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swordgrace · 1 day ago

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❝ 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: arranged to be wed to prince aegon ii by oppressive parentage, you are bewildered to learn that he seems just as nervous as you, and that this union isn’t as hopeless as it seems.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: aegon ii targaryen x tyrell!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 11.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), aegon isn’t a good person but he’s also tormented, canon-typical misogyny, arranged marriage, loss of virginity (reader), pathetic aegon, switch!aegon (mild sub!aegon) begging, dry humping/grinding, making out, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum, multiple positions (lotus, cowgirl), sweeter ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: writing for aegon is such a challenge for me because I’m scared of getting him right, so I hope this is good! I also apologize for the fic length, I wasn’t expecting it to be this long! thank you all so much for any support this gets! ❤️ much love!

IT WAS OFTEN THE REASON FOR EXISTING, A YOUNG LADY OF A NOBLE HOUSE — MADE TO WED A FOREIGN LORD, SHIPPED AWAY TO UNFAMILIAR LANDS AND PROVIDE HEIRS. IT WAS YOUR SUPPOSED PURPOSE, IMPRESSED UPON YOU FROM YOUR FLOWERING ADOLESCENCE TO ADULTHOOD.

Only, you were to become a queen, with time.

House Tyrell was the presiding power of The Reach, a font of wealth and lavishness for the Seven Kingdoms, with Highgarden as its primary seat — a castle that bested Casterly Rock in stature and beauty.

Forging alliances often came through lucrative marriage proposals, and you were bound to one, inevitably made to wed Aegon II Targaryen, the supposed heir to the Iron Throne.

Whispers of men who had seen too many winters spoke of Aegon’s ascension over that of Princess Rhaenyra, men who never saw a woman as anything more than a prize to be won. It filled you with such dread, wondering if Aegon would view you in the same light — a conquest.

King’s Landing was a pungent place, with a populace crammed into walls that cared little for them. It made you yearn for Highgarden, for the loamy trees bristling with ivory blossoms, for the air that carried the scent of a perfumed dowager.

Stench of city sewage filled your nostrils as your noble carriage buckled across uneven streets, the cobblestone shoddy compared to that of Oldtown. Your parents accompanied you, with little comfort to offer other than threadbare reassurances.

Rumors reached your ears of Prince Aegon’s lecherous nature — a spoiled man who preferred drowning in his cups and whoremongering through the Streets of Silk. You feared what new existence this wedding might yield for you, what fate awaited you after tomorrow.

Yet, they were rumors — you continued to offer yourself some words of encouragement, in hopes that your expectations of the Targaryen Prince would not be shattered upon first meeting.

The Red Keep glowered above you, its shadow oppressive and not at all welcoming as you hoped it would be. Instead, its pointed pillars and garish walls served as a reminder that this would be your home — no more ivory stones of Highgarden.

A wave of nausea overcame you, rocking through your stomach like the turbulence of crashing tides, settling uneasily within your bones. The corset you wore made it difficult to fully catch your breath, constricting you like a vice.

If House Tyrell were known for anything, it was their beauty, their lavishness — and you were no exception; the pretty rose, unwilted and comely. Your appearance was akin to a whimsical fable, known by all who had taken an interest in your family.

As your host circled into the courtyard of the Red Keep, you glimpsed a row of Targaryen bannermen intermingled with that of House Hightower. An older man stood at the top of the steps, accompanied by one of the Kingsguard.

“Do not slouch, or pout,” Your mother warned, leaning over to fix a facet of your gown, brows furrowed together. “It is unbecoming of a princess to-be.” Her utterance could cut as sharp as any blade.

“Of course, Mother.” With a courteous reply, you nearly cringed when the carriage came to a sluggish halt, as your parents made their exit first, with you soon to follow.

It was a relief to find a sliver of fresh air, no longer suffocating to an early grave within your carriage. You stood up straight, unnaturally so, rigid in your stance as you accompanied your host to meet the stalwart figure of Otto Hightower.

“King Viserys extends his welcome,” Otto uttered, countenance a calculating one. His gray eyes drifted to you, and you seemed to shrink, withering away beneath his glower. “As does House Hightower.”

“I assume the final preparations are underway?” Your father quipped, desperate to get this over with. The peacocking and ceremony of a royal wedding was often a headache, and the expenses were vast and never-ending.

“They are,” Lord Hightower gestured for you all to follow, the gates creaking open to herald your host into the Red Keep. “They will be wed on the morrow. Your chambers are prepared for your stay.”

“Excellent. I detest these lengthy walks,” Your mother groaned, and still, you said nothing. “I desire an audience with the Queen, should she make herself available.”

It all became rather dull — a background buzz that promptly simmered into nothingness for you. Talk of weddings, political affairs, the frivolity of it all — you wanted this to be done. Fear and anxiousness drove you now, fretting over whether or not the Prince would like you.

Once, you had dreamed of your wedding, of finding one you loved and basking in the warmth of it all. Here, you felt cold and stiff, yielding to the desires and machinations of others, prepared to be sold off like some prized broodmare.

Instead, you silently admired the architectural wonder of the Red Keep, the scaling walls and massive, winding staircases. It became easier to avert your attention elsewhere, to keep your mind preoccupied.

Ascending the staircase, you gathered your skirts in fistfuls, taking careful steps up behind your parents. The conversation at-hand held nothing of merit for you, and there was not a single murmur in regards to Prince Aegon.

Perhaps he feared this just as much as you did, forced into a union with a stranger to appease the powers that reigned. You wanted to meet him, assure that, with time, you could grow to love one another and achieve happiness.

Perhaps, he cared very little for it.

Aegon was crushed beneath the weight of being made to obey the whims of family for some time — his mother, his grandsire. His own father did not falter from naming Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne, a choice that embittered some.

In the eyes of his father, he would never measure to the beacon of light that was his half-sister. Aegon the failure, Aegon the foolish. Any desire for the Iron Throne died long ago in his youth, along with any aspirations for going above his station.

Upon being told that he would wed the young lady of House Tyrell, he did not rage and bark at those who had a hand in it. It was easier to quietly accept his fate, to play the part of a dutiful son — perhaps then, he would finally be viewed as favorable in the eyes of those that pulled him apart.

His whoremongering and rampant salaciousness were immediately put to the executioner’s block, with Otto berating him for his blatant recklessness. Aegon had learned to take whatever verbal punishment was hurled at him — stand and take it, wet tears glistening within his lilac hues.

That and his drinking were no longer permitted, and so Aegon took to reluctant isolation. He could only imagine what vile things you’d been told about him — the lecherous, drunkard Targaryen with nothing but a title to his name.

Yet, when he saw you in the courtyard of the Red Keep from the ramparts, riding the coattails of your oppressive parents, a sliver of him could empathize. He did not want to like you, of course, but he did have a beating heart, even still.

Your posture bore a semblance of desperation, clawing your way toward the approval of your forebears, desiring nothing more than to appease. Aegon knew what that was like — he’d been trying to do it all his life.

“Be satisfied that she is a beautiful creature, brother,” Aemond uttered, arms folded behind his back as he stood beside Aegon, one eye glowering down upon you from afar. “This could be much worse.”

Aegon scoffed, his smile mirthless and anguished as he stood upright, a wisp of a breeze stirring his pale tresses. “As everyone ceaselessly continues to remind me.” He retorted, one hand clenching into a fist.

Aemond hummed, clicking his tongue as he turned toward Aegon, pale brows furrowing together. “This was inevitable, as is your duty to our house,” He uttered, reminding his brother of his purpose. “I suggest making the most of it, instead of resorting to self-pity.”

There was always a lack of propriety with Aegon — a lack of determination, no drive to become anything more than a gluttonous Prince. Aemond studied the sword, the histories, language, politics — and yet he was never yielded an opportunity such as this.

Aegon’s countenance was one of clear disdain, finding little joy in his brother’s aloof scolding. “You sound like Mother,” With an embittered tone, he ran a palm across his face, looking down at you again. “House fucking Tyrell.”

Clearly, this was all his grandsire’s work — there could be no other mastermind behind such an advantageous alliance. His mother would always go along with such ideas, forever beneath his thumb — trapped in her cage, much like he was.

Yet, Aemond did have something of a point.

At the very least, Aegon could learn to tolerate your presence — and you were incredibly beautiful, even from afar. Whispers of your splendor had reached him at the initiation of your betrothal. Attractive company would not be the end of the world, but he wondered if you were airheaded and self-centered.

It was something he would have to discover for himself, much to his own misfortune.

You terrified him.

Aegon spent much of his evening gathering gossip and information about you — your supposed mannerisms, the topics you conversed about, your demeanor. All servants seemed to come to the same crossroads — you were truly pious, and kindhearted.

