#aegon

The feast is louder than you expected it to be. 

Not joyful, per se—not in the way laughter shared between friends feels joyful—but swollen with wine and anticipation, a noise that presses in from all sides until it feels almost physical, as though it may crawl beneath your skin if you let it linger too long. Cups slam against tables, voices overlap, someone laughs too loudly at something that isn’t particularly funny at all. 

And here you sit, right in the middle of it. 

Your hands are folded neatly in your lap, posture composed in a way you learned long before you ever set foot in King’s Landing. It’s a disposition born of long observation—of knowing when to speak and, more importantly, when not to. It’s served you well these past few weeks and still serves you well now, even if you have to consciously remind yourself not to fidget or pluck at loose threads on your gowns. Anything to keep from betraying the tight coil of nerves winding slowly in your stomach. 

You can feel people staring, their gazes almost palpable against your skin. 

Not all of them are curious, some are calculating—measuring the cut of your gown, the steadiness of your expression, the way you hold yourself beside your princely husband. Others are… far less subtle, sliding over you with open speculation, already imagining you in a bed you’ve hardly even glimpsed yet one you’ll be in soon enough. 

And then there are the women. 

You notice them in the margins at first—the tight lines of their mouths, the way their gazes linger a moment too long before flicking away when your eyes finally meet. A few look at you with something like sympathy, poorly concealed. Others don’t bother to hide it at all. 

Oh, the poor girl, their eyes seem to say, She doesn’t know yet. 

Raising your cup, you take a small sip of wine—a fancy, imported Dornish variety—more to give your hands something to do than from any real desire to drink, before letting your gaze drift, unbidden, to the Queen. 

Alicent watches you from a few seats away with a stillness that feels carved from stone, hands folded together so tightly her knuckles pale. There is no warmth there, but neither is there cruelty. What you see instead is somehow altogether worse and makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. 

Pity. 

Not for what’s about to happen tonight, exactly, but for what they all assume will follow: a husband who will tire of you quickly, who is well-known on the Street of Silk. 

A marriage measured in contracts and novelty rather than any sort of devotion. 

The thought settles uneasily in your chest—a quiet, unwelcome companion. You look away before the thought can fester. 

Beside you, Aegon sniggers at some comment thrown his way, one you thankfully only catch the heels of. 

He sprawls in his chair like a man wholly at ease with himself—head tipped just slightly, goblet never empty for too long, an ever-present smirk on his lips. He laughs too loud, leans in too close to whichever lord has the misfortune of catching his attention, tosses out remarks sharp enough to draw both groans and applause. 

You’ve seen this version of him before—all exaggerated grins and crude remarks, sharpened just enough to wound before anyone can wound him first. 

You remember the first time he’d tested it on you. 

It had been the day after your arrival in King’s Landing, when he’d taken it upon himself to lead you through the Red Keep’s gardens. He’d paused before some marble statue and made a vulgar quip about its breasts, glancing at you from beneath pale lashes, waiting to see whether you would laugh along, or gasp in scandal, or perhaps retreat altogether.

“Mm, at least let me finish my wine before you drag me off,” he calls at one point when someone shouts a lewd encouragement from the crowd, lifting his cup in mock salute, “I’d hate to disappoint her sober!”

The table roars. 

You don’t flinch, though you feel it—that ripple of attention tightening around you once more. You’ve learned, over the course of the evening, that reacting only feeds them. Better to let the noise wash over you like surf against stone, even as your pulse skitters briefly at the sound of your name on so many tongues. 

Aegon’s knee presses deliberately against yours beneath the table, grounding and possessive in a way that feels almost startling. When you glance at him, you catch the edge of his grin—sharp and practiced—but his eyes flick to your face with something more assessing.

“Still breathing?” He murmurs sideways, voice pitched low but laced with humor. 

“Last I checked,” you reply evenly, though you’re suddenly far too aware of the rise and fall of your own chest. 

That earns a huff of laughter, quiet but genuine, before he tips his cup back again and returns to the performance. 

Mere moments later, the call for the bedding cuts through the din, loud and gleeful. The shift is immediate. The entire hall seems to lean forward as one, anticipation sharpening into something almost ravenous. 

You rise when prompted, smoothing the ivory skirts of your gown while you try to ignore the anxious flutter of your heart, the way it pounds like a hummingbird’s wings. You can feel it now—the way the room narrows, how every movement of yours is cataloged and judged. 

Aegon stands beside you, movements exaggerated as he bows theatrically to the crowd as though answering applause after a particularly fine act. “Pray for me,” he calls out, smirking wickedly, “Gods know I’ll need the strength!” 

More laughter. 

