#*aerea

The woman in front of her is swiftly awoken, eyes vividly violet opening. “What— who are…” she starts asking, but then reaches for her throat in a hurried panic. As her hands fall down her body, so does her gaze, her hands sliding down from her chest to her belly and hips. Finally, she holds on the end her long locks of hair, positively frightened. “What is this?! This is not…!”

At the same time, Aerea looks at her own hands. Pale with purple veins as always, yet larger than hers usually are, with some fine hair on their back and the rather unbecoming hints of dirt under the fingernails. The cold she has felt suddenly makes all the more sense when she realises that for the most part, she is bare. Unlike the lady in front of her, her hair is short, and with one hand coming to her chest, she screams.

She has never been considered well endowed, no, but her chest is gone!

Coming up from the bed, she rushes to the mirror. The room is all the same, but all is wrong. She holds onto the short oily hair, and the broadened shoulders of this body. The dark circles of the man she faces in the reflection only grow more pronounced as she feels the blood draining from his face. Her face. 

“This is not funny,” she says, nearly on the verge of tears as she faces the woman on the bed again. “Where is my husba…” she stops herself, and examines that unknown girl again, who nervously played with the Myrish lace of the nightgown she seemed so pensive in. Rhaegal always plays with the lace trimmings of her dresses. “Rhaegal?” she asks.

“...Aerea?” is the woman’s reply and suddenly some air enters her lungs again; she nods, and the ‘woman’s’ eyes brighten too. “Yes, it’s me,” he says in that woman’s feminine yet husky voice. Her husband’s face is far more angular, but the appearance he dons now has a somewhat subdued angularity to match it, and an entirely softer looking body to contrast it with. His new form comes up from the bed and closer and it is almost surreal as he reaches out for her new body.

She looks down at herself again, thinking to take a peek at her breeches. She feels the absurdity of her new male effects, but isn’t she short for a man?

Rhaegal brings a dainty hand to hold her upper arm. “This is strange,” he says as he examines it until finally settles on a squeeze. “How could this be…”

Aerea, resigned, resorts to curling into him, demanding a hug. “Someone put a curse on us and made me a stubby sickly man,” she says in half desperation, leaning her head on her husband’s— wife’s? — shoulder.

“Don’t say that,” he wraps his hands around her, repressing a smile. “I think I may be considered the short one of us two, anyway.”

Aerea huffs as she sniffles. “You are as tall as any woman, and have gained giant teats for yourself,” she says. “Don’t you dare pretend to complain.”

Chuckling, he weaves a hand into her short hair, ruffling through it. “Neither should you, then. I think you make a pretty man.”

“Shut your mouth lest we stay this way!” she yells at him, only making him laugh. “I can’t believe this…” Tightening her embrace upon him, he squeals slightly, the way she often does when he locks on her firmly. He returns it quickly as he relaxes in her thicker arms, but it is strange to have him respond in that manner so easily.

Garnering some interest in that difference, she sets out to understand the situation in her hold better, and scoops him from behind into her hold.

“Aerea—” he yelps, quick to bring his hands to hold onto her body’s shoulder. She licks her lips and carries him around in her arms. She never quite understood why he liked doing it to her, but now she feels she does. It feels quite nice to feel him readjust his hold on her closer and closer.

“This is why you like to twirl me around so much, huh?” she asks. The girlish face he dons is beet red. The dainty fingers that on her nape play with her thin tufts of hair present there gently as he considers what to say.

“...I like it when you do this,” Rhaegal brings the hand back to her new face, cupping the round jaw and leaning down to kiss her slowly. Suddenly, her arms grow shakier. Gods, I need to go against a wall. She likes it when he gets her against a wall —

The doors to their room suddenly slam open, and she loses her grip on her husband-wife’s body. They manage to grip each other so he isn’t toppled backwards to the floor. Holding each other in some shock, they turn their heads to look at Mother, who seems exasperated enough to rip out all of her hair.

Alicent first seems flabbergasted to a degree, but recovers from it with a shake of her head. “Aegon, Helaena, I need you in the hall room,” she says as if she’s about to collapse. “Your brother has lost all of his wits. He woke up and started running around saying his name is Aemma and ogling his swords. Dress up and help me make him regain his sanity, I beg you.”

Aerea and Rhaegal share a prolonged look.

“Prince Aemond, please!” they hear Ser Criston’s voice from outside the hallway. 

