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The dress is a thin, delicate slip of a thing, gleaming near translucent in the light of the lone candle. It’s far from the stiff, elaborate gowns worn by the ladies of the court, and Aemond doesn’t know how it came into their sister’s possession; A presumptuous show of hand from a Lannister lordling or a gift from a Myrish merchant during her tour of Westeros in her youth. Perhaps it was something she’d stolen off a virgin playing whore to seduce their uncle.
Either way, Aemond has to admit it’s working. The dress looks utterly indecent on his brother, the white silk making him look as pure as a dove, even if he is anything but. A blushing bride, ripe for the taking.
Aemond swallows thick at the thought, his cock twitching as he pushes deep inside his brother. He goes slow, letting Aegon get used to the intrusion. Although he’s been generous with the salve this time, Aegon is maddeningly tight around him. Tight and warm and good. It’s near torture to not push him up against the wall and take him hard and fast, rutting into him until Aegon is pulling at his hair and he’s snarling and they’re wild and frantic in their mating.
From the impatience on his face as he peers up at him and pointedly spreads his thighs, that’s what Aegon wants. His brother is used to getting what he wants, spoiled as he is, but not tonight. Sequestered in the chamber of mirrors, Aegon is no more than his lady wife, and Aemond is no brute. He’ll be gentle in their marriage bed as he takes what he’s owed.
Aemond pinches his hip in warning, and with a whimper, the imperious look fades from his brother’s face. It quickly morphs into something sweet and fragile as his pretty eyes widen and turn glassy. Aemond would scoff if it weren’t so effective in making his blood run hot. It strokes something dark and ferocious inside him, watching Aegon in near tears from taking another inch of his leaking cock.
“Good,” he murmurs when he’s finally buried to the hilt. Aegon clenches around him, and Aemond takes in the sight of their bodies pressed together. Their mother would call it a sin if she ever knew. But they are Targaryens. They were cut from the same cloth, birthed from the same womb. It’s only fair their flesh calls for each other.
Aemond strokes a stand of his brother’s hair, a facsimile of an affectionate husband. “Good,” he says again. Aegon’s breath hitches and he melts under him, pressing his face up against Aemond’s hand. He strokes the gentle curve of his cheekbones, trailing down until he wipes away the spot of blood on the corner of his mouth. He must have chewed on his lips hard enough to bleed when their grandsire had words with him earlier. His pathetic, beautiful older brother.
He takes a fistful of silk and hikes the dress up. The fabric is cool against their heated skin and the crumpled silk gathers around Aegon’s hips and stomach, freeing his legs and playing at protecting his modesty. Aegon’s legs fall open easily, and Aemond swallows, staring at the soft flesh of his thighs. He’s all pale and creamy, skin unmarked from hardship. Aemond feels the familiar venom pool in his mouth. Aegon makes for an egregious excuse of a prince, but his lazy, hedonistic nature has kept him supple. His teeth ache to sink into his flesh and bite . Mark him pink and purple all over, gnawing until he’s tender for days after and he’s crying as Aemond drags him out of bed by his ankle for their lessons.
Aemond pinches the inside of his thigh, watches it turn a pretty red. Aegon yelps, twisting in his grip, and he smiles in sardonic pleasure. Gentle, he reminds himself, and nudges Aegon’s legs apart to cant his hips forward, rocking slowly into his cunt. He’s tight as a vice, and he lets out a low groan as he fucks him with shallow thrusts.
It’s not long before he’s looming over Aegon, pressing him to the bed to fuck him properly with quick snap of his hips. For all his faults, his brother is good like this, warm and pliable. He builds up a steady rhythm, reveling in the way Aegon gasps, blunt fingernails digging into his shoulder before they fall to clutch at the sheets.
His breath comes in quick, uneven pants, pleasure beginning to bloom at the base of his spine. The heat under his skin has spread like wildfire and he can feel the back of his neck turn red, the flush crawling down to his chest. He must look as disheveled as he feels, his ironclad composure crumbling for a moment. Aegond braces himself on the bed to pull him closer and adjust the pillow from slipping under Aegon’s hips. He glances up from his brother then, and his breath catches when he sees the reflection in the mirrors lining the walls.
