossy with unshed tears. Then he shook his head, strands of silver hair falling in his face.  

“No.” He all but choked on the word, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re lying.”  

Your brows snapped together, offended as you just barely stuttered out an answer. “What? Why would I–what would I gain from lying about this?”  

“I don’t know!” Aegon cried out, a few tears beginning to slide freely down his cheeks. He was quick to wipe them away with the backs of his hands, embarrassed by his own emotions. “But I refuse to accept that it’s the truth!”  

“Refusing to accept it will not make it any less true, Aeg!” You countered, stepping towards him and tried to close the distance he had created. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me to say it, especially now, but I swear to you that I mean what I say!”  

It felt foolish to do this, to stand before your best friend and declare him as the man you wished to wed, just days before you were to be given to his brother. You felt ignorant to place yourself in this position, to have set yourself up for rejection after all these years.  

But none of that mattered now, you supposed. You could not take back what you said, having already handed him your still-beating heart. All that was left to do was wait—praying he would be kind enough to not crush it in his hands.  

And so, knowing that you couldn’t back out of this, you swallowed what remained of your pride and said the words that had been living in your head for a decade now.  

“I love you, Aegon. I denied it for so many years and spent several more trying to bury it, but I love you.” 

Aegon remained motionless, his glistening eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. He found none, only seeing that despite any logic or reason, it was the truth.  

As flawed as he may be and as much as he didn’t want to believe it, you were in love with him.  

Wetness gathered on your cheeks, making you realize that you were crying now too. Aegon stayed silent, each passing second causing your heart to grow heavier, an emptiness cleaving its way through your chest.  

He’s had over a decade to admit any feelings he might have–you reminded yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and letting more tears fall free. You had expected this—assumed that Aegon would never see you as anything more than his friend—but that didn’t make it hurt any less.  

“I told you that things would change-” you tried to speak, wanting to get this over with. It was best for him to break your heart quickly, you thought, so that you could at least escape this moment.  

But Aegon didn’t let you finish your sentence, hands suddenly grabbing at your waist, pulling you into his chest. You gasped at the movement, eyes opening as both of your palms moved to press flat against his tunic, trying to steady yourself.  

Disoriented, you blinked at him, waiting for some sort of explanation. He didn’t offer one, at least not immediately. You couldn’t read his expression, quietly watching as his tear-stained face began to soften.  

Then, gently, he spoke—”Say it again.”  

A flush crept up your neck. “I love you.”  

“You shouldn’t.” He said, his thumb pressing into your abdomen as he gripped you tighter.  

“But I do,” you assured him, breathless as you repeated it again, “I have loved you my entire life, Aegon–even if you don’t feel the same.”  

Lilac eyes narrowed at your insecure claim. “Have I ever said that I don’t?” He tilted his head, hands sliding down to your hips and shoving you back against the smooth bark of the weirwood. “I have been madly in love with you from the very first moment I saw you.”  

A mixture of doubt and relief flooded your mind, grappling with the authenticity of his promise. “But you never said anything-”  

“Because I’m not worthy of someone like you.” Aegon winced at the sound of his own words. “You’ve seen it yourself throughout the years. Heard it from the mouths of my own family. I am a coward and an imbecile, but you-” his nails dug through the fabric of your gown, his body pressing against yours and further caging you against the tree, “are the only good in my life. The only one who gives me a reason to be good.”  

Pain etched across his features as he talked of the way others thought of him, of the way his own family thought of him. The sight nearly made you crumble against him.  

You brought a hand to his cheek, softly caressing his skin. “You should’ve told me.”  

“No,” he asserted, nuzzling into your touch, “I knew that if I told you how I felt and you didn’t return my feelings that it would change things between us. I wasn’t willing to risk losing you.” Aegon paused, his gaze flickering to your lips, “I don’t think I can live without you in my life.”  

Disbelief clouded your mind. This wasn’t real, you wanted to tell yourself, feeling delirious, this can’t be real.  

But you could feel him; his fingers pressing into your flesh, the steady rise-and-fall of his chest against yours. You could smell him; sweet notes of red wine lacing his breath, engulfing your senses. And you could see him; watching as his lilac stare got hung up on your mouth, your throat, your collarbones, swirling with a dangerous blend of lust and adoration.  

You didn’t want to think of tomorrow or the next day. You didn’t want to think of your betrothal to Aemond and what would become of your life.  

Because tonight, right now, this is your new reality.  

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you began to weave your fingers into the hair covering the base of his neck. “You could never lose me.” You swore, melting as a soft whine fell from his lips at the declaration.  

Then, before you even had time to think, his lips were pressed against yours.  

There was nothing gentle about Aegon’s kiss.  

It was a fervent act, hard and desperate, filled with a passion so intense that it made your legs tremble. Aegon’s grip turned near-bruising, steadying you as he pushed further into you.  

Heat rushed through your body, pooling within your stomach as a strangled moan parted your lips, giving way for Aegon to slip his tongue into your mouth, filling it with the bitter taste of wine. One of his hands drifted to your back, traveling up your spine before burying itself in your hair and trying to pull you even closer.  

Breaking the kiss, he chuckled as he heard you groan in protest, swollen lips ghosting over your cheek before hovering against your ear. “I have loved you for so long,” he purred, the warmth of his breath causing your back to arch, “I have wanted you for so long-”  

The hand that remained on your hip trailed down to your thigh, hurriedly hiking up the fabric of your skirts until he was touching bare skin. His fingers prodded into your flesh, pulling your leg upwards to his waist and wedging himself further between your hips.  

“Then take me,” you gasped, your fingers still laced in his hair, making him groan as you tugged at the silver locks, “I’m already yours.”  

A guttural sound wracked through his body, a hardness pressing against your core as his hips moved against yours. His mouth quickly moved to find yours again, and as his teeth snared on your bottom lip, nibbling at it, you prayed that this would last forever.  

But the Gods tend to be cruel, however.  

“Apologies, my prince-” a squeal erupted from your throat, both of you snapping away from each other to see a red-faced Ser Erryk standing a few feet away. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but the Queen requires your presence.”  

Panic began to flood your veins, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Aegon, however, seemed entirely unphased by being caught like this, his hand still gripping your thigh. “Tell her I’m busy.”  

You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, your mind racing. If Erryk told the Queen of the position he had found the two of you in…  

“I’m afraid she won’t accept that, my prince.” He spoke awkwardly, doing his best to keep his stare from drifting to your exposed skin. “It seemed quite urgent. She requested that I deliver you to her at once.”  

“Fine.” Aegon grumbled, rolling his eyes at the guard.  

He took a half-step back from you, allowing you to lower your leg from his waist before helping you to smooth the fabric of your gown, looking entirely unbothered by the situation.  

You, on the other hand, looked as if you were about to pass out.  

Aegon only chuckled at your blanched expression, leaving you to glare at him as you questioned whether he understood this situation's true gravity.  

“Aegon,” you whispered harshly, gaze flicking towards Erryk, “if he tells your mother about this-”  

“Let him.” He said, a certain arrogance filling his voice. “If he doesn’t, then I’ll do it myself.”  

Your brows furrowed. “But Aemond-”  

“Fuck Aemond.” Aegon told you harshly, unwilling to listen to your protests. “You are mine to claim, not his.”  

You bit down on your lower lip, his declaration only worsening your wish that Erryk hadn’t interrupted the two of you. “Your mother won’t like that.”  

“She doesn’t have to.” He started, “My mother wishes for me to sit the Iron Throne, and I wish for you,” he gave you a devious smirk, reaching for your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, “I imagine the two of us can come to an agreement that will relieve you of your commitment to my brother.”  

In spite of your nerves, only building at the thought of Aegon being forced to sit upon the throne, you couldn't help but allow yourself to smile, finally imagining a future that you wouldn't need to hide from.

Perhaps your fate wouldn’t be so cruel after all.  

I wrote the majority of this well past midnight while feeling as if I were dying from an insane migraine. So, basically, I have no clue what this is but it kept me occupied and I'm gonna go ahead and post it anyways lmao.

In the beginning, that didn’t mean much. You were one of Helaena’s ladies’ in waiting, and only ever saw the then prince on occasion.

Then Aegon was crowned King, and you saw him a bit more as Helaena was required to be present at what felt like too many ceremonies. Because you were almost exactly the same age, although it was against an unspoken rule, she came to see you as a friend.

When the twins were born and Helaena saw how good you were with them, it seemed to anyone who was around that she wanted you near at all times. She practically begged you to begin sleeping in her chambers to help with the fussing and crying at night, and of course you said yes. It occurred to you later that night that she could’ve just demanded it.

It wasn’t long at all before the twins also formed an attachment, as their mothers need to have you close by didn’t lessen even as they got older.

Though they both loved you, Jaehaerys in particular, was very fond of you. Jaehaera was a lot more independent and chose to play with her dolls or little trinkets by herself. But the boy, the other ladies’ in waiting and even Helaena herself, often called him your little shadow.

Whatever task you were given, it wasn’t uncommon for Jaehaerys to be nearby. As he grew a little older, he began to ask questions.

Once, he asked why his mother wore such fancy dresses, but yours and the rest of the ladies’ were only ever plain. It hadn’t occurred to you that because you spent so much time with him and had a big hand in raising him, he saw you as family and genuinely didn’t understand why you dressed differently.

Luckily, you didn’t need to answer. Aegon appeared from around the corner, calling for his son. Once Jaehaerys ran to him, he gave you a nod before grabbing his sons hand and leading him in the opposite direction.

To the King, you were a mystery. He knew his sister preferred you to the other ladies’ in waiting, and he knew she’d rather you over any of them to be looking after the twins when she was busy, but he didn’t know why. Still, his sister was set in her ways, and in the end he simply decided it was best to not ask questions. Even he could see that you cared deeply for his children, and for him that was enough.

On the day Aegon wished for his son to sit in on a council meeting, Jaehaerys was being a bit difficult that morning. For whatever reason, he refused to go unless it was you that escorted him.

After assuring him that you’d only get the boy in the room and then quickly make your exit, Aegon nodded and led the 2 of you into the room.

Just like you knew he would, Jaehaerys immediately went for “the ball” as he called it, in front of Tyland Lannister. You could see irritation immediately all over the man’s face, but to his credit he did his best to hide it.

The third time the ball was grabbed, you were the only one that heard it when Tyland snapped. The meeting hadn’t yet begun but you could see he already wished it to be over.

“That child doesn’t belong in here,” he muttered to himself, unaware that you could hear him.

“I will escort him to his mothers chambers now. Is the heir to the throne bothering you a bit too much?” That last bit slipped out, and you immediately regretted it as the room grew silent and all eyes turned to the 3 of you. After a few tense seconds, most everyone resumed their conversations.

You slowly stood up, Jaehaerys now on your back as that was the only way he agreed to leave the room. “Apologies Ser Lan—”

“Hold on,” the room stilled once again when it was Aegon that spoke this time. He looked at you, then back at Tyland. “She has nothing to apologize for. And I believe she asked you a question. Is the heir to the throne, my son, is he bothering you?”

Even Alicent opted to look down and fiddle with her hands rather than step in. You didn’t think you’d ever been more grateful for Aegon that in that moment.

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ONE.

On the night Jaehaerys was murdered, you were knocked unconscious. You’d later find out it was the man they called Blood that hurt you, but at the time all you knew / remembered was waking to a loud noise. Immediately you got out of bed, but before you could properly realize what was happening, you felt something sharp across your cheek. And before you’d even had time to cry out, something hard hit the side of your head, causing everything to go dark.

When you woke, you ignored the maesters requests to stay in bed. As soon as you stood up, you almost wished you’d listened as you immediately felt dizzy. That was also when you felt the stinging pain of the cut on your cheek. The maester explained that you wouldn’t need to have it stitched up, but he hadn’t yet bandaged you because even in your sleep, you tossed and turn whenever he tried to tend to that injury.

After agreeing to not over exert yourself, you were off to find Helaena. It was then that another one of the ladies’ in waiting broke the news to you.

When you were let in to Alicent’s chambers, and locked eyes with Helaena, she immediately stood up from her spot on the floor and ran to you, Jaehaera still held tightly in her arms.

“Are you alright?” You knew she would be with the maester if she were injured, but you still had to ask. “They said—”

“He’s dead,” was all Helaena could say. That and “they killed him”.

What felt like an eternity later, and you’d gotten Jaehaera to sleep and convinced Helaena to at least lay down with her, you were unsure of what to do. Only a few moments later, you found yourself wandering the halls. Every inch of the place had been searched almost immediately, so you know that the halls were alright once again.