“I think our sister is going haywire with new opportunities,” Aerea says. “We better see to her, husband.”

Rhaegal hums, while Alicent’s eyes open like saucers.

“What are you talking about,” Alicent yells at her. “Aegon, if you are in on the same shenanigan—”

Rhaegal comes to Alicent, holding her hand with his own small ones. “Mother, we will sort this out. Do not fret a thing.”

Aerea used to get along with her eldest niece, back when she looked like a little boy. She even gave her the nickname Jace. However, then she grew to own the same audacity and unfailing entitlement her mother is known for, learning how to speak well without knowing how to apologize. The girl used to be a cute, pugly thing; now she just knows how to bark and worse, be charmingly coy. 

Aerea will admit, she does not take it well when her husband has to play peacemaker. He’s an approachable sort of man, whose looks are graceful enough to be inviting and is of gentle enough character to be mannerly. Meaning, he is susceptible to being taken advantage of by girls who are bold enough, and very easily used by girls who want to annoy her.

“When I passed by the gardens, I remembered how we used to play hide and seek,” Jace reminisces fondly. Aerea brings her hand over her husband’s. Lest he thinks I’m not attentive, she thinks to herself. He glances at her nervously, squeezing her fingers between his for some assurance. Jace looks at her sister, chuckling. “Well, Liliana’s sobs came to mind first, really. When she couldn’t find us on that tree, if you recall.” 

“Can you let that go?” Liliana exclaims, and for once, Aerea agrees with that twerp. As if it has any relevance now.

“Never,” Jace smiles, affectionately patting at the top of her sister’s head. “It is a shame we don’t have as much of a thriving garden in Dragonstone. It is barren, rocky land for the most part. I wanted to play similarly with Alyssa and Viserra. These are sweet memories to have.”

Aerea’s fingers move slowly over Rhaegal's fingers. She’d consider it an affectionate warning, but it seemed more a hostage situation. 

Rhaegal swallows, offering a timid smile. “You can still play with them there during this visit,” he suggests.

Jace perks up. “I should, I suppose. Will you come? I think they’d enjoy your presence. You’ve always been good with children.” 

Aerea’s finger squashes down on her husband's index. I’ll smash your pug nose flatter than it already is. 

She moves herself to look beyond her husband and stare down her offending niece. “We will come. Our twins need more companions to play with. You’d think Maelor would be enough, but they still ask for more siblings.”

She expects it to shut Jace up, but the girl's chocolate brown eyes crinkle. “That would certainly do,” half a dimple comes upon her face as grins at Aerea.  She represses any giggles, and pats Rhaegal’s shoulder. “Seems like you have some work cut out for you, though.”

What does that mean—

She very nearly stood up. She would’ve, hadn’t it been for Rhaegal promptly grabbing on her hand and squeezing on it as if to contain her. His face is entirely flushed red, and that frustrates her too, until he lifts himself from his seat and dragged her alongside him. “We should dance,” he says abruptly, whisking her away. He doesn’t wait for any confirmation, taking her towards the dance floor.

Jace watches them as they leave the table, full grin on. “And I after!” she announces with roaring laughter.

Aerea would have gone back to chew her out if it hadn’t been for the fact Rhaegal already turned to glare at their niece. Clearly flustered, but deliberately glaring. She finds him handsome when he glares. She supposes it is the conviction that appears in a usually carefree gaze. She similarly does not resent the grip of steel he has on her, but that better not be because he must separate her from Jace.

“She flusters you?” Aerea accuses, not asks. Her hand reaches for his shoulder, as the dance’s form calls for, but her nails dig deep at the shirt and skin. She doesn’t care if it makes her easily irritable, the next she sees a strong hand on his shoulder she’d cut it off. If they can take eyes, why couldn’t she take hands? That brazen bitch deserves it.  

Rhaegal gathers her close to him. His hands are supposed to go on her waist, but they sit lower than the small of her back. It is a pleasing enough feeling, and she feels a surge of heat rushing through her— No. Focus. She must keep the frown. He needs to answer! 

“No,” he says, and he sounds awfully riled as he says so. “It is only that she inserts herself to where she shouldn’t.”

Aerea grabs at his nape to look at her. “You think me blind to not see that? I had the entire day to see. Oh, I know she dreams of insertions, that—”

His grip on her becomes more forceful in a split second. It makes her take a deep inhale within. “Hardly,” he says, and cranes his head closer to her ears. “She thinks it amusing, to make you frustrated. Just as she thinks she helps me by making you frustrated.”

