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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Fifteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Author's Notes: We are back from hiatus on APRIL 26, 2024 with Chapter 16! Hope you join us! These will continue to be crossposted so instead of seeing my usual AO3 link with snippet, you will see posts like these so you can continue to read on AO3 should you wish, or on tumblr!

we are now in the 'oh my god these two are so fucking feral for each other it makes them look dumb' era and SPICY SPICY! plus djkfhsdf some cute things I'm sure you've been waiting for.

Translations: Dhá chroí mar aon ní amháin - two hearts as one Prūmio ezīmus ñuhus - half of my heart

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Your Love Is Like Sunlight

Pride is taken and love is given.

Aegon had wandered through the mass of small folk without a care, a grin across his face as vendors hawked and goods were sold, as people came out to rejoice for his day. Alyn had fallen in step beside him, following him and Aemond into the tent where Daeron was waiting. His little brother, dark blonde hair mussed from sleep, was furiously polishing Aegon’s new armor.

Not even the thick, red and black canvas of the tent could block out all the sounds of the crowds pouring into the arena that morning, but once the flaps closed, there was a kind of muffling effect to it all that made Aegon feel like he’d entered another world.

“How lucky,” he’d told his baby brother as Daeron jumped to attention and went about his duties. “That I get Ser Gwayne’s prized squire for this tournament.” The boy had preened and glowed beneath the attention in a shy, nervous way that belied his newness to the position at large. Aemond posted beside the trestle table, helping himself to watered wine and the platter of cold meat and cheese while Alyn lingered near the rack holding Aegon’s sword.

“Two swords, hm?” he’d inquired, admiring the balance on the blades with a critical eye. Which was really only Alyn trying to pretend he knew exactly what he was talking about when it came to the elegance of worked steel. It wasn’t even Valyrian steel.

“Aegon’s rare moments of overachieving,” Aemond drolled. Aegon rolled his eyes, ignoring Alyn’s soft snickering, while Daeron went to work, his gaze drifting to the second rack where his suit of armor rested, the breastplate his brother had been working on reverently placed back where it belonged.

“You are the king’s eldest son. You think the men you’ll liege over would respect a lord who’d never donned a suit of armor?” The Tower had snapped at what Aegon thought was a simple question as to why. It was a strange feeling when he was a dragonrider of all things, bonded with the greatest creature to exist. He was a god amongst men.

Once, custom dictated that a dragonrider must always be in the Dragonpit should the call to arms sound, but his mother had put her foot down when Aegon had asked. Which hadn’t really mattered, since on days where his melancholy threatened to smother him, he’d sneak out to sleep with Sunfyre anyway. Days where he felt like he would burst from his own skin, rend his flesh with claws of his own, where he swore in his dreams he was Sunfyre himself.

This day, Aegon did not have claws and fangs, nor could he breathe fire. With both feet firmly planted on the ground, he would don the armor of his mother’s people, of mere mortals. He shifted as Daeron tugged on the red padded arming doublet he was wrestling him into with a kind of single minded efficiency that strongly reminded him of Aemond. They both poked their tongues between their lips, eyes squinted in focus. It took everything in Aegon not to reach up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair and instead kept uncharacteristically cooperative at the boy’s assistance.

Warmth spread through his chest while Daeron straightened the padding and examined the red fabric for wear and tear now that it was on him.

“Can you move, Aeg?”

He twisted at the waist and raised his arms up and down to show that he could and Daeron went to the pieces of polished black armor. The finely crafted plates layered together like dragonscales of his very own, edged in beaten gold, and over his chest, a dragon was etched into the metal. Aegon was still surprised how perfectly the armor fit. He flexed constantly under Daeron’s questions and it was so different from the training breastplate he wore that would have to last through the growth spurts of his youth. This suit of armor felt like a second skin, as if he was covered with his very bones. He flexed once Daeron had finished, lifting his legs and bending around to ensure that all was where it was meant to be and he grinned at Daeron.

“Well done, squire,” he complimented. Daeron’s beam made him look younger than his two and ten years, and as brilliant as the sun. “I think you’ve earned a place with us to go mucking around Flea Bottom, hm?”

“Thank you,” he said shyly, blushing at the praise, and preening a little even though the only audience was Aemond and Alyn. “I’d hate for you to make a fool of yourself on your nameday in front of everyone.” The cheeky look in his cornflower blue eyes had Aegon lightly swiping at him, the boy dancing away while Aemond made an annoyed sound.

Aegon snatched a piece of meat off of his brother’s plate. “You know, Aemond, if you’re going to be a miserable arse, you don’t have to be here. Go sit in the box with our mother, let all the pretty girls stare at you. I’m sure it would be more fun. I was certain that Maega Stokeworth was trying to figure out how to swoon in your arms.” Aemond had found himself beneath the center of attention in a way he’d never encountered since the court had begun to fill in the past few weeks. “Or better yet, let Karstark be your shield once more and you can swoon into her arms.” It hadn’t been missed that his brother had gone straight for Abby’s lady as soon as the proverbial sharks had begun to circle. Aegon would not deny his surprise, but he kept it to himself. It wasn’t everyday his brother and his violet gaze targeted someone he wasn’t intendending to declare an enemy.

Unless declaring Wylla Karstark his enemy was a form of foreplay. Perhaps a northern custom he wasn’t aware of but surely Aemond knew everything about. Mating habits and rituals and all that.

His brother rolled his eye but the pink that tinged his cheeks had Aegon smirking in satisfaction as he looked over the drink available. Cider had been his choice since Mother had forbidden wine. A carafe of it had made it into the tent, the Arbor red he preferred calling to him. His fingers clenched and he went for the water instead. He needed his wits about him.

“And miss your great debut? I hear Vance has been known to fight with a pollaxe and you’ve only matched against blade and the morningstar.” Aemond’s unimpressed commentary on Aegon’s resurgence in training for this event dripped through every word and he scoffed.

“Are you truly belittling me for participating in my nameday tournament while you peacock around going,” Aegon lilted his voice to match Aemond’s slightly higher tone. “Fuck tourneys, I want a war and a real fight, watch me jump around the training circle with Criston Cole.”

Daeron giggled, sweet boy that he was, and even Aemond’s glower was softened at the long missed sound.

“I’ll fight in the joust at Harrenhal,” Aemond declared, his mouth curling in satisfaction at the sound of surprise Aegon made.

“You? Joust? But you hate jousting.”

“I wouldn’t want to face him in a joust,” Alyn offered with a serious look. “You’ve met your brother, right?”

Aemond shifted in his chair, chin tilting slightly with his own hint of preening. The curl of his mouth turned deadly sharp with satisfaction. “Well, well, looks like you should be trusting Hull’s judgment more than I gave him credit for. It seems he’s not the fool I thought.”

“To finally be recognized by the One-Eyed Prince!” Alyn said, clasping his hands together in prayer. “Warrior, you have heard my prayers to have my statement of the obvious that I have eyes and know when to not engage with the scariest cunt in the room is taken seriously.”

Aegon veered to the left as Aemond chucked a piece of meat at his friend, Alyn’s locs swinging with the motion, and with an open mouth, he caught the piece in his mouth, but gasped and choked briefly from the speed at which Aemond threw it. His brother looked stunned, getting up to thump Alyn on the back. Aegon glanced down at Daeron, his brother only a scant few inches shorter and promising another growth spurt.

“So proud of the progress they’ve been making.”

“Aye,” Daeron said seriously. “But I’m still your favorite.”

Aegon tapped the side of his nose and poured Daeron a cup of wine and another for Alyn, who’d coughed up the projectile. Aemond was now examining the blades for himself now that Hull wasn’t in danger of expiring.

“I still think you should go with the single blade and shield.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“It’s flashy.”

