#taps the mic ello babes ive returned from the war

[lilibethwrites]

A Midsummer Night’s Pain

Aegon II Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Spoilers for Rook’s Rest, NSFW (smut)

Word count: 5876

Ao3 & Masterlist

Aegon returns from Rook’s Rest with severe injuries, and your lives change forever. While he is haunted by aches that would put a lesser man to the ground, you are at your wit’s end with his stubborn refusal of help. A sleepless night of slowly healing burns and bones leads you both to introspection and confrontation. Heated exchanges, frustrated sighs, and hungry kisses restore your belief in the strength of your bond built on devotion and love.

Aegon was no stranger to sleepless nights. Anger, frustration, the immutable urge to suppress all parts of him until he was stripped down to bare flesh and bones and the basest of urges as he got so masterfully lost in the dark, narrow streets of Flea Bottom among a sea of drunkards swaying side to side… If one didn’t know any better, one would assume the dark hours of the night, the hour of the ghost or the nightingale or the wolf were all dedicated to him, that he was the ghost that haunted the stone halls of the Red Keep, the nightingale that sang with a few tankards of Flea Bottom ale or better in his belly, the wolf that bared his teeth as good as any Stark should the occasion necessitate it.

 Then, Flea Bottom was stolen from him, and then, so was his flesh. His brother had traded an eye for a dragon, though no one, no one at all could say if he meant his words or if he were too muddied of the mind on the Milk of the Poppy—he was fed about the same amount as a grown man would be— to make sense when he found the exchange fair. Aegon, however, was painfully sober and himself when he was made to trade his home a bit far from home for a crown which once sat on the forehead of his namesake. Aegon certainly did not wish to take his golden boy to the skies for bloodshed and pain. In fact, he always, though quietly, maintained that Sunfyre was a masterpiece fallen from Seven Heavens. Too exquisite, too regal, too graceful, too beautiful to be a tool of war; no, Sunfyre wasn’t designed for tragedy, it suited him ill.

 But curiously, while all else slipped from his fingers, you remained. You’ve been a friend, loyal and patient when Aegon knew any better than to fall to his knees and worship you, then, a lover, passionate and steadfast even when Aegon was difficult to love even to the flesh that breathed life into him. So, when Aegon had left with a finger under your chin, with his lips on yours, with an ornate armour fit for a king, with a rich velvet cloak cascading down his shoulder, you remained hopeful. Perhaps for the first time, you brought your palms together and turned your eyes to the sky, beyond the clouds where Aegon and Sunfyre eclipsed the beauty of the sun itself to vanquish the enemy, to the Gods. You prayed, you begged to have your husband back.

 “I would be a cripple otherwise”, you had petitioned. “He is half me, I am half him. He is the heart of my heart.”

 Gods had listened, but Gods also delighted in mischief and trickery at the expense of good, undeserving souls. Aegon was brought back to you upon loyal shoulders, unconscious and beyond recognisable with the dark red of his drying blood and the ugly brown of earth caked in his hair, on his face, on what flesh was revealed from his armour.

 Grand Maester Orwyle suggested it was better you did not look. He reasoned it was a sight too ghastly for the fairer sex to behold.

 “He is my husband, for the Seven’s sakes!” You threw decorum out the window when you grabbed the long chain snaked around the Maester’s neck.

 “You will allow me in. Your queen demands it.”

 The man had no choice but to bow his head, to step aside so you would enter the solar repurposed as a second office for the Maesters with a grandiose bed pushed to the end of it, concealed with the heavy drapes of the canopy pulled—what dignity was there for Aegon to preserve? Has he ever had it, anyway? Hasn’t he always been the odd one out, the one disowned at the drop of a hat, over and over again? Nothing precious about him, nothing noteworthy, nothing of value was lost. That has always been his belief; that has always been what he was led to believe.

 “The only time my mother touched me was when she struck me in the face. Even then, I imagine, her breakfast must have heaved in her stomach… She looks upon me as she would a rat caught between the walls,” he’d once confessed over warm, watered-down wine of a Flea Bottom wine sink he’d taken you to.