“You don’t—” Aerea starts, but  then takes a moment to digest that statement. She feels her ears grow hot, embarrassment and anger smoking at each flushed lobe. For a moment she feels stupid, and then she feels rage. That girl played her like a fiddle? On purpose? She hates that. More than anything. “I’m not jealous,” she says, trying to ignore the waves of envy that ran through her before and now. 

It is just no funny thought to her, having him tempted by Jace. Those bastard girls could do anything and be acquitted from any fault by their mother. As if she doesn’t hear Father talk of how easier it would’ve been had her husband just married her instead. It started with Rhaenyra and continued with Jace and gods be good even if the lot of them die she may just hear the same with baby Viserra.

She knows she had been stupid at times, but she gave him three children and all the love she has left to give. She hates, loathes, abhors how easily they make her feel replaceable. 

Rhaegal puts his forehead against hers. “You needn’t be,” he soothes, as he knows to do. He knows she yearns that quelling, and that makes her scared by itself. She has made so many mistakes, but he holds her heart tender. He nuzzles against her and it is all reassurance, until she opens her eyes and meets his gaze.“But I’d like the flush on your face to be all for me, as well.” 

She considers stomping his foot, if only for the mere suggestion that any redness could come to her cheeks if it wasn’t for him. Jace couldn’t have embarrassed her for years to come if she hadn’t used him. If it wasn’t for him, she would’ve found a reason to smash Jace’s face into her plate of cake and she would’ve been as pale as the moon doing it. 

“As if it could be for anyone else,” she says quietly, and licks her lips. She knows this isn’t quite how he likes that phrased. Between her cynical and his lyrical their words never match unless they make the effort to make them as such, and it is an effort worth making. “I love you.”

He is not one to reach out to her when they are among the masses. His intimacy is a separate section of him, belonging fully to her when they share a lone room. A secret only she knows.

Regardless, he kisses her this time, full on the lips. 

He knows how she likes his love expressed, too.

Aerea sighs as the kiss breaks off. She expects bulging eyes at the two of them. To imagine the prince will disrupt an entire dance routine only to kiss his wife; an event worth the stares for once, if you ask her. She hopes Jace had looked and blushed at a site that required none of her incitement.

And yet, the choice to kiss her has not seemed to have compromised their secret at all. The eyes of their guests are all on the high table, where seemingly, a yelling match between Aemma and Jace is taking place. Or more like, Jace is barking, and Aemma is smirking.

Hah! She should’ve known Aemma wouldn’t have let her get away with things. Sometimes little sisters are good to have.

Aerea almost steps in to come aid her, but Rhaegal holds her arm.“Don’t,” he whispers to her ear, and she blinks at him. Mother and Rhaenyra stand to calm the yelling girls, and he continues, his hand sliding down to hers. “They will be alright. Let’s go.”

“Go?”

He weaves his fingers in hers. “Before everyone can notice.”

Aerea smiles widely. A day for fine judgement indeed; her husband has his wits about him. She squeezes on his hand, dragging him with her instead of slipping away any sort of gracefully. His pearly whites show as he stifles a laugh.

The boy’s eyes crinkle to the utmost joy and relief, their glimmer nothing less than starlike in quality. “Well!” Daeron— Daella, now without doubt— and rushes into his embrace. This male form of his youngest sister is surprisingly lanky. He wonders if this is how sisters feel normally; gods, he has never felt so short.

Perhaps now he could understand his wife’s tantrums of being the smallest of them four. Unfortunately for her, Prince Aegon’s height has only elevated her one spot on that list, and she had been quick to make note of it. “This is ridiculous,” she says annoyedly, when Daella lets him go. Prince Aegon’s hand reaches up to Prince Daeron’s hair, as if to level him. “Who allowed you to become a tree?”

Daella chuckles, coming to hug her and Aemma as well. They are stuck in this position, them all, but at least they are together. 

“We should see what you have become on the training yard,” Aemma says, keeping a calm tone, although laced with intrigue. Prince Aemond had a menacing appearance to him, with a strong jaw and the most conniving of looks, but his lips earned a cat-like grin when Aemma spoke. There may be a chance that it was natural to that body, but Rhaegal could tell Aemma had been excited. “Things are quite different, now.” 