But when he offers you his arm, his grip is firm—something you’re thankful for—and when you take it, his thumb presses briefly at your wrist, right where your pulse beats, lingering just long enough to be felt. 

As you’re ushered from the hall, the noise follows—laughter spilling into the corridors, voices calling after you with half-drunk inspiration and unhidden crudity. The stone beneath your feet feels colder here, the air heavier, the walk longer than it ought to be. 

You glance at Aegon, expecting another quip, another deflection. 

Instead, you find him quieter now. 

His shoulders are still loose, his expression still easy enough to pass for confidence, but the sharpest edges of his swagger have dulled. His gaze flicks ahead, then back to you—not lingering but aware. 

It occurs to you, suddenly and uncomfortably, that the bravado may not be for the court at all—that it may be for you, as if he’s daring you to believe what they all do, to find some reason to be disappointed in him. 

“You’re handling this better than most,” he says after a moment, voice lower than before, stripped of its performative bite. “I’d wager most would look like they’re marching to their execution.”

You consider that, humming softly. Footsteps fill the corridor behind you—the Small Council, a Septon, a maester whose name you forget, the Queen, and her all-too-serious father who seems to be taking the place of the sickly King. 

“Perhaps they are,” you say finally, attempting to match his carefree cadence.

“But not you?”

“I suppose that bit depends on you.” 

That earns you a snort, warming something within you. “Fair enough.”

The doors to his bedchamber loom ahead, already flanked by guards, and you slow despite yourself. Not enough to draw comment, hardly enough to even label the movement as hesitation, but just enough that Aegon notices. 

Before either of you can speak, your lady’s maids appear at your side, hands already reaching out to guide you away. 

“Your Grace,” one murmurs gently. The suddenness of their hands sends a jolt through you. You’ve only known Aegon for a few short weeks but he’s by far the one you know the best, the one you’re most comfortable around. 

His fingers tighten reflexively around yours before he releases you, jaw flexing as he reins himself in. “They’ll bring you back,” he says lightly, halfway laughing as if you’re some ridiculous thing—all performative, all for the benefit of those listening, “It’s not as if I’ll start without you.” 

It’s meant as a jest but his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than necessary, something quieter flickering beneath his usual bravado. 

You merely nod, speechless. For the first time since you’d arrived in King’s Landing, the anxiety that you’d held so carefully at bay gnaws at the forefront of your consciousness as the maids gently steer you away. 

Looking back once, you catch his gaze again, only briefly but it’s enough to catch the genuine concern in his gaze—a glimpse of the man beneath the mask. It steadies you more than you expect. 

The corridor turns and he disappears from view, though you’re not taken very far. They lead you back to the chambers you’ve been occupying these past few weeks—rooms that have slowly, somehow, begun to feel like your own. The door closes behind you with a soft finality, muting the sounds of the Keep. 

The familiarity of it does not bring the comfort you expect. 

Candles burn low and fresh linens have already been laid out with careful precision. The maids move around you with practiced efficiency. 

Your gown is unlaced slowly, pearl buttons freed one by one. As the fabric finally slips free of your shoulders, the weight of the evening seems to settle heavily onto them and the awareness of what’s coming settles sharply in your chest. 

For only a precious second, you let yourself wonder if Aegon feels the same. If he, too, is standing somewhere alone and bare of pretense, wondering about whether tonight will prove everything they’ve ever said about him right. 

You’re left in a simple chemise—thin, pale, meant for bed rather than ceremony—and the air suddenly feels far too present against your skin. 

Someone smoothes your hair while another removes your jewelry, setting each piece aside on your dressing table. 

Your hands tremble, only slightly. You clasp them together to hide it. 

It’s only one night, you tell yourself, drawing in a slow breath as your ladies finally finish with you. 

A knock sounds at the door, causing you to jolt as the maids go about tidying up the room. One of them moves to the door and exchanges a brief murmur with the guard outside before turning back to you. “They’re ready for you, my lady.”

Your stomach tightens at the words. 

For a fleeting, cowardly moment, you consider asking for another minute—just one more breath, one more second where the world has not yet closed in on you. 

But the impulse passes, schooled away by the same placidity that’s been drilled into you since birth. 

Nodding once, steadying yourself, you stand from the dressing table and allow yourself to be guided from the room. The corridor beyond feels longer than before, quieter in a way that sharpens every sound—the soft padding of your feet against the smooth stone floors, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of a guard’s armor.

When the doors to Aegon’s chambers are opened, the room greets you like a held breath finally being released. 

They are all there, already poised. 

The Small Council stands near the hearth, murmuring in low voices that cut off the moment you step inside. The Septon waits near the foot of the bed, hands folded in solemnity as he mutters some banal prayer. The maester stands beside a small table, quill and parchment already prepared. Otto is next to him, looking just as grim and bored as he always does. 