 “I love you. I desire to love you to the end. I desire to show you that I love you. I do not know how. I was never given it…” His plush lips had twisted into a lopsided smirk, acidic and self-loathing. It must have been him, he always thought. His mother was capable of showing love otherwise. She gave love to a man rotting on his feet, who only ever took her so he would put babes in her womb—and then forget about them and venerate the one he already had. His mother showered Helaena with love, his mother worshipped Aemond after her daily prayer to the Seven, and she never once stopped admiring Daeron even if all he did was pack up and leave. Aegon was left to seek love elsewhere, pitiful bits at a time. That was, until you came along.

 “I fear I will make a mess of it. I muck everything up,” he had sniffled—then, wiped his cheeks on the back of his hand, blinked, and returned to the man unbothered by all, like the scales of a dragon deflecting Scorpion bolts.

 But you knew, oh, you’ve always known. There were cuts within him that never ceased bleeding. The superficial ones were easily remedied with drinks and gathering up of your skirts and the loosening of your bodice. But those? Those needed precious care, all the patience in the world, and a stream of love to rival the supposed stream of Arbor Red that runs across Seven Hells, as Aegon alleged.

 “Tis makes little sense. Why would wine run from a stream? And why in Hells, and not in Heavens?” You’d inquired once.

 He’d shrugged. His brows furrowed in mock disappointment as if you’d failed to grasp a point so explicitly made.

 “So I can enjoy it, of course. How am I to do so if it runs in Heavens?”

 Even the most optimistic of his men shared in hushed whispers their doubts that the king would ever awaken. Some urged that his brother be named Prince Regent at once and overtake the matters of the Realm presently. Some found it treacherous, and what would become of you?

 You were about as concerned with anything beyond the body lying limp on the bed as the brass candelabra that sat beside it. You broke your fast and took your supper beside Aegon, you bathed and read beside him. You curled up to his body and gave your ear to the slow thumping of his heart at nights.

 Aegon got worse before he got better. He came down with the fever, and though Grand Maester reassured you it was a testament to the glorious resilience of the constitution of our king, you were a revenant floating up and down the chamber until his flesh ceased burning from the inside.

 Then, unceremoniously, he awoke.

 His throat was dry, his voice unused. The usual velvety quality was subjugated to raspiness.

 “I mucked it up… again,” I told you I would, he meant to continue, but his tongue felt too heavy.

 Your back was turned to him, your eyes set upon the silhouette of the Street of Silk with its pillow houses growing taller by the day, your nails digging into your palms as if the pain you’ve inflicted upon yourself would miraculously shave off the affliction your beloved husband was no wonder subjected to.

 You flinched. You’ve never quite lost hope, but perhaps, deep down, the reunion you often thought of was one where you would join Aegon, not the one where he would return to you.

 You were on him, and Aegon did not make a sound of pain lest your arms abandoned him. How was it that you were glad and not ashamed to see him? He had expected you to call him over the coals. What sort of man was he anyway, defeated by a single rider with his brother in the sky with him? What sort of king was he anyway, that he failed the one thing any dragon rider would have accomplished as easily as pulling a hair out of butter?

 But you drowned him in kisses and praises bordered on adulation instead. Aegon soon found he strongly preferred your gentle touches and generous flattery to any medicine the Maester could concoct.

 The burns began to scab over soon after, though the pain remained. He would have accepted it easier if it was constant, but instead, it elected to come at odd hours and inconvenient times, striking out of nowhere like a snake coiled in the bushes of the gardens below his window.

 Thereafter, Aegon was once again no stranger to waking up in the hour of the ghosts, with salty sweat burning his deep-set eyes and a sharp, burning pain splitting him open from head to heart like a Valyrian sword. He’d often stay up, though against his wishes this time, stirring and clutching the sheets or the pillows and biting down on his plump lips until teeth tore skin and blood prickled, until the hour of the owl or the nightingale—he’d often lose track—gave way to dawn.