Part of you felt like you didn’t have a right to mourn Jaehaerys, as he wasn’t actually your son. You were just trying to process the fact that you’d never see his little smile again. Never again would you turn a corner and be greeted with that sweet voice asking where the 2 of you were going, because him staying with anyone else was out of the question.

You were one of the first to hold him after he was born, and had seen him every day since. To already be in a world where he no longer existed, it seemed cruel.

When you stopped walking, you realized that you’d come to Aegon’s chambers. The doors were obviously closed, and you had only managed to take a few steps back the way you came, when you heard them open.

“Oh, good,” you turned around, surprised that it was Alicent that had spoken. “Did Helaena send you?”

You stuttered as you tried to form a response, but she seemed to take your silence as a confirmation.

“He’s distraught, obviously. I’m not sure he’ll speak to you but…” she seemed unsure of herself. In the end she sort of motioned towards the doors, before turning and walking away.

Before you even raised your hand to knock, you heard sobbing. It was then that you realized you were wrong. Yes, your heart could break even more.

It didn’t escape your notice that Alicent left the room as her son was sobbing. You knew she wasn’t the comforting type, but you couldn’t imagine simply walking the other way.

After a few knocks, you weren’t surprised when there was no answer. As you slowly opened the door, then shut it behind you, you thought to yourself that you should’ve thought about what to say beforehand. Here was this normally stone-faced man, showing more emotion now than he had in the entire time you’d known him. And after more thought, you realized that perhaps Alicent had tried to comfort him but was asked to leave.

“Who is there?” Aegon finally seemed to notice someone else’s presence, but hadn’t actually looked up. His head remained in his hands, and you could hear him trying to quiet his cries.

“I am sorry, I— I just thought I should check on you.” You noticed how pathetic you sounded only after the words left your mouth.

He let out a humorless chuckle, then slowly stood up and made his way towards you. “Check up on me?”

You nodded. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Stupid question to ask if you’re okay, I know.”

He studied your face for a moment, and his guard came down ever so slightly. He believed your concern to be genuine. And for Gods sakes, his own mother couldn’t even comfort him. She left quietly and Aegon knew it was in the hopes that he wouldn’t know she’d ever entered the room.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to answer you. Instead he returned to his sitting position, once again leaning forward so that his head was in his hands.

“I should’ve been there,” he spoke so softly that you didn’t quite hear him.

“Pardon?”

He looked up at you, fresh tears in his eyes. “I should’ve been there!” When he saw how you flinched, he regretted being so loud. But a larger part of him didn’t care. You were the first person to allow him to speak freely. He needed to let out his emotions somewhere. “I should have been there. But I thought who’d be stupid enough to try anything here? Look at how wrong I was.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” you shook your head.

“That is bullshit!” He stood up and began pacing back and forth. “My son is DEAD! It was an act of revenge, why else do you think the rest of you were left alive?”

You were about to ask if they already know who is responsible, but it’s as if he read your mind.

“My brother kills her son, so she has taken it upon herself to exact revenge, a son for a son!” He laughs, but again there is no humor in his tone. “My son, the heir to the throne, he is gone. Murdered while he slept and I did nothing!”

As he sat crying, you kneeled in front of him. Trying not to think about it too much, you placed your hands on his and forced him to look at you.

“Everyone around knows how much you love that boy. And he loved you just as much.” You decided it was better to not repeat that he couldn’t have done anything. Right now in front of you, was a father who needed to grieve.

Aegon knew he should be cautious. His sister knew you well, but he did not. He was already ashamed that you’ve seen him cry. Yet you didn’t seem repulsed. You allowed him to rant and didn’t try to shove advice down his throat. His son was gone, but you reminded him of the love that existed, that still exists.

The angry part of him wanted to shout at you to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to yell again in that moment. So he allowed your hands to remain on his as he cried for his son.

You prayed that no one would walk in, as you stood up and pulled Aegon up with you. Before he could ask what was happening, you gave him a hug.

His first instinct was again, one of anger. He resisted the brief urge to push you away. After a few seconds, he even surprised himself when he almost melted into your touch. He genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he was in someone else’s embrace like this. And you didn’t ask questions. You only held him and listened to his heartbeat.

He found himself crying again as he returned the gesture and wrapped his arms around you. Although he knew he could never speak of this, and he’d have to ask that you not do the same at some point, he allowed himself to do nothing but mourn the loss of his son as you held him in your arms, and you in his.

He was grateful that at least in this moment, you allowed him to grieve.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

TWO.

After that, there was a noticeable change. Aegon gravitated towards you if he entered a room and you were already there. Everyone noticed, but none dared to speak on the matter, not even Alicent or Otto.

You heard about the meeting in which it was ultimately decided that Jaehaerys’ body would be placed on a carriage led through the streets, so that the public might see just what Queen Rhaenyra was capable of. You didn’t think this was her doing. How could a mother who has just lost her son, inflict that pain onto someone else? Surely she wouldn’t. But everyone else was so sure. And you were but a low-born lady in waiting, so you remained silent.

The thought of Jaehaerys being used, paraded through the streets for all to gawk at, it angered you. Yes, he was a prince. And you understood the message that they hoped it would send, but it didn’t make you any less upset. He was just a boy. You thought of the boy who would run into your embrace whenever you walked in to his mothers chambers.

You couldn’t even imagine how Aegon was feeling. He loved that boy deeply, and you had no doubt that he was pressured into agreeing.

That same night, you were abruptly woken up. Immediately you looked to Helaena’s bed, filled with relief to see her and Jaehaera fast asleep. But it alarmed you that it was Ser Criston Cole of all people, who’d woken you up.

He put a finger to his lips, then turned and exited the room. You made sure you looked at least half decent before you followed him, wondering what on earth possessed him to wake you at such an hour.

“I—” He looked unsure of where to start.

“Has something happened?”

“It’s the King.” He didn’t wait for you to respond, instead turning and practically running out of the room.

As you chased after him, it did occur to you that it was odd for him to fetch the King’s sisters ladies’ in waiting. You also realized that he never technically responded when you asked if something happened.

When the 2 of you finally reached Aegon’s chambers, Criston didn’t even open the door. He didn’t need to though, you could hear the shouting and loud noises from outside.

“Who else is in there?” You fiddled with your hands, unsure of what you were walking into.

Criston merely shook his head. “No one. He kicked everyone out. But I know you helped him that— that night. Can you…?”

Without giving it a second thought, you nodded. Instead of leaving, Criston sort of stood guard right outside the door. You’d seen Aegon angry before, and were secretly relieved that he was outside should anything go wrong.

This time, you didn’t bother knocking. You did, however, try to open and then close the door as quietly as possible.

“I declare war!” It was the first thing you heard since entering the room, and you didn’t bother asking who he was declaring war on.

“My King —”

It was as if he was in a sort of angry trance. You speaking didn’t even cause him to look in your direction.

“I want them all dead! They’ll all pay for this, every fucking one of them!” As he spoke, he moved about the room destroying King Viserys’ carefully and meticulously constructed display.

You could see he needed to let his anger out. And didn’t exactly want to approach him while he held something that could hurt you. Not that he intentionally would, but seeing as he had no reaction to you calling out to him, you didn’t think it wise to sneak up on him.

As the smashing and destruction went on, you could see Aegon begin to wear himself out. It wasn’t so much that the anger was leaving his body, but rather that he was losing the energy to continue. Now, you thought to yourself, was a good time to gauge where he’s at mentally / emotionally.

“My King—” you tried again. This would be a moment you’d come to regret, seeing as you hadn’t considered the fact that Aegon was so blinded by his rage that he hadn’t noticed it was you in the room. Sure he heard the doors open and close, but he assumed it had been one of his men.

Not registering who it was that just spoke, and only hearing that someone was interrupting his rampage, he turned around with an arm swung out. It ended up being sort of a backhanded slap, and unfortunately he was wearing a ring.

Once he realized it was you that he’d just harmed, Aegon froze. His eyes widened and he immediately dropped to his knees.

“Are you hurt? Did I— did I…” He didn’t seem to know what he wanted to ask.

You put a hand to your cheek and examined your fingers, nothing a small amount of blood. He hit almost exactly where you were cut, and by the feel of it you guessed that his hit reopened the wound.

“It’s fine,” you tried to reassure him. “I am sure I will be healed in no time. There is no need—” Before you could finish speaking, he’d fled from the room, but not before hurriedly asking you to stay put.

Only a short while later he returned with the maester quickly following behind him.

As the man tended to your face, you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he debated on speaking. In the end, he decided to ask the question.

“How did you manage to reopen this wound?”

Luckily for you, you’d studied the room and had your answer prepared.

You pointed to a spot on the floor where a glass of wine lay spilt. “I slipped just there. Tried to steady myself and ended up landing on my face and cutting it with one of the broken pieces.”

Because you spoke immediately and with such confidence, your lie was believed.

“Might not heal as well if it’s opened a third time. Still doesn’t need stitches, just try not to fall again, eh?” He gave you a pat on the shoulder before giving you a small jar of ointment to apply to the cut, instructing you to apply it once a day.

As soon as the man left the room, you studied Aegon. He was pacing the entire time, only stopping once the maester had left.

“Why?” He whispered.

You knew what he was asking. “I did not think it would do any good for him to know the truth. I know you didn’t mean to,” you shrugged.

He was almost in a state of shock. Here he’d just injured you, accidentally, sure, but it was still done in anger. And it wasn’t that long ago that he broke down in front of you. Despite all of that, you were still kind to him. You covered for him.

Aegon fell to his knees once again in front of a large portion of the mess he created. “I’m sorry,” he spoke softly.

“My King you do not need to apologize. As I said, I know it wasn’t on purpose.”

He looked up at you, fresh tears in his eyes, and you lost count on how many times your heart broke for him. You joined him on the floor, and put what you hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t do anything right,” the first tear fell, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. “I allowed men to break in and murder my son, and this is twice now you’re hurt because of me.”

The fact that he blamed himself for it still, brought tears to your eyes as well.

“No one thinks this was your doing, and I swear to you that I don’t blame you.”

He was silent for a moment, deep in thought. “How am I meant to continue?”

His question caught you off guard. “Pardon?”

“My son is dead. Murdered, and my dear sister that claims to be the rightful heir may not have held the knife but I know she commanded the men that did. How am I supposed to to sit on the throne and continue to rule as if none of this has happened?”

“I do not think anyone expects you to act as if nothing has happened —”

Hearing that caused Aegon to laugh. “Have you met my mother? She is one of the many against me declaring war.”

“This tragedy —”

He cuts you off once again. “Tragedy? Hah! Understatement of the fucking year. And people are already speaking about my sons murder as if it’s a lesson! My grandfather, dear old Otto Hightower, wants to parade my sons body for all to see. Says it will show them the kind of Queen that Rhaenyra really is. You should’ve seen how many nodded their heads in agreement. How do I just hand him over to be stared at, as if he is no more than a piece of meat on display at the market?”

“I hate this,” you finally get a chance to speak. “Jaehaerys was the sweetest little boy I kno—knew. And I wish his death wasn’t being used in this way. A tragedy should not always be a lesson. Sometimes it should be allowed to be just that, a tragedy. I am truly sorry you are having to deal with all of this.”

Something about what you’ve said causes tears to spring to Aegon’s eyes. Perhaps it’s the way you speak so kindly of his son. He knows you genuinely loved the boy, after all. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His quiet sobs begin as he echoes your use of those 2 words, and when you turned to face him, he practically falls into your embrace. You stop counting how many times he utters I’m sorry. In between the I’m sorry’s, he mostly said his sons name, but you heard your name as well as Helaena and Jaehaera’s.

Night turned into morning and Aegon finds himself in your arms once again. Eventually his sobs had slowed down, and he fell asleep, laying on the hard floor with his head in your lap.

As he slept, you allowed yourself to run your hands through his hair, just for a moment. Aegon let out a content sigh, finding comfort in your movements even in his sleep.

Here was this boy who was feared by many, who didn’t ever want anyone to see him as weak, and yet twice he allowed himself to cry and grieve in front of you.

At some point, you gently wake Aegon and convince him to get into bed.

As you take one last look at him before exiting his chambers, you can’t help but silently hope that the future would be a little kinder to him.

TAGLIST — @blupblupfish | @sapphirest0nes

Gooseflesh began to form along the bare bits of skin, your body’s way of urging you to go back inside the castle and seek out some semblance of warmth.   

Despite knowing that it was the logical thing to do, you didn’t listen. Instead, you brought your knees up to your chest, pressing your forehead against them and further curling into yourself, trying to lock in as much of your body heat as possible.   

Eventually you would have to go back inside the Red Keep, even if only to prevent hypothermia from setting in. But returning inside meant returning to reality; one that you knew you weren’t quite ready to face again.   

