Lady Lannister
Aegon The Conqueror x Lannister reader Request- "Aegon takes a Lannister wife after Rhaenys, many thought because of your house riches but it becomes known that was not the reason for he dotes and loves you. Screams of pleasure come from the chamber he had shared with you despite having your own" This is a little short and lazy because I'm still having writers block </3 TW :-smut/little manipulation
The castle stank of stale wine and grief. Aegon's boots left dark streaks across the solar floor where he'd kicked over another goblet, the dregs pooling like half-dried blood between the stones. Six months of this...six months of his chambers reeking of sweat and parchment, of his hands shaking from too much blackberry wine at dawn, of the way servants flinched when he passed. Even Visenya had stopped bringing him reports, tossing them at the door instead like one might feed a caged beast.
Then the Lannisters came.
Not with fanfare, not with the gaudy spectacle Aegon had expected from the wealthiest house in Westeros, but like a knife sliding between ribs. Lord Loren entered first, his boots silent on the solar’s wine stained floor, his crimson cloak barely stirring. And then you.
You didn’t shimmer. You didn’t simper. You just were, like sunlight hitting the edge of a blade, impossible to look away from even as it burned. The curtsey was perfunctory, your gaze lifting to his before propriety dictated it should. And Aegon? He forgot how to breathe. Your mouth was a wound. Your hair was wildfire caught in slow motion. And when your father cleared his throat twice before mentioning Visenya’s summons, the king realized he’d been staring at the way your pulse fluttered beneath your jaw like a trapped bird.
"Ah… my wife called for you—" Aegon started, then choked on the words. His fingers flexed, empty. Wife. Rhaenys had been dead half a year, and the word tasted like rust. He waved a servant over with a jerk of his chin, the boy nearly tripping in his haste. "Fetch Visenya." The command came out too sharp, and he saw your brows lift, just a fraction before schooling your expression into something politely blank. He wondered if you practiced that in mirrors.
You didn’t wait for permission to move, which should have enraged him. Instead, he watched, transfixed, as your gloved fingers trailed along the arm of the throne, slow, curious, like a thief testing a lock. The smelted swords snarled beneath your touch, catching the light in jagged fractals. Your father hissed your name, but you didn’t flinch. "It’s colder than I imagined" you mused, and Aegon’s gut twisted. No one spoke to the throne. No one touched it.
The servant boy skittered back with Visenya in tow, her silver braid coiled tight as a noose. She took one look at you, your fingers still lingering on the throne, your chin tilted toward the shadowed rafters and her mouth thinned. "Lord Loren" she said, though her eyes never left you. "Your daughter lacks manners."
You withdrew your hand, slow, deliberate...letting the hilt of a half melted sword snag your glove’s stitching. A thread unraveled, catching on the jagged edge. "Apologies, Your Grace" you murmured, but the words curled like smoke. Your gaze flicked to Aegon again, lingering on the wine stains darkening his sleeves. He wondered if you could smell it on him, the sour tang of grief drowned in Arbor gold.
Visenya sighed through her nose, a sound like steel being drawn. Your father seized your wrist, tugging you back a step, his grip tight enough to bruise. She ignored the tension, turning instead to Aegon. "I wish for Lord Lannister to join our council." Her voice was too smooth, testing. Aegon should have balked, should have remembered the way Loren’s men had burned beneath Balerion’s flames not three years prior.
But his pulse hammered in his throat as you flexed your fingers, the torn glove gaping at the knuckle. "Yes" he said, too quick, too rough. His gaze skittered from Lord Loren’s startled face to the way your skirts whispered against the floor.
In the chambers assigned to House Lannister, rooms too grand for mere guests, too close to the king’s own, your father paced before the hearth. "This is a trap" he muttered, twisting a signet ring around his finger. The firelight caught the ruby in his lion’s maw, staining his cheek bloody. You shrugged out of your cloak, letting it pool at your feet like spilled wine. "Or an opportunity."
You tilted your head toward the adjoining door, the one that led to Aegon’s private corridors. Your father stilled. "You wouldn’t." His voice cracked. You smiled, slow and sharp as a dagger drawn from silk. "He seems to like me father…Do you not wish or me to one day be queen?"