The sudden desire to appear likable and gallant was thrust to the forefront of his mind, the need for validation born from deeply-rooted insecurities. For so much of his life, he had toiled over wanting everyone to gravitate towards him, to find him captivating as they had Rhaenyra.

He detested having to put up some performance in the name of appealing to you, but he could not stop himself, now. Aegon knew that seeking you out before your wedding was untoward and improper, but he needed to speak to you himself.

It pained him to realize that he cared for the perspective of a stranger — for the opinions of a woman whom he hadn’t yet uttered a word to.

There was a rotten weight upon his shoulders, the weight of satisfying his family, to no longer be looked upon with disdain. The notion that he was the disappointment had always danced around him, and now, it was staring him down.

On the morrow, he would be wed — a husband, perhaps a father, if you even permitted him to touch you. Seven Hells, he was going to wretch.

A bottle of Dornish Red had been carefully stashed away beneath a loose cobblestone in his chambers, and he intended on drowning in it somewhere in the gardens. The hour was becoming late — now the hour of the bat, a listless dusk shrouded by gray wisps of cloud.

Aegon’s mind was plagued by thoughts of you, of disappointing you, knowing that you were just as shackled to this union of convenience as he was. Had he not drawn attention to himself through debauchery, this might’ve never happened.

Truthfully, he had no one to blame but himself.

Beneath the floral canopies of the royal gardens, Aegon snuck away from his chambers, preferring to drink in solace whilst the opportunity presented itself. Stars glistened above, thousands of twinkling lights that accompanied the silver glower of the moon.

Clad in a loose, sage tunic and linen breeches, he wandered through the gardens, bottle in-hand, countenance one of despondency. There was a small terrace where he often went to drown in the depths of a bottle, rage to the skies.

A loose shape remained seated along the bannister, head hung in a state of despair — the image of such grace, the maiden herself.

Aegon hadn’t expected to find you here, dwelling within his typical nook, brows drawn together as you picked at the skin of your cuticles. His clumsy footfalls alerted you, bewildered hues meeting those of lilac, just as confused as you were.

“My Prince,” A strangled gasp erupted from your throat as you hastily stood, curtsying as if your head would fall from your shoulders from sluggishness. “I — I was not expecting you. I will relocate.”

The envy of a thousand stars, Aegon thought; beauty incarnate stood before him with such humility that it very nearly subdued him. He was not often reduced to such boyish nerves in the presence of women, but you seemed to do just that.

Acclaimed was your charm, a comeliness so enchanting that many were ensnared, and he was no exception to this. Aegon felt a cold perspiration slither along his palms, grip becoming tighter around the bottle’s throat.

“You cannot find rest either,” Aegon’s jaw tensed as he pointed out the obvious, pale tresses tousled, turned white from the moon. “I was just …” A begrudging sigh escaped him as he held the bottle of wine aloft.

“May I join you?” Your inquiry was sudden and unexpected — Aegon nearly turned you away until he saw the anxious state you were in, much like himself.

Aegon gaped, lips parting as he gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. He stepped forward, sinking down atop one of the stone benches lining the bannister walls. Wordlessly, you approached him, taking a seat at his side, ensuring a comfortable distance.

Upon closer inspection, you were pleased to find that Aegon was handsome — ethereal, in fact. Many Targaryens were renowned for their physical beauty, from pale tresses to violet hues, and he was no exception to this.

“Do you drink because of me?”

The question was born of fear, of a gnawing nervousness that ate away at your very bones. You worried that Aegon was already resentful without knowing you fully, but even he seemed perplexed by your inquiry.

“Not because of you,” Aegon uttered, removing the cork from the bottle before taking a swig, sweet red trickling down his throat. “I suppose this is not an ideal position to be in — for either of us.”

Your hands stilled within your lap as you considered his words, and you did agree. It was not ideal, nor was it something either of you desired. “It is not, but that does not mean that it must be miserable. I have no ill will towards you.”

Aegon scoffed, his mirthless smile striking you as the inner turmoil of a young man coming to terms with his new reality. You did not begrudge him so — it was easy to empathize, given that you were in the same situation.

“You may change your mind,” He uttered, taking another hearty gulp of Dornish Red, allowing it to ease some of his own nerves. “I would not fault you for it.” Aegon stated, twisting one of his rings around upon his finger.

Being a poor husband was something he’d witnessed between his own family — his Mother, far too young to be wed to an old man, and his father, now withered and decrepit. Maybe there was love, but he seldom saw it.

Brazenly, you reached for the bottle of wine, and he relinquished it, watching with surprise as you took a rather daring swig. It was sweet yet strong, causing you to sputter before you gave it back.

“And if I do not change my mind? Are you insinuating that you will change it for me?” Your questioning was growing sharp, tinged with frustration. You did not want to dislike him — you wanted him to give you no reason to feel that way.

Lilac hues shifted toward you, ivory brows knitting together as he drank again. He wondered what all you knew of him — the rumors, the whispers of his frequent whoring. “Is your mind not already set firm on such thoughts?”

With a look of concern, you shook your head, fingers idly plucking at your sleeves. “It is not,” You murmured, head canting to one side. “I cannot judge you without a foundation — I do not know you, my Prince.”

Aegon was rather bewildered at your confession, but part of him did not believe you. It was commonplace to be plagued by rumors of one’s betrothed — perhaps you neglected to tell the truth to spare his feelings.

“There is little to know.” Aegon sold himself short, greedily consuming yet another barrage of sips from the wine. He knew he needed to slow down — it was dulling his senses.

“Must you discredit yourself so quickly? I would disagree — there is plenty to know, and I wish to discover it all for myself.” With a firm retort, you sat up a little straighter, remembering the quipped words of your mother.

He despised how likable you truly were — if he loathed you, it would make it easier on himself, in this union. Aegon did not wish to spend each waking moment clawing for your affections, knowing it would only end in disappointment.

Silence drifted between the two of you, until the only sound was that of the wind, the rustling of vines and flora along the lattice canopies. Aegon drank another few swigs — it was not in his best interest.

His insecurities were palpable upon your tongue, you realized — there were more layers to Aegon than he was willing to let on. You noticed the wet sheen within his violet hues, a forlornly sense of anguish that washed over him.

You wanted him to try to be happy.

If he were so determined in making himself miserable, you knew that it would inevitably take you with him. A soft sigh escaped your parted lips as you pressed your palm against his bicep.

“I am not asking for you to be delighted and joyous, but I do … I want you to be somewhat happy. I wish for us to try and make one another happy,” Your suggestion was something Aegon was willing to consider. “Will you consider it?”

Aegon hesitated, feeling the first inklings of frustration paint his features, eyes wet with the onslaught of tears. He always thought himself unlovable — his family detested him, thought him to be insignificant.

There was nothing stopping you from following in their sentiments — and if you did, he would not blame you for it. Gods, he loathed himself — wallowing in misery, begging for a reprieve.

If anyone could grow to love him, it would be you — you, this beautiful, tenderhearted stranger who captivated him so. Aegon did not want to squander such an opportunity to find a potential solace in the one person who wished the same from him.

Instead, he nodded, placing the bottle of Dornish Red off to the side, knowing that if he indulged himself further, it would be disastrous. “I will try.” Aegon uttered, head hung as he rested his elbows against his thighs.

“Thank you, my Prince.” Without hesitation, you leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss against the side of his head. Aegon felt his breath hitch within his throat, preening at such a small gesture of affection — he could feel it in his marrow.

A surging buzz bristled throughout his body, the heady sting of intoxicants finding residence within his bones. His mind became somewhat clouded, plagued by both drink and a whirlwind of endless thoughts.

Gathering your gown in delicate fistfuls, you politely stood from the bench, exhaustion seeping into your being. “I should be returning to my chambers, before I am discovered,” You cleared your throat. “Unless there is anything else, your Grace.”

“Aegon,” His insistence bled through, a clammy perspiration breaking out along his palms. Turning his chin upward to face you, Aegon felt his heart seize within his chest, an unfamiliar fire blooming throughout. “We can abandon the formalities.”

Lilac hues set within pale flesh seemed to be glistening with tears; tears that you could not fully comprehend. Grayish circles encapsulated his eyes, making him appear a touch gaunt.

Aegon leaned back against the bannister, sage tunic taut against his musculature, which happened to lack sinewy definition. He was not nearly as whiplike as Aemond, revealing his streak of overindulgence with wine.

With all of his flaws bubbling to the surface, he observed you in rapt silence, noticing the semblance of appreciation that crossed your features. Your quiet admiration lacked subtlety, and Aegon nearly blushed beneath your warm gaze.

“Aegon,” His name rolled from your pretty tongue, such a saccharine utterance — you spoke his name with such a beguiling tone. “The name suits you.” The weight of your compliment was one that he clung to; desperately.

Histories often regaled the name Aegon — Aegon the Conqueror, whose reign began that of the Targaryen dynasty in Westeros. To have a name with such bearing, one would be destined for greatness.