So, for now at least, you were content to sit here beneath the weirwood tree and risk freezing to death.    

A strange part of you considered whether death was a more desirable fate than the one you would soon face—though the thought alone was enough to spawn a feeling of guilt deep within your stomach, creeping its way up your throat and making you feel nauseous.   

Prince Aemond Targaryen was a decent man.   

Or, at the very least, he was far more decent than some of the men that wanted your hand.   

There were countless women who would gladly kill for an opportunity to take your place, and you knew that of all the things you should be feeling right now, grateful should be farther up on the list. After all, King Viserys’s youngest son was highly sought after for countless reasons.   

Aemond was undoubtedly intelligent. He had been studying intricate works of philosophy for nearly two decades, and you knew him to be capable of reciting the great histories of Westeros from memory alone.   

He practiced diligently with members of the Kings Guard, having gripped steel in his palms since he was old enough to stand. This meant his talent with a blade was nearly unmatched, leaving him highly revered for his dedication and talent, desired for his capability to protect those around him.   

And, as much as you wished to deny it, Aemond was an incredibly handsome man; even with the leather patch covering his missing eye.   

You were lucky to have ended up betrothed to him, someone that you had known for most of your life and knew would treat you fairly. You were lucky to be granted such a position, one that so many wanted.   

But try as you might, whenever you find yourself thinking of your betrothed, you can’t make yourself feel lucky, knowing that it was a fate you did not want.   

You just felt sick.   

So, instead of celebrating your impending union within the comfort of the Red Keep, hand-in-hand with your future husband, you sat in the dirt beneath the weirwood.   

Hiding—from both the future that awaited you and what would soon be left in your past.   

Unfortunately, the latter was much harder to hide from, given that your past had a nasty habit of always knowing exactly where to find you.   

“Seven hells, y/n! It’s fucking freezing out here!”   

The sound of Aegon’s voice was unexpected, nearly making you jump from your own skin. You lifted your head to look in his direction so fast that you smacked it against the tree behind you. A pained gasp slipped your lips, followed by a hushed series of expletives as a throbbing spread throughout the base of your skull.   

If anyone else were around, they likely would have scolded you for your vulgar use of language, marking it unladylike and improper. But Aegon only laughed at it.   

“Careful now,” he warned playfully, taking another few lazy steps in your direction, “can’t say my brother would be too pleased to hear that his betrothed bashed her own skull in just days before their wedding.”   

You couldn’t understand how you hadn’t heard him approaching, knowing that stealth wasn’t exactly a quality the eldest prince possessed.   

Aegon was always careless and heavy footed, always quick to make his presence known; the opposite of his brother. But tonight, it seemed as if he’d borrowed upon Aemond’s skills–or, more likely, you had been too consumed in your own misery to pay any attention.   

“I’ve been looking for you, you know.” A boyish grin tugged at his pale lips, stopping at the base of your feet and looking down at you.   

For many it was an unusual sight to see Aegon smile, with most having grown used to the permanent scowl that seemed to grace his features. For you, though, it was a standard expression.    

Rubbing at the sore spot on the back of your head, you kept your chin low, refusing to look up as you spoke roughly, “My apologies, your grace. I wasn’t aware my presence was needed anywhere.”   

Aegon’s brow instantly cocked, forehead creasing as he took in both the bitterness and the formality of your statement.   

It was rare that you addressed him with proper terms and hearing them now made him feel uneasy. Your willingness to ignore the politics that threatened to consume his life was one of the many things Aegon adored about you, knowing that with you, he wasn’t the prince or even the King’s true heir—he was just Aegon.   

“Your presence is always needed.” He spoke without thinking, sharing the first thing that came to mind. When you stayed silent, he felt his face grow warm.  

Clearing his throat and trying to redirect, he impishly bumped his foot against yours to try and draw your attention. It didn’t work, your stare fixed to your lap. “Why are you hiding out here anyways?”  

“I’m not hiding.” You swiftly corrected him, finally lowering your hand as the pain in your head dissipated to a dull ache. “I just wanted some fresh air.”  

“You should have told me,” he said, once again failing to hold his tongue, “I would’ve joined you.”  

Restraint had never been a strong suit of his, yet it seemed to fail him further whenever you were around.  

Aegon had never quite gotten used to having someone who actually wanted him around. Growing up surrounded by those who only ever searched for ways to avoid him, he had grown familiar with loneliness.  

But then you came along one day, a scared little girl whose father had just secured a place in King Viserys’s council. Aegon remembered thinking that you seemed just as out-of-place as he did, trying to make a home of this unfamiliar land.  

Imagining that you were even half as lonely as he felt, he took pity on you, approaching you on a whim and cracking some awful joke to ease your mind. And, to his surprise, it worked. Laughter reverberated through your little body, spilling from your lips and urging him to laugh too.  

With one petty and uncharacteristic act of kindness, Aegon became your first friend in the Red Keep, and you became the first person to not just tolerate his presence, but to actually enjoy it.  

It became an addicting feeling for him, seeking out your company and using it to stave away decades loneliness. With you, he felt that he was always pining, always craving—always the opposite of himself.  

You smiled in response to his statement, though he was quick to realize that it wasn’t a kind one. It resembled more of a snarl, lips pressed tightly together, voice taut as you said, “I wasn’t in the mood for company.”  

Aegon’s body immediately went stiff, a pang of rejection coursing through him and making his face screw up. It was intentional, of course, as you knew him well enough to know he would take your comment personally. You hoped it would piss him off enough to make him leave entirely.  

Of course, though, things were never that easy with Aegon.  

“Alright, what did I do?” He asked gruffly, sounding an awful lot like a child waiting to be scolded.  

“What do you mean?”  

“To piss you off!” He all but whined, voice growing louder as his short temper began to rise. “What did I do to make you act like this?”  

You were stumped, left to purse your lips as you struggled to conjure an answer that didn’t involve you telling him the truth.  

Aegon had been on his best behavior as of late. It had been ages since you last heard of him visiting the Street of Silk and he hadn’t been allowing himself to fall too deeply into his cups.  

In many ways, it seemed that since your betrothal to his brother was announced, Aegon had been far more composed, happier, even—a fact that likely should have made you happy as well.  

But it didn’t.  

If anything, it made you miserable.  

With a deep sigh, agitated by your own complicated feelings and him, you answered with a half-truth, “You haven’t done anything, my prince.”  

The sound of that word, that fucking title, falling from your lips was enough to snap something within him, his quick temper getting the better of him.  

An annoyed growl ripped through his throat, stomping his foot against the dirt. Even without looking at him you could feel his lilac eyes burning into you, glaring down at you.  

“Stop that.”  

You played coy, repeating the phrase that had gotten a rise out of him. “Stop what, my prince?”  

In a selfish way, you wanted him to be angry, to feel even half as unhappy as you were right now.  

“Stop talking to me like my mother’s around!” He grumbled.  

Bold and fueled by your own misery, you pushed him further, “Is that a command, my pri-”  

Aegon cut you off before you had a chance to antagonize him further, shouting far louder than intended, “No! It’s not a fucking command!”  

You were instantly stunned, finally breaking as your gaze flicked up from your lap, staring at him with wide-eyes.  

This wasn’t the first time you had heard Aegon yell.  

After all, you’d grown up with him, having practically become the elder boy’s shadow. You had heard him yell at knights, at servants, and even his siblings—but this was the first time he had ever yelled at you.  

You expected to be scared, having found yourself the target of his short temper. But, in a strange way, you found that you liked it. For a moment, however brief, you were the target of his passion. Even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted, it was still something.  

Aegon clearly didn’t share those feelings though, regret swiftly washing over him. He took a deep breath, his head lowering as he attempted to calm himself.  

“You know that I would never command you to do anything.” He told you, much softer than before. A hand rose to his head, his fingers roughly tugging at his silvery locks. “I was only asking you to stop. As your friend.”  

You knew that his statement was meant as a kindness. A testament, even, that he would never use his position of power against you, viewing you as far more than one of his father's subjects. Knowing that, however, did not stop it from landing against your chest like a harsh blow, your lip curling in disgust at the sound.  

For years you had thought yourself happy to have Aegon as a friend. But, as much as you didn’t wish to admit it, you knew that you would be far happier to have him as more than that.  

As the two of you grew older, you found yourself tired of sitting on the sidelines, watching as Aegon lusted over every woman that crossed his path. You watched as he chased after servants and whores, throwing his attention and his cock at anyone who would pay him any attention.  

Except for you.  

Often it felt as if you were the only woman in the world that he didn’t want, even as you grew desperate for him. While Aegon seemingly craved your friendship, you craved him.  

Having become further vexed by your own thoughts, you let out a particularly loud huff, falling back against the weirwood tree and ignoring the way Aegon’s brows raised at your dramatic display. “Not for much longer.” You proclaimed, watching blankly as your breath turned to a cloudy mist amongst the cool air. “So you should get used to the formalities.”  

“Well what the fuck do you mean by that?” Aegon asked, sounding thoroughly exasperated.  

He found females to be entirely too difficult to communicate with. They were fickle creatures, prone to speaking in riddles and leaving him with a kind of headache that couldn’t be easily remedied. It was the reason he did his best to avoid them altogether, save for whenever one was crawling into his bed.  

You were an exception, however. The only woman he cared enough about to actually try and decode your cryptic speech.  

“I’ll be married soon,” you told him simply, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug, “it’ll change things.”  

 “Ah, yes!” Aegon commented caustically, laughing dryly, “My apologies! I forgot that as soon as you’re wed my brother plans to throw you in the Maidenvault, never to be seen again!”  

You cut your eyes at him, letting your head drop back against your knees. “So glad that you’re taking this seriously, Aeg.”  

The muffled remark made his laughter grow quiet, realizing that you clearly weren’t in the mood for his antics. For whatever reason, even if he didn’t understand it, you were serious about thinking that your marriage to Aemond would affect your friendship.  

Silence settled over the two of you, a suffocating and heavy sort of thing. The ground crunched beneath his boots, and you wondered if he had finally had enough of your temperamental behavior.  

It was a thought that should’ve brought you some relief, given that you had been purposely trying to piss him off enough that he’d leave you to wallow alone in your misery, but it didn’t. Instead, you only grew more agitated at the thought of Aegon running off to seek out the company of someone far more amenable than you.  

You went to lift your head, already considering pleading with him to stay, before you suddenly felt the warmth of his body pressing against your side as he sat on the ground with you.  

The close proximity quelled your building nerves, your muscles instinctively relaxing in his presence.  

“So you’re not angry at me,” he ventured, seemingly unaware of the fact that your heart was now in your throat, your mind too fixated on the way his forearm was pressed against yours, “you’re upset about your betrothal?”  

His tone took you by surprise, now lacking the humor it once held and sounding far more pensive. The newfound solemnity wasn’t enough to stop him from playfully jutting an elbow into your side though, silently urging you to lift your head.  

You obliged with his request, though you didn’t let yourself face him as you muttered out an answer. “I guess so.”  

“But why? This was what we wanted, was it not?”  

We—a simple phrase, inherently meaningless and yet still powerful enough to cause your chest to tighten.  

“We always agreed that when it came time for you to marry that it would be best for it to be someone here, right? That way you wouldn’t have to leave King’s Landing!”  

So you wouldn’t have to leave him.   

“Well, yes,” you huffed, cheeks beginning to heat as you struggled to find an easy explanation for your feelings, “but it’s just–I don’t know, this isn’t how I imagined things would go!”  

It was true enough.  

Perhaps Aegon’s only hope had been that you would be betrothed to someone nearby, unwilling to lose his best friend. But your hope had only ever been that you would be betrothed to him.  

“Is it Aemond?” He guessed, trying to think of any reason for your animosity. Without waiting for confirmation, he hastily started to form a defense for it. “I know he’s a bit of a twat, but it’s not like you’ll be expected to spend all your time with him! Dozens of women only ever see their husbands on special occasions, do they not? Like tourneys or fucking-”  

You threw your head back and grimaced, a repulsed sound coming from your lips at the reminder of the duty that would soon be placed upon you. Cursed as a woman, you would be expected to give Aemond an heir; a thought you’d been trying to avoid.  

“Seven hells, Aeg! It’s not about that!” You cried out, nose wrinkling.  

“Oh.”  

He sank back against the weirwood, his shoulders slumping forward as he did. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Does that mean you actually want to fuck my brother?” He cocked a brow at you, starting to motion to the left side of his face. “Even with the whole, ya know-”  

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh at the disgusted expression he wore. “You’re unbelievable.”  

“I’m just wondering!” Aegon defended himself, lifting his hands to his chest, palms facing outwards.  