 It was one such night when you awoke, or rather, you were awakened by Aegon’s stirring and grunting, controlled despite the overwhelming agony lest he woke you from your deep slumber. You’ve been the one constant thing of comfort in his life since the moment your fingers intertwined with his. He held your hands like a rider would the reigns of his dragon for fear that he would slip from the saddle and perish, and he intended to only let go to be burned to ashes, stuffed in an urn. No matter the pain, the frustration, the anger, he would behold you and be swiftly reminded that there was at least one good thing in the world still, and so the sun would have a reason to rise for another day. But even the most ardent, noblest love had its limits in the face of nearly-intolerable pain.

  You turned with your heavy eyelids, almost out of reflex, as you often did in your sleep when your bodies separated too far apart for your liking. You hummed with a hand searching for his face, starting at his damp chest and moving up. It was a humid day, an even less bearable eve, and a torturous night that made you sweat as you remained motionless, sticking the soft, silk chemise to your flesh.

 Aegon inhaled a sharp breath, steeled himself, and his slender fingers wrapped around your wrist, bringing it to his lips.

 “Nightmare?” You asked. He has been plagued by them all his life. They were few and in-between back then, back when wine could dull them. They became sharper with the weight of the hefty crown on his head. They came in spades with unyielding force until he jumped from the bed and leaned so dangerously low on the stone guards of his balcony to burn his lungs with the night air.

 “No,” he whispered, shuddering and panting.

 You knew, then. In fact, you’ve known the moment you awoke, yet, you wished to be wrong.

 His aches got worse whenever he clenched his teeth all day or in his sleep, and he did so when his stress climbed and overtook ration. Anger often superseded all other senses then, and you often assumed this crippling pain was a defence mechanism instilled by nature within Aegon. It hurt him, yes; seeing him hurt also pained you gravely. But, it was a blessing, it stayed Aegon’s hand from greater destruction. At least, that has been your weak miseration, except, pains often crept upon your husband in the dead of the night, like a cowardly enemy hiding behind the walls.

 “Oh,” you mumbled softly, half with the devotion of a wife falling for her husband more and more each day, and the care of a mother who would feel twice the pain her babe suffered.

 “I should summon the Maester, have him prepare some—”

 “Please, no need, love. I—I shall be better, soon… Just… sleep it off,” Aegon attempted to halt you, speaking through gritted teeth on the verge of shattering.

 If there was ever a soul to match Aegon’s unyielding obstinacy, it was you and your indomitable mulishness. Aegon admitted so, when he kneeled before you and presented you with a newly minted ring impressed with the three-headed dragon of his family, asking for your hand in marriage. It was a jarring sight, the crown prince, the reluctant, forgotten heir under a moth-bitten cloak, brandishing a golden ring so expensive it could buy the entirety of the Bottom and still demand a few silver stags in change. He would not have imprinted the ring with the heraldry of his family, the one that so trenchantly refused him, if he didn’t so ardently wish to do his proposal properly. You deserved nothing less. You were not some pillow wench or a widow, wed to be bred or fill the diminishing coffers.

 “Tis no pain you can sleep off.”

 It was not a bargain he would win. You rolled out of the bed to stick your head out of the door, to ask Ser Criston if he would be so kind as to have Grand Maester Orwyle prepare something for the pain. That was all you needed to relay. The pain only meant one thing, the kind that would’ve put a lesser man in an early grave; not a simple headache or upset stomach, but the pain to dwarf all pains.

 Before long, an ornate silver platter was delivered to you. Upon it was a delicate vial with translucent liquid, and a teapot with matching painted china from Lannisport.

 First, you poured the content of the vial on a cotton cloth, and sat beside Aegon on the edge of the bed.

 His pale cheeks were reddened with the pain that had him clenching and whimpering. His eyes, usually big and bright and oh-so-mischievous, were squinted in exhaustion, forming deep lines between his brows.

 “You should not suffer it alone. You gave me your word you would not anymore,” you whispered, dabbing the cloth on the scabs of his burns, tracing the angry-red-turning-brown from his cheek to his chest.