Aegon did not think so — given the Conqueror’s name, his blade, his coat of arms — but nothing more. His father detested him so, and no matter what he did, there was no outpouring of love or appreciation.

He disliked how easy it was to let his barriers dissolve beneath your comforting gaze — vulnerability laid bare, allowing you to trace his heart with your fingers. “You jest.” Aegon uttered, earning a look of confusion from you.

Aemond was the stoic one, unyielding and stalwart with a piercing eye and indifferent scowl, and Aegon occasionally wore his soul upon his sleeve. It was involuntary, done in moments of weakness, and he wished that he could be as unchanging as his brother.

“What is there to jest about?” Perplexed, you idly gathered a fistful of your skirts, relinquishing some of your nervousness. “If we are to become husband and wife, I would like for us to know one another — to compliment, to appreciate.”

Saintly — Gods, you were vexing, to say the least.

With a sardonic huff, Aegon settled, abandoning the brief aura of indifference for something more sincere. You were genuine, he knew this — did he not owe you the same sentiment?

He stayed silent, swallowing the sudden lump within his throat before appraising you, Dornish Red beginning to muddy his senses. Aegon did not stop what lascivious thoughts escaped his mouth, then and there.

“You are every bit as beautiful as they say,” Aegon uttered, pale brows furrowing together. “I suppose if I am to wed a stranger, let it be an enchanting one.” His lips quirked into the ghost of a smile as he took yet another swig — the bottle was nearly empty.

Warmth danced along your spine, like a crackle of heat that blossomed across your body in fiery tendrils. Fidgeting, you happened to peer toward the bottle of wine. “You flatter me, Aegon,” You cleared your throat. “Is that wise?”

His derisive snort was a bemused one as he held the bottle aloft, dismissing your concern. “I promised myself that this would be my last night of overindulgence,” Aegon sighed. “No matter the consequences.”

If his Mother or grandsire knew of his drinking, particularly in front of his betrothed, he would likely be scolded for such foolish behavior. Perhaps he would regret it later, but you did not seem to admonish him for it.

“Are you certain that you will be well enough to return to your quarters?” Concern permeated your soft tone as you stood near the archway of the terrace, head canting to one side.

“Do not trouble yourself, betrothed. I have spent many nights in this garden, alone.” Aegon sounded sullen, as if it weren’t his design. Sometimes, drinking and isolating were the only things that numbed whatever else he felt.

Tears swam within his eyes — his anguish and turmoil often reared its ugly head when he had too much to drink. It was easier to commiserate over his life, his obstacles in solitude.

He loathed sobbing — it made him feel weak and insignificant, as if he could not keep himself pieced together. Aegon watched you closely, realizing that your countenance held nothing but a tender concern and twinge of affection.

No pity, no rage, no spite.

“Of course,” You exhaled, assuming that you should leave him to his own devices. “I should be returning. I … I do look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Aegon. I pray to the Seven that our union will be a fruitful one.”

Before you could step away, Aegon called out to you, beseeching you to wait as he stumbled to his feet, gripping the bottle like a vice. He didn’t know what to say — his mind swam, shrouded in a thick haze of bottled emotion and intoxication.

“Do you think that you could grow to love me, with time?”

Aegon’s fragmented inquiry brought a sharp and sudden sting to your heart, as if he believed himself incapable of being loved. His lilac hues reflected an untold battlefield of turbulent feelings that had been buried and smothered for such a long time.

If you were being truthful with yourself, you could see love forming with time — it would be long and arduous, but it was in your mind’s eye. Had you not experienced this chance encounter, you might’ve felt otherwise.

“I do,” A smile like rays of sunshine, parting the lingering dark that had shadowed his heart. Your answer came to him like the hum of springtime, softly-spoken. “Goodnight, Aegon.”

He let himself sob to the stars, to any Gods that would listen once you were out of sight.

When you saw Aegon again, it was beneath glistening pools of colored glass, perched atop a rather unimpressive terrace in the Grand Sept. He appeared every bit as gallant as you imagined him to be, cloaked in a cowl of velvety-emerald, embossed in threads of burnished gold.

He had such a disheveled, uncouth look about him in the Gardens — now, he seemed renewed. His pale tresses shimmering with a silvery sheen, cleansed and steeped in oils, countenance less haggard, lilac hues seeking yours.

The audience that had gathered to witness your union was much larger than you expected, many of them lesser nobility of King’s Landing flocking to see the new bride of Prince Aegon II.

You were the very image of perfection last evening, in the Gardens — shrouded in hues of cerulean and gold, bearing rose-patterned embellishments upon your gown. Now, you appeared as a goddess, wedding gown the color of liquid gold, touched by rays of a waning sun.

Aegon had taken your words into consideration — he did not want to make this miserable for you, or for himself.

A threadbare smile crossed his countenance, thin yet genuine as he gazed upon you, rapturously drinking in your appearance. Beauty might’ve been your true identity, a most gorgeous creature, sculpted by merciful gods.

As you assumed your place by his side, Aegon noticed the anxious smile that had graced your features. You seemed a touch nervous, but did not allow the sentiment to overshadow this moment.

His hand found yours, giving it a brief squeeze as the Septon prepared the vows of marriage. A union between House Tyrell and House Targaryen spelled great things, in the eyes of powerful men who operated from the shadows.

House Tyrell had sworn bountiful supplies of food and some of the finest armor in Westeros, whilst House Targaryen offered builders, riches — a chance for you to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Emerald velvet enveloped you, bearing the draconic sigil of House Targaryen. Aegon was disarmingly gentle, fastening the gilded clasps around you. As much as he wanted to stave off his own nerves, it was incredibly difficult for him to do so.

The ceremony, in the sight of Gods and Men, floated by swifter than you expected it to. Once you and Aegon had exchanged vows, hands bound together in crimson ribbon, it was his turn to end the formalities.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Aegon felt heat ripple throughout his chest at such words, heart hammering against his ribcage as he searched your eyes for any ounce of uncertainty. When he found none at all, his palm moved to cradle your cheek, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

The taste of your mouth was honeyed, ambrosial as it made his head turn. He was bewildered to find your gentle reciprocation, the kiss being returned, even if it were fleeting. Aegon did not register the applause that came afterwards, drowning within your presence.

As you withdrew, Aegon appeared akin to a doe caught within the hunter’s snare, wide-eyed and clawing for composure. You seemed genuinely pleased, offering him a fleeting smile that made his heart leap out of his chest.

The transition into the wedding feast was seamless, and fortunately, it was easier to become lost within the general splendor of it all. Much of it was spent gorging yourself on such a lavish meal, and some of it spent speaking to your new husband.

You sat beside Aegon, King Viserys and Queen Alicent to his side, and your own parents on yours. The ailing King did not seem at all well enough to be in attendance, yet he endured it anyway, hunched over within his chair.

Admittedly, Aegon was somewhat nervous — and that wasn’t commonplace.

He feared inadequacy when it came to intimacy and consummating your union, an inability to satisfy you. Most of his exploits were spent in brothels, and of those trysts, he consumed too much wine to be considered useful to anyone.

It was all so self-centered when he lay with whores in the brothel, and even then, he could not remember most encounters. Expected to perform in a marriage and to a woman as lovely as you filled him with an unexpected dread.

Without consuming a drop this evening, he wondered how he would fare with a sound mind and body — poorly, he imagined. He knew of pleasure, of what it all entailed, but then came pleasing you. What if you hated it? Hated him?

The more he contemplated, the more frustrated he became, and in-turn, made him itch for something to calm his nerves. It was then that he felt your hand against his forearm, gentle and comforting, a smile upon your face.

“Would you like to dance?” A talented dancer you were, but without a partner, your skills seemed all for naught. Aegon’s pause made you wonder if your question was misplaced, but he steeled himself and nodded.

“I fear you’ve chosen a poor partner,” Aegon murmured, hovering beside you as the both of you took to the floor. Waves of people parted like the sea to usher in the newlyweds, and the new princess. “I am not fleet of foot.”

“You do not have to be.” You assured, the melody transforming into a slow ballad, allowing for a more intimate dance. With bound hands and his arm around your waist, he began to move, albeit with uncertainty.

As he twirled you around across the floor, the idle hum of the festivities swirled around you. You paid little mind to it, searching Aegon’s countenance for any sign of disdain. Instead, you found a hint of anxiousness in his lilac hues.

There was something that gnawed away at his heart — you could tell through gaze alone. As you danced, Aegon kept his stare locked on you, something to focus on. “You look beautiful.” That much was true.

Fortunate to have a bride as resplendent as yourself, Aegon marveled at the sight of you, the very image of beauty. Your comely visage seemed so perfect when compared to your wedding gown, his cloak still tied around your shoulders.