“Well not everything is about fucking, Aegon.” You said sternly.  

“Sooo,” he popped his lips, giving you a sheepish grin that let you know he wasn’t planning to drop the question, “you don’t want to fuck him then?”  

Scowling, you reached over to swat roughly at his forearm, unable to hold back your amusement as you watched him try to scramble back from the strike, chuckling at your weak attempt to hit him.  

“No, Aeg. I don’t want to fuck your brother.” You clarified, rolling your eyes at his juvenile behavior. “Not that it’s any of your business in the first place.”  

The answer seemed to satisfy the eldest prince, moving back to settle against the tree with a smug smirk. “Then aside from fucking Aemond,” he jeered, “what’s the problem? We should be celebrating!”  

He leaned closer, delicately grabbing hold of your wrist and lightly shaking you. Your smile abruptly fell, posture straightening. Aegon didn’t notice the changes in your body language, only continuing his spiel.  

“This marriage will solve everything! Your father is pleased that you’re marrying a prince, and being with Aemond means that you won’t even have to leave the Keep! It all works out perfectly.”  

“You’re right,” you heaved out a breath, snatching your wrist from his hand and rising to your feet, “it clearly solves everything!”  

“Yet you’re still not happy.” Aegon acknowledged, mild amusement twinkling in his lilac eyes as he watched you begin to frantically pace back and forth beside him.  

“How could I be?” You scoffed, throwing your hands up as you spun roughly on your heel. “Here I am, being forced to marry Aemond-”  

“Yes, being forced to marry a prince, how dreadful.” Aegon droned.  

“I am signing away my life, Aegon!” You glared at him, keeping your voice low as you jutted a finger against your chest. “I am aware that the cards I’ve been dealt are much kinder than some others, but that does not make them desirable!”  

It felt as if your frustration had reached its peak, your words beginning to spill out without a second thought.  

“As soon as I’m wed to your brother I will be locked away in that fucking castle, good for absolutely nothing but supplying him with heirs! And should I fail at that, then I’ll be as good as useless!”  

It pained you to speak your thoughts aloud, unable to fight back against the guilt suddenly gnawing at you. Growing up Aemond had never been anything less than respectful towards you; but even so, you knew his respect would only extend so far.  

Patient as he may be, there was little in this world that mattered more to him than duty, and you knew he would be expecting you to fulfill yours, regardless of your own wants.  

Ceasing your incessant assault against the ground you froze by Aegon’s feet, now rubbing at your temples. “So yes, this marriage most certainly solves everything.” You spat, voice full of bitter sadness. “I'll be subjected to a cruel fate, where my worth will become equated to that of a broodmare and I’ll be forced to live my life knowing that I will never wed the man I actually want!”  

The subtle admission nearly went over Aegon’s head, your words spilling out so fast that he could just barely register them—but he did.  

The half-way-confession caught him off-guard, the color draining from his face as he processed it. Of all the issues he expected you to have with your betrothal to Aemond, he hadn’t once expected it to be because someone else had already claimed your heart.  

Thinking of it now, knowing it to be a possibility, only succeeded in causing his short temper to flare once again. Aegon’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging deep into the heel of his palm.  

“Who?”  

His voice came out unusually low, his eyes darkening as they landed on you. You instantly felt trapped under his gaze, lips parting only to fall closed once again, trying to think of a way out of the corner you’d backed yourself into.  

When you stayed silent, Aegon pushed himself to his feet in a single swift motion, easily towering over your frame and leaving you to shrink further beneath him.  

“If not Aemond,” he practically snarled, his lip curling as his brother’s name rolled from his tongue like a curse, “then who do you wish to wed?”  

You wanted to disappear.  

You wished that the ground would open up under your feet and swallow you whole.  

But you knew that there was no true escape from him, stumbling a half step back and tilting your head to the ground, doing everything in your power to evade his piercing stare until you could work up a lie that made sense.  

It nearly worked too, until a hand came to rest under your chin, firmly grasping it and shoving it upwards, forcing you to meet his stare.  

Aegon’s jaw was unbelievably tense, clenched tight as a barely contained rage swirled to life in his eyes, impatiently awaiting an answer.  

Now, unable to look away from him, you noticed how much he couldn’t stand this—the idea of you being the one to pine and crave for someone, for you feel anything for another. For some reason, one that no doubt left you perplexed, it was apparent now that Aegon had only accepted your betrothal with ease because he knew it to be out of duty—not love.  

“It doesn’t matter.” You whispered, biting your tongue to hold back the desperate admission building in your throat.  

You tried to hold onto the last few scrapes of your sanity, reminding yourself that confessing now would gain you nothing.  

If Aegon cared for you—if he loved you—then he’d had over a decade to admit it, or to even just show it in a way you could understand.  

“Of course it does.” He rebutted firmly, unwavering in his demand for an answer.  

His touch began to drift, fingers softly sliding along your jawline before the warmth of his palm came to cradle your cheek. It was an unusual feeling, having him so close, but you let yourself savor it, greedily lapping up every bit of intimacy he’d offer you.   

“Please,” he urged you, the scent of wine on his breath piercing your senses, “tell me who.”  

You weren’t sure you’d ever heard him sound like this before, his tone a near whine. It was the closest Aegon had ever come to begging you for something, and as you squeezed your eyes shut tighter, you found yourself losing all sense of reason, unable to hold back any longer.  

“You.”  

A breathless admission, one that held no expectations as to what he might say or do in response. A cynical part of you sought to brace yourself, half-expecting him to take it as a joke and laugh in your face at the thought of being with you.  

But Aegon didn’t laugh, even as his hand fell from your face, allowing the cold to kiss your cheek once again.  

Your eyes shot open at the loss of contact, stunned as you saw Aegon stumbling back from you, nearly tripping over his own feet. There was no look of amusement like you’d expected, nor one of disdain. Instead, to your surprise, he appeared to be hurt by the confession.  

Staring at him, too dumbfounded to speak, you watched the way his bottom lip trembled, lilac eyes turning glossy with unshed tears. Then he shook his head, strands of silver hair falling in his face.  

“No.” He all but choked on the word, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re lying.”  

Your brows snapped together, offended as you just barely stuttered out an answer. “What? Why would I–what would I gain from lying about this?”  

“I don’t know!” Aegon cried out, a few tears beginning to slide freely down his cheeks. He was quick to wipe them away with the backs of his hands, embarrassed by his own emotions. “But I refuse to accept that it’s the truth!”  

“Refusing to accept it will not make it any less true, Aeg!” You countered, stepping towards him and tried to close the distance he had created. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me to say it, especially now, but I swear to you that I mean what I say!”  

It felt foolish to do this, to stand before your best friend and declare him as the man you wished to wed, just days before you were to be given to his brother. You felt ignorant to place yourself in this position, to have set yourself up for rejection after all these years.  

But none of that mattered now, you supposed. You could not take back what you said, having already handed him your still-beating heart. All that was left to do was wait—praying he would be kind enough to not crush it in his hands.  

And so, knowing that you couldn’t back out of this, you swallowed what remained of your pride and said the words that had been living in your head for a decade now.  

“I love you, Aegon. I denied it for so many years and spent several more trying to bury it, but I love you.” 

Aegon remained motionless, his glistening eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. He found none, only seeing that despite any logic or reason, it was the truth.  

As flawed as he may be and as much as he didn’t want to believe it, you were in love with him.  

Wetness gathered on your cheeks, making you realize that you were crying now too. Aegon stayed silent, each passing second causing your heart to grow heavier, an emptiness cleaving its way through your chest.  

He’s had over a decade to admit any feelings he might have–you reminded yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and letting more tears fall free. You had expected this—assumed that Aegon would never see you as anything more than his friend—but that didn’t make it hurt any less.  

“I told you that things would change-” you tried to speak, wanting to get this over with. It was best for him to break your heart quickly, you thought, so that you could at least escape this moment.  

But Aegon didn’t let you finish your sentence, hands suddenly grabbing at your waist, pulling you into his chest. You gasped at the movement, eyes opening as both of your palms moved to press flat against his tunic, trying to steady yourself.  

Disoriented, you blinked at him, waiting for some sort of explanation. He didn’t offer one, at least not immediately. You couldn’t read his expression, quietly watching as his tear-stained face began to soften.  

Then, gently, he spoke—”Say it again.”  

A flush crept up your neck. “I love you.”  

“You shouldn’t.” He said, his thumb pressing into your abdomen as he gripped you tighter.  

“But I do,” you assured him, breathless as you repeated it again, “I have loved you my entire life, Aegon–even if you don’t feel the same.”  

Lilac eyes narrowed at your insecure claim. “Have I ever said that I don’t?” He tilted his head, hands sliding down to your hips and shoving you back against the smooth bark of the weirwood. “I have been madly in love with you from the very first moment I saw you.”  

A mixture of doubt and relief flooded your mind, grappling with the authenticity of his promise. “But you never said anything-”  

“Because I’m not worthy of someone like you.” Aegon winced at the sound of his own words. “You’ve seen it yourself throughout the years. Heard it from the mouths of my own family. I am a coward and an imbecile, but you-” his nails dug through the fabric of your gown, his body pressing against yours and further caging you against the tree, “are the only good in my life. The only one who gives me a reason to be good.”  

Pain etched across his features as he talked of the way others thought of him, of the way his own family thought of him. The sight nearly made you crumble against him.  

You brought a hand to his cheek, softly caressing his skin. “You should’ve told me.”  

“No,” he asserted, nuzzling into your touch, “I knew that if I told you how I felt and you didn’t return my feelings that it would change things between us. I wasn’t willing to risk losing you.” Aegon paused, his gaze flickering to your lips, “I don’t think I can live without you in my life.”  

Disbelief clouded your mind. This wasn’t real, you wanted to tell yourself, feeling delirious, this can’t be real.  

But you could feel him; his fingers pressing into your flesh, the steady rise-and-fall of his chest against yours. You could smell him; sweet notes of red wine lacing his breath, engulfing your senses. And you could see him; watching as his lilac stare got hung up on your mouth, your throat, your collarbones, swirling with a dangerous blend of lust and adoration.  

You didn’t want to think of tomorrow or the next day. You didn’t want to think of your betrothal to Aemond and what would become of your life.  

Because tonight, right now, this is your new reality.  

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you began to weave your fingers into the hair covering the base of his neck. “You could never lose me.” You swore, melting as a soft whine fell from his lips at the declaration.  

Then, before you even had time to think, his lips were pressed against yours.  

There was nothing gentle about Aegon’s kiss.  

It was a fervent act, hard and desperate, filled with a passion so intense that it made your legs tremble. Aegon’s grip turned near-bruising, steadying you as he pushed further into you.  

Heat rushed through your body, pooling within your stomach as a strangled moan parted your lips, giving way for Aegon to slip his tongue into your mouth, filling it with the bitter taste of wine. One of his hands drifted to your back, traveling up your spine before burying itself in your hair and trying to pull you even closer.  

Breaking the kiss, he chuckled as he heard you groan in protest, swollen lips ghosting over your cheek before hovering against your ear. “I have loved you for so long,” he purred, the warmth of his breath causing your back to arch, “I have wanted you for so long-”  

The hand that remained on your hip trailed down to your thigh, hurriedly hiking up the fabric of your skirts until he was touching bare skin. His fingers prodded into your flesh, pulling your leg upwards to his waist and wedging himself further between your hips.  

“Then take me,” you gasped, your fingers still laced in his hair, making him groan as you tugged at the silver locks, “I’m already yours.”  

A guttural sound wracked through his body, a hardness pressing against your core as his hips moved against yours. His mouth quickly moved to find yours again, and as his teeth snared on your bottom lip, nibbling at it, you prayed that this would last forever.  

But the Gods tend to be cruel, however.  

“Apologies, my prince-” a squeal erupted from your throat, both of you snapping away from each other to see a red-faced Ser Erryk standing a few feet away. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but the Queen requires your presence.”  

Panic began to flood your veins, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Aegon, however, seemed entirely unphased by being caught like this, his hand still gripping your thigh. “Tell her I’m busy.”  

You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, your mind racing. If Erryk told the Queen of the position he had found the two of you in…  

“I’m afraid she won’t accept that, my prince.” He spoke awkwardly, doing his best to keep his stare from drifting to your exposed skin. “It seemed quite urgent. She requested that I deliver you to her at once.”  

“Fine.” Aegon grumbled, rolling his eyes at the guard.  

He took a half-step back from you, allowing you to lower your leg from his waist before helping you to smooth the fabric of your gown, looking entirely unbothered by the situation.  

You, on the other hand, looked as if you were about to pass out.  

