Chapter Text
“These sheets are linen and silk.”
That's all Prince Aegon Targaryen can think to say, incredulous as he looks down at the petite, beautiful, exquisite maid beneath him. She too is stiff and panting - not from pleasure - painfully pressed against him, her green eyes watering. Women bleed the first time, or so he's been told, and... Well, his sheets. They're linen and silk. As ruined as she is now, no doubt.
She moves, trying to get away from him, and he grits his teeth against the urge to move. He wants to slide his hands underneath her, lift her to him, push again and again until it's all over, but even he feels a pang of conscience at the thought of hurting her more.
On the other hand, it is his fault.
How could he imagine that there was such a creature as an intact maid? If she had told him, he would have chosen a less complicated prey. Or not, he had seen and desired her, and being a prince he obviously could have, but he could have been more careful, had he known. Though he couldn't swear he would have been, either.
She moves once more, a move that forces him deeper still, and oh, he's at his breaking point.
“Stop!” he orders her. It's meant to be an echo of command, but instead it's desperate and panting, almost a whimper. If she moves even the slightest bit one more time, he doesn't think he can be held accountable for his actions, and he doesn't think he feels guilty about it either. What does she expect him to do? This was all her choice.
“I... I just need a moment," she murmurs in response. “Please.”
He almost laughs, though it's not amusement he feels. He wants to tell her that she's already had all the moments he can offer her. She's perfect, incredibly hot and tight around him, and her whole body radiates an insistent almost-pleasure, something that would easily turn into pleasure if he could do what all his instincts are screaming for. But he can't, so instead it's driving him crazy. And she needs a moment. A moment! He can't do this, he can't do this.
Finally, just as the thin silken thread of his control is about to break, she says the most beautiful words he has ever heard in his life: “It's all right.”
Later, Aegon will feel grateful for that, reflect on the fact that if she had told him to stop, he almost certainly wouldn't have, wonder exactly what kind of man that makes him, but now all he can feel is the absolute relief of finally doing what needs to be done. He grips her softly flared hips tightly with hands too desperate to be careful, holds her in place as he slides all the way in and then withdraws, again and again just as he wanted, and it feels even better than he'd imagined.
He orders, and this time it's a command, and she obeys. From the way her breathing changes and she stiffens a little under him, a distant part of his mind realises he's hurting her more this way, but the part that works can only revel in the way her sweet body opens for him and takes him in deeply, so deeply, and then deeper.
It can't last - he can't last, he's surprised he's lasted this long - and he knows it. Within minutes he buries his face in the crook of her neck, growls and sinks his teeth into her collarbone harder than expected, and then cums inside her because it's one of the perks of maids and her sheets will have to be washed anyway. And that's his last thought, as the burning pleasure of filling her envelops everything.
He comes to slowly, still panting, still inhaling the scent of her skin and hair. He is surrounded by her, surrounded by her in every way, physically and even mentally, because he can't stop thinking about what just happened, what he took from her... no, what he accepted from her. All because of her choice. He almost smiles when he raises his head to look at her.
She doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the gold brocade canopy of her bed, and yes, it is beautiful and yes, she has probably never imagined such luxury in her life. But he's still on top of her, still half deep inside her, and it's obvious her thoughts are miles away. As if she hasn't just given him her virginity, as if she doesn't have a red bruise on her collarbone, a ring that exactly mirrors the shape of his mouth.
He rolls off of her, his anger rising, then rising higher when she gives a little sigh as though relieved to be free of him. Relieved! To be free of him !
“Get up,” he snaps, displeasure clear in his tone.
She sits up quickly, clutches the top sheet to her chest as she tries to crawl out of the bed, and then trips when she manages it – the bed is raised high as befits his status, and the sheet tangles with her legs to almost bring her to her knees (an idea worth exploring later, perhaps). She catches herself just in time and arranges the fabric around her before turning to face him.
“A bit late for modesty, isn’t it?” he sneers.
She doesn’t answer, merely clutches the sheet tighter, looking anywhere but at him, then anywhere but at the few drops of blood staining all that linen and silk he loves so much. The droplets remind him of rose petals scattered there, vital and bright.