Touched by his softspoken praise, you bowed your head, nimbly weaving closer to him as a dancing couple passed by. Aegon was noticeably stiff in his movements, swallowing his nervousness, attempting to appear unphased.

“You seem tense,” Your voice was little more than a whisper, ensnaring his attention. His gaze flickered between the hum of the audience in-attendance and you, mustering up a threadbare smile. “Are you well?”

The genuineness of your inquiry could not be mistaken, and Aegon seemed bewildered that anyone would truly ask about his wellbeing. “I am,” He reassured, chest-to-chest with you. “This all seems rather frivolous.”

Admittedly, it wasn’t the root of the matter, but he wanted to placate you. Aegon bit his tongue from confessing the truth, a truth that he did not want to utter here, with wandering ears.

“The festivities? I would agree,” You replied, knowing that the expenses of such an event were rather much. “I am only here for you.” Aegon happened to smile at that, one far more genuine than the last.

Before he could speak, he noticed his Mother escorting the King towards the floor, whose gait was strained and incredibly sluggish. He leaned upon his cane, wheezing with every step, coming to a halt in front of the both of you.

“King Viserys wishes to extend his blessing to the both of you, and hopes for a happy union.” Alicent seemed a world away, treating you to a smile that was devoid of joy, merely a courtesy. “We must take our leave.”

“Thank you, your Grace. I hope to be a good wife to Prince Aegon.” You would never forget your manners, curtsying before the both of them. Alicent made no comment, simply bowing her head before guiding Viserys away.

Aegon appeared somewhat downtrodden with the leaving of his parents, and not entirely surprised. He seemed to quietly accept their leave, thanking his parents before they made their way through the now-parted crowds. Criston Cole nipped at their heels, following closely behind the King and Queen.

It was as if the buzz of excitement began to dissipate with the absence of the King, but you did not seem to be bothered by it. You wanted to make the most of it with Aegon.

With the absence of the King and Queen, the celebration seemed to dim — not that Aegon cared. He was more inclined to retire and get the consummation over with, as to not make a complete fool of himself.

Nervousness gnawed at his gut, and that irritated him. He shouldn’t have been so high strung about something so trivial. The physical aspect of marriage was often to perform a duty, and not anything more enjoyable than that.

Yet, Aegon found himself wanting to ascend duty.

Seven Hells, he was in for a long evening. His constant agonizing over how to approach this with you was going to eat him alive. It continued to fester within his bones throughout the duration of the night, up until you made it to your marital chambers.

Your shared quarters were beautiful — gilded in gold, draped in tapestries of emerald. They were far more grandeur and spacious than your own room back in Highgarden.

“If there is something not to your liking, I shall have the servants alter it.” Aegon murmured, attempting to quell his nerves. He could not recall the last time he had been so frayed, so fraught with anxiousness.

There was no wine to dull his senses, and so he was left with the rawness of his own sentiments, opting to sit beside the hearth.

The scenery was not nearly as perplexing as your new husband, who seemed more focused on gazing into the fire instead of consummating your union. You were told that it was duty — for a man to put a babe in you and be finished.

“Aegon,” Concerned, you rounded the chaise lounge, moving to sit beside him. Admittedly, this whole scenario seemed to confuse you more than anything else. “Is something the matter?”

Gods help him — Aegon did not know where to begin. It was best to tell you of his past experiences, inform you that his virtue was tarnished, that he was deplorable, and admit that lying with you would wrack him with immense guilt.

Perhaps, it was best to confess that he was nervous, more than you, and elect not to consummate at all. If his Mother or Grandsire found out about his lack of performance, he would be forced into putting a babe in you.

A bitter laugh escaped him as he attempted to control his sudden bout of frustration. “I cannot do this,” He murmured, shaking his head back and forth. “You don’t deserve this.”

With furrowed brows, you sought elaboration, hands twisting themselves together to relinquish your anxiousness. “Don’t deserve what? I do not understand.” You uttered, fearing that it was you who had slighted him.

“I have committed countless sins — it isn’t fair to you, to consummate when I have already tarnished myself so deeply,” Aegon sighed, pressing a hand to his face. “Yet duty demands that I must.”

There was a palpable nervousness within his voice, and it seemed to mirror your own. You feared disappointing him, but his sentiments were shared, much to your bewilderment. “I do not care what you did before this,” You replied. “We are married now. What matters is the path we take from now on.”

Damn you — so virtuous, so saintly that it made him look like some uncouth fiend compared to you. Of course you would be understanding, as you had been all along. Aegon hoped that you would be angry; it would make this so much easier.

It was a valiant attempt to mask his own nerves, which became glaringly obvious as moments ticked by. “I am nervous, admittedly, but … I know that I simply lay down and let you finish.”

Aegon’s brows creased together, and he realized that you did not expect much from him at all. You didn’t know what it all could entail, the art of pleasure. He never bothered to fully explore it himself, with his whoremongering and blatant self-interest.

Swallowing the growing lump within his throat, he attempted to set his worries aside, hands fisting at his trousers to relieve his nerves. “That is not what it has to be,” He murmured, glancing at you with wide, lilac hues. “Unless you want it that way.”

Intrigued, you seemed desperate to know what all the physical side of a marriage entailed. Aegon seemed anxious, but he wanted to try and treat you well, explore a new realm of pleasure together.

Silently, you reached for his hand, prompting him to shiver at the contact of your soft flesh and warm digits. “I do not.” Your gentle utterance set his heart ablaze, stomach swirling with a foreign giddiness as he regained his composure.

Aegon exhaled, mauve hues wandering towards the delicate curve of your mouth, the slender plane of your throat. He let himself become lascivious with his thoughts — Gods, you were so beautiful that it nearly pained him to look at you.

“You are too good for me,” Aegon mumbled, his self-deprecation laid bare for you to witness. He seemed so solemn in his words — and you did not believe him. “I do not deserve you.” Before he could speak again, you silenced him.

With your fingers pressed firmly to his mouth, brows furrowed together, you ensured that he listened to you without interruption. “Stop,” You urged, shaking your head. “Whatever occurred before our union, during it, it is in the past. This is the present — you deserve me.”

He wished that he could believe you — it was difficult for those words to fully sink in, for him to take it all to-heart. Those lilac hues swam with melancholy, yet he attempted to wipe it all away for your sake.

Instead, you moved to bring him into your embrace, hugging him close to relieve whatever anguish he felt. To your surprise, he held onto you, burying his face against your collarbone, arms settling against your hips.

Admittedly, he felt pathetic — all of this agony and frustration pouring out on his wedding night, and you were comforting him. It mattered a great deal to him, your simple act of listening and ensuring his wellbeing.

A gust of your scent hit his nostrils, a floral concoction that balanced upon the edge of sweetness and something alluring. Aegon steeled himself and decided to cease his bout of guilt and try to be a proper husband and lover to you.

“Seven Hells.” Aegon hissed, brows screwing together in a look of inner disdain. He was often several flagons deep whenever this ordeal took place — there was nothing to ease his nerves.

“Aegon …” Before you could ask what troubled him so, he silenced you with a singular glance, lilac hues swimming with unshed tears. Frustration seeped into his gestures, a coiled repression of a rooted inner loathing that threatened to consume him.

“I have not — Fuck,” With a mumble of annoyance, he steeled himself, knowing that the truth of the matter might make you disgusted by him. “I have not had a clear mind, laying with a woman.” Admitting to his nervousness made his stomach turn with dread.

Overindulgence was his cardinal sin, and yet he hadn’t had a drop of wine at all this evening. His confession gave you pause, enough to contemplate, consider the weight of the truth. “Would this be the first time?” Your tender utterance lacked any initial shrewdness.

Aegon simply nodded, palms still clutching onto you, able to feel the pliant curvature of your body beneath your wedding gown. His closeness made your breath hitch, lilac hues boring into your own, drinking you in. “You are divine.” He murmured.

To see you without the haze of intoxication — there was nothing more perfect. Swallowing the growing lump within his throat, Aegon felt your hand drift across his shoulder, through velvet and silk, until you reached his jaw.

It was disarmingly gentle, the unexpected grace of your fingertips as they stroked across his cheek. His lips parted slightly, enough for a brief huff of surprise to escape him. Absentmindedly, he found himself careening into your embrace, seeking the warmth of your palm.

Lilac hues ogled your mouth, until he could bear it no longer. Aegon planted a gentle kiss against your lips, feeling your body tense beneath his hands, the gesture fleeting. A wisp of a whine bubbled within your throat, falling from your mouth.

Abandoning such rigidity, your body sluggishly relaxed into his hold, tension unfurling from your shoulders. A wave of repression seemed coiled within your kiss, as if you were holding the dam aloft, refusing to let it shatter.

Yet, such desperation oozing from you mirrored his own, one that he thought he’d buried. Roused from dormancy, Aegon’s flame of desire began to smolder as he coaxed you closer, tormented by the sweetness of your kiss.