The knock came at midnight, three staccato raps against the oak. You opened it to find Aegon barefoot, his tunic unlaced to the sternum, his breath smelling of mint instead of wine. He didn’t speak. Just stared at the way your shift clung to your thighs, sheer as dragon wing in the candlelight. You stepped aside. He crossed the threshold like a man walking to the gallows, jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides. The door clicked shut behind him.
"You are barefoot, Your Grace" you murmured, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. The rushes whispered beneath your toes as you tugged your shift up just enough to expose the delicate bones of your ankles. Innocence was a game you played well, tilting your head, blinking slow as a cat in sunlight, but Aegon wasn’t looking at your face. His gaze snagged on the ribbon of bare skin above your ankle, where the linen had ridden up. A muscle leapt in his throat.
He crossed the room in three strides. You didn’t flinch when his fingers closed around your calf, callouses scraping the softness behind your knee but your pulse jumped beneath his palm. "Do you often visit ladies' chambers at midnight, my king?" you asked, sweet as poisoned honey. His thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your kneecap, hard enough to bruise. "No" he admitted, voice rough. The admission cost him, you saw it in the clench of his jaw, the way his free hand flexed as if aching to grab something. You let him push the shift higher.
The ribbon of skin became a flood, the curve of your thigh, the dip of your hip, the dark shadow between. His breath hitched. You’d expected hunger. Not this...this trembling reverence, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh like a man mapping a relic. "You’re staring" you murmured, though you weren’t certain he could hear you over the roar of the hearth. His pupils swallowed the violet of his eyes, black as the tunnels beneath Dragonstone.
He knelt. Not the graceful descent of a king, but a collapse, his knees striking the rushes with a dull thud. The sound should have been comical. It wasn’t. His hands bracketed your hips, his thumbs pressing into the sharp crests of your pelvis as if he could imprint himself there. You inhaled soap, the faint metallic tang of his rings and realized he’d bathed for this. The thought unspooled something low in your belly.
Your foot pressed against his sternum, the arch of your bare sole flush with the heat of his skin through the thin linen. He shuddered. “The hour is late, Your Grace” you murmured, curling your toes just enough to feel the pound of his heart. His nostrils flared. You expected fury...the infamous Targaryen temper flaring at being denied, but his grip gentled, his thumbs smoothing circles into your skin like a man soothing a spooked horse. It made your breath catch.
He exhaled through his teeth, his breath hot against your ankle. “You mock me” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. His fingers flexed on your thigh, blunt nails scraping lightly. You laughed, soft, startled and tangled your fingers in his hair. Silver-gold strands slipped through your fingers like molten metal. “Never.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “But even kings must sleep.”
His eyes flicked up...dark, fever bright, and you swore the shadows in the room deepened with it. The shift bunched around your waist now, the linen crumpled in his fists. His breath hitched when your toes pressed harder against his chest, the delicate bones of your foot shifting beneath his tunic. You expected him to tear the fabric. Instead, he exhaled, slow, deliberate, and let his forehead rest against your knee. His pulse rabbited beneath your heel.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then, his lips brushed the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You stiffened. Not from fear, but from the sheer unexpectedness of it. Kings didn’t kneel. Kings didn’t beg. Yet here he was, mouthing at your skin like a drowning man gasping for air. His teeth grazed the soft flesh near your hipbone, and your fingers tightened in his hair. A warning. A plea. He groaned against you, the vibration skittering up your spine.
And then...your giggle. High, bright, incongruous in the charged air. His head jerked up, eyes wild. You shoved at his shoulder with your foot, the motion sending your shift sliding back down in a whisper of linen. “My father might think it improper if I have visitors this late…” You smoothed the fabric over your knees, tilting your head. “No less the king.” The words curled like smoke in the hearth lit dark.
Aegon sat back on his heels, breathing ragged. For a moment, he just stared at your ankle, at the rushes crushed beneath his knees. Then he exhaled, sharp, through his nose. The sound was raw. Unkingly. He stood in one jerky motion, his bare feet tapping the floor as he swayed. You watched, fascinated, as his throat worked, swallowing words, swallowing pride.