He stares at her until she drags her eyes back to his face, until she is pinned by the anger in them. His voice is low and dangerous as he asks “Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to a member of the Royal Family?”
The expression on her face morphs from embarrassment to indignation. “I didn’t lie about anything. You asked if I wanted to go with you and I said yes, that’s all.”
“Well of course you wanted to. But did it not occur to you that I had expectations of your experience, your skill?” It’s a perfectly valid reason for his wrath, he tells himself, even if it is not precisely his reason. Hell, maybe it is. “Did it not occur to you to mention you’d never actually done this before?”
“No,” she says after a lengthy pause. He doesn’t think that she is lying. “I thought it didn’t matter. Before and after, I thought that.”
“You thought it didn’t matter?”
“I mean – does it? I thought – It seemed you –” She’s stammering and blushing fiercely and it soothes him somewhat. It’s right that she worry she disappointed him.
“You were perfectly adequate,” he says, grudgingly. That isn’t quite accurate but he can’t see any good coming of being more detailed or complimentary.
She relaxes somewhat, relieved. “I understand. Thank you, my Prince.”
Suddenly, he feels the odd impulse to tell her that, considering his seed is dripping down her thighs as they speak, she could call him Aegon - just for now - but he ignores it. He's given up enough in this conversation. Instead, he nods regally.
“I’m going to – get cleaned up, if that’s alright,” she continues. “Perhaps you might bring me what we discussed? I promise to be quick. I would never want to waste any more of your time than I have already.”
He can’t decide if he’s more mollified by her apologetic manner, or irritated by her assumption that she’s earned anything he promised her with what just passed. There hadn’t been much for her to do, after all. But then, he did enjoy it. And it is sweet, the way she really does believe she disappointed him. He allows it to quell his anger, the fact that she accepts he’d be perfectly justified in casting her off now in the middle of the night.
That is his wont with most of his bed warmers, to be fair. And yet… Honored as he knows she must be to have gifted her virginity to him, he imagines she also must be sore, and shouldn’t the occasion be a little bit special for her? A night sleeping in his bed can only enhance the experience.
There is also the fact that he’d like to have her again, preferably without the tears this time, but the majority of his motivation is altruistic, truly. Indeed, he feels quite benevolent. He even turns a smile on her, one of his charming ones.
“There is no need for that,” he says. “Prepare for bed, you will stay the night here.”
She looks completely shocked, as well she should. Her mouth drops open in a most interesting way, and oh he will have thoughts about that at some point, yes.
“That is more than kind,” she informs him, as though he doesn’t already know, “but I could never inconvenience you more than I already have.”
“That does you credit, but it is no inconvenience tonight.”
She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, saying nothing, and Aegon sighs to himself. Her reticence, though correct and even charming, is growing tiresome – while also being utterly pointless. He has suddenly decided he has no intention of allowing her to leave tonight, no matter how guilty she might feel.
“If you’d prefer to leave now, of course I will not stop you. But I will be…” he pauses as though searching for the correct word, continuing with just the right emphasis “ unable to pay you until morning, you see. With perhaps a little extra, for the wait?”
This works, as he knew it must. Women of every station are this way, even the sweet ones: motivated by money in the end. The only real difference is that as a serving girl she can be had more cheaply.
“Yes, of course,” she says softly. “If you wish it, my Prince.”
Another regal nod, a gesture of his hand, and she moves behind a dressing screen to prepare for bed. She drags the sheet with her, an annoyance to be sure; he had been too anxious, too impatient, to truly appreciate her nakedness when he had the chance. He’d been so anxious to get her out of her clothes, he hadn’t really bothered to get out of his. That much exertion while wearing a doublet was perhaps not the best idea. Not to be repeated, no, but the rest of it…
Oh, the rest of it. He stares at the drops of blood marring his bed without truly seeing them, instead thinking of her face as he pushed inside her for the first time, her rosebud mouth opening with a gasp, her eyes never leaving his even though she must have been in some pain. And then after, his mark at her throat… There is something compelling about knowing he left it while ruining her. Beautiful as she is, it must have taken effort to come to him untouched as she was. Untouched – until he touched her.