In the darkened room, they look almost just right. Looming over him like this, Aemond nearly covers all of Aegon’s smaller body, leaving only the tangle of his silver hair and his pale thighs swathed in silk peeking out underneath him. Like this, they look like the very image of a Targaryen husband and wife. They look like their sister and their uncle.
His body pulses hot. He falters, the head of his cock bumping into his thigh before he finds his mark again. He ignores Aegon’s questioning gaze. Tries to force his attention back on the drag of his cock against the velvet warmth of his hole as he thrusts.
Aemond can’t help but glance at the mirrored walls again, hypnotized by the vision it offers. The long silver hair draped over broad shoulders. The sharp, angular cut of the face, the narrowed purple eyes near beastly in its grimace. The lean, strong frame of his body, the wiry strength in the arms as he braces himself with his hands next to his wife's head on the bed. The mirrored walls offer him reflections in all angles and they collapse over itself in his vision, coalescing until the rogue prince stares back at him.
His uncle doesn’t have a scar marring his whole face, nor does he have a sapphire stone in the gouge where his eye should be. But everything else, it’s all him.
Aemond rolls his shoulders, watching its echo in the mirrors. He’s never seen his uncle bare, but he’s zealously coveted any glimpse of it, eyes drawn to the open collars of his shirts or the sleeves pushed up his elbows. He’s heard murmurs of Lord Fleabottom when he deigns to fetch his brother out from between a whore’s breasts, curiosity devouring their tittering whispers of his uncle’s cock, his talented mouth. He’s read tales of his battles. He knows there must be scars, hard won marks of a warrior. It would make him no less striking, more so for it. He can imagine them now, mapping them out on his own body in the reflection.
Daemon’s hands would be rough and calloused from his sword and the handling of his dragon, his forearm covered in thin, silver scars, long since healed. Scars that are older than Aemond, even older than Rhaenyra. There would be traces of a stitched over cut at his ribs, another at the side of his thigh, an unspoken tale of jousts and skirmishes.
And crawling over his shoulders and neck would be the raised web of discolored flesh, scars from the flaming arrow that struck him during his war in the Stepstones. Perhaps his sister would kiss him on the shoulder there in worship of her husband, running her palm over his bare skin to feel him shiver as he fucks her in their marriage bed. Just as Aegon is doing now, trailing a finger up his arm to trace a pale vein.
Heat coils in his gut, spreading through his body. Aemond tugs him by their sister’s silk dress to pull him closer. He thrusts deeper, rolling his hips and pressing into his slick insides.
Aegon’s eyes widen. “Fuck,” he lets out, stuttering into a high keen as Aemond grinds against a spot deep inside him. He trembles like he doesn’t know what to do with himself as he’s pushed further onto the bed. Aegon tips his head back, glancing first at the mirror above, then to his brother. “Fuck, Aemond –”
His hand shoot out to clasp over Aegon’s mouth, muffling his voice under his palm. His grip is light but firm, already familiar with handling his brother. Even the slightest pressure reddens his soft, full cheeks, and he hungrily takes in the way his hand looks so large against Aegon’s face. It’s been years since Aemond’s outgrown him, but he’ll never tire of the way he towers over him.
Aegon falls silent as Aemond fucks him, leaving only the sound of flesh against flesh and their breathless pants to echo between them. He brushes his thumb over his pouty mouth. His brother’s lips are unfairly pretty, soft and plush, a trait he shares with their mother, although Aegon’s lips are permanently strained a faint red with wine. Aegon holds his gaze and parts his mouth to let him sink his fingers in and press against his pink, wet tongue.
Aemond breathes in sharply, unable to look away. He drags his thumb down, catching at the wetness, while his other hand finds Aegon’s hips beneath the dress. Aegon shivers and arches into him, pressing closer with a soft moan. Lying underneath him on this bed, Aegon seems to shed all of his usual sins and temperament. He blossoms into something soft and agreeable: a bride, a wife.