"Goodnight" he rasped, already retreating toward the door. It wasn't graceful. His tunic gaped where you'd hooked a toe into the fabric. You curled your legs beneath you, letting the shift pool in your lap like spilled milk. "Will you return?" you asked, tilting your head just enough to catch the way his fingers spasmed against the doorframe.
Aegon's shoulders stiffened. The firelight caught the sweat beading along his hairline, the tremble in his jaw. He didn't turn. "Do you want me to?" The question scraped out of him, raw as a fresh wound. You smiled...slow, secret, and let the silence stretch until his knuckles whitened against the oak.
"Yes" you finally murmured, dragging a fingertip along the embroidered edge of your shift. The fabric whispered against your skin like a promise. His exhale shuddered through the room, uneven. You watched his reflection in the darkened window, the way his throat worked, the tension in his shoulders as he fought not to turn.
The first month was a dance of stolen glances and half finished sentences. You left your gloves draped over the arm of his throne, always the left one, always torn at the seam where the Iron Throne had snagged it. Aegon began collecting them like a knight gathering favors, tucking them beneath his pillow where the scent of him lingered.
He stopped drinking at dawn. Started training in the yard again, the drag of balckfyre through the air sharp enough to draw blood from the whispers trailing in your wake.
Your father caught you humming in the solar one evening, twisting a loose thread from your latest "lost" glove around your finger. "You play a dangerous game" he muttered, watching you coil the silk tighter until the tip of your finger purpled. You smiled, not the sweet, demure thing you gave the court, but something sharper. "He hasn't touched me." The thread snapped. Your father's jaw tightened. "And when he does? When he tires of chasing shadows?" You stood, smoothing your skirts with deliberate slowness. "Then I'll have him exactly where I want him."
Aegon, meanwhile, had taken to leaving his own tokens, a single dragon's scale on your windowsill, still warm from Balerion's hide, a misspelled note tucked into your embroidery hoop, you treasured the shaky "Aegon" more than the perfect "Your Grace".
The court whispered the king was courting for the wish to have the riches that come with that of a Lannister. Visenya's nostrils flared every time she caught you tracing the melted swords of his throne with your bare fingertips. But the king? The king stopped flinching at sudden noises. The king stopped drowning himself in wine. The king started laughing again, rough and surprised, when you "accidentally" spilled ink down his council reports.
The first time he kissed you, it wasn't in some shadowed alcove or moonlit garden. It was in the middle of court, with half the realm watching, when you leaned over to whisper something vile about Lord Baratheon's beard, something about it looking like a startled hedgehog, and Aegon, halfway through a sip of wine, choked. You patted his back, all false concern, and his lips caught your wrist instead. The hall fell silent. His mouth was warm, his tongue flicking against your pulse point like he could taste the lie. You didn't pull away. Neither did he.
That night, he didn't knock. The door swung open to reveal him already half undressed, his hair wild from clawing his own hands through it. You were sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over your eyes like a maiden in a mummer's farce. "You're late" you sighed, peeking through your fingers. His boot hit the floor with a thud. "You humiliated me today." A lie.
His voice was too thick with want. You stretched, letting the neckline of your shift gape. "Did I?" He was on you before the last syllable faded, his teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder. You gasped, not at the pain, but at the way his hips canted against yours, the hard line of him pressing into your thigh.
He didn't ask this time. His fingers tangled in your shift, the fabric ripping at the seams with a sound like tearing parchment. You let him. Let him push you flat against the mattress, let him drag his mouth down your throat like a man starved. When his hand slid between your thighs, you arched into his touch with a whimper that wasn't entirely feigned. "Please" you breathed, and the word snapped something in him. He fumbled with his breeches, his fingers shaking against the laces. You reached down, brushing his knuckles. "Let me." The knot came apart beneath your fingers like a promise unraveling.
The first thrust stole your breath. Not from pain, you'd prepared mentally for that, but from the way his pupils blew wide, his lips parting on a soundless gasp. You dug your nails into his shoulders, dragging him deeper.
He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and uneven. "Gods" he rasped, hips stuttering. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back. "More" you demanded, and he obeyed like a man drowning. The bedframe creaked. The headboard knocked against the wall in a rhythm that would leave bruises on the stone by morning.
His hands mapped your body like a blind man memorizing scripture, palm skimming the dip of your waist, thumb tracing the arch of your ribcage. "Perfect" he breathed against your collarbone, lips brushing the hollow there. You arched, gasping when his teeth scraped the swell of your breast. He worshipped you. Not with the practiced reverence of a king performing duty, but with the clumsy, starving devotion of a man who'd forgotten what sunlight felt like until it burned him alive. His tongue circled your skin, slow, savoring, and you twisted your fingers in his hair with a whimper.
He pulled back, just enough to see your face and the raw awe in his expression made your throat tighten. "Look at you" he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your stomach. His voice cracked. "Look at what you've done to me." His hips rolled against yours, the hot length of him pressing into you. You felt drunk with it, the way his breath hitched when you skimmed your nails down his back, the shudder that wracked him as you nipped at his jaw.
He moved like a man half-drowned in pleasure, each thrust measured, deliberate, as if terrified you might dissolve beneath him. His fingers tangled with yours, pinning your hand above your head as he pressed his forehead to yours. "Say my name" he begged, his breath hot against your lips. You arched beneath him, gasping when his free hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit with rough, reverent fingers. "Aegon—" His groan was visceral, his hips stuttering as he swallowed your cry with a kiss that tasted of salt and want.
The headboard cracked against the wall with renewed force. You could hear beyond the door, a servant dropped a tray with a rather loud clatter. His teeth sank into your shoulder, not the playful nip from before, but a claiming bite that would bruise. You clawed at his back, dragging him deeper, and he cursed into your skin when your walls clenched around him. "Again" he demanded, voice ragged. You obeyed, tightening around him with a whimper that sent his control splintering. His release tore through him with a shout that echoed off the rafters, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you with ragged, gasping thrusts.
After, he collapsed atop you, all sweat-slick skin and heaving lungs, his forehead pressed to your chest. You could feel his heart hammering against your ribs. His breath was hot against your damp skin as he murmured something incoherent…your name, a prayer, a plea…his lips brushing your collarbone. You carded your fingers through his tangled hair, and he shuddered like a storm-tossed ship finding harbor.
It was the silence that unnerved you, the absence of his usual sharp wit or biting sarcasm. He simply lay there, breathing you in, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip as if memorizing the topography of your body. When he finally lifted his head, his violet eyes were dark, unfathomable. "You'll stay" he said, and it wasn't a question. You arched a brow, but before you could retort, his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Not tonight. Always." His voice was rough, raw, the sound of a man who'd spent too long choking on his own grief.
You smiled, slow and knowing, feeling your plan click into place like the tumblers of a lock yielding to the right pressure. Your hand slid into his sweat damp hair, fingers tightening just enough to make his breath catch. "Always is a long time, my king" you murmured, but you were already lifting his face to yours, sealing the words with a kiss that tasted of salt and surrender. His groan vibrated against your tongue, his hands gripping your waist like he feared you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You nipped at his lower lip, savoring the way his hips jerked against yours in response.
Dawn crept through the window like a thief, painting the wreckage of the night in pale gold, the shredded shift tangled at the foot of the bed, his tunic flung halfway across the room, the imprint of his fingers still blooming violet on your hips. You slipped from his arms while he slept, his face slack with exhaustion, his fingers twitching against the empty space where your body had been. You dressed quickly, pausing only to press a kiss to the knuckles of his outstretched hand, the one still clutching the rumpled sheets as if they could anchor him to the dream of you.
The maids were already whispering when you stepped into the hall. Their voices cut off like a strangled gasp when you appeared, but not before you caught the words "screaming like a whore" and "the king's never—". You smiled, slow as a knife being drawn, and watched their faces blanch. One dropped into a curtsey so deep her knee hit the stone with a crack. You didn't help her up. Instead, you turned on your heel and strode back to your chambers—no, his chambers now, judging by the way he'd snarled "mine" into your skin last night, and threw the door open with enough force to make the hinges scream.
Aegon jerked upright, sheets clutched to his waist, his hair a wild tangle of silver gold. The morning light caught the fresh scratches down his chest, the bite marks purpling his shoulder. His eyes, still hazy with sleep widened when he saw you. He rasped your name, voice wrecked. You didn't let him finish. "The maids are talking" you announced, kicking the door shut behind you. His brow furrowed. "About…?" You stepped closer, letting him see the way your skirts swayed with each deliberate movement. "About how the king spent half the night making a Lannister roar..." You dragged a finger along the edge of the mattress, watching his throat bob. "I thought you should know… before the rumors reach your sister-wife"
His fingers twitched against the sheets. "Visenya won't—" "Oh, she will" you interrupted, flashing him a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
"Especially when she hears what they're calling me." You turned away abruptly, pretending to fuss with the torn hem of your sleeve. "They say I'm your whore now. That you'll never wed me properly." Aegon's breath hitched. "I never—"
"I know" you sighed, cutting him off again. "But my father…" You let your voice wobble. "He'll take me back to Casterly Rock if he thinks you've dishonored me." The bed creaked as Aegon surged forward, his fingers closing around your wrist. "No." The word came out rough, desperate. You blinked up at him, letting your lower lip tremble. "No?" His grip tightened. "You're not going anywhere." You let your knees buckle then, sinking to the rushes with a choked sob. "Then what am I to you, Your Grace?"
His hands shook as they framed your face, thumbs brushing away tears that hadn't quite fallen. "Mine" he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. "My queen." The words hung in the air like smoke from Balerion's jaws, hot, suffocating. You leaned back just enough to see his face, watching realization dawn in his violet eyes. "Seven hells" he breathed, but his grip didn't loosen. You smiled, slow, victorious, and pressed your palm flat against his chest where his heart hammered wild as a caged dragon. "Say it again" you whispered. His lips parted, then froze as the door burst open.
Visenya stood silhouetted against the torchlight, Dark Sister gleaming at her hip. Her nostrils flared at the sight of you kneeling between Aegon's bare thighs, his fingers tangled in your hair. "husband" she said, voice colder than the Wall. Aegon didn't move. "Sister." The word came out hoarse. You watched his throat bob as Visenya's gaze raked over the bite marks purpling his shoulder, the scratches down his chest. Her lip curled. "The small council awaits" she bit out, knuckles white on the doorframe. "They're voting on the Dornish situation."
You pressed your cheek against Aegon's knee, feeling the muscle twitch beneath your lips. "Tell them the king is occupied" you murmured, tracing idle circles on his calf. Visenya's sword hissed halfway from its scabbard. Aegon's hand clamped down on your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to still your fingers. "Enough." His voice cracked like a whip. You blinked up at him, all innocence, but his eyes were fixed on his sister. "We'll be there."
Visenya's fingers spasmed around Dark Sister's hilt. "We?" The word dripped venom. You smiled, slow and knowing, and rose in a ripple of silk, deliberately close enough for Aegon to catch your scent, for Visenya to see the fresh bruises peeking above your neckline. Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose. "She comes" he said, and this time his voice held the steel of command. "I have an announcement."
Visenya scoffed, not the huff of a thwarted woman, but the sound of a dragoness who'd already tasted the trap's metal. She slammed the door hard enough to make the hinges scream, leaving Aegon to dress in the wreckage of your night. You watched his reflection in the window, the way his fingers hesitated over his breeches, still damp with your shared sweat, before yanking them on with rough, jerky motions.
"Here" you mumbled, turning his head toward you as you smoothed the rumpled tunic over his shoulders. The fabric smelled of crushed rosemary and sex. His throat bobbed when your fingers brushed the fresh bite mark beneath his collarbone. "I will make you happy" you whispered, fastening the last hook with deliberate slowness. His breath hitched, not at the words, but at your thumb tracing the hollow of his throat where his pulse rabbited.
Aegon caught your wrist. "You already have" he rasped, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart hammered against your fingers, wild, untamed. You smiled, slow as sunrise, and leaned in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Then wait until you see what comes next." His grip tightened convulsively, knuckles whitening against your skin.
The small council chamber fell silent when you entered at Aegon's side. Loren Lannister's goblet hit the table with a clatter. Visenya's fingers flexed near Dark Sister's hilt. Only Rhaenys' empty chair remained untouched, the velvet cushions still holding the ghostly impression of her form. You felt Aegon tense beside you, his grief a living thing before his hand found the small of your back, warm through the silk.
You'd greeted each lord with deliberate grace earlier, pressing a kiss to your father's cheek, only for him to recoil when your skin carried nothing but Aegon's scent. The rosemary oil from his bath last night, the metallic tang of dragon fire, the musk of sweat and sex that clung to you both like a second skin. Your father's nostrils had flared, his grip on your arm tightening. "You let him—" he'd begun, only to choke when you smiled and whispered, "No, father. I made him."
Now, standing before the council with Aegon's palm searing through your gown, you watched Lord Baratheon's beard twitch like the hedgehog you'd mocked. The silence thickened until Aegon's fingers flexed against your spine, a king's command. You stepped forward, letting the movement pull your neckline taut enough to reveal the purpling bite above your breast. Gasps rippled through the room.
"I shall take Lady Lannister as my wife." Aegon's voice, usually so measured, cracked like dry kindling. His thumb traced your hipbone through the silk. "I trust no one objects to this decision." Not a question...a warning. Visenya's chair screeched backward, but it was your father who surged to his feet first, his golden chain clinking like shackles.
"Your Grace" Lord Loren began, knuckles white around his goblet. You watched wine slosh onto the polished oak, a spreading stain darker than the marks Aegon had left between your thighs. "Surely such matters require—"
"The matter" Aegon interrupted, "is settled." His fingers slid up your spine, proprietary and hot even through the layers of silk. You arched into the touch like a cat sunning itself, watching Visenya's nostrils flare as the movement made your gown gape. The bite mark shone livid in the torchlight.
You beamed, all teeth and triumph until your gaze caught on your father's face. Lord Loren's lips had thinned to a bloodless slash, his golden brows drawn tight over eyes gone hard as Casterly Rock. Without breaking your smile, you excused yourself with a murmur about "refreshments" fingers closing around your father's wrist with deceptive delicacy. He followed, but not before tossing a last, withering glance at Aegon, who was too busy watching the sway of your hips to notice.
The moment the council chamber door clicked shut, Loren wrenched his arm free. "You fool" he hissed, dragging you into the shadow. His fingers dug into your shoulders hard enough to bruise. "You think bedding him makes you queen?" You let your lashes flutter, all false innocence. "It made Rhaenys queen." Your father's grip tightened. "Rhaenys was Targaryen."
From beyond the door came the muffled crash of a goblet hitting stone, Visenya's voice, sharp as Dark Sister's edge. You tilted your head, listening to Aegon's answering growl. "Hear that?" you murmured, pressing closer. "He's defending me already." Loren exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of sour wine clinging to his breath. "Defending his right to fuck you, you mean."
You smiled, slow as poison seeping through honeyed wine. "Do you not wish for your blood to be royal, father?" Your fingers traced the golden lion brooch at his throat, the one he'd fastened with such pride this morning. Now it felt like a collar. "Think of it" you whispered. "Grandsons with dragonfire in their veins. Your legacy written in Valyrian steel instead of ledger books." His grip slackened, just enough for you to twist free.
The door creaked open behind you. Aegon stood framed in the torchlight, his tunic rumpled where your nails had raked it. His violet eyes flicked between you and Loren, lingering on the reddening marks his fingers had left on your arms. "Is there a problem?" The words came out low, dangerous, more dragon than king.
You turned with a laugh bright as shattered glass, pressing your palm to your father's chest before he could speak. "None at all, Your Grace." Your fingers curled into the golden embroidery of Loren's doublet, nails biting through silk. "My father was just saying how happy…" you paused, watching Aegon's nostrils flare as your thumb traced the Lannister sigil over your father's heart, "…how very happy he is for us."
Lord Loren's jaw clenched, a tremor you felt through your grip, but when you dug your fingers in harder, he exhaled through his nose like a bull yielding to the ringmaster's whip. "Indeed" he ground out, the word scraping his throat raw. His hand rose to cover yours, the gesture almost tender if not for the way his signet ring pressed into your knuckles hard enough to leave crescents in your skin. "The honor is… immeasurable."
Aegon's eyes narrowed at the white-knuckled tension between you, but you stepped back smoothly, draping yourself against his side with a sigh. "Father's overcome" you murmured, pressing your lips to the hinge of Aegon's jaw where his pulse jumped. His arm slid around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your hip.
Everyone had been right where you wanted them to be...in the palm of your hand.