They both turn to Ser Criston naturally. The man blinks at the both from Alicent’s side; it is clear that they needn't have any of his permission here. He only proceeds to clarify. “At this moment, my Prince?” 

The grin on Prince Aemond’s face is undoubtedly Aemma’s. “Yes.”

Aerea snorts, and Rhaegal tries to keep himself from chuckling too. Even in the male bodies, Daella grabs onto Aemma to drag her forward, locking arms with one another. Despite the odd, almost resigned looks from Alicent and Criston, Rhaegal brings his own arm to lock with Aerea and go after them. 

It makes the Queen and the Kingsguard even further confused, but he minds it not. Today, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena walk hand in hand, and Rhaegal will enjoy every minute of it.

— 

It is a storm of swords between his sisters in the yard.

They make the fullest of every moment. Each clank of a sword earns them intense cheers from the crowd of watching bystanders, and it is quite a crowd; long it has been since two princes sparred each other on this yard, it appears. It had never been a primary interest of his, but he feels odd now, watching from the sidelines himself. 

He leans his head against Prince Aegon’s shoulder. That body is surprisingly not that different in softness from his wife’s, although he can’t say it is quite the same, either. Still, it’s comforting within all this noise and strangeness. 

“Sulking?” she asks. It sounds a drier remark in the lower voice she attained herself. He keeps his lips lined.

“No, it is only…” he trails off. The violet gaze of hers is no less piercing as a prince, and the rise of an eyebrow is just as pointed. We agreed on honesty, he reminds himself. He will not break that promise here, even if they spoke that promise from different lips. “Yes.”

Aerea hums and brings a finger to his lips. “I rather like the pout, you know.”

Rhaegal believes she is more inclined to squeeze and hold him as much as possible at the moment. She certainly did not hold back on testing the differences in intimacy. It had been as awkwardly funny as it had been oddly pleasing. He still can’t fathom some sensations that he had felt, and she had made a point to laugh at his relentlessly at some of his questions — but then again, he similarly got to laugh at when she realized fucking is quite a different job from being fucked.

But some natural instincts helped, or one may assume even muscle memory. Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena had a third child, unlike them. Maelor, his mind supplies again, with the image of an infant holding at the edge of his cradle and babbling relentlessly. 

He thinks some wistfulness conquered them both. By the time he leaves this body, he wonders if the princess would be left with a fourth. 

Either way, Rhaegal bites the finger in his vicinity. Aerea yelps away, pouting at him now. Prince Aegon has a plump pout himself. “And I like yours,” he chuckles and looks back at the scene in front of him. He smiles at his younger sisters, resigning himself to observe. This is a sobering moment; yes, he had not enjoyed swordplay for the sparring itself, but he thinks he can understand Aemma and Daella more fully now that he is not to be included. 

From the sidelines, the joy on their faces is enviable; it looks so very fun. He has taken training for granted in his lifetime. He will have to do his best to keep being dedicated and thankful to Criston when he returns to his body.

Rhaegal does hope it will be rather soon. He misses his children, and his mother, and the abilities to hold his wife with no ogling and join his sisters’ in their spars freely.

“Oi,” Aerea huffs at some squire to her left. It is amusing to hear her attempts at impersonating male speech. It nearly brings a smile to his face, but soon enough she completes the sentence whole. “Bring me a sword!”

He squeezes his wife’s upper arm, looking at her confused. He knows not about Prince Aegon, but he could count the times Aerea has held swords in her hands on one palm. “You never liked sparring,” he says, eyebrow lifting. Their sisters would know to be mindful of her inexperience, but she doesn’t even like it. Why would she leave his side for it?

Aerea brings a hand to squeeze on his side in response. The squire returns hastily with a sword in hand, offering it to him. “My prince,” he says, and Aerea takes the sword with little care, the grip on his waist seemingly stronger than the hold on the steel. 

“Prince Aegon is joining the fray!” Someone calls. The excited audience claps in excitement, and even Queen Alicent and Ser Criston eye him with intrigue. The princes in the midst of the circle turn to them with confusion that matches his.

Aerea dispels it very quickly. “Dimwit,” she says aloud, “who told you that? It’s not for me,” she turns back to him. “It’s for my wife.” 

Ah?

That is met with a deafening silence.

“Aegon, what is this nonesense—” Alicent begins, and Rhaegal feels as if he is watching his mother from years back come alive again. Aerea hadn’t bothered with their mother’s complaints then, and she isn’t bothered by them now, only shoving the sword in the smooth hands of Princess Helaena, and patting him to move forward.