Eager digits flexed against your hips, index finger circling over the divot there, aching to see you bare, unobstructed. He savored your taste, like that of piety, something saccharine, now transformed into a ceaseless craving.

He could not recall the last time he had wanted; this incessant ache had now warped into some amalgamation of desire and despair, yearning to touch you, worship you. Aegon had never felt the urge to covet something — not until his gaze had found you.

With another barrage of fervent kisses, the pale-headed prince retreated, the distance slim as he looked upon your doe-eyed countenance. “I wish to see you,” His utterance had adopted a lascivious edge, lilac hues burning with need. “Please.”

Joined hands fluttered to the many ties of your gown, seeking to free you from your cage of immeasurable fabric. It was you who had subtly allowed one palm to fly toward his own doublet, evening the score.

Aegon did not protest, even if he wanted to. As you shed your wedding gown, letting it peel away from you, draped over the lounge, he felt his heart hammer within his chest. He felt like some deplorable lecher, entirely undeserving of you, but he did not want to ruin this with his insecurities.

Through your tantalizingly-thin shift, the Targaryen Prince allowed his gaze to rake over you, covetous and aching. “Fuck.” Aegon mumbled, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, unable to tear his hands from you. They squeezed at your hips, lingering over your backside.

Adjusting his position, he moved to coax you into his lap, noticing your sheepish disposition. This was all unfamiliar territory for you, one that he desired to handle with care, as if rectifying his past blunders. It would never be enough, never repairing what damage he’d done, but it was a start.

Neediness had driven you closer, slotting yourself into his lap as he greedily cupped your backside, kneading into the pliant flesh. Aegon kissed you once more, a low groan tearing past his throat, echoing within your maw.

Kisses devolved from shy and exploratory to innately wanton, your own need bleeding through as you tilted your head slightly, deepening your entanglement. The pad of his thumb traced circles into your thigh, savoring the soft flesh beneath.

A prodding of his tongue to your kiss-swollen lips sent a shiver of delight through you, mouth parting to make way for his greedy maw. Lips clashed, collided, and meshed again — arousal surged within you, thick between your thighs.

The fabric that clung to your form even still left little to the imagination, hips writhing into his own, creating a delicious friction between you both. Proof of his desire was laid bare, straining against the front of his trousers as you pressed closer.

Beneath the rich, emerald velvet of his doublet, Aegon’s tunic sagged against his poorly-defined musculature, the hue of sage. It was your insistence and clamoring hands that had spurred him to shed it all, fabric pooling alongside your gown.

“Aegon,” A rapturous sigh tumbled from your parted lips, mouth stilling against his own as you sought to touch him, hands trailing through his pale tresses. Oozing warmth coalesced between your thighs as Aegon planted a kiss to your throat. “Please.”

As one palm continued to grope at the swell of your backside, the other coursed over your collarbone, downward still until he cupped your breast. Mouths continued to connect in heated kisses, a low groan erupting from his throat.

Fire’s crackling glow blanketed him in pooling orange, illuminating his ethereal features. Each touch evoked a deep-seated repression from you, desiring as much as he was willing to give you.

Another satisfied hum escaped him as you carded your fingers through his hair, hips lurching forward. Absentmindedly, your hips continued to urge against his, eliciting a breathy sigh from Aegon. He sounded so pleased, continuing to palm at your breast.

One of your hands clamored to relocate, smoothing across his chest, and then towards his abdomen. Gooseflesh followed in the wake of your incendiary touch, like that of a blazing fire, turning him to ash. Fingertips then found the ties of his trousers, earning you a look of surprise.

He feared that if you touched him, he would’ve combusted then and there — and that was no way to end one’s wedding night. Instead, he redirected you, savoring the sensation of your silky hand snug against his chest. His kiss made your head spin.

Bodies continue to glide together, friction crackling where space becomes increasingly nonexistent. Flesh meets flesh, a seamless mold that prompts you to shiver, mouth a roaring flame as you continue your barrage of kisses.

The cool metal of his ring felt like some pleasant brand against your flesh as he kneaded your breast, thumb circling around your peaked nipple. A delighted noise leaves you then, akin to the sweet lull of a siren’s song, drawing him in.

As your hips rocked against his own, Aegon fought against his own baser instincts, the swell of his cock brushing languidly against your core. A sharp inhale ripped through his lungs, hands groping you, kneading into your flesh, caressing wherever he could as he held you close.

His mouth had dropped to your neck, showering your velvety flesh in strings of passionate kisses. There was no intoxication finer than you, whose heady, saccharine scent beguiled him without a care, more tempting than ever.

Aegon continued to greedily toy with your breasts, savoring their weight, the way they melded into his palms. Eager digits lightly pinched at your nipple; each moan that left you was akin to a lullaby, dizzying his senses.

“Gods, stop squirming.” Aegon huffed, lilt lacking any bite to it. It emerged as a partial groan, attempting to spare himself from embarrassment on his wedding night. He deposited you onto the plush cushions of the settee, gentle as ever.

Warm and clouded with a desirous haze, you watched in wordless rapture as your husband clamored down, moving to kneel in between your legs. Amethyst hues glittered with adoration, peering up at you as he smoothed his palms along your thighs.

“I am sorry,” Fearing you’d done something wrong, he soothed you with a string of kisses to your leg, pressed upon the inside of your knee. Pale tresses swept across your velvety skin, and he marveled at the sight of you, beauteous beyond comprehension. “Aegon, I ...”

“Do not apologize.” A brief shiver rolled down his spine as your palms cupped his face, cradling his visage within your hands as you stooped down for a searing kiss. He felt like some starving animal, moving upwards to reciprocate your kiss, desperate for any scrap of affection.

Unblemished hands began to push at the fabric that clung to you still, allowing it to unceremoniously pool around your hips. A moan rippled through you, slick nethers exposed to your new husband, embarrassment beginning to settle into your bones.

Before you could make some valiant attempt to shield yourself from him, Aegon refuted you with a light push of his shoulders. His countenance sparkled with a growing ardor, mauve hues boring into you as he shook his head.

“Please, do not deny me this,” It was a strained plea, the Prince begging for you to oblige him, slotted between your legs as if he belonged there. “I wish to taste you.” His confession felt hot, uttered from greedy lips.

Completely and utterly besotted with you, and you with him, you sluggishly began to allow your legs to part, kissing him once more. As your slender digits twined against his crown, he nearly groaned, savoring the pliant pillars of your mouth as he reluctantly withdrew.

His countenance seemed so docile, subservient — amethyst hues glittered with a budding attachment, lips parted as he rested his head against your thigh. Inhaling a gust of your scent, he began to press kisses to your leg, hands kneading against your haunches, reveling in all of you.

Pleasure was not a foreign concept to you, but the act itself was. Exhilaration stung your flesh, prickling away within the pit of your belly as he kissed along your thigh, each ministration wrought with rapture.

Aegon had come to spill his sins, let them vanish between your legs. “Beautiful.” He exhaled, kissing his way toward the rousing heat nestled against the apex of your legs. It was as if he were drunk upon you, intoxicated by your very essence.

The constant preening of your fingertips throughout his tresses set him ablaze, a soothing sensation that nearly subdued him. As he kissed his way to your nethers, he was delighted to find you warm already, slick glistening upon your petals. It gave him some twinge of confidence — he did not disgust you, at least.

“Aegon,” A shrewd whimper bubbled from your throat, hand sinking to cradle the base of his skull. It was as if your body already knew, hips attempting to lurch forward. Hot breath fanned over your core, prompting you to writhe beneath him. “Gods, please.” A sigh of passion left you.

“What a pleasant surprise.” Aegon crooned, stoking the fervent flame that churned within your belly. Ringed palms gleefully cupped your thighs, chilled metal of his signets pressing into your flesh as he kept your legs parted.

Dragging one finger through your petals, he watched in awe as you shivered. Gods, you were wet — admittedly, he hadn’t wholly expected for you to be this way. As you urged him closer, diaphragm erupting with sputtered whines and wrought with desperation, he indulged you.

A greedy tongue raked hot embers over your slit, groaning at the ambrosial taste that clung to you, a finer stout than many. Straining against the front of his trousers, his cock throbbed with an incessant ache, longing to be inside of you.

Aegon lacked tact, lapping at your cunt with messy, eager strokes that had made your back arch. One could not mistake it for anything other than enthusiasm intermingled with covetousness, digits smoothing themselves over your inner thighs.

A shrewd whine erupted from your throat, a noise that had sounded so foreign from your tongue. The Prince’s pale crown had become your anchor, fingers idly perusing throughout oil-mussed strands, tugging and pulling as you pleased.

“A—Aegon!” A squeak of surprise tore past your lips, the foreign sensation of pleasure spreading through you like wildfire. Gods, he reveled in your noises — he wished to hear them again and again, if he could.