Aemond would find the lust that overtakes him distasteful if he was in his right mind, the way men succumb to their base instincts, uncontrollable like animals, but he’s struck by the sight of their pale, sinewy limbs twisting together in the reflections. The flesh and blood of Valyria, gods come to life in their likeness.
He pulls out, just to see his brother’s soft thighs tremble and his cunt squeeze around the fat head of his cock before he slams back in, spearing him fully. The punched out little whimpers Aegon lets out reveals more pleasure than pain, and he tightens his legs around his waist as he draws him closer. Aemond feels his cock twitch, pleased that he has his brother at his mercy. Somehow, Aegon could always pull this desperate creature out of him.
He remembers the way Aegon had been waiting for him earlier, perched on the high bed like an offering. His hair was clean and soft, shining like molten silver and curling around his cheek. A necklace of red stone rested on his collarbones, drawing his gaze to his creamy complexion and the dress’s deep neckline. He’d even put on perfume, something warm and floral; He could taste it in the air, more when he licked at the inside of his wrists. In Rhaenyra’s old dress, he’d looked every inch the beauty of Old Valyria.
His eyes were dark and low lidded as he gazed up at him with a satisfied, imperious tilt of his chin that remained even as Aemond stood over him. He watched as his brother’s wicked lips softened into a pout and Aegon took his hand and placed it over his necklace, guiding his hand lower and lower. He remembers Aegon’s peal of mocking laughter when Aemond slammed him onto the bed with his hands cupping his jaw.
Had the young and willful Realm’s Delight welcome their uncle like this when he returned from the Stepstones as a king? At Driftmark, had she spread her legs for him after luring him into a dark corner with an excuse of consoling him?
Perhaps she’d worn this silk slip of a dress and taken his uncle’s cock in this very bed. The small chamber was hidden amongst the walls, behind twisting tunnels and abandoned tapestries, but it was obvious in their purpose. The once polished mirrors surrounded every wall, even the ceiling, and it was wrought and framed with gilded dragons twisted in their mating. If anyone had known about this place, it would have been the rogue prince, and there were rumors of the uncle and niece’s affections even in her youth.
The king could deny the rumors of their sister’s maidenhead taken by their uncle, but everyone knew what had caused Daemon’s exile after his return from the Stepstones.
Their sister is a wanton and lustful creature and Aemond could so easily see Rhaenyra and Daemon tangled together in this bed, her pouty mouth stretched around his cock, his thin, calloused fingers sunken deep into her cunt. Perhaps she’d ridden their uncle like she’d a dragon, knees bent and her back arched. Perhaps she’d even touched her breasts as she did, pinching and groping, shameless at the reflections that stared back at her.
Aemond snakes his hand under the dress and palms his way up his body. The silk dress is tight at Aegon’s waist and shoulders and loose around his chest, and the fabric pools down to reveal the expanse of his clavicle and the barely there slope of his tits. He cups them and gathers what little there is, squeezing until Aegon keens. His eye snap to Aegon’s face, taking in his fluttering lashes and huge pupils, and the way he doesn’t protest even as his face flushes a deeper red.
Aegon may bring out something desperate and carnal out of him, but he can pull something out of his brother too. This soft, docile creature who doesn’t drink himself into a stupor or lose himself in whores, and instead wants nothing but his husband’s guiding hands on him.
He should have been born a woman, Aemond thinks, not for the first time but more kindly than he would another day. If Aegon had been born a woman, Aemond would be the first born son, the heir, the prince of Dragonstone, it’d all be his. If Aegon had been born a woman, their mother would have promised him to Aemond, before he’d even flowered. Their father would have had to agree, if for nothing but to keep his dragon, and Aegon wouldn’t have to occupy himself w ith all the duties he scorns. He could spend his days as he does now, lazing about in his rooms, riding Sunfyre, and occasionally occupying his bed. The only difference would be that Aegon would bear his children, his heirs.