 It stung at first, and Aegon gasped, closing his eyes and flinching away before he could catch himself. He balled his hand into a fist after that, and braved the pain in pursuit of relief. Truth be told, your presence alone was more relief than any medicine of the Citadel, even when he was nearly certain the pain would blind him.

 “You looked—you looked serene, bathed in the moonlight. Could not—could not dare disturb your slumber.” His voice was low and gravelly despite the grandiose artistry of a pompous bard he attempted to invoke. The corners of his lips twitched up into a faint smile before turning upside down with the pain a gesture as small as that caused.

 “I shall not be swayed by honeyed words, Aegon,” you attempted to be stern, but you knew you were swayed already. He did, too.

 “It passes, love. It always does. Just—just a matter of… patience.”

 Then, when his head lulled on the pillow so he could look at you better; in the pale moonlight, you saw the tears that stained his eyes. The pain was only half the reason for them. Aegon was ashamed to be a burden to you, his lover, that he must protect and provide for as any man with a sliver of chivalry should, not lay in a bed halfway paralyzed. Useless. A burden. An inconvenience. Dependent on the charity of his wife.

 You brushed short, choppy strands of silver that stuck to his damp forehead and cheeks away, and passed your hand over his head until he leaned into your touch.

 “We are a soul split in half,” he once told you, drunk enough to be brave but sober enough to mean every word. He was right. You were privy to the thoughts galloping in his mind.

 “Will you ever understand it to be an insult that you would flee from my care? I wish to care for you.”

 Aegon’s response was averting his eyes and inhaling a deep breath. His burnt hand, on the mend but likely to never regain its motion in entirety, stiffly patted your thigh and remained resting there.

 “Milk, then?”

 The offer was in vain. Once Aegon awoke, he trenchantly refused to be dulled. However maddening the pain might be, he desired to tough it out—sober. There were times his boyish mulishness was endearing, but this wasn’t one of them. You struggled to understand how it would serve him to be crushed under pain unnecessarily when the remedy awaited him in the pot. You were growing impatient with witnessing Aegon’s suffering helplessly.

 “Why must you be so bloody-minded, huh? If this is your twisted idea for self-flagellation, cease it! Whatever imagined failure you punish yourself for does not exist! Whatever perceived shortcoming you may think you have exhibited is a delusion! What does this help? This—this violent suffering in absolute vain?!”

 You rose from the edge of the bed, pacing towards the table with the intent of smashing the pot to bits against the wall. Aegon was torturously reticent at times when he doubted the outcomes of speaking his mind.

 “Nothing!” You spoke, or rather, yelled on his behalf. “Accomplishes nought but further torment!”  

 “I was kept on—on Gods know what when I should have been awake!” Aegon raised his own voice then.

 It was a strong mixture of Sweetsleep and the Milk of the Poppy dissolved in alcohol. The Maesters didn’t want to leave his rest to chance. For a good reason, too, as Aegon grew restless the moment he could move his limbs once again.  

 “I have failed you—you all.” Without his mother to deliver the punishment to his cheek in the form of slaps or his arms in the form of mean pinches that bruised without fail, he had to take the matter into his own hands.

 “You do not even hear me, do you?” You mumbled, hunched on a chair by the table. “I am simply speaking to the walls… you shall believe what you will no matter what.”

 Perhaps it would have pained Aegon less if you kicked up a storm, and turned the chamber upside down until nothing but broken and shattered bits of furniture and glass and torn tapestries remained. But to hear the helpless defeat in your voice instead? The low but unmistakable tinge of exhausted despair entered his ears and trailed down his throat as if he swallowed melted iron hot from a blacksmith’s forge.  

 He let the silence hang above your heads like the scythe of the Stranger for a moment or two that dragged on endlessly, then, he broke it himself. Though that time, his own words came out choked and quiet.

 “You should not have wed me,” he murmured, half in shame and half in agony. “My brother… perhaps half a man in soul and half a petrified gargoyle, but intact in flesh… somewhat. Hah,” Funny how things turned out. Perhaps he deserved this not for the lecherous revelries but for being a passed-out drunk on the steps of Driftmark when his brother was robbed of an eye. “Would’ve served you better all the same.”