Aegon’s face contorted into confusion. “Of course it’s flashy. What? I don’t get to be flashy, you twat? Is this because you’re jealous my dragon is lovelier than yours?”

“Don’t you compare anything to Vhagar, you golden peacock.”

“Oh please, Vhagar’s more wrinkled than Beesbury’s ballsack.”

Aegon saw a flash of light as the tent flap opened, but it was Alyn who startled to attention, cutting through the bickering loudly. “Lady Abrogail!” Aegon jerked his head around, watching as Alyn hurried up to the slight figure who just entered the tent. He sketched a bow before her, Abby’s eyebrows raised in amusement as he took her hand to press a kiss to it. “It is a pleasure to finally put a name to the face, my lady. The prince’s songs of your beauty do little to match the vision you present.”

Whatever demands Aegon was about to make for Alyn to stop with his charms died on his tongue when he took Abby in, lined by the sunlight coming through the part of the tent flaps. Her wrap gown was nothing she’d worn before and it took Aegon a moment to realize it was similar to Rhaenyra’s gowns. There was nothing of his mother’s influence or of the Riverlands about it. The silk blue as a robin’s egg, the lining of her belled sleeves a warm sunset orange-gold, and the belt cinched around her waist was a wrap of golden metal etched with decorative roses and weirwood leaves. A heated sensation curled through Aegon’s chest when he caught sight of the numerous golden dragons embroidered along her body: over one shoulder where the dragon’s head rested over her heart, wrapped around one arm, down along the drape of fabric and across her skirts.

Not just a dragon. It was his dragon. Sunfyre decorating his bride’s gown, so everyone knew she was his, his to protect, his to care for, his to hoard. The place inside his bones where Sunfyre fused into him purred.

Her hair was a cascade of copper curls, a loose knotwork of braids twisted along the crown of her head, the cinnamon sugar of her freckles were dark against her softly flushed cheeks. Woven into her braids was a strand of sea pearls interspersed with topaz gems that brought out the river blue of her eyes. His eyes darted to the necklace she wore, the warmth of it a contrast against her lightly flushed skin.

He still needed to get a necklace for her. One that was wholly from him.

“Off,” Aegon barked at Alyn as if he were a pup begging. “All of you out.”

“Mother said you’re not to be left alone with Abby,” Daeron chimed from where he was putting away his armor polish. “She was very insistent, but said I’m allowed to leave you two alone after you're married.”

Aegon stared at Daeron, blinking in confusion until he caught the scent of Abby’s rose and red currant perfume.

“It’s alright,” she reassured. Aegon felt his cheeks flush while Abby stroked her hands admiringly over his armor plated bicep. “I’m nothing if not a proper lady. Besides, I brought Aegon a present.”

“Would that be proper?” Alyn asked innocently, his meaning clear. Aegon growled, feeling Sunfyre huff in his throat, a heated thing in his chest. Abby’s cheeks flushed but she paid Alyn no mind, reaching beneath the fold of her gown. For a moment, Aegon thought he might catch a glimpse of creamy skin and the little freckle along the edge of right breast, but she pulled a folded scrap of fabric out instead.

Aegon thought of the tourneys they had watched when they were little, of knights coming to the stands and the royal box to curry a favor from one of the ladies. Ser Criston would wear his mother’s favor, Ser Harwin a boon from his elder sister. How daring they all looked, wearing those favors meant to keep them safe and bring them victory.

He didn’t see so much as heard Aemond’s low voice and the rustle of the tent fabric as he pushed Alyn and Daeron out of the tent, leaving him alone with Abby.

“You made me a favor?” he asked, so soft that he could barely hear his own voice. Abby’s teeth caught at the plump red of her lower lip and with careful fingers, unwrapped the gift.

The leather braid was multicolored, the red, blue and green of House Strong snaked with the black of House Targaryen, silver charms woven into it etched with tiny runes. On closer inspection, he realized they were like the runes on the gold chain that Lyonel Strong had worn. Aegon recalled how they danced in the candlelight as the two of them sat at the table on his nameday not long before he died, and Aegon had promised not to tell that Lord Lyonel was helping himself to the strawberry cream cakes that the Maester said he wasn’t meant to have. The favor was woven and twisted into a complicated knot, foreign in its design. It was familiar, tickling at some distant memory he couldn’t quite place, but knew he had seen it somewhere before. Abby held it in her hands and he touched it, taking it in hand and he could see that it hung on a leather cord to hang around his neck.

Emotions seized at Aegon’s throat. A sense of longing that he couldn’t quite place, grief at the loss of the man he had once known, and a strange sort of trepidation that curled through it. ‘I’ll protect her, I swear it’.

“It’s…” Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips and Aegon’s mouth watered at the sight of it. She looked up at him beneath her lashes, her eyes so blue they looked like sapphires. “Dhá chroí mar aon ní amháin.” She paused, and then said it once more with a scrunch of her nose as she pronounced it slightly differently. “Two hearts as one, interlocked with no beginning and no end… I worked on it all night!” she added in a rush. Aegon could see her hand shaking and the twitch of her fingers from nerves. “What hurts you hurts me and the charms are protection to ensure that you’re safe and-”

Aegon closed the distance between them, his hand cradled her cheek while the other held the knot between them. He took advantage of her parted mouth to lick his way inside, and steal the taste of her mint and honey tea she drank in the mornings, of the sweet cream she slathered on her bread, of whatever taste that remained that was hers. She whimpered into his mouth and he drank it greedily, a growl low in the back of his throat. He stepped closer so there was no space between them, and Abby arched into him, uncaring of the armor that separated them.

“Prūmio ezīmus ñuhus,” Aegon breathed into her. The words unbidden, a spell, a promise, a declaration. His hand was trembling and he could feel her shaking against him. When he dared to open his eyes, her own were heavy lidded and looking back at him, the slightest pull of confusion creasing her brow. Her heart shaped mouth was red and kiss swollen, trembling as he was. “Half of my heart,” he whispered, the very thing pounding in his chest, his throat, the blood rushing through his ears that he felt dizzy with it.

He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

Three times to matter. Three times to make it true.

“Aegon.” Abby’s voice cracked on the end of his name and she reached up her free hand to curl against his cheek and pull him closer again. She nuzzled her nose against his and tried to speak, but her voice cracked again, wordless.

His words, however, did not fail him. Aegon’s fingers stroked against the soft curve of her cheek, brushing away the copper of her hair from where it had fallen into her eyes.

“I love you.”

Let him be the first to tell her, for she was always the first to say so many things to him.

Her eyes widened, the smile spreading slowly across her face, and Aegon felt as if the sun broke through the storm clouds, the warmth of her as reassuring as Sunfyre. Her eyes crinkled and Aegon could feel his own crinkle in return as he smiled back at her, basking in the warmth between them.

“I love you.” Soft voiced but there was no lack of confidence, no indecision in the return of the declaration. Favor still clutched in her hand, Abby’s fingers dove into his hair, pulling him closer.

Aegon tilted her head back, touch reverent and mouth hungry, to taste the words for himself.

The silver necklace Abby wore was one meant for the Lady of Castamere. It belonged, by rights, to her grandmother, Dalla Swift, and was meant to pass onto her uncle’s wife when he took the seat. It was, however, the necklace her mother had worn on her wedding day and Abby’s fingers toyed with flame hued carnelian. It hung, smooth and flat backed in a lay of silver along her neck. The delicate silver chain was deceptively strong, strung with smaller carnelians.

‘Strength and bravery,’ her mother had told her of the precious stones she would wear. ‘Courage and joy.’ Abby ran her thumb along the smooth surface. ‘Brave, my little river lion. The fire of my heart.’