Aemond hardly feels himself breathe, as the thought burrows into his mind. Aegon, with his womb full of his seed, his swollen belly straining against the skirt of his dress. Aegon, with tiny children cradled in his arms, ones with different names and faces than the ones in the nursery whom Aegon ignores because he’s not meant to be a father, not really. Children who call him muña and suckles on his breasts.
His brother has grown small and soft, lending him no advantages in the training yard, but his hips would do well in carrying his brood, and his body would soon adapt to the growing babe inside him. He’s seen how motherhood has only enhanced Rhaenyra’s dark charms. He traces the curves of her body in the mirror, from her full hips to her thighs, strong from riding, and her breasts that nearly spill out from the tight bodice of her dress.
A sharp thrust pushes him into the pillow, and the sleeve falls to reveal the heavy swell of her tits and the dark rounds of her nipples, puffy and enlarged from nursing all her whelps. Aemond’s fingers find the peaked nub and pinches them slightly. Aegon yelps, hand scrambling to grab at his shoulder, and pleads, “Uncle.”
The groan that escapes him is damningly loud.
Aemond feels his whole body tremble as he thrusts into his cunt, heat coiling like a beast under his skin. His hand scramble to grip the headboard, knuckles turning white, as he fucks his wife to chase his peak, to put a babe in her. They’ve already had one, haven't they? A little Aegon with his mother’s smile and his father’s eyes? Perhaps the next one would be Viserys, the next little Baelon.
Aegon has stayed mercifully silent tonight, playing the innocent bride, but now the words flow like honey and wine.
Uncle, he keeps moaning, as he writhes, trapped between the silk of the dress and Aemond’s body, impaled on his cock. He is a vision, beautiful and wanton and lovely, even as his gut twists at the too familiar curve of his wicked grin.
Uncle, uncle, uncle, he whimpers, triumphant in his temptation, crooning just how good his husband’s cock feels inside him, thick and long and hard, how he’s been such good girl to be worthy of receiving his seed, how he wants him to breed him until he’s given him a dozen babes to fill the keep, to bring restore House Targaryen back to their glory.
Silver haired, purple eyed trueborns. One the heir, the other princes and princesses. Dragonriders, all of them, he promises, with dragon eggs in their cradles all to hatch for their riders. Then, slyly, Perhaps the eggs would fare better in Dragonstone.
Aemond wants Aegon to shut his mouth. He wants Aegon to never stop talking. His grip slips from the headboard, and his thrusts become desperate, frantic.
“Uncle,” Aegon demands, and Aemond can’t deny him. He surges forward to capture his lips. They kiss like they’re devouring each other, damp and sticky and frenzied and soft. Aegon tastes of wine and blood from his bitten lips, and he wonders if his blood tastes the same.
Aemond comes with a breathless gasp, his face buried into the crook of Aegon’s neck and spilling into his brother. He collapses over him trapping him onto the bed with his body. He buries himself deeper to let the seed take as he catches his breath.
When he pulls out, a thin stream of his seed trickles out, matching the white pearl of his dress. Aemond’s chest heave and he dips his fingers into the sticky mess to fuck it back into him. Aegon whimpers again and something wet joins the sticky mess between his trembling thighs. Aemond sees that Aegon’s spilled himself, the wetness splattered over where his womb would be.
He rolls off his brother, and for a moment, they stay lying side by side, staring up at the mirrored ceiling, Aegon’s violet eyes meeting Aemond’s lilac and sapphire. Aemond feels sweat gathered behind his neck, dampening his hair. Aegon is wet all over, utterly debauched, his legs splayed out and the dress gathered under his arms.
Aemond takes a long breath and pushes himself onto his feet. Aegon makes a small noise of protest that quietens when he returns with a wet rag he’d set aside earlier. His brother is pliant as he cleans him, his eyes fluttering closed as Aemond runs the cloth down his legs. He wipes away the sticky mess on his trembling thighs, and nudges them closed.