Alicent is stock-still near the wall, rigid in a way that pleads for invisibility. Her dark eyes are fixed somewhere just past your head, as though looking directly at you would be too much to bear, some verdict already written in her own mind. 

And near the bed—

Aegon. 

He looks up the instant you enter, attention snapping to you so quickly it’s almost startling. The sight of him like this—stripped of the finery of your nuptials, clad instead in a simple nightshirt with his hair loose around his shoulders—sends an unexpected twist through your chest. 

For a moment, neither of you move until he finally steps forward, head cocked to the side as if he’s waiting for you to make a run for it. 

You don’t, of course. You couldn’t—wouldn’t. 

When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate—not with them watching, not with your breath so unsteady, nor with the way your fingers twist into the fabric of your chemise. His hands settle on the delicate straps, thumbs brushing along the curve of your shoulder. 

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, too quiet for them to hear. “Would you like for me to send them away?” 

The question is genuine in its impossibility—foolish, impulsive. Aegon would do it, would try, without hesitation if you asked. That, more than anything, makes your throat tighten. 

But his tone carries just enough of amusement that it catches you off guard, like a private joke shared between conspirators rather than husband and wife. 

His grip tightens slightly before he leans in closer still, “Or… I could make sure they never forget this night?” There’s no malice or teasing in it, only the same boldness he’s shown from the moment you’d first met—the kind that hints that he would both dare you into trouble and then shield you from the consequences. 

Despite your nervousness, the corners of your lips twitch up into the faint hint of a smile. Huffing out a quiet laugh, one only he can hear, you lean into him as well and angle your head away from the onlookers. 

“She’s worried you’ll treat me roughly,” you whisper, pitching your voice low enough that he has to strain to hear it. “The Queen, I mean,” you clarify, tilting your head just enough to meet his violet eyes, “She fears you’ll ruin me.”

The words taste strange in your mouth, borrowed from weeks of whispered conversations—all behind closed doors, all well away from Aegon. She knows of her son’s perversions—knows what people whisper—and though her worries had been genuine, they’d been misplaced. 

His fingers toy with the ribbon tie at one of your shoulders as he hums, mulling over your words. Unsurprising as they are—his mother has never exactly hidden her displeasure for him—they still sting. 

Does everyone truly think so lowly of him?

“Oh?” His voice is low, rough with feigned amusement masking something sharper beneath it—a challenge, some need, “She’s worried I’ll treat you like a common Silk Street whore, is she?” 

The phrasing is crude by design—another test of your want of him, a final offering of the worst version of himself before you can discover it on your own. If you flinch now, he’d understand. 

He wouldn’t stop you from turning your back like everyone else. 

“I know you won't," you say quietly, without hesitation. The certainty of it surprises you almost as much as it seems to surprise him. You see him, then—not a prince, not the lecher they whisper of, but a man who has learned to be exactly what’s expected so they can never be disappointed by him again. 

For a heartbeat, that constant bravado of his slips just a fraction, fissuring at the edges. 

Something unreadable crosses his face—then, his mouth curves, slow and deliberate, into something darker, more intentional. 

“Shall I prove them all wrong, then?” he whispers, his gaze flicking once toward his mother before returning to you just as the Septon finishes his prayers and retreats back to his place among the others, “Treat you gently as a Septa’s hymn?”

For a second, it’s as if the room holds its breath. 

Aegon’s hand is still at your shoulder, fingers idly worrying one strap of your chemise. He doesn’t tug at the ribbon there—not yet—like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll push him away. 

When you don’t, when you only meet his gaze with that same steady certainty that’s undone him all evening and tilt your head in a small nod, something settles in his chest. 

“I’ll be good to you,” he murmurs, just as solemnly as he’d uttered his vows in the Sept earlier in the afternoon, “I swear it.”

“I know.”

His mouth twitches in the faint flicker of a smile. 

With a deliberate slowness, he unties the first strap. Then the second. 

The silk gives way easily, whispering down your skin before slipping from your shoulders altogether, pooling soundlessly at your feet. The air feels cool against your skin despite the fire crackling in the hearth, every inch of you alight beneath so many eyes. 

Though yours stay on Aegon, not straying—not daring to, lest you lose your nerve. 

He goes still before you, his dark gaze tracking the fall of the fabric before finally lifting to your face—searching, reverent, wanting desperately to get this right. 

Behind him, someone clears their throat and Otto mutters something about “nice, wide birthing hips” from the corner and just as he sees your face starting to crumble, sees the reality of the situation flooding back to you, Aegon steps forward. His chest is warm against yours, the fabric of his nightshirt the only thing separating the two of you now as his hand settles at the curve of your waist—steady, full of intent. 

