Chapter Text
“If you say a single word, I will hurt you .”
To his great credit, Aegon manages not to say a single word. Instead, he starts laughing. He laughs until his sides hurt and there are tears welling up in his eyes; in fact, he laughs until he has to brace himself on his knees, gasping and still giggling, for it’s just so ridiculous.
Aemond is wearing one of Helaena’s dresses. To be exact, he’s wearing the summer dress that was her favourite while she was pregnant with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. It’s yellow. A deep and vibrant yellow. Embroidered all over with flowers and butterflies, if it could get any more incongruous, and to top it off, it’s too short, only just making it halfway down his shins. Just about its only redeeming feature is that the yellow somehow complements his hard sapphire glare.
It takes a moment before Aegon has himself under sufficient control to speak.
“ Why? ”
“It’s the only thing that fits.”
That's likely true, for Aemond is incredibly pregnant. Soon it'll be the eight turn of the moon since they found out; the maesters expected the babe a week ago, yet here he is. Flushed and sweaty, leaning on Dark Sister, yet trying to leave. Until now, he's mostly been managing by belting his own tunics and doublets looser, steadfastly refusing to have any new clothes, but he must finally have reached a point at which nothing fits. Still, it isn’t as if Helaena kept only a single dress from that summer. She must have at least a few others that aren’t so… incongruous.
“It’s very — yellow ,” Aegon ventures, endeavouring to be diplomatic. Aemond sighs.
“She wouldn’t let me ransack her wardrobe. I had to take what she gave me.”
That explains it, then. All three of them would do anything to make Helaena happy after all the pain they’ve brought her, particularly Aemond, who works slavishly for a single smile. Aegon would certainly wear that dress without hesitation if she asked him to — though, if he’s completely honest with himself, she wouldn’t need to ask. He had tried a couple of times, before everything. It was an exhilarating sensation.
Regrettably, there’s no time to dwell on that, except perhaps to resolve to ask Helaena later which dress of hers she thinks he’d look best in. Aemond is already trying to stalk back to the postern gate.
“Where are you going?”
“To ride Vhagar.”
So Mother was right. Aegon can’t help but laugh again; there’s nothing about Aemond’s current condition that suggests mounting the largest living dragon is even possible, let alone advisable. The way he bristles is even more amusing. Aemond One-Eye, kinslayer twice over, former Prince Regent, at the mercy of something as trivial as his own body.
“That seems… a poor idea.”
“Visenya rode while she was with child. As did our grandmother Alyssa.”
“But probably not when they were big enough to burst.”
Aemond’s eyes flash. “ I will not —”
“Sacrifice your life for some parasite I got on you, I know.” Aegon has heard that enough times to recite it by heart, too many to pay it any heed. “You don’t think Jaehaera is a parasite.”
“I didn’t have to carry Jaehaera. I’m beginning to understand Helaena when she said she wished she could just lay eggs.”
Aegon can’t help but burst out laughing again at the image — he’s seen Dreamfyre lay a clutch, it’s hardly a pretty sight. To think of Aemond — no, that really is too much.
“Careful what you wish for. Then you’d have to spend months sitting on a nest. You wouldn’t be able to leave it to go flying.”
“Well, thank the Seven for small mercies, I suppose.” Again, he turns and tries to walk away.
This is turning out to be much more fun than Aegon anticipated. He leans on his cane and lets Aemond make it a few steps further before calling out to him —
“ Aemond .”
“ Aegon .” He turns back, jaw set. “Vhagar needs attending to. It’s been a week since I last rode her.”
Ever since she lost her eye, Aemond has been as patient with her as Helaena was waiting for the twins to walk. Flying her every day, once, until she stopped going around in circles. Something changed about their bond after the Gods’ Eye — something that made it all the more impenetrable, for no one knows what happened. Only that a week afterward Vhagar had crashed onto her headland outside King’s Landing with an empty right socket and a piece of Caraxes’ leg in her jaws. When they pulled Aemond off her back he had been near-insensible with fever, wounds festered, clutching Dark Sister so tightly the blade cut his hands.
“Yes, but —”
“Are you going to stop me? I’m sure you have better things to do, Your Grace .” Despite his words, Aemond takes a step closer.
“I’m more than happy to let you be the one to make stupid decisions for once, but Mother is fretting, so I suppose I am.” Aegon grins at the way Aemond’s eye hardens into a challenge; he licks his lips, choosing his next words carefully. “Perhaps if you won’t listen to our lady mother, you’ll listen to your lord husband?”
Aemond’s spine stiffens, a muscle in his jaw clenching as he steps forward, pushing into Aegon’s space.
“Don’t say those words as if they give you any power over me,” he hisses. His words are careful, jabs meted out with the same precision he uses in the training yard, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice. Up close, Aegon can see that Mother might be right to worry — Aemond’s body has taken pregnancy with just as much ill grace as the rest of him, throwing up new hindrances every turn of the moon, and today is no different. His breath is coming in short gasps, cheeks flushed and sweat beading his hairline. Yet the way he grips Dark Sister, the lines of his body taut as a warrior’s despite it all, is still enough to make Aegon’s mouth dry up.
“What about your king?” Aegon makes deliberate eye contact, licking his lips. “Do I have to order you not to go?”
Those words are enough that Aemond grabs his arm, fingers digging in enough to hurt. His eye burns; the muscle in his jaw tightens further, as if his self-control is fraying ever thinner. Aegon swallows, shaping his thoughts — do it, do it, I dare you. I want you — but the moment passes and Aemond releases him, raising his eyebrow as he casts his gaze downwards.
“You’re a debauched creature.”
Aegon’s grin widens insolently. “You like it.”
“For my sins.” Aemond’s voice is still sharp, but something of the tightness has left his posture. Aegon is winning, for once.
“Lord Tyrell won’t arrive until the heat of the day has passed. Come back to my chambers and I’ll give you a different dragon to ride.”
Aemond rolls his eye.
“That was a bad one, even for you,” he says, but takes the offered arm all the same.
Ten minutes and some awkward adjustments later, Aegon is on his back, hips pressed into the mattress, five different awful jokes about hard riding turning over in his mind. If this is how you ride Vhagar, it’s a wonder she hasn’t dropped out of the sky — it’s too hot to be anything other than clammy, and Aemond’s weight on his hip is starting to hurt, but the pain is a sweet kind of overstimulation. Helaena’s yellow dress has been treated rather roughly, the skirt pushed up around Aemond’s thighs and the front undone to expose his sweat-slicked, heaving chest. His eye is heavy-lidded and dazed, lips parted and plait falling apart.
Aegon slips his hands under the dress, fumbling for better purchase on Aemond’s hips. His thumb slides down the thick strip of scar tissue on his inner thigh, the worst wound he brought back from the Gods’ Eye. Pressing down on it makes Aemond shiver, a soft seven hells falling from his lips as his breath catches.
Spurred on, Aegon digs his fingers into the supple flesh of Aemond’s thighs. That elicits a moan and a fervent Valyrian curse — oh, fuck , the sound shivers right down Aegon’s spine. If he could have his way, he would have Aemond like this all the time: debauched and unwound enough not to have any control over his own reactions. His hands fist in Aegon’s tunic as he pushes down again — fuck , fuck, seven bloody hells —
One or the other of them makes a keening noise of ecstasy; Aegon closes his eyes and realises his heart is thundering like a warhorse down the lists, the knot of pleasure in his stomach rapidly untying itself. For a brief moment he barely feels tethered to his body, but then he becomes more aware of the dull ache in his hip, the needle-like pain that flits through his scarred leg. There’s sweat in the crooks of his knees and elbows and he can feel his tunic sticking to his back when he tries to sit up. Which he can’t do, for Aemond is still on top of him, panting. He’s shaking slightly, as if he’s just gone several rounds in the training yard, and looking resolutely at Dark Sister, which is leant against a chair.
It’s always brief, spur-of-the-moment. It usually ends like this.
Aegon tries a light hand on Aemond’s hip.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses, turning even further away. The fingers of his right hand worry away at the palm of his left.
Aegon simply waits for a moment before trying again. This time, Aemond flinches, but says nothing. The heat of his body seems to bleed through skin and fabric, just how the fire of Sunfyre’s internal furnace seeps through scales. He’s still trembling, though after Aegon pulls his hands apart — they’re as bad as Mother’s, worse if you count the sword-calluses — he stops.
They can only stay like that for so long before a sharp pain shoots through Aegon’s hip.
“As much as I hate to curtail your ride, I need you to get off ,” he grunts; with some shoving, Aemond does so, manoeuvring himself into a sitting position with a frustrated noise.
“This is a fucking joke,” he mutters, closing his eye and rubbing his lower back. Despite the flush of pleasure still clinging to his cheeks and chest, he looks worn out. Hopefully one ride will be enough for today .
“It is.” Aegon hums, looking up at the ceiling. It’s been a joke from start to finish. Since he was born, the longed-for prince set aside before he even fully understood what a father was . Perhaps even before then. The only thing that matters is whether you find it funny or not.
He rolls onto his side and studies Aemond, the dull blue of his sapphire eye. It’s too hot to wear an eyepatch without irritating the skin beneath, which Aegon is strangely thankful for. The scar has a harsh kind of beauty.
“If you want to go riding, I could take you on Sunfyre.”
“He’s not strong enough.” Aemond’s refusal is as quick as Aegon expected — and true, which probably makes it easier to say than it won’t be the same . Sunfyre is lucky to fly again at all. As lucky as he is not to be a charred corpse.
“Still. Next time, tell me and I’ll come with you. Mother can’t fret if you’re not alone.”
He’s expecting another immediate refusal; he gets silence. And, eventually —
“I’ll think about it.”