Ring-adorned digits clamped down into your thigh, the other snaking toward your hips, caressing circles into your supple flesh. His mouth was like that of fire, kissing his way along your nethers, tongue teasingly prodding against your entrance. It was more than enough to make you squirm.

The coil of taut heat within your stomach seems to tighten as Aegon greedily lapped at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his pale locks, urging him closer.

Aegon’s ministrations lack practice and grace, an amalgamation of want intermingled with greed, his desire to have you. Nevertheless, his sloppiness is welcomed, thighs involuntarily squeezing around his head, and he moves closer still.

It is then that he seeks the pearl of your cunt, pressing a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.

With a devious lash of his tongue, he openly laps at your pearl, drunk upon the taste of you, far more intoxicating than that of any wine. Aegon’s fingers tense against your thighs, quietly marveling at your softness, plush and pliant within his hold.

Hips surge forward, jolting into the greedy heat of his mouth, and he merely treats you to incessant barrages of his tongue. Admittedly, your enthusiasm in the matter only spurred on his confidence in pleasing you — he did not do this very often.

His name rolls from your mouth like some incantation, tapering off into a string of whines and stifled moans. Molten heat churned violently within the pit of your stomach, volatile and oozing, coalescing between your thighs.

“Aegon!” A breathy plea tumbles from your lips, body begging for more, for whatever he is willing to give you. His ministrations change from gently suckling upon your pearl to broad, tactless laps of his tongue, with little variation.

Aegon’s lips glistened with a sticky sheen of your nectar, of a finer stout than many, more delectable than any wine that had befallen his mouth. You were quickly ascending towards your release, body pulled taut, preparing to snap in the wake of such devastating pleasure.

His cock throbbed with an incessant, desperate ache, precum slick around the head as it strained against his trousers. Your own satisfaction spurred him on, and your delightful noises only sent him spiraling into the depths of further depravity.

It doesn’t take much more for you to unravel, bursting at the seams as your new husband brings about your first release. It is blinding, the white-hot throes of ecstasy that sends you crashing into a blissful afterglow.

You do not recall how many times you cry for him, sob his name, but Aegon commits it all to memory. The Prince’s stomach surges with a volatile heat, nearly groaning in response to your pinnacle.

A heaving sigh jostles him, inhaling gusts of your saccharine scent, catching his own breath as he presses continuous kisses over your thigh. His cheek happens to rest against your leg, and as you begin to come down, the sight of him is enough to reignite the flame once more.

Amethyst hues seem to sparkle with triumph and elation, flickering towards you, glittering lips twitching into a lopsided smile. Aegon felt happy — he could not recall the last time he’d felt true joy, uninhibited by wine.

“That was …” Truthfully, you do not know how to describe it, but your reaction is more than enough to please the Targaryen prince. Your fingers continue to rake through his pale tresses, dancing over his crown before cupping his face. “Wonderful.”

“I am not finished yet,” Aegon uttered, slithering from between your legs to capture your mouth with his, able to taste yourself. A whine of delight escapes your lips and he revels in it, mouths entangling in a heated kiss. “I need you.”

It isn’t an easy thing to admit to, needing someone — and yet he does, and it feels unusually effortless. The weight of his words takes root within you, head bobbing up and down in a consensual nod as he seizes you from the settee.

As you clamor for your shared marital bed, he stops at the mattress’s edge, hands tangling against the hem of your shift. Your arms adjust, allowing him to free you from the fabric, which happens to feel too restrictive, too claustrophobic.

Aegon’s visage is buried beside your collarbone, marveling at the sight of you — Gods, he was exceedingly fortunate. Even then, a despondent voice screamed at him, how he did not deserve you in the slightest, and he refused to listen to it.

His mouth became dry, desire swelling within him like the urgent crash of a tidal wave. Aegon’s violet gaze remained transfixed, unable to tear themselves away from you and the perfection of you; all of you.

“A—Are you going to be gentle?” The nervousness of your inquiry is unmistakable, and he is swift to quell such fears, pressing a kiss against your brow. You’ve always been told that consummating was physically painful, such horror instilled within you once you reached womanhood.

“Of course,” Aegon was not a good man — rotten, really. However, he had no desire to treat you with callousness, no desire to manhandle you into subservience. “I would not harm you.” His reassurance seemed a mutual thing, a promise to both himself and you.

With a nod, a tender smile spreads across your face, beguiled by him as you reach for the laces of his trousers. A flicker of surprise settles into his lilac hues, but he doesn’t protest, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

Hungry and rapturous, Aegon allowed his gaze to roam over you freely, committing every detail of your form to memory — beauty incarnate. He permits you to untie his breeches, the strings loosening altogether.

As leather gives way and he stands bare before you, your features warm at the sight of him, ethereal; incandescent, really. He is more godly than you imagined him to be, vexed by him, by body and by heart.

That is when you feel it, the proof of his arousal pressing into your lower belly, oozing with precum as he slowly ruts his hips into you. A sharp moan blossoms throughout your diaphragm, palms gathering at the nape of his neck as you coax him down for a searing kiss.

A groan rippled through his throat, escaping into twined mouths as you moved against his erection, enough to nearly make him sputter. Aegon’s desperation bleeds into you with a blinding intensity, so poignant and so palpable that it makes your knees buckle.

Before you can protest his recoil, Aegon moves with you onto the sheets, a clamor of eager limbs, and your belly surges with butterflies. You know not to be fearful, but you cannot help it, expecting him to crawl atop you and make it easy.

Bewilderment settles into your features when he does the opposite, coaxing you into his lap with such enthusiasm, such neediness. Mauve hues were blown-out with lust and exaltation, enthralled by you as he felt you settle down against him, thighs firmly caging him in on either side.

The game of waiting was an agonizing one, as he longed to be inside of you, let you feel him with renewed vigor, drown himself within your growing affections. Aegon groaned when your lips met his, connecting with a thinly-veiled ardor, passionate yet tender.

Wandering hands smooth themselves over the swell of your hips, clutching at the pliant flesh, his erection pressing against your thigh. A sharp inhale passes through him as you gently adjust yourself, comfortable atop him — you rather enjoy this, you think.

Desire made him dizzy, head beginning to spin in a delirium, induced by the growing haze of ardor. He couldn’t recall the last time he laid with a woman and truly enjoyed it — yet, he enjoyed this, reveled in it all, craved you as one would gusts of fresh air.

“I need you,” The felicity dancing within your wanton plea makes him want to sob, and he knows that he needs you just as terribly. His cock twitched, the flushed head proclaiming his own want without the use of words. “I beg of you, Aegon.”

“Fuck,” Aegon groans; your nethers clench pathetically around nothing at all. Eagerness seeps into each caress of his hands, every touch, every sigh of passion. “Sit, I — I need you terribly.” His pleas made your bones ache, stomach churning with a flame that demanded to be extinguished.

At your mercy, he slumped back against the golden pillows, countenance echoing such unrestrained yearning, guiding his aching cock to your glistening cunt. He steeled himself, watching in a tremulous rapture as you adjusted yourself, slowly sinking yourself onto his length.

A cacophony of whines escaped you, the sudden intrusion somewhat painful, but nothing agonizing — not how it was made to appear. His grasp steadied upon your hips, digits kneading into your flesh as you continued to rock downwards.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to adjust to one another, grow accustomed. The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

“Ae—Aegon,” With a blubbering moan, your palms fell atop his chest, splayed over pale flesh as you awkwardly began to ease yourself up into an erratic rhythm. You did not know how to move, but he seemed to revel in it, mouth erupting with groans aplenty. “Gods.”

Such sensations seemed to overwhelm you, a blissful ecstasy seeping into your bones, belly sloshing with excitement. You did not go quickly at all, each movement slow and punctuated, thighs stinging from the first inklings of exertion.

Beneath you, Aegon gazed at you as if you were some goddess, amethyst hues shimmering with a thinly-veiled ardor. His heart hammered within his chest, breath catching as one hand slithered downward, groping at your derrière.

Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need. Precum continued to ooze forth, spilling inside of you.

Aegon watched you carefully, completely and utterly mesmerized, beguiled as he began to guide your movements. It all instilled a fire within you, raging as it seared your nerves, set all of you ablaze as his cock kissed your walls with a gentle fervor.

The full, lovely swell of your breasts bounced gently atop your chest as you continued your ministrations, repeating the monotonous motion of rocking along his cock. Your stomach sloshed with molten heat, and it quickly spread to your loins like wildfire.

A breathy groan of ‘fuck’ emerged from Aegon’s mouth, countenance contorted into a look of complete and utter ecstasy. “Gods, do not stop, I beg you,” Aegon commanded through wanton groans, hips desperately rutting up inside of you. “Please.” He pleaded.