Aegon only chuckled at your blanched expression, leaving you to glare at him as you questioned whether he understood this situation's true gravity.  

“Aegon,” you whispered harshly, gaze flicking towards Erryk, “if he tells your mother about this-”  

“Let him.” He said, a certain arrogance filling his voice. “If he doesn’t, then I’ll do it myself.”  

Your brows furrowed. “But Aemond-”  

“Fuck Aemond.” Aegon told you harshly, unwilling to listen to your protests. “You are mine to claim, not his.”  

You bit down on your lower lip, his declaration only worsening your wish that Erryk hadn’t interrupted the two of you. “Your mother won’t like that.”  

“She doesn’t have to.” He started, “My mother wishes for me to sit the Iron Throne, and I wish for you,” he gave you a devious smirk, reaching for your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, “I imagine the two of us can come to an agreement that will relieve you of your commitment to my brother.”  

In spite of your nerves, only building at the thought of Aegon being forced to sit upon the throne, you couldn't help but allow yourself to smile, finally imagining a future that you wouldn't need to hide from.

Perhaps your fate wouldn’t be so cruel after all.  

I wrote the majority of this well past midnight while feeling as if I were dying from an insane migraine. So, basically, I have no clue what this is but it kept me occupied and I'm gonna go ahead and post it anyways lmao.

You had accidentally dropped the tray containing his wine and breakfast, and the loud sound of a plate breaking on the hard stone floor of the castle had immediately jolted him and the whore awake.

His eyes had widened when he saw you standing in the doorway, so confused and innocent.

"Apologies, I—I did not mean to disturb you," you stammered uncertainly, already stumbling back a step.

"No, stop, wait!" the young prince quickly called after you, while the woman was already getting up, putting on her thin dress, and counting the gold coins the prince had drunkenly pressed into her hand the night before.

You stood there, confused, looking down at the floor with flushed cheeks, as he was still naked and you could see almost everything of him.

"I—" he began, but then stopped again. What could he possibly say in this situation? You saw it.

"She has to get out of here," he finally said pleadingly.

You stood in the doorway for another moment, wiping your clammy hands on your already dirty apron. He did not want to know how much work you had already had to do while he was still lying in bed, sleeping peacefully next to the woman who had taken his virginity the night before. It was the first time he had ever slept with a woman.

The prince's gaze was pleading, and you could not help but quickly rush to the chest where the laundry was kept. You pressed several dirty sheets into the woman's hands before heading straight to His Grace‘s wardrobe.

You pulled out a rather unassuming brown cloak and draped it over the woman's shoulders, concealing the thinness of her dress. The front was concealed by the amount of linen she was carrying.

Aegon admired, wide-eyed, how quickly you acted and how quickly you seemed to know what to do.

It was still clear that this woman did not belong to the castle, but since it was early morning, you simply hoped that the people milling around would not pay any special attention to the two of you.

No one paid any attention to the servants.

"You follow me, keep your head down, and do not say a word, understand?" you asked the strange woman, who was almost two heads taller than you.

She scoffed: "Why should anyone listen to you, little one? It seems to me you only recently started working here if you think this will actually work."

Your gaze lowered again, but Aegon sat up in his bed, the sheets wrapped around his waist so his lower half would be covered.

"And you are a whore I paid to follow me into my chambers. She is in my service. You will listen to her and you will ask no questions," he commanded in a firm voice he hardly recognized himself as using.

The woman bowed slightly. "Of course, my prince."

A small smile played at the corners of your mouth, and you curtsied as well. "Thank you, my prince."

With these words, you finally turned around and hurried out of the chambers with the woman in tow, hoping you would not be approached.

And you were lucky.

No one noticed you smuggling the prince's whore out of his chambers.

They did not notice the second time, nor the third, nor the fourth. The fifth time, you thought you were invisible, because how could it be that no one noticed the two giggling ladies who were still drunkenly following you around before you released them onto one of the secret passageways?

The years passed, and you continued to serve the eldest prince. You brought him breakfast and wine, laid out his clothes, made his bed, and smuggled the women he paid to sleep with him out of the castle.

It made him happy, and you enjoyed his gratitude.

However, something also changed as time passed.

You were no longer just his maid, but also his friend. The only one he had.

You were like the only shining star in a dark night sky. Like the single ray of moonlight that fell through the clouds at night.

He was your prince. The man to whom you were subordinate and to whom you had to show obedience, otherwise you would lose your work. You truly liked him, with all your heart and soul, but you knew you could not allow yourself to dream. You were merely a servant, and if you were gone, he would probably simply replace you.

A knock on the wooden door to your small chamber awoke you, still in bed, startled because for a moment you thought you had accidentally overslept and left your prince waiting.

But to your surprise, it was still the middle of the night.

Sleepily, still wearing only your thin nightgown, your hair loose and messy, you trudged to the door and opened it, only to find Aegon standing before you, a grin on his lips.

"Good morning, my little mouse," he greeted you in a mischievous tone. The one you knew all too well.

You were both grown up by now. He was married with two children, and you were still his favorite handmaiden. His only friend and the only person he trusted wholeheartedly.

"My prince? It is the middle of the night," you said sleepily, even stifling a yawn.

"True, yes. And please, call me Aegon. I have been telling you that for years," he replied with a sigh as he leaned against the doorframe, his amethyst-colored eyes looking you up and down.

He so rarely saw you without your uniform. He thought you were much prettier without it.

"And I keep telling you that I cannot."

A theatrical sigh escaped him and he hung his head. Why did you have to be so stubborn?

"Why not? We are alone right now, are we not?" he asked you, shaking his head, which made his already uncombed strands of hair even more tangled.

"That is true, but someone could come by at any time, and if they hear me call you by name, I risk losing my job," you explained seriously, folding your arms across your chest.

"But no one is coming right now!" the prince argued.

Now you were the one who sighed. "Why are you here, Aegon?"

When he heard his name roll off your tongue, he immediately looked back up at you, his eyes shining as if you had just breathed new life into them.

"I came because I wanted to ask you, my dear, if you would accompany me to the city?"

You looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"Are you mad?" you asked him, your eyes widening, your fingers tightening on the handle of your door. You could slam the door in his face at any time, because you knew he would not report it. He needed you so you could hide all his affairs.

But you did not know that he did not need you just for that. He needed you like a flower needs the sun.

"Possibly," he replied with a chuckle. "So, what is your answer?"

"No!" you said immediately, perhaps a little louder than necessary.

"Shhh, little mouse, not so loud," he quickly countered, placing a hand over your mouth, which you quickly removed.

"Do not call me that," you said quickly, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"What? You mean mouse? But that is what you are. My quiet little mouse," he replied instead, a smile forming on his lips and a playful gleam in his eyes.

"You are awful," you said instead, which made him chuckle in turn.

"So is that a yes or a no?" he asked again, leaning a little closer, causing your breathing to quicken.

"A no," you answered, and he nodded.

He had known you would not come with him. You would not make it that easy.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

Oh, you hated that grin.

"Go away, you fool," you giggled, closing the door with rosy cheeks.

The prince sighed, turned, and disappeared into the entrance to the secret passages known to few in the castle.

He hoped he would be able to show them to you thoroughly one day.

The next time Prince Aegon knocked on your door in the middle of the night, it was neither quiet nor discreet. It was panicked and loud, and you jumped out of bed the moment you heard it.

You rushed to the door, your nightgown wrinkled and not quite right in places, and your hair a disaster, and opened it, and what you saw broke your heart.

Aegon stood at your door, tears streaming down his porcelain cheeks like waterfalls and a fear in his eyes that made you tremble.

"My prince?" you asked cautiously, and just as you were about to lean toward him and place a gentle hand on his arm, he practically threw himself into your arms.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck and his arms wrapped around your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.

You were overwhelmed. What was happening?

"Please, please, I do not want to—I cannot—" he cried desperately.

Your hands wandered into your hair and you tried to calm him by running your fingers through his mane.

"What do you not want, my prince?" you asked him in a gentle voice, even though you were more confused than ever.

"I do not want to be king, please, please—I cannot," he sobbed, his whole body shaking.

His crying grew louder, and you took slow steps backward, pulling him with you, until you were finally able to close the door and you stood alone with him in your dark, small room.

He had only been in here once or twice before, but he would stay here forever if it meant he would not have to wear the crown.

"What happened?"

He did not answer, just shook his head and watered your thin nightgown with his desperate tears. Meanwhile, he held on tight. The warmth of your body mingled with his and your scent filled his nostrils.

You were so warm and soft and all he wanted was to lose himself in you.

"Aegon?" you begged as you began to stroke his back tenderly, choosing to call him by his name this time.

Another sob escaped him before he finally managed to take a deep breath: "My father is dead."

Your eyes widened and his shoulders tensed, your hands no longer roaming his back.

You were holding the soon-to-be King of the Seven Kingdoms in your arms. You. A simple servant.

Since the moment the queen chose you as his maid, since the moment you first helped him hide his love affairs, you were his friend.

A good friend. Probably his only one.

And, by the gods, he needed you. When you were not there to brighten his days, he did not know what to do.

"They will crown me king, but I... I do not want that," he whimpered through tears that still wet his cheeks and made his face shine in the soft moonlight.

You nodded understandingly, because you have had this conversation before. The last time a few weeks ago, the first time three years ago.

"I want to be free, I want to live my life," he finally said, leaning back slowly so he could look into your eyes.

Your beautiful eyes, in which he could lose himself day after day and which he dreamed of at night. Over and over again, as if he were cursed.

But even if you were a witch, he would still run after you. Even if you had him under a curse, he would still come back to you again and again.

"Why are you here?" you asked him gently, tilting your head. You probably understood him better than anyone else, but you did not know why he had come to you tonight.

Deep down, you probably did know, but you did not want to admit it.

"I need help. I want to get away from here. I want to live a different life somewhere, a better one, and I wanted to ask you for help."

You shook your head, but he was not finished.

"Help me escape, darling."

"No, I—" you immediately tried to contradict him, but he was once again faster than you.

"Please, I beg you. I need to get out of here. This life… it is killing me."

"But your family?" you asked him cautiously. He would miss his mother, his brother, and his sister-wife, not to mention his little twins, whom you thought were so adorable.

Sometimes, when he was playing alone with them, he would ask you to come over. He was always happy with them, and you had never seen him smile so radiantly as the time little Jaehaerys wanted to be held by you.

"Mother will be furious, Aemond probably even happy, and Helaena... she will be better off without me. She deserves rest," he explained, a small, rueful smile creeping onto his lips. It held no humor at all.

"And your children?" you asked him, tenderly taking his hand in yours.

A year ago, you would never have taken his hand just like that, but, like everything in the world, it developed slowly.

Like the sun slowly rising over a hill. Only yours had not risen yet, but was just peeking over the hill.

"I love them. They are everything to me, but my sister is a wonderful mother. She can handle it," he said with a nod, and it almost seemed as if he would want to convince himself.

"Aegon—" you tried again, but he interrupted you again.

"Please," he begged. "I am desperate. I am afraid."

Another single tear rolled down his cheek, and in that moment you knew you would do anything he said.

Not because you had to, because he was your prince, but because you wanted to.

Because he was your friend.

You let go of him and hurried to your wardrobe. You pulled out two cloaks. A brown one for you so you could accompany him to one of the exits, and a light blue one for him so he could hide his silver hair under a hood out there.

He took it and wrapped it around his shoulders, buttoning up the cloak, and pulled the hood over his head while you did the same.

Silver strands of hair stood out, and a gentle smile spread across your lips.

You walked over to him and carefully tucked the strands into his hood, so that it would not be obvious that he was a Targaryen at first glance.

He smiled, and you smiled back.

And for a moment, Aegon's world made sense again.

"Come with me," the prince suggested as you stood together before one of the many entrances to the secret passages.

He held out a hand, one foot in the doorway and the other in the hallway where you still stood, your cloak wrapped tightly around your narrow shoulders. The expression on his handsome face was hopeful, and his eyes shone.

"I do not think that is possible," you sighed, clasping your hands together.

"Why?" he asked, always persistent.

"I work here. This is my life," you said, because that was what you truly believed. You did not consider that he could give you a new life. One by his side.

A shadow fell over his face, but still he nodded and took another step into the dark corridor.

"Good luck, Aegon," you said in a tender, loving voice.

"Good luck, little mouse," he replied, and you closed the door.

Aegon straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath before turning and running.

He did not hear one of the guards suddenly grab your arm, how you argued, how you pleaded.

He ran and you cried.

They found him drunk under the altar of the Mother in the Great Sept.

The White Worm had promised to hide him, but instead, Arryk and Erryk found him, followed by Ser Criston and Aemond.

He begged Aemond to let him go, to let him find a ship so he could sail away, but instead, they dragged him back to the castle against his will.

His mother had been disappointed; she hit him, told him he should eat something, and that a servant would be here shortly to help him wash and dress for his coronation ceremony.

The door to his chambers opened, and he did not even turn around. He was used to this. He knew you would probably come now, put a hand on his shoulder, and tell him everything would be all right.

But none of that happened.

"How would you like your bath, Your Grace?" a strange voice asked him.

He immediately turned to the person, his eyebrows furrowing as he realized you were not there.

Another maid stood at the door. Young, pretty, but she was not you.

No one was like you.

"My maid. Where is she?" he asked in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

The servant shook her head and looked down at the floor. "She is gone, Your Grace."

"Gone?" he asked immediately, standing up so quickly that his chair creaked across the floor and the girl jumped.

"Where is she?" he persisted, clenching his hands into fists.

"In the dungeons, Your Grace," the new servant answered him honestly.

"And what in the Seven Hells is my maid doing in the dungeons?" he asked, his voice becoming increasingly harsh.

"She was seen helping you escape. The queen had her banished to the dungeons as punishment."

Aegon could not believe what his ears were hearing. You, his little mouse, the light of his life, were rotting like a common criminal down there in that dark, cold, rat-infested hole, all because you helped him escape, which, to his dismay, ultimately failed.

"What?" His voice was quiet, full of disbelief, and his breath was coming in short gasps.

You did not deserve this.

You deserved all the happiness in the world, and now you were locked up.

Because of him.

"Your bath?" the girl reminded him, and he nodded, but his mind was far away.

He thought of you and of how disappointed you must be for him. How frightened you must have been right now.

His coronation had been a complete disaster. For the first time in his life, he felt seen and loved by people, and then suddenly a dragon emerged from the ground and almost killed him and his entire family.

He now stood alone and lost in his new chambers—his father's. The stench of the Milk of the Poppy still polluted the air, and the large model of Old Valyria, which his father had spent years building instead of playing with him or his siblings, still stood proudly in the center of the room.

The Conqueror's Crown heavy on his head.

He hated it. He hated everything about it.

But most of all, he hated that he could not help you.

In the carriage, he had asked his mother what her plan was for you. She said that the dungeon was a just punishment for treason against the crown. She had not listened to reason. He had tried so hard.

Suddenly, an idea came to him. He was the king. His word was law. He could do whatever he wanted.

Without thinking about anything, he hurried out of his father's chambers and headed toward the dungeons. Ser Arryk shouted something in his direction, but he did not hear.

He simply wanted to see you.

The dungeon was cold, wet, and dark, and your cell was no exception. You huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around your knees, which you held against your chest to give yourself some warmth and comfort.

You had been stripped of your handmaid's clothing, so you sat there in only your thin undergarment, which was now soiled.

You were told that the dungeon was only a temporary punishment and that Lord Larys Strong was still thinking about what to do with you.

Perhaps he would cut out your tongue? Have you whipped? Deny you food and drink so that you would wither like a flower? All of these things were possible, and you believed the man was capable of all of them.

He was frightening.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps in the distance, and you were already worried that your punishment awaited you. It would probably be even harsher than you could have imagined.

You had only wanted to help Aegon, and yet in the end, it had not achieved anything. Yet in the end, he had been crowned.

Your sacrifice had achieved absolutely nothing.

"Darling?" you suddenly heard a worried voice speak, and your eyes immediately widened.

"Aegon..." you whispered in disbelief.

He stood outside your cell, his hands clasped around the iron bars and the crown on his head. He looked beautiful, regal. But also sad.

"This is my fault," he said, shaking his head, causing a few strands of his silver hair to fall across his forehead.

"No," you replied immediately, sitting up slightly so that the light from the torches in the corridor cast shadows across your face. "You could not have known. I did not even know myself until the guards grabbed me."

Aegon let his forehead sink against the iron bars. "You should have come with me."

A soft laugh escaped you and you nodded. "Perhaps I should have, yes."

"We could have escaped together. We would probably be across the Narrow Sea by now. Imagine it. The two of us together in Essos or Yi Ti."

For a moment, you allowed yourself to dream. You imagined you two sailing across the sea together on a ship, reaching the shore of a city, finding a home, and starting a new life.

Together.

You rose from the dirty ground and walked slowly toward your prince—your king. His gaze softened, and you could see that he longed to hold you in his arms.

"What would we have been?" you asked him cautiously, and you too wrapped your hands around the cold bars of your cell. Your little finger almost touched his.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "What would you have wanted us to be?"

For a moment, you fought the urge to roll your eyes, but he was still the king. You had to show him respect, even if you were behind bars.

"We would have been friends... and maybe one day more than that," you confessed honestly.

He placed his little finger on yours, and you could feel warmth spreading across your cheeks. Blush. You blushed for him.

"I can imagine. We could have had a drink together one evening in a tavern or maybe a brothel—"

"I would not have gone to a brothel with you," you replied quickly, raising an eyebrow playfully. You knew of his lascivious nature and you would not have stopped him, but you certainly would not have gone to such a place with him.

"Fine, then to a tavern," he sighed. "We would have drunk wine together, and at one point I would have taken your hand. Of course, you would not have been able to resist my charms."

You just shook your head again and continued listening to him detail his fantasy.

"I would have leaned toward you, very slowly."

You had to swallow the lump in your throat as you pictured it in detail: "I would have put a finger on your lips and told you you were an idiot."

He laughed, and you saw that it came from his heart. For the first time since he came to you, his eyes sparkled again, and your heart leaped.

"I would have taken your hand and pressed a kiss to your fingers and told you you were the most annoying, beautiful woman in the world."

You leaned your head next to his and could feel your heart shattering into a thousand pieces. If only you had come with him. If only you had fled together.

"I am so sorry, Aegon," you said softly, but you meant it.

"Do not apologize to me, sweetling. Apparently this life was not meant for us," he said, turning so he could press a gentle kiss to your temple. He had never kissed you before, and he could only dream of what your lips would feel like.

"Aegon, I—"

Before you could utter the words that had been burning in your soul for years, a sudden clearing of the throat sounded not far from the two of you.

The king turned and stood across from Lord Larys Strong, the lord of Harrenhal. The man leaned on his crutch and regarded you with a knowing gaze. A shiver ran down your spine, and Aegon was not sure how to speak to him.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I came to speak with the prisoner," Larys said calmly.

Aegon had to bite back a scathing comment that would have insulted the man: "And I came to restore her to her previous role as a handmaiden."

Larys stepped closer to you, the echo of his heavy foot on the dungeon floor making it hard for you to breathe. "My king, she committed treason by helping you escape in the night."

"But I am back. I am the king. I decide the fate of my prisoners," he replied to the older man, who smiled in a way that made him instinctively stand up straighter.

"Just imagine the image this decision would paint. It could give villains the courage to break into the castle without fear of punishment. Servants might reconsider their loyalties. Do you really want to be seen as weak?" Lord Larys asked him in the same calm voice as before.

"No, certainly not," said the king. He needed you around him and he could not bear to see you in this cell, but perhaps the castle was no longer a place for you.

Perhaps you finally deserved better than this.

He looked into your eyes—into those beautiful, pure eyes—and he knew he had made a decision, even if you would not ike it.

"Can you be discreet?"

"Very discreet, Your Grace."

"Take her away from here. As far as possible, so she will be safe. She will live in a house, be treated like a lady. She will want for nothing," he said firmly.

Your eyes widened and you grabbed his hand. You could not believe it. You did not want to leave. All you wanted was to stay with him and continue to be his servant.

"No, please—"

"I will have her taken to Essos. I know a place. She will be fine there," Strong assured his king with a nod.

The cell keys jingled loudly as he pulled them from his cloak. You watched as he opened the cell door and placed a hand on your arm. You obeyed without a word and stepped out of the cell.

The cell door slammed shut behind you, and without wasting a second, Aegon wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly against his chest.

"I will leave you alone for a moment," the lord said, hobbling a few steps toward the dungeon exit where he would be waiting for you.

Your king's face was buried in your hair, and he held you so tightly it almost hurt. Your arms were also wrapped around him, and all he could think about was that he could not let you go.

You were one of the only things keeping him alive.

"You cannot go. You cannot," he murmured into your curls.

The mere thought that you would not be there to shoo him out of bed in the morning, to choose the right clothes for him, spending hours looking for him and talking to him about everything and nothing was frightening.

He did not want to imagine it.

"He is right, you know? I do not want people to see you as weak. You will be a good king, even without my services," you whispered gently.

You did not want to leave him either. Especially not now, but Lord Strong was right. It might be a way to shed real light on him if he reinstated you as his servant. After all, you committed treason against the crown when you helped him escape.

"I do not know how I am going to manage this."

A smile formed on your lips and you stroked his back. "You have an experienced council that will support you. You just have to lean into them."

The young king shook his head: "I do not know how to act."

"You just did it. You took action, and your decision is good. It is the right one," you answered him calmly and as gently as you could.

He hugged you even tighter. "But it does not feel right."

You leaned back and looked into his eyes, placing a hand on his cheek. His skin was warm and soft, and you wished you had had the courage to talk to him before.

"I love you," you finally said, your words honest and long overdue. You loved him when you were just a young girl and he was still the prince who woke up drunk and in bed with a new woman every day.

You saw the exact moment his eyes filled with tears and he realized he should have dragged you along against your will so you could now be together forever.

"Seven Hells, I love you too. I love you more than anything," he said, leaning his forehead against yours.

Even though you were dirty, cold, and would rather be anywhere but the dungeon, you were happy in his arms.

He leaned down to press his lips against yours in a gentle kiss, but you placed a finger on his lips.

"Kiss me when we meet again," you whispered, and he took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your fingertips instead.

This was not a tavern, and you had not had anything to drink, but the moment was the same one you had talked about.

"I promise you, little mouse."

He watched you leave, and he could practically hear his heart breaking and feel his smile fade.

You had never been happier than you were in Essos, on a small estate as the lady of the house.

And Aegon?

He promised himself that one day he would see you again, so he could finally steal the kiss you had promised him.

Even if he was half-burned and full of shame.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

In the beginning, that didn’t mean much. You were one of Helaena’s ladies’ in waiting, and only ever saw the then prince on occasion.

Then Aegon was crowned King, and you saw him a bit more as Helaena was required to be present at what felt like too many ceremonies. Because you were almost exactly the same age, although it was against an unspoken rule, she came to see you as a friend.

When the twins were born and Helaena saw how good you were with them, it seemed to anyone who was around that she wanted you near at all times. She practically begged you to begin sleeping in her chambers to help with the fussing and crying at night, and of course you said yes. It occurred to you later that night that she could’ve just demanded it.

It wasn’t long at all before the twins also formed an attachment, as their mothers need to have you close by didn’t lessen even as they got older.

Though they both loved you, Jaehaerys in particular, was very fond of you. Jaehaera was a lot more independent and chose to play with her dolls or little trinkets by herself. But the boy, the other ladies’ in waiting and even Helaena herself, often called him your little shadow.

Whatever task you were given, it wasn’t uncommon for Jaehaerys to be nearby. As he grew a little older, he began to ask questions.

Once, he asked why his mother wore such fancy dresses, but yours and the rest of the ladies’ were only ever plain. It hadn’t occurred to you that because you spent so much time with him and had a big hand in raising him, he saw you as family and genuinely didn’t understand why you dressed differently.

Luckily, you didn’t need to answer. Aegon appeared from around the corner, calling for his son. Once Jaehaerys ran to him, he gave you a nod before grabbing his sons hand and leading him in the opposite direction.

To the King, you were a mystery. He knew his sister preferred you to the other ladies’ in waiting, and he knew she’d rather you over any of them to be looking after the twins when she was busy, but he didn’t know why. Still, his sister was set in her ways, and in the end he simply decided it was best to not ask questions. Even he could see that you cared deeply for his children, and for him that was enough.

On the day Aegon wished for his son to sit in on a council meeting, Jaehaerys was being a bit difficult that morning. For whatever reason, he refused to go unless it was you that escorted him.

After assuring him that you’d only get the boy in the room and then quickly make your exit, Aegon nodded and led the 2 of you into the room.

Just like you knew he would, Jaehaerys immediately went for “the ball” as he called it, in front of Tyland Lannister. You could see irritation immediately all over the man’s face, but to his credit he did his best to hide it.

The third time the ball was grabbed, you were the only one that heard it when Tyland snapped. The meeting hadn’t yet begun but you could see he already wished it to be over.

“That child doesn’t belong in here,” he muttered to himself, unaware that you could hear him.