He first stares at his wife, surprised.The sword feels heavier than how it usually does, and certainly the dress is not quite the proper garb for this activity. However, he had trained and fought with swords in many situations in years past, even when it was inconvenient. Aerea knows that too, he reminds himself, and for a moment smiles at the sword as warmth rushes down him.

Go on, that is the message. And he knows his sisters would not allow for anyone to object.

Aerea is steadfast despite the complaints coming her way. Aemma and Daella also care none for the shock among the observers, they return to a starting stance in front of him. He laughs when he sees Ser Criston balking at them; now this Criston might want to put an end to this before anything starts, but his Ser Criston would remind him to not waste an opportunity to take first strike. 

Rhaegal grips the sword better, and rushes forward to enter that dance.

Swords clank in a nostalgic symphony. Words die down somewhere between the third of fourth strike he blocks. The audience’s yapping even turns into amused ones when Aemma and his team up  to make Daella yield first. Prince Daeron has fallen to his back first, in full hearty laughter.  

Aemma turns back to him, sword pointed towards him as she circles him. “Let it be said it is not the dress that would make you lose, sister,” he says. I would know, are the words that remain unspoken. Prince Aemond may have intimidating features, but the contesting tilt of his sister is all the same. 

Rhaegal grins; it is a game, and he’ll play along. “It would not need to be said if I win, right?”

“Get him!” Aerea yells loudly from the sidelines. She holds Alicent by the hand, making the stressed, shocked queen cheer alongside her. Daella has retreated to stand by Criston, who seems so bewildered he has been rendered speechless. The rest of the audience, however, seems to have been enjoying the show. 

There are many people to please. Wife, sisters, audience, who not? Rhaegal picks up the sword, and lunges forward. In this circle of surprise and cheer however, he himself feels he has already won.

Rhaegal notes her glance at him, pout turning more pronounced. Like a child waiting for attention. She’s better about speaking of what bothers her these days, but sometimes she wants to be noticed first. That’s alright; he’d coddle her if she’d like. He likes how her ears turn red when he does.

“Is something wrong?” he reaches over to her, placing one hand on her waist. The other goes to play with a strand of her loose hair. “I thought you enjoyed the celebrations?”

Aerea hums at the touch, but is quick to force a huff to maintain herself. “That girl,” she says with an upturned nose. “That girl was.. Uh– is, all sorts of wrong!” she slurs, squeezing on his arm.

“Which girl?” he asks. There were plenty of ladies in attendance.

“That Lannister girl, with the mane for her hair,” she says irritably and goes on to spill all her grievances. “You are not allowed to dance widh’ her anymore,” she proclaims. “Or her sisters. Or her cousins! They see golden decor and they think they all shat it themselves.”

Oh. She must be talking about Lord Jason’s daughter. He has too many daughters to keep count, but Rhaegal did end up dancing with his eldest Cerelle for one of the songs that were played. She did have a mop of golden hair, and her mother’s brown eyes. A pretty girl, undoubtedly, and rather talkative as well. He was pleased at that, for that made it so he didn’t have to do much more than nod for the entirety of their conversation.

“Don’t think of her, eith’er!” Aerea slaps his arm. Rhaegal holds himself from smiling; it’s barely a pat, and her exaltation is all too sweet, big eyes demanding his attention back. His arms come around her and his hands meet just below the small of her back. If he teases her, she just might ask him for more. 

“I’m trying to recall,” he says innocently. “What was her name…? Cer…” he trails off, letting her frown at him. “Cersei, was it?” he asks with a head tilt. Her expression shifts back to her full pout. Playing dumb can be fun, but kissing her stupid would be…

“Forget her,” she says, bringing her chest against his in an embrace. “T’was my nameday. You’re mine,” she declares and he feels warmth pool down his belly. Every time she says as much butterflies flutter. And you’re mine. He held much of that yearning within for so long, he can’t help his joy. “I should’ve ripped out that gold hair of her when she touched yo—”

Rhaegal brings an arm under her bottom and lifts her up. She squeaks in surprise. “I like your silver,” he says, and his eyes fall to her lips. “And your reds.”

He closes the gap between them, and kisses her all the way to their bed. Laying her down on it, he sees cherry coloured lips in an overjoyed, content grin. Her hand comes to his jaw, and drags his face back down. “I like you,” she says, and takes over lips that will forever be hers.