 “What nonsense,” you scoffed. His words deserved a harsher response, perhaps, but the notion was so ridiculous to you that all you could do was shake your head in incredulity. “Surely you do not mean it?” Surely, he wishes for a reaction, to elicit a rise from you.

 “Look at me… what good am I to you in this state? A broken man, through and thorough.” Growing bitter by the day, too.

 “You know I would prefer the worst of you to the best of anyone else. Anyone… you know it, Aegon.”

 You approached the bed again under Aegon’s alert gaze. His pale eyes caught the light of the candles; you always thought a bit of Sunfyre was in him.

 “I was not under the naïve assumption that it would be easy when I fell for you.” Your hand reached for his, kissing his knuckles one by one before enveloping it in case he withdrew. “You asked me once if I loved the idea of you. Do you not remember what I said?”

 Aegon looked down with a wistful smile, then, dragged his gaze back to your face.

 “You told me… that whatever I may be, or become, would eclipse what you could ever conjure up.”

 “You did not believe me then, and you certainly do not believe me now.” There was no bite to your words; what little anger rose in your chest was short-lived. You’ve always found it rather difficult to stay mad at Aegon for long. You brought his hand to your cheek and pressed a kiss on his palm.

 “I thought you were mad for it. Twas no easy promise, not when it is me you dedicate—”

 The finger on his lips caught Aegon off-guard, and your soft lips upon his parched ones that followed were always welcome—in fact, they were desperately needed above air and sustenance.

 Your hands cupped his face; his cheeks were full again, though the colour hadn’t returned in full yet. The tip of your nose touched his, and Aegon leaned in to press another kiss to your lips. It was chaste, close-mouthed, like a seal to a missive.

 “I love you,” you whispered against his lips. A hand trailed down to his neck, and another rested on the back of his head, your fingers found their home in his dishevelled hair.

 “I love all of you, down to your very essence. I do not care what the Realm thinks of you. I do not care what you think of yourself. I know you, and I love you.”

 Your lips moved up, planting a kiss on the space between his nose and lips where light hair began to tickle—he was due for a shave— another to his cheek, then another to his jaw, and one more to the dimple in his chin.

 “I love the sound of you, I love the scent of you, I love the feel of you...”

 Aegon drew a deep, shaky breath when your lips moved further down to his neck, then, to his bare chest. His chest began to heave and fall quicker under your lips, blood began to rush down to his breeches. Just like that, so easily, you have worked your magic. A quiet spell fell from your lips, and Aegon snapped out of his self-pity. Well, partially. The Aegon that he was almost getting comfortable with being, the one who hadn’t resented the crown all that terribly anymore, the Aegon that had almost returned to his suave, younger self, would have flipped you on your back by now, hiked your chemise up to your waist and undone the ribbons that held your stockings to your thighs with his teeth, as he often loved to do so to the music of your giggles and gasps. That man would have buried his face between your legs already, but, this man was unsure if he could even please you with his fingers anymore.  

 “Nothing has changed. You have not changed. You feel the same, you taste the same. No one will ever hope to compare,” you whispered against his warm skin, right above the waist of his breeches where a light patch of hair disappeared into and the wet trail of your kisses concluded.

 Aegon was semi-erect when you palmed him through the rough fabric of his trousers. You’d done this more times than even the Maesters could count, and some said they knew infinite numbers. Yet, this time you couldn’t roughly pull at the laces and tug his member until his hips quivered and rose from the mattress to hit the back of your throat, to feel the contraction, to see your eyes widen. No, with shattered bones and scorched flesh, you needed to be cautious in the ways you’ve demonstrated your love.

 You licked your lips as Aegon peered at you intently. A hot palm with cold fingers slipped down Aegon’s trousers and gripped his length, and he shivered with anticipation. How long has it been anyway? Felt like a few lifetimes to him.