“Let me worry about them,” he whispers lowly, just for you and rests his forehead against yours, “Just focus on me.”

“Yes, husband,” your voice is hardly audible even to your own ears but he seems to hear you still. Another noise from the corner—fabric on fabric, the shuffle of feet—prompts you to press yourself somehow closer to him. 

The way your body instinctively presses closer to his ignites something possessive in him. His fingers trace idle patterns along your ribs, featherlight touches that leave goosebumps in their wake. 

“I’ve been thinking of this, you know,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. His voice is rough, low with an almost surprising amount of desire, “Ever since you stepped out of that damned carriage all those weeks ago.” 

His words make you shudder and you surge forward, acting quickly before you can talk yourself out of it, and press your lips to his. The kiss is clumsy, messy in a way that showcases your inexperience, but it makes Aegon hold tighter to you all the same. 

He guides you backward until the backs of your calves hit the edge of the bed, forcing you to sit. You go willingly, expecting him to hover over you or guide you onto your stomach—some position you’ve overheard whispers about or read of in flowery, flowing poems. 

Instead, your brows furrow when he glances over his shoulder at their expectant stares and sinks to his knees before you. Confusion paints your features as one of the onlookers chokes out a gasp. Someone—the maester, you think—mutters something about impropriety too lowly for you to catch most of it. 

Eyes wide, you prop yourself up on your elbows and peer down at him. Your stomach does a little flip at the smirk on his lips. “W-What…” You start, words catching in your throat as he huffs out a breathless, eager laugh—one that has your fingers curling into the furs at your back. “What’re you doing?” You finally manage, cheeks burning. 

“Something no one seems to have expected,” Aegon murmurs, tracing idle circles just above the inside of your knee with his thumb. For the briefest of seconds, his gaze flits over to the corner by the hearth where the Small Council, the Septon, his damned grandsire, all of them remain. 

He grins—sharp and reckless—before leaning forward to press a lingering kiss high on your inner thigh. When he speaks again, it’s loud enough for them all to hear: “If my lady wife is meant to endure me,” his voice drips with sarcasm, “I might as well make it sweet for her.”

Then—with a purposeful slowness—he parts you with his thumbs and drags his tongue through the heart of you in one long, practiced stroke. 

A choked off, strangled keen tumbles from your lips before you can stop it. The wet slip of his tongue against you is unlike anything you’ve felt before—anything you could’ve dreamed of feeling. 

In a bid to keep the pleasured noises threatening to spill from you inside, you clamp a hand over your mouth and bite at the curve of your finger. Back arching against the blankets, you hardly register the shocked murmurs of those in attendance. 

Undeterred, Aegon doesn’t dare stop—not with the taste of you so sweet on his tongue. Gods, but you rival even the finest of wines.

His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer, grip firm as he seals his mouth over you in earnest, groaning against you. 

“No,” he rasps between flickering strokes of his tongue, “Let them hear.” One hand reaches up to tug yours away from your mouth, fingers lacing with yours as he pins it against your hip instead. “I want to know what pleases you.”

He nips at your thigh, teeth grazing just shy of pain, before soothing the mark with another languid lick before resuming his ministrations against your cunt. 

Each touch—every lick and suck and kiss—against you is mesmerizing. New sensations seem to arise with each one, making your head spin as the maester’s quill scratches faintly against parchment in the distance. 

“Gods,” you moan shyly, voice cracking. Without a hand over your lips, pleasured keens spill from you freely—breathy little things that make the flush on your cheeks deepen with each passing moment. 

He drinks you in like a man starved—every sigh, every tremble of your thighs as they press against the sides of his head. His free hand grips your hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there as he redoubles his efforts, dragging his tongue in slow circles around the most sensitive part of you. 

The Septon's low prayers have petered out, softened into some inaudible whispering as he clutches his robes in horror. The maester’s careful notes have devolved into scribbles and beside him, Otto stares aghast at the stone floor.

And Alicent—

Aegon catches her eye over the curve of your thigh just as another broken, breathy moan tears from your lips. There’s something smug in the way he holds her gaze before ducking back down to lave at you with renewed fervor. “So responsive,” he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating against you. 

Wholly caught up in the feel of him—of his tongue, warm and slick against your center—all thoughts of an audience drift to the wayside. Your thighs tremble at his shoulders while you writhe in his hold, muscles tensing and relaxing in time with his licks against you. 

“A-Aegon,” you whine, heart thundering in your ears while you keen. Your walls clench around nothing, aching as the ball of pleasure in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Desperate for an anchor, your fingers clamp against his at your hip. 

