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"Brother's mace, most like... He's strong".

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Targaryens: "We must love our brothers"

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you're laughing. he saw them destroy his dragon fursuit before his eyes and you're all laughing.

nothings gonna hurt you baby — aerion targaryen x targaryen!reader, aegon targaryen x targaryen!reader

synopsis: aegon seeks you out after aerion terrifies him in his chambers

note: based off Egg’s retelling in episode 4

You were preparing for bed when the Red Keep finally transformed from a cage into a reprieve.

Candles burned low around your chamber, their flames bending and straightening with each faint draft that crept through the ancient stone.

Shadows clung to the walls like listening things. Your silk sleeping gown whispered when you moved, soft as down, pale as milk, a small luxury considering the wealth of your house.

Here, within these walls, the noise of the realm felt far away. No murmured alliances, no marriage bargains weighed in gold and blood, no talk of wars not yet begun. Only you, the hush and the distant certainty of guards standing watch outside your door, silent as statues.

You sat at your vanity, its dark wood worked with coiling dragons and the three-headed sigil of your house, slowly unpinning your hair. Just as you were taking out the last braid — having dismissed your handmaidens, the door burst open.

“Aegon?”

Your brother stumbled inside as if chased. Candlelight caught on the wet tracks down his cheeks, on the way his hands curled into the fabric of his nightclothes like a drowning boy clutching at reeds.

He was barefoot in his sleep attire, breath uneven, his face pale beneath the silver-gold of his hair. He looked petrified and unruly.

“Egg?” You were on your feet at once, crossing the room, your voice already softening even as fear sharpened your thoughts.

You gathered him to you before he could speak. He pressed his face into your gown and stood there, utterly still. Not sobbing, not shaking. Just hiding, as if your skirts were walls thick enough to keep the world out.

“Sweetling,” you murmured, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other warm between his shoulders. “What’s the matter?”

At your quiet urging, you guided him to the chaise by the hearth. You commanded the guards to leave you. They withdrew and closed the door, sealing you back into candlelight.

You sat beside him and rubbed slow circles along his back, feeling the fragile rise and fall of his breath. You knew this silence. Aegon always needed time—time to order his thoughts, to make himself brave enough to speak them aloud.

“He—he…” The words caught fast in his throat, as if something unseen had reached out to still his tongue. You waited.

“It’s all right, Egg,” you encouraged and assured him at the same time, and meant it even as dread settled in your chest like cold lead.

He swallowed hard. When he looked at you, his eyes were too old for his face, filled with a knowing no child should harbor. “Aerion,” he said at last. “He came into my chambers and he…” His gaze dropped, shame flickering there, though none of this was his to carry. “He held a knife between my legs. He said he’d make me into a sister for him to marry. He was jesting, I suppose.”

The word jesting rang false the moment it left his mouth. Your hand stilled on his back. Heat surged up your spine, sharp and blinding.

Aerion — cruel typical Aerion, beautiful and half-mad with his belief that he was a dragon in human form. You knew his temper, his games, his hunger to prove himself greater than all others, his need to terrorize those smaller than him. He had never turned that venom on you. Never dared. But Aegon was younger. Quieter. Easier to corner. Gods be good.

“That was no jest,” you said softly, though iron edged every syllable. “He had no right. None. I will speak to Father.”

Maekar would listen—wouldn’t he? A king must hear such things. A father must.

Egg shook his head. “It won’t help,” he whispered. “He won’t believe you nor me. He never does.”

For a moment you said nothing. The horrifying certainty sitting like a rock in your gut. You knew the child was right. The candles hissed. Somewhere far below, the castle shifted, stone settling upon stone like an old beast resettling its bones.

You drew him closer then, pressing his head beneath your chin, letting your fingers comb gently through his hair until his breathing slowed. You could not promise him safety—not truly. The Red Keep was full of knives that never touched the hand. But you could give him this.

“Sleep here tonight,” you told him quietly. “You’re not alone. Not while I’m here. Aerion won’t hurt you here and if he tries-” you began. “I’ll command the guards to go for father or Valar.”

He nodded, small and uncertain, still tense in your arms, as if expecting the door to burst open again. You held him anyway, rocking him just enough to soothe, just enough to remind him that warmth could still exist inside stone walls and dragon shadows.

Long after the candles burned lower, Aegon’s grip on your gown loosened, you two laid together and as sleep enveloped you he never fully let go.

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