 You began by stroking him, then, pulled the waistband down around his thighs, and wrapped your lips around the reddened, crown of his cock. Aegon attempted to push himself deeper, but yielded with a whimper. Your head bobbed to the rhythm of your lover’s moans and muffled praises bleeding into curses, picking up the pace as his panting grew quicker. A hand wrapped around the base of his shaft intent on pushing Aegon to the very peak with touches to his heavy stones, while another ghosted fingers across his abdomen. He laced his fingers in your hair in response, neither pushing nor pulling, simply savouring the privilege of getting to feel you—any part of you—on his fingertips again. He’d realized there was much he’d taken for granted with you, high on the vapours of confidence that he would not be parted from you so untimely and unexpectedly.

 “Love, not—Gods! Not long, now,” he rasped. His better leg began to twitch and bounce, and his manhood in your mouth throbbed with each hollowing of your cheeks. His heart thumped erratically, he was certain you could hear it down between his legs with loud it was. Sweat beaded at his forehead and rolled from his hairline to his neck. Aegon almost always sounded as if he were about to weep when he was brought close to his release. “’Tis only you,” he’d told you once as he’d embraced you on a mattress stuffed with straw in a rented tavern room, “who has ever managed this—to reduce me to a whining fool. Cross my heart.”

 The pit of Aegon’s stomach churned and a brief but nothing less than torridly intense shiver rippled through him. Though he would have gladly traded all his limbs—for what value they held now—to release inside your walls and watch his seed leak out of you, he couldn’t be a choosing beggar until he could cage you under his body again. So, he spilt himself in your mouth, and for a moment, before he began to come down, the entire world consisted of the warmth of your mouth and the throbbing of his cock.  

 It would take the Seven Realms twice over to truly break the spirit this man, your Aegon. You’ve never once doubted it, and he proved you right when his lips quirked into an impish smirk as soon as his breathing began to settle down to a more even beat, and he watched you with dark eyes as you swallowed his load and wiped the drool off your chin.

 “Gods, sometimes I question if I took a Street of Silk whore for a wife,” he teased, though his joke was laced with lust and his voice was husky. He left your hair to caress your cheek, then, reached for your hand to pull you up and closer to him.

 “As if they’d wed you,” you snorted.

 With a hand in your hand, and the burnt one on your hip, Aegon was persistent in pulling you up to himself. It wasn’t so much the climbing him you feared, but the warm dampness between your legs threatened to take the reins until you found yourself seated on his hips, grinding with unprecedented urgency. But neither of you was quite known for your cautious ways, so you found a place to rest right above Aegon’s waist where the burns healed the quickest and the bruised to his ribs faded. With the salty aftertaste of him on your tongue and fatigue beginning to settle, you were ready to cuddle into his good side and slumber for whatever short time you could until dawn broke. Yet, Aegon had different plans altogether. He's never been a man to remain beholden to someone, especially in matters of pleasure.

 So, his fingers snuck under your shift and found your heat like liquid mercury to a magnet. It wasn’t the easiest to pleasure you like this, not when he was spoiled with being used to spreading your legs and pumping his fingers faster each time you whined and attempted to squeeze your thighs together to resist the climax he was beckoning. If you had devised this intricate plan to have him willingly submit to the Maesters, so he would heal as swiftly as his flesh allowed, so he would once again bury himself deep inside you, Aegon would have to admit you have succeeded.

 “C’mere, luv” he tapped on the side of your thigh, coaxing you to move up and up until you were nearly seated on his chest.

 “C’mere, I said,” he feigned annoyance at your reluctance. But it wasn’t so much reluctance as it was confusion. You’d only assumed he wanted you closer so he would get a better look at your glistening cunt, or reach your slit better. So, Aegon had to meet you halfway. With his fingers digging into your bare ass, he slouched with the urgency you wouldn’t have thought his body was capable yet, and he pulled you to his face.

 You gasped his name and held onto the ornate headboard lest you truly sat on his face and gave him another part to ache. You could feel his warm breath on your dampness, and his lips soon began to drag across the sensitive flesh.