The dress hasn’t been ruined, Aegon having pulled it all the way up his chest as he reached his peak and spilled his seed over his stomach. Aemond rubs the fabric of the hem between his fingers and pulls it down, covering Aegon’s body again. He fixes his sleeves back over his shoulders and adjusts bodice properly.
After taking a rag over his own body, he returns to the bed. He has to wake up even earlier to get Aegon back to his rooms and break his fast with their mother and visit Helaena in the nursery, but for a moment, he lets himself sink back down next to his brother. His limbs feel loose with a good ache in his shoulders, and he blinks languidly at the mirror above.
They must be doing the same now, he thinks as he stares at his unlaced shirt and Aegon’s long gown. Rhaenyra and Daemon keep together often, unlike their mother and father, and he’s seen the looks shared over the dinner table, one of promise for behind doors. The coy flutter of his sister’s pale lashes, shameless as she flaunts her swollen belly. The smirk Daemon sends in return, his eyes darkening as he places his hands over her ripe womb. It would send an unbidden shiver down his spine, making him feel as though he was intruding.
It was not dissimilar to the way his uncle had looked in the throne room. The neat arc of his arm, a blink, then Vaemond Velaryon’s head was on the floor, his tongue still rolling out. People had shrieked and screamed at the blood. His uncle only wiped the famed blade clean on his doublet with a sly, amused twist of his lips before he glanced at his wife. Dark eyes, and a promise for behind doors, the look of a predator with a kill in its mouth.
The reflection blurs as Aegon moves with a flail of his limbs. His brother crawls over him, pressing one hand over his chest, the other hovering over his eye. Aemond stiffens, turning wary and staring back at Aegon with his remaining eye.
When he doesn’t push him away, Aegon unties the cord to pull the leather patch free. Without it, it’s evident just how much the scar has disfigured him, taking over his face. It strikes through his brow and runs down his cheek in a sharp arc, the skin long healed but remaining red and discoloured. There is no pupil or whites of human eyes, only the cold, glittering blue of the sapphire stone set in the empty socket. The nerves there had been torn but he can still feel the phantom pressure behind his other eye.
His brother trails a finger down his face. Aemond remains still, following the motion in the mirror. Not many people veer close enough to truly see his missing eye. Most fail to even see his scar, always turning away quickly after they’d so blatantly stared in morbid curiosity. He remembers the horror dawning in his mother’s eyes as she held his hand while the maester took the needle to his skin.
His touch is light as a feather, gentle as it makes its way down his face. Aegon looks at him then, without the haze of wine clouding him, without averting his eyes. He leans down and presses a kiss over his eye, a brush of his lips against the stone.
“Freak,” Aegon says affectionately.
His breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He feels himself smile in spite of it all, a brief twitch of his lips, and he stays on the bed as his brother blows out the lone candle and attaches himself to his side, pressing so close that he’s lying half on top of him with his head nestled on Aemond’s chest.
Aegon is restless, first his legs twisting against the silk skirt, then his shoulders digging into his chest as he moves to get comfortable. He drums his fingers on his chest and rubs the pads of his fingers over the shirt fabric before his fingers find the thin skin under his nails.
Aemond catches Aegon’s wrists and pulls his hands apart so he can stop picking at his nail beds. It’s an unfortunate habit of his, so similar to their mother, along with just how much he fidgets. Aemond holds one of his brother’s hands, and wraps his arm around his shoulders to hold him.
“Go to sleep,” he says, sliding his fingers into Aegon’s. Aegon shudders and melts into his touch. His pathetic, beautiful older brother. His future king.
The truth settles over him them, clear in his mind. He would do the same in that throne room when the need comes, when the crown is laid heavy over his brother’s brow. He would behead a dozen insolent lords and burn down cities. He’d carve out his bastard nephews’ hearts and face their uncle alone as his champion, he wouldn’t have had to ask. Aegon doesn’t deserve his loyalty, but he has it anyways.
“Sleep, little wife,” Aemond murmurs, closing his eye. The pale illusions in the mirror vanish, leaving only the warmth of his brother’s breath on his skin.