The way your body tenses beneath him—muscles coiled, breath ragged—is more intoxicating than any wine he could dare dream up. He knows the moment you tip over the edge: your fingers clutch his, your thighs shake against his shoulders, and a broken cry spills from your lips that has half of the onlookers in attendance flinching as if struck. 

Pleasure flows through your veins like fire, igniting every nerve ending while Aegon carries you through it. 

He doesn’t let up—not until every last shudder has been coaxed from you, not until someone clears their throat in pointed disapproval. Only then does he finally pull back with a satisfied hum, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth with a deliberate slowness. 

By the time he pulls back, your muscles feel like jelly and it’s all you can do to lie against the sweat-damp bedding while your chest heaves. It takes a moment for your head to stop spinning enough that you remember you’re not alone—that there are others in attendance. 

Before the embarrassment of that can settle in your chest, Aegon is up and moving—completely stripping out of his nightshirt and tossing it aside rather than simply tugging it up and out of the way. 

Yet another small act of defiance that makes your chest tighten. 

He hooks a hand behind one of your knees as he leans over you. Both of you pause at the same instant—panting and wide-eyed while the weight of what’s coming finally seems to rush over you. 

For a moment, he’s struck dumb by the realization of how easily you’ve laid your trust with him—how you’ve let him lead, let him be the guide. It’s something few people—no one, really—have ever done. His cock throbs where it presses against your slick heat, but he forces himself to stay still despite the burning urge to sheathe himself inside you. 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, fingers gentle as they brush sweat-damp hair from your forehead. When your gaze meets his, he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss—one meant to distract you as he begins pressing forward with a torturous slowness. 

The first breach wrenches a sharp gasp from you that he swallows greedily and he holds you a bit tighter when you whine and wince, your thighs trembling as the slight sting of him settles over you. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated inside you—until there are whisper-soft murmurings of ‘evidence of consummation’ and the scratching of quill on parchment. 

The Septon prays, his voice a low hush as he thanks the Father, the Mother, then the Maiden. 

“Mine,” he rasps against your mouth, “All mine.”

Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your breaths even. “Yours, husband,” you breathe, voice shaking but so sincere it’s nearly painful. 

The word alone—husband—has his heart clenching in his chest. He’d never imagined such a simple thing could sound so sacred, that anyone speaking to him could sound so reverent. His hand cups your face, thumb sweeping over your cheek—a tender gesture in complete defiance of his earlier bravado. The noises to the side hardly even register. Aegon has much more to worry about than any of the Gods. 

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, not daring to move until you answer. 

Swallowing thickly, you lean into his touch and give a subtle nod. “I’m wonderful,” you whisper, voice catching in your throat when he shifts a little—only barely, but enough to wrench a soft gasp from you. Your brows furrow at the feeling of being so… full; it’s so foreign and yet so right. “It feels like you’re everywhere,” you say lowly, cheeks flushed at the low noise your words pull from his chest. 

Above you, Aegon is in awe at you—at the way you look beneath him, stretched around him, ruined by him. He shifts again, just slightly, just enough to feel the clench of your body around him. 

“You take me so well,” he rasps, just barely managing a grin, “Like you were made for this.” For me. 

He begins to move—slow at first, agonizingly careful despite the hunger burning in his veins. Every drag of his cock draws a sweet sound from you that has various onlookers shifting uncomfortably. “Let them hear,” he breathes against your neck, leaning down just enough to nip at the sensitive skin there, “Let them know how I please you.” 

All you can do is nod, breath hitching as he thrusts into you. A shaky exhale tumbles from your lips each time he presses forward, the head of his cock feeling as if it’s pressing against the base of your ribs. 

“I love you,” you gasp suddenly, back arching as his length brushes against a particularly sensitive spot within you, making you see stars.

The words strike him deeper than any blade possibly could, ones he never thought he’d be deserving of and yet they sound so natural on your tongue—so right. His hips stutter against yours, losing rhythm for a moment as his chest tightens. 

His hands tighten at your waist and he huffs out a breath, almost an incredulous laugh, before leaning forward and claiming your lips again. There’s no teasing now, no performance for those watching—just the two of you tangled together. His tongue licks against yours as he quickens his pace and he swallows down all the sweet sounds pouring from your lips, as though committing them to memory. 

Your walls squeeze around him a moment later and he growls, unable to take much more. Guiding your hands up, he grabs at both of your wrists with one hand and pins your arms above your head, relishing the way you gasp and whine. 

“Show them how good it is,” he pants, grinning against your cheek. His other hand finds where you’re joined together to stroke circles against that little bundle of nerves until every thought is wrung from you in shuddering waves. 