Ceaseless, you carried on, thighs burning as you rode him as you would a broken gelding, palm sliding toward his face. Wordlessly, you coaxed him in for a blistering kiss, prompting him to sit up from his partial slouch, mouths connecting in a frenzied flurry of bliss.

Aegon’s hips continued to jolt forward, cock burying itself deep within you, a sword sheathed within its scabbard. Moans emerged from you in myriads, hands suddenly clamoring for the nape of his neck, fingers twisting themselves into his silvery tresses.

Between kisses of tactless passion, his mouth withdrew, only to sloppily pepper themselves along your jaw before settling against your throat. The very image of grace, tarnished with lust; a maiden worth worshiping.

The coil of heat that had remained furled within Aegon began to rapidly pull apart, his pleasure one of such dizzying ecstasy. Hips clashed together, the friction a delicious sensation as a shiver iced your spine, and then his.

“Aegon!” A fever that you couldn’t sweat out, you rode him ceaselessly, ministrations a touch erratic, yet you maintained a steady pace. A whimper of ardor bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by his grasp upon your hips.

Drowning within ecstasy, Aegon knew that he could not cling to restraint any longer, cock throbbing with a persistent ache. His digits gripped you tightly, a choked groan emerging into the hollow between your throat and shoulder.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, his hips continuing to buck up into you intermittently. You clung to him as if you were drowning, his lips ravishing your flesh whenever he had a moment to breathe, cock nearly kissing your cervix.

It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart completely, in shambles beneath you, hot ropes of virile seed filling your womb with a wild desperation. The rush of warmth soon flooded your insides, his spend sticky against your nethers.

Aegon saw stars from the intensity of his release, nearly collapsing in the aftermath of it all. Perspiration glistened along his spine, bones nearly turning to molten liquid as you continued to ride him for a few moments more.

Foreheads pressed together, lips soon finding one another, disarmingly gentle as he allowed one palm to cup your cheek. His thumb danced over your jaw, the gesture unusually sweet as your hips began to slow to a mere crawl.

Sheepish, you began to withdraw, a soft moan leaving you as you maneuvered yourself from his lap, a rush of sticky warmth coating your inner thighs. You crawled from bed, dancing over discarded clothing as you sought out something to wear.

Aegon lazily rolled to lay down, amethyst hues trained upon the gilded canopy above, running a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected to come undone as he had, but it was perfect — he hadn’t felt like that in some time.

His gaze soon found you, softening at the sight of you bundled up within his sage tunic, the silk brushing against the top of your thighs. Lust gnawed at his bones, seeing you like that — it only made him covet you in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“Seven Hells,” Aegon mumbled, tongue darting to wet his lower lip as you slunk forward, his stare half-lidded as he shamelessly admired you. “Must I take you again, looking like that?” He murmured, noticing the way you became smitten so very quickly.

“Should I remove it?” Afraid that you had misstepped, you nearly reached for your shift until he shook his head, waving you over. Your features burned, pleasantly warm as you crawled back into bed with him, curling into his side.

“I would often say yes,” His voice was remarkably smooth, lacking the initial torment and despair from before, instilled with a subdued joy. “Not this time. Come here.” Inviting you to lay with him, you turned, chin perched against his shoulder.

His hand circled around you, fingers trailing along your spine as he drew the sheets around you both, reveling in the feeling of your form pressed to his. In the blissful afterglow, you remained quiet for a moment, palm placed atop his chest.

A lump formed within his throat as he contemplated this, being with you — he had not felt so at-ease in what seemed like forever. You had made him feel so comfortable, vulnerable in a way that he both craved and detested, but perhaps it was for the best.

Perhaps, you would draw out the best in him, allow him to atone for past mistakes, even if he felt like it was all too late. Firelight danced throughout your chambers, beginning to wane as embers replaced roaring flames, the room ambient with even breaths and steady hearts.

“Aegon?”

As your sweet cadence cut through his lament, he looked to you, head cocking to one side. “Hm?” Admittedly, he could fall asleep now if it weren’t for your presence, mauve hues absorbing the beauty of your smiling countenance.

People rarely afforded him a smile, let alone the doting look you gave him — and he melted, collapsed within the tenderness of it all. Again, he swallowed, attempting to force the swell of emotion down his throat.

“I think we will be happy together, you and I.” He knew you meant it — knew your sincerity, genuineness spilling from each syllable. You weren’t expecting him to answer, allowing your head to rest neatly against his chest, and he held you closer.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, true happiness had tugged at his heart.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen x y/n #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii fanfic

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pedrosyouknowwhat · 8 hours ago

Text

Breaking in (Part 3)

Summary: Joel claims you.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOOOOT EATTTT. Noncon, dark dark themes, sexual slavery, reader is in pain and exhausted, gang bang, angst, insecure reader, oral (F receiving), riding, over stimulation, physical abuse, creampie, bruises, tiny bits of blood, please tell me if I'm missing something else!!!

Pairings: Dark! Joel Miller x reader, Dark! Javier Peña x reader, Dark! Marcus Acacius x reader, Dark! Oberyn Martell x reader, Dark! Agent Whiskey x reader, Dark! Dieter Bravo x reader, Dark! Frankie Morales x reader

Series Masterlist

Catfish hands felt warm, cozy, as he hoisted you up. You whimpered, your body aching for rest. Protests begun rumbling in the room, and it felt like both Catfish and you glanced pleadingly at Joel.

His jaw was squared, and you saw the others. They were pleading, too. Pleading for one more glance, one more go, a bit more of your flesh to chew on. They are like dogs, obedient ones, and Joel is their master.

He nudges. A sign so faint you can't catch it, but Catfish's trained eyes can. Your legs are to weak to move, they stumble against the cool floors as he leads you out the open door. Into the hallway. Into the bath.

Your head spins as your lungs heave against your chest, desperate for fresh air. You feel your muscles pulsing, blood pumping to form bruises at your battered body. No more no more no more.

Catfish hesitates on giving you a bath, considering your state, but he knows they aren't patient. He doesn't even kick the door close before propping you against the tiled wall, your hands rushing to support you. He haphazardly turns on the water and immediately presents his palm, testing the temperature. Droplets splatter against your side, eyes glossy as you stare at him through the curtain of water.

Your eyes fog, head reeling back against the wall. Your eyelids clench, motion which you had always associated with comfort until now. Despite the warmth washing over you, you still feel their lingering hands.

The room is almost pitch black, the moon's lighting fighting through the window. Your body is spread on the table, you are a feast. Shadows creep around you, and the familiar calloused hand traces up your thigh, In a flash, multiple of them are on you. Jabbing at your cunt, rubbing your clit, pinching your tits and ass and thighs. Your arms are stuck at your side, unable to move despite not being bound, your jaw barely protests as your head is pulled off the table and mouth is forced open. Their laughs ring in your ear.

He calls your name softly, and you jerk your head up, body following and tumbling forward. Catfish caught you. You barely see him, eyeballs rolling back with exhaustion. You feel water fall over your hair, and face, and down your body.

"Fuck," he curses under his breathe, arms flexing as he holds you. His grip is tight, but not painful, and your legs aren't strong enough to hold you, not in that moment. Suddenly, he kicks off his shoes and socks, both worn and tattered, and enters the shower. "Hold onto me."

Your hands come to rest on his big shoulders, dampening the fabric. One arm curls around your waist, and you front is pressed flushed against his as reaches around for the dissipating bar of soap.

Any other time, he would have let you do it, but he lathers the soap precisely and almost carelessly- you reprimand yourself for that thought. He's doing his best.

The waxy surface is a barrier against your bruised skin and his calloused palm, reaching into every crevice of your flesh. He wants you clean; you recall he hasn't had a go, perhaps that's why.

The denim on his thighs become wet, and you roll on the balls of your feet, suddenly ashamed to splash him any further. His arm brings you right back, a faint gasp leaving your chapped lips.

Firstly, because your eyes raised to his, and you saw something you didn't like; dark, hungry, wolfish. They stared at you beneath thick furrowed brows, and you saw a flicker of Joel in his features.

Secondly, hidden behind the thick fabric of his jeans, a familiar outline pressed right onto your stomach.

He shook his head, as if resetting his own thoughts and turned you around with ease, your palms propping on the tiles. The water sprinkled down your face, and he pushed your hair away to wash your back.

"Why won't you fuck me?" You mutter lowly, and your eyelids clench in frustration as the words slip out. His movements falter, the bar almost slipping down the curve of your ass.

"Do you, not like me?" You pushed, and as if you had pressed a button, he began scrubbing you again, hastily.

Of course he wouldn't answer.

You felt stupid for even asking. God, did having all six men after you made you high? Why would he like you?

You now were very aware of your state in front of him. The little hairs that slowly prickled at your legs, how your figure had thinned after eating so little in the last days, the way your skin had paled.