“I will escort him to his mothers chambers now. Is the heir to the throne bothering you a bit too much?” That last bit slipped out, and you immediately regretted it as the room grew silent and all eyes turned to the 3 of you. After a few tense seconds, most everyone resumed their conversations.

You slowly stood up, Jaehaerys now on your back as that was the only way he agreed to leave the room. “Apologies Ser Lan—”

“Hold on,” the room stilled once again when it was Aegon that spoke this time. He looked at you, then back at Tyland. “She has nothing to apologize for. And I believe she asked you a question. Is the heir to the throne, my son, is he bothering you?”

Even Alicent opted to look down and fiddle with her hands rather than step in. You didn’t think you’d ever been more grateful for Aegon that in that moment.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

ONE.

On the night Jaehaerys was murdered, you were knocked unconscious. You’d later find out it was the man they called Blood that hurt you, but at the time all you knew / remembered was waking to a loud noise. Immediately you got out of bed, but before you could properly realize what was happening, you felt something sharp across your cheek. And before you’d even had time to cry out, something hard hit the side of your head, causing everything to go dark.

When you woke, you ignored the maesters requests to stay in bed. As soon as you stood up, you almost wished you’d listened as you immediately felt dizzy. That was also when you felt the stinging pain of the cut on your cheek. The maester explained that you wouldn’t need to have it stitched up, but he hadn’t yet bandaged you because even in your sleep, you tossed and turn whenever he tried to tend to that injury.

After agreeing to not over exert yourself, you were off to find Helaena. It was then that another one of the ladies’ in waiting broke the news to you.

When you were let in to Alicent’s chambers, and locked eyes with Helaena, she immediately stood up from her spot on the floor and ran to you, Jaehaera still held tightly in her arms.

“Are you alright?” You knew she would be with the maester if she were injured, but you still had to ask. “They said—”

“He’s dead,” was all Helaena could say. That and “they killed him”.

What felt like an eternity later, and you’d gotten Jaehaera to sleep and convinced Helaena to at least lay down with her, you were unsure of what to do. Only a few moments later, you found yourself wandering the halls. Every inch of the place had been searched almost immediately, so you know that the halls were alright once again.

Part of you felt like you didn’t have a right to mourn Jaehaerys, as he wasn’t actually your son. You were just trying to process the fact that you’d never see his little smile again. Never again would you turn a corner and be greeted with that sweet voice asking where the 2 of you were going, because him staying with anyone else was out of the question.

You were one of the first to hold him after he was born, and had seen him every day since. To already be in a world where he no longer existed, it seemed cruel.

When you stopped walking, you realized that you’d come to Aegon’s chambers. The doors were obviously closed, and you had only managed to take a few steps back the way you came, when you heard them open.

“Oh, good,” you turned around, surprised that it was Alicent that had spoken. “Did Helaena send you?”

You stuttered as you tried to form a response, but she seemed to take your silence as a confirmation.

“He’s distraught, obviously. I’m not sure he’ll speak to you but…” she seemed unsure of herself. In the end she sort of motioned towards the doors, before turning and walking away.

Before you even raised your hand to knock, you heard sobbing. It was then that you realized you were wrong. Yes, your heart could break even more.

It didn’t escape your notice that Alicent left the room as her son was sobbing. You knew she wasn’t the comforting type, but you couldn’t imagine simply walking the other way.

After a few knocks, you weren’t surprised when there was no answer. As you slowly opened the door, then shut it behind you, you thought to yourself that you should’ve thought about what to say beforehand. Here was this normally stone-faced man, showing more emotion now than he had in the entire time you’d known him. And after more thought, you realized that perhaps Alicent had tried to comfort him but was asked to leave.

“Who is there?” Aegon finally seemed to notice someone else’s presence, but hadn’t actually looked up. His head remained in his hands, and you could hear him trying to quiet his cries.

“I am sorry, I— I just thought I should check on you.” You noticed how pathetic you sounded only after the words left your mouth.

He let out a humorless chuckle, then slowly stood up and made his way towards you. “Check up on me?”

You nodded. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Stupid question to ask if you’re okay, I know.”

He studied your face for a moment, and his guard came down ever so slightly. He believed your concern to be genuine. And for Gods sakes, his own mother couldn’t even comfort him. She left quietly and Aegon knew it was in the hopes that he wouldn’t know she’d ever entered the room.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to answer you. Instead he returned to his sitting position, once again leaning forward so that his head was in his hands.

“I should’ve been there,” he spoke so softly that you didn’t quite hear him.

“Pardon?”

He looked up at you, fresh tears in his eyes. “I should’ve been there!” When he saw how you flinched, he regretted being so loud. But a larger part of him didn’t care. You were the first person to allow him to speak freely. He needed to let out his emotions somewhere. “I should have been there. But I thought who’d be stupid enough to try anything here? Look at how wrong I was.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” you shook your head.

“That is bullshit!” He stood up and began pacing back and forth. “My son is DEAD! It was an act of revenge, why else do you think the rest of you were left alive?”

You were about to ask if they already know who is responsible, but it’s as if he read your mind.

“My brother kills her son, so she has taken it upon herself to exact revenge, a son for a son!” He laughs, but again there is no humor in his tone. “My son, the heir to the throne, he is gone. Murdered while he slept and I did nothing!”

As he sat crying, you kneeled in front of him. Trying not to think about it too much, you placed your hands on his and forced him to look at you.

“Everyone around knows how much you love that boy. And he loved you just as much.” You decided it was better to not repeat that he couldn’t have done anything. Right now in front of you, was a father who needed to grieve.

Aegon knew he should be cautious. His sister knew you well, but he did not. He was already ashamed that you’ve seen him cry. Yet you didn’t seem repulsed. You allowed him to rant and didn’t try to shove advice down his throat. His son was gone, but you reminded him of the love that existed, that still exists.

The angry part of him wanted to shout at you to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to yell again in that moment. So he allowed your hands to remain on his as he cried for his son.

You prayed that no one would walk in, as you stood up and pulled Aegon up with you. Before he could ask what was happening, you gave him a hug.

His first instinct was again, one of anger. He resisted the brief urge to push you away. After a few seconds, he even surprised himself when he almost melted into your touch. He genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he was in someone else’s embrace like this. And you didn’t ask questions. You only held him and listened to his heartbeat.

He found himself crying again as he returned the gesture and wrapped his arms around you. Although he knew he could never speak of this, and he’d have to ask that you not do the same at some point, he allowed himself to do nothing but mourn the loss of his son as you held him in your arms, and you in his.

He was grateful that at least in this moment, you allowed him to grieve.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

TWO.

After that, there was a noticeable change. Aegon gravitated towards you if he entered a room and you were already there. Everyone noticed, but none dared to speak on the matter, not even Alicent or Otto.

You heard about the meeting in which it was ultimately decided that Jaehaerys’ body would be placed on a carriage led through the streets, so that the public might see just what Queen Rhaenyra was capable of. You didn’t think this was her doing. How could a mother who has just lost her son, inflict that pain onto someone else? Surely she wouldn’t. But everyone else was so sure. And you were but a low-born lady in waiting, so you remained silent.

The thought of Jaehaerys being used, paraded through the streets for all to gawk at, it angered you. Yes, he was a prince. And you understood the message that they hoped it would send, but it didn’t make you any less upset. He was just a boy. You thought of the boy who would run into your embrace whenever you walked in to his mothers chambers.

You couldn’t even imagine how Aegon was feeling. He loved that boy deeply, and you had no doubt that he was pressured into agreeing.

That same night, you were abruptly woken up. Immediately you looked to Helaena’s bed, filled with relief to see her and Jaehaera fast asleep. But it alarmed you that it was Ser Criston Cole of all people, who’d woken you up.

He put a finger to his lips, then turned and exited the room. You made sure you looked at least half decent before you followed him, wondering what on earth possessed him to wake you at such an hour.

“I—” He looked unsure of where to start.

“Has something happened?”

“It’s the King.” He didn’t wait for you to respond, instead turning and practically running out of the room.

As you chased after him, it did occur to you that it was odd for him to fetch the King’s sisters ladies’ in waiting. You also realized that he never technically responded when you asked if something happened.

When the 2 of you finally reached Aegon’s chambers, Criston didn’t even open the door. He didn’t need to though, you could hear the shouting and loud noises from outside.

“Who else is in there?” You fiddled with your hands, unsure of what you were walking into.

Criston merely shook his head. “No one. He kicked everyone out. But I know you helped him that— that night. Can you…?”

Without giving it a second thought, you nodded. Instead of leaving, Criston sort of stood guard right outside the door. You’d seen Aegon angry before, and were secretly relieved that he was outside should anything go wrong.

This time, you didn’t bother knocking. You did, however, try to open and then close the door as quietly as possible.

“I declare war!” It was the first thing you heard since entering the room, and you didn’t bother asking who he was declaring war on.

“My King —”

It was as if he was in a sort of angry trance. You speaking didn’t even cause him to look in your direction.

“I want them all dead! They’ll all pay for this, every fucking one of them!” As he spoke, he moved about the room destroying King Viserys’ carefully and meticulously constructed display.

You could see he needed to let his anger out. And didn’t exactly want to approach him while he held something that could hurt you. Not that he intentionally would, but seeing as he had no reaction to you calling out to him, you didn’t think it wise to sneak up on him.

As the smashing and destruction went on, you could see Aegon begin to wear himself out. It wasn’t so much that the anger was leaving his body, but rather that he was losing the energy to continue. Now, you thought to yourself, was a good time to gauge where he’s at mentally / emotionally.

“My King—” you tried again. This would be a moment you’d come to regret, seeing as you hadn’t considered the fact that Aegon was so blinded by his rage that he hadn’t noticed it was you in the room. Sure he heard the doors open and close, but he assumed it had been one of his men.

Not registering who it was that just spoke, and only hearing that someone was interrupting his rampage, he turned around with an arm swung out. It ended up being sort of a backhanded slap, and unfortunately he was wearing a ring.

Once he realized it was you that he’d just harmed, Aegon froze. His eyes widened and he immediately dropped to his knees.

“Are you hurt? Did I— did I…” He didn’t seem to know what he wanted to ask.

You put a hand to your cheek and examined your fingers, nothing a small amount of blood. He hit almost exactly where you were cut, and by the feel of it you guessed that his hit reopened the wound.

“It’s fine,” you tried to reassure him. “I am sure I will be healed in no time. There is no need—” Before you could finish speaking, he’d fled from the room, but not before hurriedly asking you to stay put.

Only a short while later he returned with the maester quickly following behind him.

As the man tended to your face, you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he debated on speaking. In the end, he decided to ask the question.

“How did you manage to reopen this wound?”

Luckily for you, you’d studied the room and had your answer prepared.

You pointed to a spot on the floor where a glass of wine lay spilt. “I slipped just there. Tried to steady myself and ended up landing on my face and cutting it with one of the broken pieces.”

Because you spoke immediately and with such confidence, your lie was believed.

“Might not heal as well if it’s opened a third time. Still doesn’t need stitches, just try not to fall again, eh?” He gave you a pat on the shoulder before giving you a small jar of ointment to apply to the cut, instructing you to apply it once a day.

As soon as the man left the room, you studied Aegon. He was pacing the entire time, only stopping once the maester had left.

“Why?” He whispered.

You knew what he was asking. “I did not think it would do any good for him to know the truth. I know you didn’t mean to,” you shrugged.

He was almost in a state of shock. Here he’d just injured you, accidentally, sure, but it was still done in anger. And it wasn’t that long ago that he broke down in front of you. Despite all of that, you were still kind to him. You covered for him.

Aegon fell to his knees once again in front of a large portion of the mess he created. “I’m sorry,” he spoke softly.

“My King you do not need to apologize. As I said, I know it wasn’t on purpose.”

He looked up at you, fresh tears in his eyes, and you lost count on how many times your heart broke for him. You joined him on the floor, and put what you hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t do anything right,” the first tear fell, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. “I allowed men to break in and murder my son, and this is twice now you’re hurt because of me.”

The fact that he blamed himself for it still, brought tears to your eyes as well.

“No one thinks this was your doing, and I swear to you that I don’t blame you.”

He was silent for a moment, deep in thought. “How am I meant to continue?”

His question caught you off guard. “Pardon?”

“My son is dead. Murdered, and my dear sister that claims to be the rightful heir may not have held the knife but I know she commanded the men that did. How am I supposed to to sit on the throne and continue to rule as if none of this has happened?”

“I do not think anyone expects you to act as if nothing has happened —”

Hearing that caused Aegon to laugh. “Have you met my mother? She is one of the many against me declaring war.”