Helaena tugged at the ends of the braid slung over her shoulder, clad in a pleated gown of midnight blue with dragon pins at each shoulder, the fall of blue silk brushing against her shoulders. Rubies on a twisted band of woven gold were braided around the crown of her head, a veil of sheer red falling around her like a shield. Her mouth was pinched, brow furrowed, and it was clear the princess was at the end of her patience with the crowds.

“I will leave after Aegon’s gone,” Helaena murmured when she saw the concern on Abby’s face. She sunk further back into the low chair she sat in, her left leg bouncing. Abby reached into the basket at their feet and pulled out the half done embroidery that she’d been working on. Butterflies and beetles glimmering in jewel tones. She pressed it into the princess’ grasp, stroking her fingers along the back of her hands with a tapping motion.

“I’ll let you know when it’s his turn. Just focus on this.” Helaena’s mouth twitched as she clutched at her embroidery hoop, and Abby chanced a glance in the row behind them.

The royal box was an elegant thing. Rectangular with four massive stone columns at each corner carved with snarling dragons circling around each one. The roof was made of terracotta shingles coming to three points for the two lower levels on either side of the main royal box. The Targaryen banner flew from the highest point, with three banners each on the other two: Stark, Tully, and Arryn on the left, and Lannister, Tyrell, and Baratheon on the right. The view of the pitch was unimpeded from either end, and allowed those in the stands around them to view their liege.

King Viserys sat in a padded chair like a chicken in a nest, his crown of gold heavy on his brow and a cup of wine in hand as he inclined his head towards Lord Otto and her grandfather. The Queen was resplendent in a gown of verdant green, braided cord across the shoulders of the gown and snaking down her bodice in a mimicry of flames. Her auburn curls were free down her back save for the delicate twists that held it from her face and held her crown of state in place. She was smiling at Lady Lysa beside her and Abby was startled with how young the queen looked. So used to the cold remoteness of her cousin, the laughter spilling from her mouth was a rare sound.

She swallowed and turned away, uncertain how she felt about the sight.

“Have you had a chance to talk with Lady Alys yet?” she asked Wylla to her left. She looked beautiful in her bronze brocade surcoat, striking against the black kirtle beneath with bronze embroidery along the arms. Her thick hair was braided into cauls on either side of her head, much how she’d seen Lady Lysa wear her hair. Abby wound one of her own red curls around her finger and wondered if she too could pull off such an elegant style. Pearls draped around the crown of her friend’s head, little treasures nestled in the expanse of raven wing hair.

“Briefly, during the feast,” Wylla said and the pair glanced down towards the seats to their left. Harrion was easy to spot with his height in the crowd, his head inclined to the smaller figure beside him. Alys Bracken, his bride to be, her dark red hair caught in a snood - less delicate than the nets favored in the crownlands and the Queen’s court. She was a tiny thing compared to her betrothed, and Abby smiled as she saw the woman reach to touch Harrion’s arm. “She’s nice. Quiet.” Wylla pursed her mouth a bit in the expression she wore when she was trying to find something tactful to say. “Are all girls from the Riverlands like that?”

“Mmm, not if you were speaking with Melony Piper last night,” Abby grinned. Wylla was brash, and Abby wondered if her mother was such a way as well. “It is difficult sometimes to find one’s voice when everyone is so loud.” She clucked her tongue and took a sip of the strawberry wine that had come in for Aegon’s nameday, feeling rather smug about engaging with House Buckler on trade agreements. It was good wine, less heavy than the Arbor Red that Aegon tended to enjoy that was too dry for her tastes. “Why, I do think you fell rather quiet when Aemond pulled you onto the floor.”

“Och! Are you going to start with me?” Wylla’s attention pulled from her brother to smooth her hands over her black skirt and her pale cheeks flushed a touch. “It was very nice of him to ask me to dance-”

“Nice, was it?” Abby would not forget how Wylla had teased her so, pulling the details of the clandestine affair that had gone on in Abby’s bedroom by the firelight. “Did his hand stay in its proper place, or did you encourage him.” She put on a low mimic of Wylla’s brogue, sounding more Riverlander than Northerner as her lilt came on stronger. “Oh, Prince Aemond, your hand is so warm-”

“Prince Jacaerys!” Wylla’s voice came out high pitched and a little strangled, loud enough to carry over the din. There was a chair that separated him and Helaena before the King, for when Aegon and Aemond came up after the melee, he would take it as his place of honor. In the meantime, Helaena was, as she put it ‘staking her claim until her brother proved himself worthy of it’.

Jace was reclined in his chair, his head bent towards Baela’s. His jerkin was dark red leather edged in black, the buckles were shining silver seahorses. “Lady Wylla,” he smiled, a look so familiar it made Abby’s chest ache.

“Are you not competing today?”

Baela laughed and Jace rolled his eyes at her before returning to Wylla’s question with a sly grin that she recalled from their youth. It generally predated some sort of mischief, Aemond often its target. “I would, but since it is my Uncle’s nameday, I thought it would be in poor taste to upstage him.”

“Upstage him?” Baela snorted, reaching down beside her to lift one of the little vases that the vendors were selling among other things. A crude painting of a yellow dragon was splashed across the red clay and a black figure holding a sword was positioned for battle. “How could you upstage the man whose liking is splashed across a dozen pisspots?”

“They’re too narrow to be pisspots,” Helaena said mildly. “But they’d be perfect for the foxglove and oleander growing in Visenya’s garden. I could show you, if you’d like, cousin.”

Abby gave the princesses a sidelong look, but was pleased to see Baela’s expression was one of amused appreciation and Helaena’s own smile was small. Jace looked confused and uncertain of what he was meant to do before huffing and helping himself to some more finger foods from the low table. Abby hummed, her own smile crossing her face as the trumpets sounded for the first round of contestants. Squires marched out onto the pitch carrying the banners of their knights. Warren Fossoway was no longer among their ranks - he’d been knighted only a few weeks ago and would compete in the melee. Many of the women around her cooed over the sons and brothers proud on the pitch with their standards.

“Oh!” Abby leaned forward, touching Helaena’s arm to draw her attention before pointing. “There’s Daeron!”

The youngest Targaryen’s blonde hair gleamed golden in the morning light, proudly bearing the blood red, three headed dragon upon the field of black for his eldest brother. Ser Gwayne had let the boy squire for Aegon this day, and Daeron looked so proud and so serious all at once.

“He looks like Aemond,” Wylla said with a soft laugh. “They both have that same serious look.” Abby giggled at the comparison. Even this far away, it was undeniable.

“He has my hair though,” Helaena chimed in, waving out to Daeron with a beaming smile amidst her discomfort of being in the crowd. Her hands clutched back at her embroidery hoop as a wave of cheers rippled through the crowd again as the standards were placed in pairs of who would face off against whom.

“What is it that you’re making?” Abby looked over to see Jace leaning over to admire her embroidery. He’d slid over to Aegon’s empty chair, while Baela remained in her own chair, speaking with one of the ladies that had accompanied her, Zara Celtigar. “Would you show me?” Helaena nodded and Abby was relieved to see her focus on Jace’s question and interest. She recalled when they were young, that Jace had joined them on their explorations into the mud and underbrush for Helaena’s interest, always asking her questions about what she’d found and what she was looking for. Tension riddled through her own bones at what Jacaerys and Baela’s arrival would mean, but the fear that Jace would have turned cruel over the years felt silly now. Hopefully it would remain as such.

First on the pitch was Ser Warren Fossoway, the gleaming gold and red of Cider Hall embolized on his shield. His squire, a sandy haired boy who had served as page for Lord Otto, bounded in front of him proudly as the heralds announced him with trumpet and drummed fanfare. She did not know the boy’s name, but his preening and excitement was adorable. Warren’s light brown hair curled along the back of his neck, his armor heavy plate that suited his broad frame well. As his opponent, Lord Ryam Merryweather, called for a favor from his lady wife, Warren approached the royal box, his helmet beneath his arm. The squires got out of the way, perching with the heralds

“Princess Helaena!” he called, cheeks flushed from the excitement and a boldness that Abby wasn’t entirely surprised by. Helaena’s head jerked up from where it was bent next to Jace’s, startled at the public address. “It would be a great boon to my spirits if you would grant me your favor on this day!”