Your world quickly narrows down to little more than the feeling of him against you, strong and solid, and the tight stretch of his cock within you. Hardly a moment later, you mewl beneath him as pleasure washes over you for a second time. 

Your muscles tense as your walls squeeze rhythmically at his length and, Gods, he feels it—the way you fall apart so sweetly. His own climax crests with yours and he spills into you with a snarled groan against the curve of your shoulder. 

For a long moment, he doesn’t move—just breathes you in, sweat-slick and trembling beneath him. When he finally lifts his head to meet your gaze again, there’s something tender in his expression. 

“Okay?” He asks as he lifts himself off of you, soothing the way you wince when he finally pulls out with a soft stroke to your cheek. He exhales when you nod, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

Paying no mind to the figures still lingering by the hearth, he busies himself with taking care of you—draping a nearby blanket over your form and fetching a nearby pitcher of wine, uncaring of his own nudity as he stands from the bed to pour you a cup. 

“The prince has done his duty,” Otto finally declares, watching as the Maester records it on his decorated parchment. 

Aegon pays them no mind as he comes to lie beside you again, pulling you in close and pressing a kiss to your forehead with surprising gentleness. Everyone files from the room without another word a moment later—as if the entire ordeal had never happened, as if they too cannot wait to wipe it from their memories. 

The doors shut with a dull thud and silence settles easily over the room, like ash falling after a fire. For the first time all night, no one is here to watch. 

Aegon stays still beside you for a moment longer than necessary, as though expecting someone to burst back in and announce it had all been insufficient—that he’d done it wrong somehow, that it hadn’t counted. 

When no one does, when the silence holds and the door stays firmly shut, his shoulders loosen beside you almost imperceptibly. It’s only then that he turns his gaze to yours once more. 

The smirk he so often wears is gone, as is the swagger that typically shields him. That sharp, careless edge he’d wielded so expertly over the past few weeks has softened into an uncertainty that does not belong to princes or kings or men who boast in crowded halls. 

It belongs to someone much younger, someone still waiting for approval that will not come. 

He studies your face as though searching for something there—for disappointment, perhaps, or regret, or even the faintest flicker of revulsion that would confirm everything he’d ever been told about himself. 

Instead, he only finds warmth as you look back at him. 

A breath leaves him slowly. 

“Well,” he says, voice low, almost shy, “You’re… alright?” The question is simple enough, earnest. His hand lifts—tentative, like he’s unsure whether he’s permitted the gesture now that there’s no audience to justify it—and brushes a stray lock of hair from your temple, fingertips lingering there longer than they need to. “I didn’t hurt you?” he adds more quietly, searching your eyes. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head and leaning into his touch, “You didn’t.”

Something eases in him then—not entirely, but enough that the tightness around his mouth softens. 

You watch him in the low glow of the hearth—the loosened fall of his pale hair against the pillow, the faint flush still high on his cheeks, the way his jaw remains set as though bracing for a blow that never lands. 

“You were watching her,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t even pretend not to understand. 

A small muscle jumps in his cheek, the only outward sign that your words have struck something within him. “Of course I was,” he answers, no jesting cadence to it, no flippant edge to dull the admission. 

For a moment, he says nothing more.

Then, almost absently, as though speaking to the canopy above the bed rather than you, “I thought… Perhaps she might finally look pleased.” 

You shift closer despite the lingering ache in your body, your fingers threading with his where his hand rests against the furs. 

“She’s wrong,” you say softly.

He huffs a faint breath as a sardonic smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “She usually isn’t.”

“She is,” you insist gently, turning more on your side to face him, “About you.”

Aegon’s gaze finds yours then, without shield or smirk or challenge. For a heartbeat, he looks almost startled by the certainty in your expression. 

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” you continue, your thumb tracing slow, idle circles along his knuckles, “Nor anyone else.” 

The fire shifts in the hearth, casting a flicker across his face. 

“I wanted her to see,” he admits suddenly, like the words have been punched from his lungs, “That I can be… good.” 

There’s something unexpectedly young in the confession—something that doesn’t belong to a man of his age or standing at all. 

“I know.”

“And?” he presses with the quiet vulnerability of someone who’s never been given the benefit of the doubt, someone still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I saw.” 

Your words are simple and that seems to unsettle him more than any grand declaration could’ve. 

For a long moment, he goes quiet again. 

Then he moves, drawing you closer against him with a tenderness that feels far more intimate than anything that had come before. His arm wraps around your waist, palm splayed warm and steady against the small of your back. 

“You don’t care what they think of me?” He asks, voice rough against your hair. He knows there will be whispers come morning, there always are. 

You lift your head just enough to look at him. 

“No,” you murmur simply, and then, softer, “I care what you think of you.” 

He merely blinks at you for a second as if struck dumb before eventually exhaling, long and unguarded, and pressing his forehead briefly to yours. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, satisfied that for once, there is no judgement left for him to chase. 

You remembered the first day in the Capital as if it were yesterday; clutched in your hands was a small cloth doll, a parting gift from your mother, as you peered out the carriage window toward the looming castle of Kings Landing.

The sun had dipped below the harbour, setting the walls of the Red Keep ablaze with crimson, and its large turrets and ramparts cast long black shadows across the city like oppressive arms.

You had heard the stories about the palace; how it was rumoured that there were secret passages that you could get lost in and never find the light of day again, and in the darkness of the castle’s bowls, lay a room filled with jaws and skulls of terrible monsters.

The doll fell from your hands in a rumpled pile as you ducked into your father's side, small arms wrapped around his waist as you tried to hide from the approaching fortress. Your eyes squeezed shut, wishing yourself back home, trying to imagine the rolling mountains that surrounded the Eyrie, the waterfalls that cascaded like silver floods down the great carved-falcon rock faces and the great purple sky that gleamed with the light of a million stars.

But all you could see was the Red Keep’s shadows, reaching out to get you.

Unlike you, your sister was pressed against the window, her hair glimmering in the evening light as she beamed at the castle. Alys was three years older than you; her twelfth name-day had passed just a few days prior. Her smile faltered when she saw you cowering into your father's side, and her nose wrinkled. 

“Stop crying.” She whispered, slender fingers plucking the fallen stitched doll off the ground before shoving it onto your lap. “You’re going to crease your dress if you hunch like that!” 

“I don’t care about my stupid dress!” You sniffled, clutching the doll once again. “I want to go home!”

“You just have to spoil everything, don’t you?” Alys tugged at your blue silks, straightening the fabric. “This is our home now. We get to live with the Princes, like in those fairy-tale stories the old Septa would tell us - now stop whining and make yourself pretty!”

9 Years Later

“Y/n? We have arrived.” The gentle voice of your handmaid, Elia, a Dornish girl who had been assigned to you when you first arrived at Kings Landing, by King Daeron, pulled you from your restless slumber. Despite being your handmaid, Elia had grown over the years into one of your closest friends. 

She was only two years older than you, with glossy black hair, olive skin and kind eyes. In private, neither of you used formalities and favoured gossip about the most recent news from the Red Keep. As a serving girl, she heard rumours and news that would otherwise not reach your ears, and you both had spent many nights whispering and giggling into unholy hours. 

“Thank the Gods.” You groan, sitting up with a stretch. Your shoulders ached from slumping against the window of the carriage, and your head pounded from the sweltering sun that blazed through the thin window lace. With bleary eyes, you peer out the window, blinking.

Your carriage rolled through the bustling grounds of Ashwood Meadow, third in the line of royal carriages. In the front, the most intricately carved carriage was Prince Baelor, Prince Maekor, your lord father, and Alys. The second one sat your best friend, Valarr, and his cousin, Prince Aerion, though Daeron, who was supposed to be accompanying them, had gone missing four nights prior, along with Aegon, who was supposed to be riding in your carriage with Elia.

Little Prince Aegon had insisted that the other carriage was too hot and requested to ride with you instead, which you gladly (and always) accepted, as you knew the truth. You knew the real reason why the little prince wanted to accompany you. And that reason had silver hair and was riding in the carriage in front. 

You often feared that reason, too.

“I hope Daeron and Aegon will be alright…” You sigh, voice trailing off as you stare at the colourful silk pavilions popping up from the ground, market stalls being erected and the swarms of bodies setting up the tourney grounds.

You knew Aegon would have been plastered to the window, with wide lavender eyes right now, and you would have mirrored that reaction, but the thought of him missing made your heart heavy. You had grown protective of the little prince over the years. 

“I’m sure they are alright. How many times has Prince Daeron gone missing again? He’s probably passed out with Aegon trying to look after him.” Elia says, nudging your shoulder, trying to lift your spirits.

“I know, I just fear for them.”

Before you could dwell too long in your anxieties, Elia continued, wiggling her dark eyebrows, “In other news, I heard that your pavilion will be right next to Prince Valarr’s.”

“Elia, keep your voice down!” You groan, planting your face in your hands and shot her a glare from between your fingers. 

“Anyways,” Her laugh fills the carriage as you slump against the seat with hot cheeks. “I know you two will be sneaking into each other’s tents like you always do at these events. But by the Seven, this time spare us all the pain and instead of reading your boring books together, just get it over with and ki-”

“Seven Hells!” You clamp a hand over her grinning lips, muffling her voice. “We are just friends. Nothing more.” 

