#aegon.

a mere look unlocks that. what would come out of her in his hands, then?

❛that’s no way to speak to the crown prince.❜

it’s simply that she’s the prettiest little thing around.

they’re barely touching. why is that? swirling about. — in what the old and decrepit, sat spilling over their robes, watching him slave over something aemond ought to be doing, call a dance.

once again, it would seem, he’s spoken out of turn. his tongue very nearly blisters from it. how easy to be the fool with the more honed brother as one’s shadow.

what will it take to please aemond, a creature—aegon’s loathed, feared, his favourite—with nothing but dull grey drag for pursuit in his path to excellence? a sword challenge? aegon bled out at his feet and the conqueror’s crown gaping for him? a mouth around his cock?

would she, as she forever does, after ripping open the belly of the beast, her small wisdom, her downturned existence—- someone ought to free her of it.

after—— unleashing a catastrophe on him. in a violent tiding, summoning to mind a knighthead caved in at the dark eye, aegon is at the mercy of his disturbed tummy.

he walks the oiled plank of its course and makes his chambers match: the jug heartbroken. the wine bled. the pie, the chair, the haunting silver...

his nose he slips to his mother’s scalloped lip, the shape that solely aemond among them has inherited, be it in the wrong size.

that being now aegon’s fault that the whores have been paired up with the boys —the boys! balls barely lowered— and the double princely sore thumb of them face one another? the sticking-out l-eft-overs they are. a flurry of tits and spinskirts breaks around them.

come, now. what respectable whorehouse is in shortage of its business specialisation?

but aegon has never seen a beast such as this. the mead lights the way. perhaps. what of the weather eye knowing not where but when to look? and what of his poor uprightness? he shoulders aemond by calculated accident.

❛they wouldn’t care,❜ if they danced or undressed each other, or touched cocks, though the romanticism of the last might bleed a heart or two here dry.

odd. he can’t yet go back to all that looking.

so lowly as to scrape the perhaps of a dream does he ‘insist’: ❛leave it.❜

what a stupidly humiliating reason—for the king—to scar. what’s worse, and what has been becoming crushing, he’s not been touched in weeks as a living being by a hand he knows.

or wants.

he knows cole. what he wants from him is yet unclear.

❛did that half-breed think he’d live to see tomorrow?❜

oafishly, aemond whips his hair into aegon’s wet mouth. it presses like fine silk to his palate. it drapes and spills a banner of aemond’s reptile house pride.

aegon slobbers all over it. he tongues a clump out of his cheek’s pocket and spits. as if aemond being huddled rib-to-rib hurt-close weren’t enough, theeere.

there! their dear sister’s shadow hoofs like a mare in heat down the tilting halls!

aegon sees, always sees, aemond’s hound-dog rush to look her way. as if to touch her.

❛pathetic.❜

supple over aemond’s shoulder, aegon crams nose-first into the jut of his throat. all he has is his disgust—mouth-warm, cradling. stroking. aemond is still carrying him, is he. wonderful. aegon’s feet drag harder. he starts resisting.

a wave of sick drums up his belly.

❛she’s all yours.❜

mad cow. better yet: