Work Text:
Aegon knows of her proclivities—how could he not? It was he who had burst into her bedchamber with their uncle by his side, shouting that Uncle Daemon promised to show him the biggest ship in the fleet and did she want to come to see it with him, only to find his sister straddling that very uncle’s daughter in a manner entirely unbecoming of a young princess and her lady companion. It was Aegon who’d held her hand so fiercely he left angry red welts on her palm as the shouts of their uncle, mother, and father echoed from the next room over and Aegon who’d let her weep piteously into his shoulder after Larissa was sent away, wed to a strange man on distant Tarth, when nobody else would even speak her name aloud. Their father could have married her off then and there, too—nip the problem in the bud, just as their uncle had with Larissa, but in his eyes, she was always meant for Aegon. At only nine years old, he was far too young. Perhaps, she would think bitterly later, it might even have been better. Would the Faith have dared turn on them so harshly if they’d wed when their grandfather was still alive?
Aegon is the first of her siblings, a constant in her life for as long as she can remember. He is the one she knew she was destined to wed, long before another girl first made her heart race and longer still before their father made the fateful announcement of their betrothal that has turned half the realm against them. She trusts Aegon with her secrets. She trusts Aegon with her dragon, the only one besides her girls who Dreamfyre will accept upon her back.
Aegon has heard the whispers that ripple throughout the court with each successive young noblewoman who enters her orbit. He has seen the way their mother’s face pinches whenever little Alysanne holds the hand of a lady-in-waiting a little too tightly, the girl sure to be replaced soon, lest the second daughter wander as far astray as the first. Yes, he knows well his sister’s proclivities.
He knows them still on their wedding night, when they are united as brother and sister, as husband and wife, under the eyes of the gods. And now, both naked and alone in his bedchamber, he finally understands what that truly means for them together.
“I’ve bedded maidens before. This is not how it’s supposed to be, if the maiden is willing,” her brother says, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he paws between her legs ineffectually, feeling none of the proof of arousal one should expect. Their mother would be scandalized at such a brazen admission—in his marriage bed no less!—but there’s always been little room for secrets between them.
You are not the only one here who has bedded willing maidens, brother, she wants to say, but merely meets his eyes—a much deeper purple than hers, almost indigo—and quirks her eyebrow.
His shoulders slump, and he suddenly looks not the miniature of his namesake the whole court claims he is but a small boy, stripped naked as the day he was born, and in over his head. “I had hoped it would be easier. For your sake. And for father’s. He has dreamed of our union ever so fervently.” Aegon bites his lip, face solemn with thought. “Shall we try again another night, sister?”
“They will check the bedsheets. For proof that you’ve taken my maidenhead.”
“Then let us give them proof.” He pushes up from the bed and turns to the bedside table, rooting around inside until he finds what he’s looking for: a small Valyrian steel dagger, lethally sharp. A gift from their grandfather, it had been, on the occasion of his tenth birthday. Aegon settles once again between her legs, dagger poised delicately in the air above her. He holds his free hand next to the dagger and beckons to her with his fingers.
“Come, sister,” and she does, clasping her hand in his and letting him draw their joined hands down the blade.
Their commingled blood spills vivid red down their wrists, down onto her naked thighs and the pristine sheets below, undeniable proof that they have been made one.
If their father notices the twin wounds on his children’s palms in the coming days, he does not say a word, too committed to this perilous union to turn back now.
They have not attempted to consummate their relationship since that failed attempt the night of their wedding. Oh, they have shared a bed each night since their union, as husband and wife must, but never have Aegon’s hands wandered. Perhaps she should be grateful. Most men would not even think to ask if their wife was wanting. But Aegon is not most men. He is the blood of the dragon. He has read the ancient, crumbling, Valyrian scrolls on Dragonstone. He knows well the near-forgotten tales of men lying with men and women with women as easily as they lie with their kinsfolk. The truth is, her brother tells her, with a confidence to his tone so unlike their father, what she desires is no different from their own union: a sin to these Andals’ seven-faced god but part of the natural way of things for their people. Did she know, her brother asks, that their grandmother Rhaenys and great-aunt Visenya lay not just with their husband the Conqueror, but with each other? It’s true, he insists, he’s seen the old, crumbling letters that prove it, from deep in the bowels of Dragonstone.
It is with this declaration on his lips that Aegon makes the suggestion, tone abruptly shifting from confident to cautious. If it cannot be good for her with him alone, mayhaps her Alayne could join them to help her along. The words hang in the air between them for several long moments. They’d not spoken openly of this topic in the weeks since their wedding night, yet it could not be avoided forever. If he is to be king and she queen, then they will need an heir. Heirs, even, for life is ever so fragile. They both know this truth well.
It’s an idea. A very good one, at that. She must ask Alayne.
Sweet Alayne, gentle Alayne. Homely Alayne, plump Alayne, the young men would say, their eyes always slipping past her as if she were not even there. Yet it is Alayne whom the princess favors and never those men. It is Alayne who knows her hopes and dreams and fears. It is Alayne who has seen King’s Landing the way the birds see it, high in the sky atop her Dreamfyre. It is Alayne who warms her bed, who slips her hand under her skirts and makes her gasp as deftly as playing the harp.
Alayne is willing, she soon learns. Eager, even, for though she desires the touch of a man no more than her princess, she understands what is expected of them as women. Any way she can make that less painful for her beloved is well worth it. And it is not she who will have to touch Aegon. That honor goes to his wife alone.
Alayne’s body is soft and warm behind her, and she relaxes against the pillow of her warm breasts. Alayne’s hands skate effortlessly over her body, cupping her breasts and slipping between her legs where she is already far more wet than she’d been with just Aegon alone. She presses kisses against her shoulder, along her jaw, tongue hot against her pale skin.
If she closes her eyes, she can so easily imagine it’s just herself and Alayne here. But it’s not just her and Alayne, and she wants to see Aegon when he enters her for the first time. She doesn’t know why, but she knows it feels right.
She looks up into Aegon’s face, but his deep purple eyes do not meet her own. Instead, he looks just over her shoulder, where Alayne is surely meeting his gaze with those dark brown eyes of hers. She feels Alayne’s head shift, cheek rubbing against her own—a wordless nod, granting permission to her brother, assuring him that they are ready. Aegon takes her hand in his and links their fingers together, twin scars touching like a kiss as he presses his hips into hers.