"I'm clean." You bit. More angry than you expected, angrier than he deserved. He retreated his hand and you stepped closer into the stream, unable to glance back at him. The water hid the stubborn tears pricking at your eyes.

You did look at him when you stepped clumsily over the tub's edge, wondering about the towel. He dried his hands on his already soaked jeans and walked right past you, the only acknowledgement being a ghosting hand on your lower back.

Walking back there felt like walking to your doom. Your legs shook and your core ached, persistent on the feeling of dampness deep inside you. From the open door, you barely got a glimpse of Whiskey, thighs spread as he sat onto the wooden chair and Marcus leaning onto the wall; someone's burnt orange shirt too- Oberyn.

You reached the room.

"Fuckhole's back." Dieter announced, and eyes shot at you. The chill of the room along the wetness that trickled down your back didn't cool their burning stares.

Catfish helped you to seat on the edge of the bed and you hung your head low; you heard heavy steps and accompanied by Joel's deep grumble voice. "Blindfold."

You felt the flannel pressed against your face and you closed your eyes on instinct. A hand pulled your chin up, thumb stroking the little lines of blood that seeped through your lips.

"Such a beauty." He groaned, so low you couldn't even catch the owner. But praise was praise, and your cheeks warmed.

The same hand pushed you onto the bed, tense muscles crashing onto the mattress. Your legs parted for support, and he took it. He ran his temple along your inner thigh, and you heard him exhale.

What was this?

A decisive and wet lick in your cunt sent your spine curling against the mattress, a throaty whimper eliciting from your mouth. Before you could recover, he delivered another one, from your perineum to your clit. And another, and another.

Each of them sent shots of pleasure right onto your nerves, and your thighs trapped his head in place. He chuckled against your core, but was quick to continue his assault. A slower one ended with his lips wrapped against your clit, suckling. Your knees trembled and your hips jolted, feeling a slight pain in your swollen folds.

He placed your knees over his shoulders and his hands clenched around your thighs, pulling your quivering body closer. Your mouth parted itself, rewarding him in ways you couldn't fathom.

He continued devouring you, alternating between pushing his tongue into your used cunt and bullying your clit. Your jaw went slack, as your moans were getting more ragged by the second.

"Give me a name." Someone growled at your ear. Your head shook, colliding softly against that curved nose. His hand was on your throat, fingers shoving your face closer to his. Plump lips swallowed your whines, devouring them. Joel. The owner of your pleasure.

Your head attempted to recall the past names. The ones that you were forced to say, those who you were forced to identify. Your mind reeled at the pair of lips upon yours. You silent made him more eager, lapping your juices as two thick digits began prodding at your entrance.

They slammed in, and you yelped against Joel's lips. He took the second of distance to murmur, with faux sweetness. "You better give me a name before you cum, puppy."

You felt the coil tightening on your lower belly, thick muscle tickling you. Short licks flicked at your clit.

You were down three names. Joel-who was whispering into your ear-, Oberyn and Catfish.

The last name sparked some joy in you, a breathe of air. Could this be his way of telling you he actually wanted you?

He wasn't fucking you, wasn't taking anything for himself. He was pleasuring you, eating you like a man starved. You were too lost to think properly about it.

"C-Catfish." You whimpered. Teeth grazed your clit as the man between your thighs sneered.

The warmth by your side dissipated as the bed creaked, and you felt it un-dip. Your hand came to grasp the sheet, only to find the bare bed. Nails dragged against the detailing.

Slap.

The sound smacked you first, and then did his palm. You felt wetness seep from your cunt.

"Wrong."

You were so close, so painfully close.

"O-Oberyn!" You screamed, and your legs felt limp, wide spread around you. He pushed your knees to your chest, ravaging.

Your felt pressure, and you, and you...

It relieved, and he drunk the squirts of arousal that shot our of your cunt with renewed vigor. Your whole body was on fire as he finger-fucked you through your high.

"Oberyn." You mewled, scared the name wasn't heard properly. Disappointment dripped down your temples in scalding tears. Every inch of you was on fire.

His ministrations slowed before he let your core rest with wet pop. You clenches around nothing, noticing the increasing sting on your cheek. You were a rag doll against the bed.

"Like the way you say my name." Oberyn commented coyly before slinking into his feet.

Joel had heard everything.

Why won't you fuck me?

Wasn't six dicks enough?

Wasn't his dick enough?

He stared at your limp body, marks of ownership and claim already blossoming on your skin. Your cunt, swollen and dripping. His cock hadn't been this hard in ages.

He thought about fucking your ass. Make you real sorry for speaking that way to Catfish. Make you confess your sins. But playing the long game was more fun.

He strutted to the bed with some pride. Pride that he could do what he wanted to you, pride that Catfish couldn't stop him. He observed the way you flinched as he pulled down his zipper. His pants and boxers where next. He didn't mind the state of undress in front of his men.

He pushed you aside as he climbed onto the bed, plopping a pillow for his aged back against the head board. His rough hands felt like sandpaper against your skin, but he adored the way your tits bounced as he positioned you to straddle his lap, your dripping cunt poised just above his massive, throbbing cock. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, and he could see the thick vein running along the underside of his shaft pulsing with each beat of his heart.

He leaned in close, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. He was sure you could smell the whiskey on his breath, the one he had indulged in while watching his men fuck you, could feel the rough stubble of his beard scratching against your skin. His hands slid up your sides, calloused fingers skimming over your ribs before cupping your breasts, squeezing them roughly. He inhaled deeply before resuming his position.

He punctuated his actions with a sharp thrust of his hips, his cock-head catching on your entrance and sending a jolt of pleasure shooting through you. Your blindfolded eyes shot open wide beneath the fabric, a silent scream catching in your throat as he stretched you impossibly wide around his thick girth. The burn of the sudden intrusion was intense, bordering on painful, as your walls struggled to accommodate his size. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your tits, kneading and squeezing, his thumbs and forefingers pinching and tugging at your nipples until they were stiff, aching peaks.

He could feel your body trembling in his lap, could see the way your walls fluttered around his cock, trying to draw him in. He smirked, a wicked, cruel twist of his lips.

But he didn't give you a chance to adjust. His hands gripped your hips punishingly hard as he started to move, slamming your body up and down on his cock with brutal, animalistic fervor. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with the creaking of the bed frame as he fucked into you with reckless abandon.

One of his hands slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair. He fisted the strands tightly, wrenching your head back and forcing your chin to tilt up. At the same time, his other hand came down on your ass in a harsh, stinging slap, the pain only adding to the overwhelming sensations consuming your body.

Your lips parted as your face contorted in pain. You wailed, carelessly. "Joel!"

He smirked at the way you recognized him, and his eyes skipped your face. Catfish. His soldier's eyes flickered from your bouncing ass to Joel's face when he realized he was being watched. His brows lowered with amusement and a smile tugged at the edge of his lips. He spoke again, voice heavy with lust. "Louder."

You moan, "JOEL!"

Look at your perfect angel.

He caught your hands and pressed them to his chest, forcing you impossibly deeper.

"That's it, puppy," he growled, his voice a dark, cruel taunt. "Scream for me. Let the whole fucking room hear who this needy cunt belongs to."

He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious thrust, grinding his pelvis against your clit and sending a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting through your core. Your walls clamped down around him, fluttering wildly as your orgasm approached like a runaway train.

Catfish stared in awe. He took in the way your tits bounced and jiggled with each brutal thrust, the way your ass rippled as Joel's hips slammed against it. He could see the obscene stretch of your pussy around Joel's thick cock, the wet squelch of your juices dripping down his balls.

"Louder, puppy," he commanded, his voice a low and dominant. "Let him-them hear you scream for me. Let them see who this cunt belongs to, who makes you feel this fucking good."

Your whine comes out needy. But you chant his name either way.

Joel felt your pussy clench and spasm around his cock as your orgasm ripped through you, your screams of ecstasy echoing off the walls. The sensation was exquisite, your velvety walls gripping him like a hot, slick fist as they milked his throbbing shaft. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his heavy balls slapping against your ass as he found his own release.

A guttural, animalistic groan tore from his throat as he began to cum, his cock pulsing and jerking as it pumped thick ropes of hot seed deep into your convulsing cunt. He gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he ground against you, ensuring every last drop of his essence was planted inside your fertile womb. Something overtook him.

As the last spurts of Joel's release dripped into you, he pulled you into a rough, dominating kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth and swallowing your cries of pleasure. He bit at your lower lip hard enough to taste copper, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh and leaving a mark of his own.

Finally, with a last, possessive grind of his hips, he broke the kiss and leaned back, taking in the debauched sight of you straddling his lap. Your hair was a wild tangle, your skin flushed and glistening with sweat, your tits heaving with each ragged breath, bite marks sinking into your tits, blue and violet painting your inner thighs. His cum oozed out around his softening cock, dripping down your legs and onto the sheets below. It turned a pretty pink color.

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