 “Do not hover, darlin’, sit. Fear not, you shall do me no harm. I’ve survived worse, I assure you that my wife’s cunt will only do me good.”

 His fingers dug deeper into the tender flesh of your ass, he pulled you down on himself until you could feel the stubble around his lips and chin on you. He gave you a torturously long and slow, flat-tongued lick across your slit and groaned into your warmth. It was mostly muffled when he proclaimed with lust that he “could dine on you forever.”

 Your swollen, sensitive nub was flicked by his nose with each forward thrust of his face to bury his pointed tongue deeper inside you hungrily and to devour you better. The mewls and moans of his name from your lips and your taste on his tongue drove Aegon nearly into madness. He wasn’t sure he could feel pain even if someone took a hacksaw to his legs.

 As Aegon alternated between fucking you with his tongue and swirling his tongue over your slit to collect your slick greedily, your skin heated up and your face grew so hot you suspected your cheeks might catch fire and burn down to sinew. Despite the white-knuckled grip on the headboard, you began to buck your hips into his mouth.

The more Aegon groaned into your cunt and frantically lapped at you, the more you took the name of the Seven in vain, jolted and arched your back with each slight contact of his teeth or a rough brush of his stubble whenever he turned his head to gasp for air. Aegon went on as if he could tirelessly to the ends of days, but your muscles began to tighten and your walls fluttered. Aegon’s hands on your hips stilled you from jerking involuntarily; he did deserve to savour your release after the hard work he’s put in, after all.

 Soon, you were crying out Aegon’s name in ecstasy, hips stuttering while you writhed on his face, sinking your fingers into his hair to pull his head back and away from your cunt to no avail. Slick ran down his chin, and you slumped over with breath hitching and knees weakened by how your limbs cramped and quivered. Though you were prudent enough to lift yourself off of him and roll to the side, Aegon wouldn’t have minded if you decided to remain perched on his face for the rest of the night.

 The chamber was heavy with the unmistakable, musky smell of sweat and sex despite the windows. You both laid with on your backs, panting and chests heaving for a moment. You supposed you might have stumbled if you left the bed now; weak knees and dizzy head hardly made a good combination. A cup of wine shared between your lips and his would’ve served well now, but Aegon’s hand splayed on your warm belly, and he guided you to his side instead.

 “Stay,” he purred, and you did.

 You buried your face against his throat, and he whispered sweet nothings into your hair, inhaling your scent. His hand moved to your back, rubbing comforting circles and tracing patterns you couldn’t quite figure out. Your breath on his neck tickled him ever so slightly, you’ve always known it, but you’ve always enjoyed the stifled chuckles too much to stop. In fact, Aegon wouldn’t have let you if you tried.

 Nothing needed to be said, the silence was intimate and comfortably shared. Aegon preferred it this way; he could never quite do justice to his feelings with words, they often failed him. I love you in Common Tongue wasn’t enough, avy jorrāelan in High Valyrian never sounded right, but to serve you until you moaned loud enough to wake the Red Keep has always felt right. Look how much I’ve grown to learn you, look how I know you like no one else, look how I’ll toil between your legs until my last breath just to see that exhausted, sheepish smile on your face, look how I’ll defy my own nature if I must to hear my name fall from your lips just once more. It felt right to you, too. You’ve seen Aegon at his most vulnerable, you touched his hair as he wept on your lap, you fought over insignificant things that always ended with shattered vases and broken goblets and your bodies tangled like the stems of summer daisies, you’ve seen too much of his love to need to hear the words anymore. They were sorely paled in comparison to this silence that you shared. And tonight, Aegon has felt better than he has in a long while; the damage to his pride healed by your gentle hands and his mind was taken off self-pity that brewed and festered.

 The Maesters might have saved Aegon’s flesh, but he was certain, as you drifted off and his eyes trailed off to the starless night beyond his window, that you have saved his spirit.

I have a permanent Aemond tag list, but let me know if you'd like to be tagged for any future Aegon II fics. For now, only tagging @aegonx

#aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen ii x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #hotd #taps the mic ello babes ive returned from the war #to indulge in eggon no less