This thought works around and around in his mind, this idea of leaving marks, of touching. If such marks were always visible, none of the other women he has known would be anything like un marked – he having never bothered with virgins, even when he was one. He’d naturally assumed that they’d be even more boring than women with experience. He isn’t entirely certain, now. If such marks were always visible, she’d bear none but his.
It merits thinking on, at any rate.
“I’m finished,” she says as she appears from behind the screen. He glances up to see her dark red hair fully down about her shoulders, long and with a gentle wave – though he liked it better in disarray around her face, tousled by his hands. She really is lovely, her features delicate and refined despite her low birth – though her beauty is somewhat marred by the freckles dusting her cheeks. Or it ought to be.
She approaches the side of the bed then halts, looking down at her hands locked in a death grip around his sheet. When she slowly raises her eyes to his, he can almost hear her panicked thoughts, feel her unwillingness to bare herself for him in the candlelight. It’s novel, her modesty.
“Are you going to – ?” She trails off, nodding at him, and he fully understands that she wants him to say yes, wants him to prepare for bed himself, to duck into his dressing room and leave her to crawl into bed unseen.
He is not much inclined to oblige her, enjoying both her discomfort and the thought of her nakedness if he simply waits her out. She can’t stand there like that forever.
In that moment, she shivers slightly, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. It could possibly be cold, though it’s hard for him to tell, wearing so much velvet as he is. But the fact that she remains frozen, too modest to drop the sheet and crawl under the warmth of the furs piled on his bed despite the chill, at least tells him that actually she can stand there for longer than he wants to wait.
Aegon shrugs. “If you prefer.”
She nods hesitantly, eyes following him as he climbs out of bed and walks a little faster than seemly to his dressing room. He attempts to peek at her by angling his mirror just right, but he’s too late – he only sees himself and a glimpse of her lying stiffly under a mountain of furs.
He doesn’t quite know why he bothers, but he finds himself reaching for one of his undershirts. It is linen and silk, like his sheets, trimmed in lace, and undoubtedly worth more than everything she has ever owned all put together. But really, it’s nothing to him, and he can’t have her lying stiffly all night, after all. He has plans.
Draping the shirt over his arm, he returns to the room. She watches him with wide eyes as he approaches and tosses the small bundle of fabric at her.
“What – ?”
“Put it on,” he orders, adding a scathing “I won’t look ,” when she makes no move to obey.
He turns away, regretting his choice until he realizes he can hear the whisper of the fabric as it settles over her skin, the sound of her slipping small pearl buttons into place. There is something erotic about hearing it, imagining it, but not seeing it.
“I’m finished,” she says.
It is unsettling, how very much he wants to look at her, unsettling enough that he plans to ignore the impulse and simply return to his dressing room. But his body ignores his plans, not the impulse – he is unused to denying them in general, to be fair.
His first thought is that if she had any idea of the fineness of the fabric she wears, she wouldn’t sit up in bed like that, would be huddled under the furs once more. Even in the candlelight the shirt is translucent, falling softly over the lines of her body and concealing just enough to make her seem more revealed than covered. It clings to her breasts, small and high, and shows the deep rose of her nipples, hard in the cold.
He’s hard, too, and very close to joining her there amongst the furs, but she is pulling her hair over her shoulder, braiding it, watching him through half-lidded eyes that show more exhaustion than he’d expected.
She smiles sleepily at him, small and brief. “Thank you, my Prince.”
“Aegon,” he says, another impulse undenied.
“What?”
“You will call me Aegon, tonight and in the morning. Provided we are alone.”
Her face registers surprise but she accepts the command willingly enough. “Of course, if you wish it.”
He wishes she had actually said it just then, but really it’s of little matter.
“And you have a name, I presume?” he demands, when it becomes clear she won’t think to offer it.
“Ali,” she says.
He almost tells her that it would suit her if it weren't for the fact that "Ali" sounds a lot like his mother's name.