You wait a few moments before removing your hand, shooting her your infamous ‘another word and you're dead,’ look.

“Does Valarr know that?” 

“Elia!”

After an hour of unpacking, you flop onto your soft bed with a sigh. Your royal tent was spacious, the material a spun silk of light blue with white trimmings - House Arryn’s colours. Despite living most of your life among the Targareyns in Kings-Landing, you always made sure to bear the colours and sigils of your family.

Inside, you had a comfortable bed of fur, a sturdy elm-wood chest for your clothes, and a table already littered with books and maps. Beside your bed was a smaller table, on which lay a plate of half-eaten lemon tarts, perfume oils and a small blade - Valyrian steel - though the handle had been re-forged into the head and wings of a Falcon, the sigil of your house. A lady had to be prepared after all.

“Going to sleep before our dear Valarr’s tournament? How… rude.” A familiar voice says - aloof and mocking,  jolting you upright. 

Silhouetted against the night sky as he held the tent flap open, stood Aerion. Though it was too dark to see his eyes, you could feel the freezing weight of his gaze. Your skin prickled.

“No, I was just resting.” You mutter, not meeting his gaze as you push yourself off the bed. Your once cozy space felt a little colder now as you made your way across the tent. “And I believe the rudeness lies with you, by not announcing yourself before entering a ladies' tent!”

“Come now, I thought we were friends.” Aerion’s lips twitch into a smirk. He didn’t miss the way your gaze darted everywhere but him, or the way you hovered a touch too close to the small table holding your blade. “Besides, my uncle Baelor told me to come fetch you. We are heading to the royal box.”

“I can make my way there, myself.” You say, fastening the cloak around your shoulders. Your mind races, By the Seven, don’t let him come closer. Don’t let him in. Don’t let him near me.

“Suit yourself, just leave your Dornish-whore handmaid here.” Aerion says, though his smirk seemed a little tighter than usual.

Your jaw twitched. If it were anyone else, you would have slapped them for insulting your friend. But you knew better than to strike him - you still bore the scar from when you were fourteen. As he turned to leave, you let out a breath.

Suddenly, he paused in his tracks.

“... Did you need something else?” You say tentatively, eyes trained on the back of his silver head. Please say no. He stands in silence for a few moments longer, his shoulders tense. 

“No, that was all…” Another long, long pause. “Be quick about getting ready.”

And he was gone.

The tourney ground was mobbed.

From your seat in the royal box, you could see the swarms, like a raging sea of bodies below you, roaring and wild. You sat beside your sister, Alys, watching as the great torches were lit and the horns called the riders to the field. You loved tourneys. Even as a child, you had liked to imagine yourself as a contestant, riding one of the horses as your spear splintered against the armour of your opponent. 

As your eyes scanned the crowds, you couldn’t help but smile at the boisterous singing and antics of the common folk as they cheered and laughed below. In a way, you envied their freedom. Just when you turned to say something to your sister, two figures in the crowd on the opposite side of the field caught your eye.

Pressed against the bannister at the front stood the tallest man you had ever seen in your life, and on his shoulders was perched a young boy. 

“Is that..” You whisper in disbelief as you squint your eyes at the small figure on the large man's shoulders. But before you could make out any more detail, a horn echoes through the night air, sending the crowd into frenzied roars, and the boy jumped off the man's shoulders, disappearing into the sea of people. No, it couldn’t have been…

“They are asking for favours!” Alys whispers, shaking you out of your daze. “I hope that Tyrell Knight asks for mine!”

But your gaze had already fixed on him - cantering around the tourney field, kicking up plumes of dust, was your best friend. Valarr was sitting on a great black horse, his dark-scaled armour glinting under the torchlight as he rounded another corner, waving at the roaring crowds.

Your breath catches as he turned, shooting a crooked grin up to the royal seat in which you sat, before pulling his helm over his silver-streaked brown hair. Idiot. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his display - you were so going to tease him about it afterwards. You always did. Yet, as you watched him trot past the cheering crowd, you couldn’t help but fidget with the friendship bracelet he had given you when you were thirteen. 

Your fingers squeezed around the charm bracelet each time he slowed near a box of ladies or highborn princesses. It was silly, you knew, yet you couldn’t help but feel your chest tighten as you watched him circle the crowds…

Get a grip, he is just your friend, nothing more, you scolded yourself silently. You sigh and force yourself to tear your gaze away and focus on the other riders asking ladies for favours, and bite back a laugh as Alys all but curses Tyrell’s name when he asks another maiden for her favour. 

“And for my favour… Lady Y/n?” A voice calls up to you from below.

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Thank you for reading 🤍

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