Her round cheeks went flush pink, and Abby wondered when the last time Helaena had snuck off to trade favors with the knight before them. The princess handed off her embroidery hoop to Jace and reached into the basket for her favor. She pulled out one of the twisted bands of flowers and ivy wrapped with ribbon, normally used to crown the lances of the jousters than for a melee fighter but it worked all the same. Ser Warren would be able to hook it on his belt without issue. Helaena rose smoothly, approaching the railing and tossing the favor down to him.

“I hope this protects that pretty face of yours, Ser Warren!” she called down to him, anxiety pushed away and teasing in her tone. “It would be a pity to lose such handsome countenance to some knightly foolishness.”

Warren caught the woven circlet and sketched a bow, sending a wink up at the princess before going to meet Lord Ryam out on the pitch.

“I’m sure Warren appreciates your blessing,” Abby teased her sister. Helaena rolled her eyes and took her seat once more. Jace’s lavender eyes were narrowed, brow furrowed as he looked from Helaena to Warren as the knight swung his sword with a great yell and the bout started.

Abby winced at the first screech of Lord Ryam’s blade across Warren’s shield and the wave of excited hollering that washed across the arena. She was giddy with the excitement that it spurred on. Gone were the tangled snake nest of nerves that fostered in her belly from the feast. Here, there was comfort being in the relative privacy of the box. Yes, the eyes of the realm kept gazing up, pointing and whispering, but there were men drawing blood in the arena below, and Abby could pretend they were pointing at anyone else but her.

For his first tourney, Warren stood his ground. It took everything Lord Ryam, an experienced tourney knight with a decade and a half on the younger man to land each blow. Each white flag for the knights were slow to come. Twisting and turning, it was an exciting start to the melee events and finally, Warren struck the last blow: a clang of castleforged steel along the back of Lord Ryam’s shoulders. Lady Lysa, from her seat behind the queen, stood and cheered along with the applause of the rest of the court. Even Ser Westerling, stoic as he oft was, shouted, “Well done!” that carried over the crowd.

Helaena shifted in her chair and Abby glanced over at her. Teeth caught on her lower lip as her occasional paramour bowed to the royal box and Abby noted the flush on her cheeks.

“I didn’t know Warren Fossoway became a knight,” Jace said casually. Heleana did not clap, but held her hands before her, a broad and encouraging smile on her face, eyes dancing with curiosity.

Helaena shrugged. “It’s well earned, mind you. Ser Warren is the attentive sort. Not even Aemond could cow him.” She settled back in her chair to focus on the embroidery in her lap. “He’s worked hard for it and he makes quite a handsome figure in his armor.”

On her other side, Wylla muffled her snort into a cough and Abby silently handed her a goblet of wine with an amused shake of her head.

“What was it like twirling about the feast in Aemond’s arms?” Abby asked as the next competitors took the pitch. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her cheeks heated when her thoughts strayed to the feel of Aegon’s mouth on hers, the taste of him, the feel of his armored arms wrapped around her. She sighed, soft and distracted before her bright blue eyes landed on Wylla, who was giving her a knowing look.

“I will throw you from this box, lady. I’m not drunk yet.” She took a swallow of the strawberry wine, making an intrigued face at the taste and then another sip. “Did he get under your skirts again?” Wylla asked quietly, leaning her head closer so as not to be so easily overheard.

Abby’s cheeks flushed. “So did Aemond pull you on the dance floor to argue with you, or to be his human shield?” Their eyes met, both challenging, but there was no bite beneath their words. She would not be dissuaded from her line of questioning.

The crowd cheered as Ser Corbin Manderly knocked Ser Janos Farley’s helmet from his head.

Wylla’s cheeks, fair as the winter snow, flushed pink. “He said, rather dashingly, that he knew I’d be a good dance partner because I would not bore him with inane conversation. I then proceeded to tell him how I never, ever wanted to sew the beads upon your wedding slippers ever again. I did it for the love of you, but you better not ask for beaded slippers for any other dress or for your children or anyone else.”

“But I didn’t ask you for beaded slippers, you offered.”

“I will throw you from this box.”

Abby giggled and took her own sip of strawberry wine. “You’ve said that already. We need to get you new threats.” She glanced down at the pitch, clapping along with the crowd. “So you explained the intricacies of beaded slippers. You danced quite a bit, so he must not have been dissuaded.” Aemond and Wylla had danced several turns before he was pulled to dance with other maidens of the court. He’d not danced with anyone else even half as frequently as he’d danced with the northerner.

“He was quite pleased to discuss the original plans of the Aegonfort,” Wylla huffed, but there was a smile dancing about her red lips. The kind of womanly secret Abby had been jealous of in Cassandra Baratheon. The kind that Abby wondered if she held now. Wylla clapped politely as the knights finished, Ser Janos the victor this time around. The expression she wore was a pensive one, uncertainty creasing at the corner of her eyes. Reaching over, Abby stroked the elder girl’s arm, comforting if not sympathetic, as she was uncertain if Wylla needed sympathy so much as reassurance.

“Aemond is mercurial and moody, and knows everything, but he is, above all else, honest.” Abby’s fingers brushed at a loose thread on the bronze silk of Wylla’s gown. She had never been to the north, but Wylla had spoken of it lovingly, with a homesickness laced with the kind of frustrations one developed with a need to see the world. “I know this place is one of duplicity and confusion, but you can believe me when I tell you that Aemond plays no games. His intentions are what they are. He finds deception in such things to be foolish.” Abby grinned then. “Why be underhanded and duplicitous when he can simply threaten or show he knows more?”

Wylla snorted. “He knows everything about the Aegonfort.”

Abby shrugged, grinning. “He plans to be an unparalleled military man, you know.”

Their conversation was cut short as the trumpets sounded, louder now than they had been for the men who had come before. It was the Targaryen herald song, the drums thrumming through the stadium as the people rose, cheering for Aegon Targaryen, son of the king. Abby’s heart pounded in time with the beat, slowly rising to her feet with a grin, cheering along with the rest of the crowd that chanted his name. ‘Aegon! Aegon!’ They shouted. ‘Prince! Prince!’ Her feet took her to the railing, if only to get as close as she could, the breeze tugging at the loose curls that hung down her back.

Daeron looked so serious leading the way, carrying Aegon’s Targaryen standard to be hung, the breeze catching at his curls. This was not his first tournament, nor, Abby surmised, was it even his tenth. He carried his duties with the experience of a squire far older than he. As he hung the standard up and stepped back, Aegon grabbed his hand to tug him close, lifting their joined fists in the air together. Even with all his experience, the boy was not immune to the cheering and shouting chants of his own name as the brothers stood beneath the crowd, Aegon sharing this moment with his littlest brother. Daeron broke out into a grin, his own cheering as the people of King’s Landing, the lords and ladies of the realm who had come down, shouted out their wishes.

Aegon was so handsome. Everything narrowed down to seeing him standing there. His armor was a burnished black, the plates of it layered like Sunfyre’s dragon scales. The pauldrons were layered similarly, broadening his already broad shoulders. The gold chasing glimmered in the sunlight, his helmet beneath his arm. His silver hair shone golden beneath the light, pulled back from his face in a few small braids that Aemond must have done for him so his hair would not fall into his eyes beneath the helmet.

He turned from the crowd to approach the box as all the contestants did, his lilac eyes meeting hers. A flush unfurled beneath her cheeks even if all he did was smile so wide that his eyes squinted with it.

“My lady!” he called, his voice nearly lost to the noise of the arena. “The joy on your face could outshine the sun itself!” Abby heard Wylla scoff behind her, but paid her little mind, teeth nibbling along her lower lip. “Are you truly so happy this day?”

“I am, my prince,” she called down to him, feeling Wylla slide the braided ring of flowers into her hand. Abby toyed with the favor. She wanted to call down to him that she was so happy because he told her he’d loved her. He had said those words to her, confessed them to her first and she was drunk with it, giddy and incandescent. She wanted to kiss him again, to taste the promises on his pouty mouth, but all she could do now was toss the favor down to him. “And if you wish to keep me so happy, you will come back to me safe and victorious!”

Aegon’s smile took a mischievous edge, a rakish glint in his eye. “I do wish it, my lady. All you must do is command me.” He tucked the favor onto his armor, turning his gaze to meet his father’s. He crossed his arm across his chest in a sign of fealty and bowed before giving her a wink and going to stand by Daeron who held his swords in hand. Further down the pitch, Abby could see Aemond and Alyn Hull standing safely out of the way. Aemond looked serious, face pinched in concern as Alyn hollered his cheers of encouragement.

Abby watched as Ser Edmund entered, the cheers for him quieter than the people who cheered for their prince, but the sound of it joined the excitement of the match to come. His squire was one of the Piper boys, only a little older than Daeron and no less experienced. Edmund looked like a knight from a song, his light brown hair golden in the sun, the placid smile on his face making it seem as if the accolades of the crowd bored him. His armor was bright plated steel, elegant in its simplicity, but the strange eyes that made up the Vance coat of arms unnerved her. They reminded her of the unblinking eyes on the older carvings within the Red Keep: sightless, with their wide, frozen gazes.

His page carried his arms for him, the two handed greatsword nearly overwhelming the boy. Aegon stood with Daeron on the other side of the platform where the standards were set beside the officials for the match. He barely spared the elder man a glance, busy flexing his hands and adjusting his gauntlets. Daeron had his brother’s swords sheathed and ready.

Anxiety curled in Abby’s gut. Aegon had a natural talent with the blade, had found great joy in it when he was younger, like any boy would when they found themselves handed something sharp and deadly and taught to wield it from some of the best swordsmen in the realm. Regardless of natural talent, Aegon had not spent the past three years throwing himself into blade mastery. Not the way Aemond had.

A hot hand found her own and Abby blinked when Helaena appeared at her side and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“You’re giving Mother lemons,” she whispered. Abby felt her cheeks flame deeper but she did not spare a glance over her shoulder.

“Let her. The realm enjoys my foolish childishness,” Abby murmured. Helaena chuckled, but her form grew tense as Edmund Vance’s eyes cut in their direction. The knight approached, bowing before the king and the court.

“Congratulations on your betrothal, Lady Abrogail!” he called up, his eyes flicking towards Aegon. “I do hope to deliver His Grace back to you in one piece!”

Her fingers scraped against the stone railing she leaned against, the smile still firmly on her face. She ached to claw at him again, to peel back the layers and reveal the ugliness that lay beneath.

“That is too kind, Ser Edmund. I only hope that you are prepared to fight your first dragon.” She tilted her head. “They are fearsome opponents.”

As if on cue, Sunfyre’s call came from the dragon pit, loud even as Aegon’s mount was confined. He’d broken out that night months ago when Aegon and Aemond had fought, and was under even more guard to ensure he did not break free again.

Aegon’s grin was bright and full of what might have been boyish innocence had he been anyone else. Instead, there was something invitingly dangerous about it. It made her belly feel as if it was turning circles, the embarrassed flush morphing into something wanting and excited. His eyes met hers, his lilac gaze bright as the pink streaked across the sky at night.

The herald called the start of the match and the two men were on each other like Braavosi dervishes. Vance, with his greatsword glinting in the light, and Aegon meeting each strike with the clang of his own steel. He wielded an arming sword along with a slightly shorter sword and it was a sight to behold to see him in true combat and not just in the training yard with padded armor. Abby exhaled slowly, too breathless, too anxious to shout for him, but her eyes did not stray.

Her heart was in her throat. Ser Edmund was fierce and well practiced, a tourney knight several times over. Each powerful swing had her gasping in fear. Each clang of Aegon’s swords against his had her trembling. Edmund had reach, but Aegon had a ferocity that was less polished, more wild than his brother. He dove under swings instead of jumping back out of harm’s way. Abby had watched him in the training yard sparring against Harrion Karstark, the northman a powerhouse of grace and battle readiness. Aegon had held his own, although different from how he did now.

The crowd was a wave and a roar of cheers and hollering as if this was the best fight they would ever witness. Let it not be said the people did not enjoy a drama, or the sight of the king’s son, a fierce warrior.

Abby’s teeth caught at her lower lip, worrying the pink flesh with her nerves and excitement. Vance swung and a scream caught in her throat when the sharp edge of that great blade knocked Aegon’s helmet from his head, sending it flying and skipping across the ground and too far to reach. Abby heard Alicent cry out in worry, but there was no tearing her gaze from him.

Sweat dampened his silver hair, the fine braids Aemond put in doing their work to keep his vision clear. A laugh escaped him and then Vance’s gauntlet knocked him about the face, sending him reeling back.

Aegon laughed as the knight before him advanced, spitting blood on the ground from his. He twirled his swords lazily, arms open as if he meant to embrace Vance. The man swung, and Aegon abandoned his right blade, tossing it behind him in the dirt. His left sword came up to block the swing as he stepped into Vance’s reach. This time, a wordless cry ripped from her, more inhale than exhale. Helaena gripped her hand tightly, reassuringly, but was otherwise silent in her observation.

She’d seen Aegon pull the move before. It was not something taught by Ser Criston. No, this was purely Aegon, who spent his time in taverns and brothels, coming home with split lips and bruised egos. As Aegon stepped into Vance, his left blade blocking the elder’s sword, he turned. It all happened so fast. One moment they were both upright, the next, Vance was flying over Aegon’s shoulder, his greatsword falling out of his reach and even from the dirt of the pitch, Abby swore she could hear the ring of metal armor as Ser Edmund Vance hit the ground so hard his own helmet careened off, leaving the man red-faced and gasping.

“I don’t need to take his hands.”

“And what have you decided to take instead?”

“His pride.”

Aegon still held his arm in his grasp, looking down at him. He shouted something but Abby could barely make it out over the roar of the crowd, louder than dragons. His hands jerked and twisted Edmund’s arm in a sudden motion, the knight howling in pain as his arm fell limply to his chest, broken. The herald was declaring Aegon the winner. Vance’s page was running out to the field with two other men as Daeron ran to his brother, cheering and pumping his fists in the air. Aegon embraced him, spinning him around as the pair cheered, shortly being joined by Aemond and Alyn.

Abby’s grip on Helaena’s hand eased and her whole body trembled as the tension bled out. The heat remained though. The twisted tangle low in her belly was warm and syrupy and this time she screamed out his name, like one of the small folk in the stands, her grin so bright it might have hurt if she even registered it.

“He really did it,” Baela said. “And fucked his sword arm while he was at it.” It was only then that Abby registered that they had been joined at the railing. Jace on Helaena’s other side, Baela beside him, leaning over the railing like she could get closer. Wylla was to her left, clapping and shouting along with the rest of the crowd. “Fuck. I owe Lannister ten dragons.”

“I won’t say I didn’t think he had it in him…” Wylla began, a teasing note in her voice. “But your betrothed was in fine form today. Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” Abby repeated with a faint voice, her eyes affixed on the man below basking beneath the accolades and triumph. It was the second time in as many days that the realm cheered for him in a way he was so deeply unaccustomed to. Aegon reveled in it, blowing kisses to the crowd and waving both hands.

The favor she had publicly given him was still affixed to his belt and he unhooked it, twirling it thoughtfully around a finger before flinging it into a section of the crowd. Abby watched the scramble it caused but the crowd was too thick for her to see who had come out with the prize.

“The Golden Sunfyre indeed,” Helaena grinned. “Although more like a Golden Peacock. Abby, you don’t seem to mind, do you?”

She glanced at her. “Did you enjoy dancing with Jace at the feast?” She was no longer the only one who could be teased, and she’d make sure the rest of them knew that. It was nice, getting to have something to poke at the others about.

Jace’s face flushed. Helaena raised her eyebrows, a smirk playing across her soft features.

As the boys below disappeared back to the tents, Abby turned to take her seat. Her eyes caught the Queen’s from where she sat on the right side of her husband. There was a vague air of annoyance on her face and Abby was immediately concerned it was due to her.

‘Why should I be concerned about cheering Aegon on?’ Abby thought. It would have been a poor showing indeed if she had not. She squared her shoulders, inclining her head. Aegon had shown up sober and ready to make a good impression, both things she thought would soften the queen’s edges.

“Quite the show,” her grandfather said from where he sat on Lord Otto’s other side, an indulgent smile on his face. “Prince Aegon is quite the creative warrior, and practiced with the crowd.” He raised his goblet to the king and queen and Lord Otto. “Congratulations on raising a fine young man. To Prince Aegon on his nameday indeed.”

“Ah, that he is. We’ve minded him well, and he’ll make a fine lord, having minded the example I’ve set.” Lord Otto choked momentarily on his goblet of wine. The queen flushed, plucking at her skirts while she hesitantly returned the smile, as if expecting a jest, but found none.

“Thank you, Uncle. He is… still a rambunctious boy in many ways. But it seems my hunch was right that a gentle hand was what he needed.”

Abby sucked in her lips to hide the smile that threatened at the uncomfortable looks that her grandfather was pretending not to notice while he commented on the taste of the wine. Her heart ached with it. The presence of Rodrick Reyne had been a balm to her soul. To have someone in power care about her wellbeing in such a genuine way as he had shown her in the days that he’d been there felt as if it had started to heal something she did not even realize was broken. He did not care about her becoming Aegon’s queen, or the games that were being played. He just wanted her to be happy.

She reached back, squeezing Wylla’s arm before looking over at Helaena. “I’ll accompany you to Aegon’s tent before you go back to the castle, now that the important show is done with.”

Helaena’s relief at escape was palpable, naked on her face and she shoved her embroidery back into the basket, smoothing her hands over her skirt. The queen’s brow furrowed.

“Helaena, darling, are you well?”

The princess plucked at her skirt as she bobbed a curtsy. “A headache from all the sound,” she said. It was a familiar statement and while it did little to ease the concern on Alicent’s face, understanding shone and she nodded. Lord Otto’s concern was also there as he noticed them moving towards the back of the box. He waved to one of the servants lingering along the side of the box.

“Have the cook prepare Helaena some sherbert and send it up to her rooms,” he ordered. Helaena’s gaze brightened at the prospect of the spiced compote and she shuffled over to press a kiss to her grandfather’s cheek.

Arm in arm, Abby and Helaena exited the royal box. Her heart thudded like the drums between her ribs and she felt Helaena tug her back when she walked faster.

“Give him time to get out of his armor first,” Helaena said softly.

Abby gave her a look, prim and proper. “And what if I want to help him out of his armor?” The princess scrunched her face up to hold back her laughter. The guards outside Aegon’s tent bowed and opened the flap to let them inside the dim interior.

Aegon was indeed in the process of getting out of his armor, Daeron tugging at the shoulder strap of the cuirass with a concentrated look so far removed from his boyish glee that he’d shown just moments before.

“I can’t believe you used the same move on him that Gabor put you through that table with!” Alyn crowed as if Aegon’s victory was his own. “I wish I could’ve seen the look on his face when you started laughing-” His words were cut off as Aemond punched his shoulder, drawing his attention to the tent opening. Alyn sputtered, jumping to attention and bowing like the most experienced of courtiers, rather than the smooth talker he’d been before. “Your Grace, Lady Abrogail.”

Abby tilted her head. “So I only get such gallantry from you if I’m in the company of the princess?” she asked, a soft, imperious tone to her voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon smirk. “Such a shame.”

Alyn blanched, mouth gaping like a fish. “N-no, my lady! I never mean any disrespect. I…” The poor man was at a loss for words. Aemond was also looking amused at Alyn Hull caught on the edge of the unexpected teasing. Abby moved further into the cool confines of the tent, folding her hands beneath the long bell sleeves of her lapis gown. It was her first foray into the Targaryen styles that had been popular when Princess Rhaenyra was at court and a gown that she found quite comfortable in.

“Leave us,” she commanded, a smile playing on her face. “I would like some time alone with my gallant knight, and the princess needs her escort towards the carriage to go back to the castle.”

Aemond’s gaze shot over to Helaena, concerned before understanding. He grabbed Alyn by the shoulder and hauled him up. “We’ll escort her, since Prince Jacaerys lacks such manners.”

“Wylla is still in the royal box. I’m sure she’ll be lonely since we’ve left her to fend for herself,” Abby piped up. Aemond’s cheeks turned so red she thought he’d burst into flames, and he growled low before following Helaena from the tent. Abby looked at Daeron expectantly as he undid the second strap and was removing Aegon’s cuirass. “You too.” Daeron frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but Aegon rested a hand on his head, mussing his hair and pushing him away.

“You did well today, squire,” Aegon told him. “Go have some fun before you have to help Uncle Gwayne for the joust.”

Daeron squinted at the pair of them before shaking his head with the most put upon sigh Abby thought she’d ever heard before he scampered away. The flap closed behind him, cutting off the shaft of light that came in, muffling some of the revelry outside. Heat flushed through her body and Abby turned, studying Aegon half out of his armor.

He was still smirking at her, a dark look in his lilac gaze, his lower lip cut and swollen from the hit he took. Aegon turned and pulled over the chair to sit and work on his greaves, and Abby came to undo the rerebrace that protected his biceps. He smelled of sweat and the lavender mint of his soap. There was the subtle scent of something warm, something inherently Aegon that she couldn’t put her finger on, but had her belly fluttering and rolling with heat. It made her fingers tremble, the only sound the clinking of his armor as the pieces were slowly removed.

Abby moved to his other side to work on the braces, her fingers stroking over the braids in his short hair. “Aemond?” she asked softly.

“They work, even if my hair’s…” He waved a negligent hand and she stroked her hand over his head again.

“I think it looks nice. I’ll learn, if you’d like,” she offered. Aegon made a soft sound and handed her the greaves for her to put on the table so he could work on his other leg. Once both his arms were free of the armor, Abby leaned against the side of his chair to stroke her fingers over his hair again. Aegon nuzzled his head back instinctively into the touch. She remembered the shadowy night on Driftmark, the trembling fear she felt as her brother was accused of fathering heirs to the throne, of Rhaenyra demanding Aemond be questioned. Of feeling so lost in the midst of dragon fire.

Flame that eventually consumed those she held dear.

She slowly worked the braids free, tenderly untangling the twists with a sigh, as if she could breathe out the bad memories that lingered and threatened. Abby inhaled, letting the scent of him fill her gaps and spaces. If only she could crack open her body and bring him into her, caging him into the space between her ribs and lacing herself closed. Perhaps then this newfound feeling of safety, of acceptance, would never leave her.

How warm he was. More than warm, Aegon, like his siblings, ran hot with the dragonfire in their blood, and she hungered for his closeness as she always had. To keep her warm and comforted. He tilted his head back to rest along the back of the high-backed chair, a lazy smile on his face, eyes still heavy with the dark look that blew his pupils so wide the lilac was just a rim.

“I should call you kēlītsos, shouldn’t I? You’ve been flexing your claws and baring your teeth.” His voice was low and rough in that way that she adored. It had her breath hitch and the ache inside her grew. Arousal was thick in her veins, pulsing through her with each pound of her heart.

“What does that mean? Kēlītsos?” She had finally asked Helaena what hunītsos meant, blushing so deeply at being told it meant little rabbit that she swore Helaena to secrecy upon her coveted orb weaver.

“Little lion,” he said with a shrug, heavy lidded with the attention she was paying him. “Technically, little cat, but the point-”

Fingers in his hair, Abby licked her way into his open mouth without hesitation. No tender, shy touch of her lips against his. No, she was parched as if she’d been lost in the deserts of Dorne and Aegon was the only spring she’d seen in days. He tasted like salt and strawberry wine, of the copper tang of blood from his split lip. He growled into her mouth and she moaned in response, fingers dropping from his damp hair to his sweat soaked linen shirt. He was eager, giving in to the way she yanked him up to feel him against her, to lean into him on her shaky legs. Aegon wasted no time, his arm hooking around her waist to hold her close to him.

Her teeth caught instinctually on his lower lip and Aegon grunted with a note of pain. “Sorry,” she mumbled into his mouth, not really sorry at all, and Aegon didn’t seem to mind, for he growled at her murmured apology. All that mattered was the slide of his tongue against hers, the way the heat of him sunk into her, nestled there, and the heat that pooled between her thighs, of the way her hips pressed into his without nary a thought for what it meant.

Abby bumped back into the edge of the trestle table, the armor on the other side clinking with the jostle and tried to hoist herself up, but her gown was in the way and she didn’t want to let go. Aegon handled it, his broad hands grasping her waist and dropping her down on the table top. He broke the kiss, flushed face and nipping at the tip of her nose, grinning as she giggled at the playfulness. His hands played along the decorative metal and chain of her belt, stroking around to her back to toy with the clasp. Her eyes darted to his, drawn to the heated darkness of his gaze and the concentrated furrow between his brows as he worked the clasp. He held her gaze and her lips parted with each unhooked chain until they were undone.

‘Eyes on me’ she recalled, uncaring as he dropped the belt to the table, the slide and thump as it slid off. Abby swallowed, a whimper escaping her, nipples peaked against the fabric of her gown with that needy sort of aching that was spiraling through her.

“Aegon,” she breathed and arched into him, his hands coming up to cradle her jaw and caress her neck, fingers diving into the curls that flowed about her. Her hands trembled as she grabbed at his hips to pull him closer with all the imperious demanding she was capable of. He laughed into her mouth, and Abby swallowed it greedily while her hands worked at his own belt, the back of her hand brushing against the hard evidence of his own arousal. She whined again and Aegon brushed her hair from her neck to nip along her jaw and down the pulsing flutter of her heartbeat beneath her flushed skin.

“Abby,” he breathed back, his prayer answering her own. Hands tugged on the gown she wore, kindly undoing the ties that kept the wrap of the dress closed. The air hit her when the fabric was pulled away, baring her body beneath the airy linen that protected her skin from the scratchy underside of the gown. Abby shivered so hard her teeth chattered.

The feeling overtook her. It was a heady thing, like she’d drunk too much wine. Her hand lifted to tangle into his hair, his mouth dragging against the crook of her shoulder. Her other hand came up, pulling aside the collar of the loose linen shirt and she sank her teeth into the crook of his shoulder, biting into the salty taste of him. She moaned and growled as if she too were a dragon and Aegon gave a shout, a growl that sounded too deep, too inhuman to come from a human body before he snarled, his teeth locking onto her shoulder to make a twin. The sharp pain of his bite spiked hot and she bit harder into his shoulder to muffle her cry, the copper taste hitting her tongue as she broke skin.

His hands were yanking into her hair and she cried out when he pulled her off him only to take her mouth with his. He was frenzied with it. There was nothing gentle in the kiss and her own hands pulled at his shoulders, tearing into the linen shirt. Her legs came up, now free from the confines of the gown to wrap around his waist and pull him closer, feel the hardness of him press into the soft heat of her. She wanted him. She craved him. ‘Fuck what the queen says’, she thought with a possessed need that had been coalescing inside of her since the first time Aegon had kissed her beside the lake. She would have her husband now, open her body to him so he could never leave, so he would never stop touching her.

The cry that escaped her was bereft when he broke the kiss, both of their mouths red from the exertion. Aegon looked wild, a man possessed, his eyes bright as he licked his lips and leaned back to take a look at her. Abby leaned back so he could see her, the way she wanted him. The fabric was only on this side of sheer, the shadow of her form visible beneath - the dusky pink of her achingly peaked nipples, the gentle round of her breasts and the way the neckline of the shift was tugged down over a shoulder.

He growled low in his throat and leaned forward, pushing her back so she had to brace herself on her hands to keep from falling back. Aegon cupped a breast in one hand, his mouth capturing the other, the wet of his touch soaking into the material as he tended to the aching peak. It was heated and she whined, helpless to his touch and unable to reach for him lest she fall. She pulled her legs up to hook her ankles to the small of his back and hold him close, digging her hips into him to feel the thick outline of his cock pressing against her. She instinctively wriggled like a caught cat, rubbing herself against him for a way to relieve the ache that was driving her mad.

There was a knot growing in the syrupy heat of her belly and she gasped out, “Aeg, please,” but Seven help her, Abby didn’t know what she was asking for. Aegon must have, for his hand came up to press against her back to hold her steady and she immediately looped an arm around his neck while the other hand clawed at the linen of his sleeve, so hard she might have torn at the seams. It brought her closer into him and he encouraged it, his thumb rubbing over her other nipple in soothing strokes that made her shake. She felt a pang of jealousy at the idea of him touching other women like this, possessive with the need to have him all to herself, to let him forget about the faceless women, to make sure Cassandra Baratheon was a flitting memory.

Let her be filled with the womanly secret. Let her be the one he was mad for. Let her always be the one that he fought stupid men for, whose favors he wore.

The woven knot had slipped from his collar, brushing against her and she smiled, mouth brushing against the crown of his head. She pressed herself further against him and Aegon’s hips snapped into her, the groan he let out filling the tent as he switched the breast he tended to.

She wanted his mouth everywhere.

Abby’s hand wormed back between them, tugging at the fastenings of his trousers, eager to feel him, to feel the warm weight of him, to imagine what it would be like once he was inside of her. “Let me,” she begged. Demanded. Whined for with all the impatience of a child waiting for a treat. Her fingers found him, the warm velvet feel of his cock and the violent shudder that went through him. She cried out louder this time, his name broken on her voice when his teeth bit down on her breast from the shock of it before he soothed it with gentle licks of his tongue.

He was as thick as she remembered, her fingers unable to properly wrap around him and the feel of it made her light headed to wonder at how he would fit, when his finger stroking in had felt like an intrusion. Yet, she was eager to find out, hungry for it. With a grunt, Abby pressed her free hand against his shoulder to push him back, her breasts cold from the absence of his mouth. She needed space between them so she could see, so she could take in the sight of him, heavy and warm and what he would look like wrapped in her cool hand. It was an image she had been robbed of before.

She had only touched him once before in the night when he had crawled into her bed like a demon from Asshai, the kind that crept into a maiden’s dreams. It had not been as easy as this and she had barely been able to touch him properly, but had thought about it often in the weeks since. Now she could look at him and so she did, Aegon still holding her up with his hand braced against her back. A kind lover.

She was not a blind nor sheltered girl. Abby had seen the tapestries that the queen had moved into the gallery. The lurid Valyrian ones of men and women copulating in all sorts of poses. Of women embraced with other women, groups of them all tangled in a mess like snakes. Books of anatomy snuck from the library had also done little to prepare her for this.

He was flushed and thick, the tip of him beading with moisture and he bobbed as if seeking her hand when she reached down to touch him. A nervous giggle escaped her.

“Are you making fun of me?” Aegon asked, curious and teasing. “It’s just saying hello.”

She gently wrapped her fingers around him, another giggle escaping her. “It’s soft.” She did not know whether to meet his gaze or to keep looking at him to hide her sudden nervousness that did little to wick away her needy giddiness, her insatiable curiosity.

Aegon grunted, his eyes fluttering as her cool fingers wrapped around him. “It’s very much the opposite, kēlītsos,” he said in a voice so gravely and raw that it seemed to come from somewhere else. It hooked down into the knot deep in her belly, tugging at it like she might peak at the mere sound of his voice. Her fingers could not properly meet, and she felt truly dizzy. Aegon’s mouth was warm on her forehead, nuzzling into her and she sighed, eyes fluttering closed as their mouths brushed, the laziness of the motion contrasting with the frantic need that pulsed between them.

Tentatively, Abby’s hand began to stroke and Aegon’s shiver was delicious to feel, the whimper that escaped him like a wounded animal, broken and gasping against her mouth. She swiped the tip of him, gathering the wet that beaded there, and licked at the cut on his lower lip. Aegon’s eyes fluttered, the growl he made before rumbling through him.

She gasped, an abbreviated kind of giggle. “You sound like Sunfyre,” she murmured and Aegon chuckled, groaning low into her hair.

“You love him more than me,” he complained as his hot hand bunched up her shift, pushing away her blue gown some more so he could stroke his fingers across her belly. The muscles clenched and it was her turn to groan, an indelicate sound that had her jumping, her hips shifting and seeking that pressure again, the delicious touch that she had missed. “There’s not enough time to taste you.” He shook his head in annoyance, a glance at the hourglass on another table.

“Take me instead,” she said, her cool hand reaching to cup his face and draw his attention back to her. She looked up at him, beseeching. “I don’t care, I want you. I love you.”

An agonized expression crossed Aegon’s beautiful face, the feral edge he had when they first begun and the softness that came after, the fondness and love.

“Not now, not like this.” He was shifting her back from him, removing her hand so he could use both hands to tug the gown away from under her, pushing her around to tug it free. “When I take you, I won’t stop. We’ll be in bed for days,” he told her, serious, his gaze heated, his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. “Just when I taste you, I need more than the little time we have. I want to feast on you, not rush.” He took her gown and carefully laid it over the back of the armor rack.

Abby swung her legs, her blue eyes large and heavy lidded, watching as his hand wrapped around himself, tugging with purpose. She committed the motion to memory, tongue darting out to lick at her lower lip in an expression reminiscent of his. Her hair was a mess around her shoulders, and she was shivering not from cold, but from the heat coursing through her, the achy want that she could taste in the back of her throat and feel roiling and twisting in her belly. She reached for him, whimpering, “Aegon, please,” on her trembling voice and hooked her fingers once more into the linen shirt and tugged him to her once he was within reach.

She wanted to die when he kissed her. She wanted to drift into the endlessness of oblivion where nothing else mattered, where it was just the taste and feel of her Aegon, the feel of his body against hers, the shape of him fit against her, the only fabric separating them the damp cloth of her smallclothes. It wasn’t enough and she canted her hips, and Aegon rutted against her, the thick of him sliding along the shape of her separated by her small clothes. Abby couldn’t breathe, all she could do was taste the copper and the strawberry wine, the imagined feeling of Aegon slipping in and filling her up, right where he belonged. She craved the touch, craved his heat in a way she never knew she was capable of. Her legs came back to press against his hips, her feet hooked at the small of his back to trap him to her where he was hers, and only hers, and she belonged to him.

The familiar feeling of something building came rising through her, the gathering of a great wave to crash upon the shore. Abby gripped him frantically, tugging at his hair, pulling at his shirt sleeves, fingers scratching against his shoulders to keep from falling, even when it was all she wanted to do. Aegon rutted against her with the abandon she wanted from him, no care at all except the chase of pleasure between them as he nudged that spot only recently discovered. Her head fell back, eyes squeezed shut as she frantically sought her end and dimly, she registered Aegon consoling her, his murmured words against her throat where he’d bitten her, the mark red and surely to bruise.

“You are so beautiful, look at me,” he commanded her in reverent tones. She forced her eyes open, heavy lidded, to focus on his own distraught and desperate look. There was a sensation of insurmountable feeling as she teetered on the cusp, the world focused onto the look in his bright eyes, their gazes locked to one another. Aegon’s hand dipped between them, his rutting ebbing to be replaced with hot, calloused fingers dipping beneath the mess soaked linen. Her cry was loud, strangled, and it took everything to keep her eyes on his while he rubbed at the aching of her, fingers dipping teasingly into the heat and then she clenched on nothing, unfairly nothing, the rushing and roaring of blood in her ears and the gasping of air as she fell from the pleasure washing over her. That great wave that crashed against the shore was crashing through her.

She was vaguely aware of the way he tugged her smallclothes away, words spilling from him, “You’re so beautiful, this cunt belongs to me now, look at you,” and she nodded, whimpering over and over, ‘Please’ and ‘yours yours’ and ‘love you love you.’ She felt the heat of him rub against her, the sticky sound of it and Aegon’s own groan loud before something wet and full of heat brushed onto her. Abby watched him stroke his cock, the milky white spend of him falling upon her cunt, caught in the thatch of red curls and the sinful, delightfully reckless feeling of it all made Abby squirm. The feeling of him sliding over her heated skin, the way she was entranced by it was a feeling she couldn’t describe.

She reached down, swiping her fingers through the mess to stick them into her mouth, the way she had watched him suck her own taste from her fingers, her eyes never leaving his. In turn, she shivered as he dragged his own fingers through the mess he’d made of her. Abby canted her hip, wanting him to press inside but instead, he licked the taste from himself as well.

It felt like a ritual. Like something strangely holy, reverent within the indulgence of it. ‘Fuck what the septa said. What the queen said’, she thought savagely to herself. ‘There is nothing wrong in this, and I won’t be denied.’ She opened her arms to him and Aegon gently tugged her smallclothes back over her, petting her softly before stepping into her hold and wrapping his arms around her. Abby sighed and buried her face against the crook of his neck, her mouth pressed to where she’d bitten him.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair and she shimmered and glowed in his hold, feeling his arms squeeze her in the clinging way he had not done for so long, like he was afraid she would slip through his touch.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck, trying to cast a spell that would embed the words into his skin, to be indelible, a tattoo that would protect him in the way her favor might not. “Can we stay here? I want to stay here with you.”

He chuckled, low and fond and stroked his fingers through the mess of her hair. “I’ll help put you back together. Pity there’s nothing to clean you with.” It was a lie, and he didn’t sound sorry at all, for her gaze drifted over to the barrel of water, soap and cloths in the corner. “You’ll just have to carry the mess for the rest of the afternoon.” Aegon sounded pleased with himself, and Abby squirmed deeper into his hold, blushing with it, shy and heady. “Come, let’s get you put together before Daeron comes back, and then we’ll go watch the jousting.”

There was a tenderness in the care he showed after it that warmed her, and Abby watched him with a soft, giddy feeling as he grabbed a comb from the table to start putting her hair to rights with unpracticed but eager attentiveness. She sighed and settled in to let him tend, and let herself drift into the afterglow.

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! Please support by reblogging <3

I'd love to know your favorite bit: What did you think about Abby and Aegon telling each other their love? How great is Alyn Hull? He is my fave lil dude and I'm so happy whenever I write him. Or the way the group ended up watching the fight. I mean BAELA! she got involved! We love that for her.

#signal boost for my friend

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