“This tragedy —”

He cuts you off once again. “Tragedy? Hah! Understatement of the fucking year. And people are already speaking about my sons murder as if it’s a lesson! My grandfather, dear old Otto Hightower, wants to parade my sons body for all to see. Says it will show them the kind of Queen that Rhaenyra really is. You should’ve seen how many nodded their heads in agreement. How do I just hand him over to be stared at, as if he is no more than a piece of meat on display at the market?”

“I hate this,” you finally get a chance to speak. “Jaehaerys was the sweetest little boy I kno—knew. And I wish his death wasn’t being used in this way. A tragedy should not always be a lesson. Sometimes it should be allowed to be just that, a tragedy. I am truly sorry you are having to deal with all of this.”

Something about what you’ve said causes tears to spring to Aegon’s eyes. Perhaps it’s the way you speak so kindly of his son. He knows you genuinely loved the boy, after all. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His quiet sobs begin as he echoes your use of those 2 words, and when you turned to face him, he practically falls into your embrace. You stop counting how many times he utters I’m sorry. In between the I’m sorry’s, he mostly said his sons name, but you heard your name as well as Helaena and Jaehaera’s.

Night turned into morning and Aegon finds himself in your arms once again. Eventually his sobs had slowed down, and he fell asleep, laying on the hard floor with his head in your lap.

As he slept, you allowed yourself to run your hands through his hair, just for a moment. Aegon let out a content sigh, finding comfort in your movements even in his sleep.

Here was this boy who was feared by many, who didn’t ever want anyone to see him as weak, and yet twice he allowed himself to cry and grieve in front of you.

At some point, you gently wake Aegon and convince him to get into bed.

As you take one last look at him before exiting his chambers, you can’t help but silently hope that the future would be a little kinder to him.

TAGLIST — @blupblupfish | @sapphirest0nes

Bucky shrugged when his eyes traveled down all of the cuts and bruises on my body. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable with me given what you went through.” 

I simply patted the bed in front of me, a silent invitation to sit next to me so he sat on the edge of it in front of me and brushed my hair back with his fingers before tying it up away from my face. I couldn’t stop the small smile at the comforting touch. 

I cupped his cheek, my eyes raking over the cuts all over his face. “Did you fight Clint?” 

He nodded in my grasp then left a kiss on the inside of my palm. 

A soft knock on the door brought my attention to the figure behind Bucky and my lips curled in a small smile once again. Bucky didn’t need to look over his shoulder, he already knew who it was. 

“Everything taken care of?” He said while still keeping his eyes on me. 

“No trace left behind,” Steve said. “Dr. Banner is downstairs in your office whenever Y/N is ready.” 

Bucky gave him a nod of thanks before Steve went to leave but my voice stopped him. The look that he gave me broke my heart, the pieces falling into my stomach. While Bucky seemed to be held together and strong for me, Steve seemed broken and tired. 

“Thank you,” was all I said. 

They didn’t have to tell me what exactly he did to save me, I knew that the both of them did whatever they could. 

That brought a smile to his face before he nodded. “Anything for you, Y/N.” 

Bucky and I were alone again so I let out a deep breath. 

“Are Clint and Natasha-are they dead?” I stumbled out the words. 

Bucky’s vibranium hand covered my shaking ones. “We weren’t going to let them get away with what they did to you, Y/N.” 

Tears brimmed at my eyes as I let out a breath. 

“She was your wife at some point, Bucky. You shouldn’t have done that.” 

He brushed his lips over my knuckles. “I would do anything for you, doll.” 

There was a question that had been burning in the back of my mind the whole two hour drive back home. Bucky and I didn’t speak one word but he did have his hand linked with mine. 

“Why did it take you so long to come for me?” I sobbed, tears now falling down my cheeks. 

Bucky sighed while sitting right next to me now, wrapping an arm around me to pull us closer. I buried my face in his chest, the broadness of it muffling my cries. 

“Steve and I never stopped looking for you. The night you were taken, I heard some commotion from the kitchen and when I ran down there you were gone. All I saw was a note on the table,” Bucky said. 

I looked up at him. “Natasha said she wrote the note pretending that I did.” 

“I knew you didn’t. You always sign your notes with your name and a small heart,” Bucky said while wiping a tear from my cheek with a vibranium finger.

My heart warmed at the tiny detail that he clearly paid attention to. 

“Clint had you hidden really well. No one knew about his cabin upstate. It took Steve days to find you.” 

“What about you?” I asked. 

There was one tear pooling at the corner of his eye but he blinked it away fast, not wanting to cry in front of me. 

“I was a complete mess. Steve had to stop me a few times from destroying everything here. As soon as he found your location, I ran out of here like my ass was on fire.” 

I wrapped a tight arm around him while he carefully lifted my legs over his lap, rubbing my back in soothing circles. We sat like this for a while and with his arms around me, I felt a sense of safety that I hadn’t felt in so long that my body relaxed into Bucky. Slumber was creeping up to me and with heavy eyes, I allowed myself the much needed sleep. 

Until I felt Bucky’s body shake uncontrollably. His cries were not quite by any means. 

I looked up at him and my heart fell to the far depths of my stomach again when I noticed he was crying, tears falling rapidly down his face and onto his lap. His breathing became erratic, choking out sobs. 

“Oh, Bucky,” I breathed while grasping his face. “Please don’t cry.” 

“I thought I lost you, doll,” he said through gritted teeth. 

Bucky tried so hard to keep it together for me, knowing that the last thing I needed was to comfort him. 

“I’m right here, alright?” I forced our eyes to lock, not daring to look away for even a half second. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

To seal that promise, I collided our lips together in a tender kiss. One that was short but had the right amount of passion fueling it. There was no hesitation from Bucky as he slid his vibranium hand behind my neck to deepen the kiss, our tongues exploring each crevice of the others mouths. 

“I love you,” he muttered against my lips. 

My ears rang with white noise while my heart jumped into my throat and I pushed Bucky away, eyes looking at him wide. 

“Wh-what did you say?” I stammered. 

The corner of his lips curled up, the corner of his eyes crinkled. “I love you, Y/N. I have for a very long time. I only hate that it took for what happened to you that made me say it.” 

I was soaring, on cloud nine as some would say, hearing his proclamation. I knew that it took a lot for him to say that, let alone feel this way. 

“I love you too, Bucky.” I replied. 

We shared another kiss only this one was cut short due to Steve calling for us from the bottom of the stairs, Dr. Banner was ready to check over all of my wounds. 

Bucky lifted my chin with his flesh finger. “I promise that I won’t let anything like this happen to you again.” 

I nodded with a smile. “I know.” 

I struggled the entire time as he dragged me to the basement of the small house and didn’t want to risk me running away again so this time he tied both of my hands behind me to the same pole that I had been stuck to for days. 

Clint’s hand was wrapped tight around my throat, oxygen seizing from my lungs. “If you try that again I can promise that you won’t walk out of here alive.” 

I gasped trying to let the air fill my lungs when his grip left from around my throat. 

“Go fuck yourself,” I coughed. 

He bent low, ready to say something, until the door kicked open with Natasha walking in. She was fuming, steam coming out of her ears. 

“Bitch!” She spat while digging her finger into the bullet wound in my leg. 

I cried out in pain, eyes screwing shut with tears. 

“How could you let her pull a fast one on you?” Clint seethed while pulling her back to her feet. 

Natasha scoffed. “Where the hell were you? It was your turn for her break.” 

Through small tears, I watched as they bickered back and forth. 

“This was your idea, you should be the one watching her!” Clint yelled. 

“You’re the one that put the hit on her! No one has been able to follow through with it so we need to take matters in our own hands,” Natasha said with her hands on her hips. 

I snickered, still in pain. “I’m flattered you guys are fighting over me.” 

They both looked at me and Clint ran a hand over his face before pointing a finger at me. 

“She’s your problem. Deal with it.” He said to Natasha before leaving the room, the door slamming behind him. 

There was a thick tension between the two of them and I realized that if I wanted to prolong my life, the only way to do that was to keep her talking about that. 

“So it was your idea to kidnap me?” I asked. 

The sound of a chair scraping across the concrete floor hurt my ears as Natasha sat on infront of me. 

“I had to get you away from Bucky somehow,” she shrugged. 

“To what?” I raised a brow. “Get back with him?” 

“You don’t deserve him!”

Natasha was on her feet again and began pacing in front of me. 

“He had everything with me! I was a loyal wife, ready to give him whatever he wanted,” she started to ramble.

“Loyal? You were fucking Clint,” I said. 

“Because he was fucking you! I had to get back at him somehow!” she snapped. 

Curiosity got the best of me. “When did you find out about us?” 

Natasha’s pacing halted. “His birthday. Bucky kept looking at his phone all night. When he finally stepped away from it, I couldn’t help myself from looking through it. All I saw was texts between the two of you.” 

I sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-.” 

“What?” She kneeled in front of me. “To steal my husband away from me? To sleep with him?” 

The anger in her eyes caused them to go black as she pulled out a knife from her pocket. 

My shoulders didn’t tense this time, like all the other times she did this. After seven days locked here, the fight within me was gone. Especially after my failed attempt at escaping. 

I hissed when I felt the blade drag across the bare skin of my thigh, the one that didn’t have a gaping wound to it. 

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” I groaned while leaning my head against the pole. 

Natasha wiped the blood from the blade on her sleeve. “Because I want to make sure I completely break you.” 

I gave her a hard stare. “You already have. You said it yourself, no one is coming for me. So there’s no point in keeping me alive.” 

“Steve was so enamored with you,” Natasha ignored my words, deciding to change the subject completely. 

“He would have been perfect for you. The four of us could have gone out together, been the best of friends. Our kids could have played together. We could still have that if you promise to stay away from Bucky when I let you out of here,” she said while sitting down in front of me. 

I scoffed. “You’re delusional if you think Bucky would want you back after this.” 

The knife was pressed into my neck and Natasha yanked my head to the side by my hair. 

“You knew he was married but yet you kept going back to him,” she said. 

Her eyes crossed over every inch of my face but when she noticed the way my breath caught in my throat and how I avoided her gaze, her face fell. 

“You love him,” she muttered, dumbfounded. 

My lips didn’t move, knowing that there was no point in lying to her, so the next best option was to say nothing. Even if I did say something, the commotion coming from above us had gained both of our attention. Voices were muffled and it sounded like a scuffle was happening.

Natasha looked up and followed the noises from above with her eyes so I used this as the only opportunity to do what I had been planning the second Clint tied me to the pole. 

A loud yell erupted from my throat as I tackled Natasha to the ground, the knife and rope that was used to tie me falling around us as we had our own scuffle. My fists collided with her face a few times before I stumbled on my feet to run from her. I didn’t get far, her hands wrapping around my ankle to bring me down to the ground again. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Natasha seethed while digging her finger into my bullet wound that had finally stopped bleeding. 

“Fuck you!” I cried while smacking her hands away. 

This time they wrapped tightly around my throat, cutting off my breath. Everything became weak and clouded as the light around me faded, my hands falling to my sides. My life was slipping away and this was the last fight that I had in me. I was ready to give it up. 

Bucky wasn’t coming for me otherwise he would have saved me on day one. But it was a week later with no sight from him. 

A loud gunshot rang in my ears which caused my eyes to snap open just in time to see Natasha fall off of me in a heap of a mass onto the ground. I had to blink a few times to let life fill my veins once again. 

“Doll?” 

The familiar voice made me sit to my knees, a painful groan slipping from my lips. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

Broken, tired, eyes locked with deep blue ones that I loved so much. 

“Bu-Bucky?” 

My hands shook while they reached for him, unsure if he was actually here in front of me or I actually had died and this was my version of heaven. 

He was staring at the body of Natasha, who lay motionless next to me with blood pooling from the wound in her back. The gun was clenched tightly in his hand as his face shook with anger, lips trembling. He was almost waiting to see if she would sit up so he could shoot her again. 

“Bucky?” My voice quaked again while I stood to my feet. 

Bucky was enraged, my words going in one ear and out the other. It wasn’t until I slowly walked over to him and placed a gentle touch on his cheek. 

His eyes lightened, the gun clattered to the floor, and his strong arms wrapped around me. 

“Doll, you’re alright. I’m here.” 

His reassuring words and soft hands were what I needed to feel safe again, my body crumbling in his embrace. My sobs stained his shirt and he lifted my face by my chin. 

“Your face,” I gasped while running a finger over the cuts and blood. “What happened?” 

“Clint,” was the only thing he said. 

Bucky then cupped both my cheeks as he bent high and low to look over every inch of my body, inspecting all of my injuries. 

“You came for me,” I cried, tears falling again. 

His lips pressed a kiss to my forehead while I grasped hard at his hips.