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Mother only kisses him when she's very angry. Tongue down his throat, scraping, shaking, her eyes vast and dark as twin graves. Nails sinking into his cheek, trembling on his bare chest. His lids flutter against his will, the world flickering out, a buzz crawling through his veins like a scream.
"You never listen." Her voice is taut, she's got her hand on his jaw again, mouth popping open, wet. Her thumb scrapes the roof of his mouth, tapping on his tongue like the time one of Helaena's caterpillars crawled into his mouth while he was sleeping.
He squeezed Helaena's face like that once, just to see what it looked like, then let go as if burned. She just blinked at him as if he'd never touched her at all. Aegon slides over her like water over stone, and Mother sinks into him like a blade into flesh.
"Why don't you listen?" Mother's skirts press against him, she's covered and he's not, that feels unfair, somehow. His cock stirs between his legs, already coming back after he'd spilled out the window, swaying dangerously, wondering if he'd topple out and paint himself over the Keep's steps like an offering.
"Sorry," he forces out. It's a lie, she knows that. He hadn't been sorry when the pig emerged, when Aemond flinched as if struck, shameful and sorrowful, unable to meet his eyes. He hadn't been sorry when his nephews laughed like he told them to laugh, told him don't worry, Aemy won't really mind.
They trust him, is the thing. Aemond doesn't trust him, Father and Helaena don't trust him, Mother doesn't trust him or she wouldn't be crawling on top of him like this. His nephews trust him, because they're young and stupid and tender in a way Aegon never was and never will be.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, as her hand fists in his hair. It curls like hers does, like Aemond's does when he's not putting shit in it to make it straight, trying to turn himself into Uncle Daemon every chance he gets. "Sorry, Mama."
She sighs, like she's tired. It's early in the morning and she's already tired, because of Aegon--there's guilt there, but also victory. For once she's paying attention to him instead of the little twat, and nothing else really matters compared to that.
Her hand rests on his stomach, pets down his chest, and she's chewing her lip like she does when they visit Oldtown and she comes out of Grandfather's rooms, hesitant, lost, distracted. Chewing on her fingers until her hands shine red.
Bad habit, she scolds, when she sees Aegon doing it. So he drinks, but that's a bad habit too, apparently. He makes fun of his brother, but that's the worst habit of all. Sometimes it feels like the best habit is to just lie in the sheets, still as one of Helaena's dolls, so still he's barely breathing.
Her hand wraps around his cock and he whines, just a little. He doesn't remember a lot of his childhood, rubbing it out with wine and silence, but she remembers the first time she grabbed his cock as punishment--how old was he, ten?--how much it hurt, how he'd cried, pathetic animal noises. How she'd let go immediately and whispered apologies, stroking his hair, voice shaking, eyes huge.
It's funny how Mother can take the part of Aegon that means he's supposed to be king one day, the part that's supposed to make him strong, and turn into a weapon against him instead. An unsettling thing, the world shifting off its axis.
Things are always topsy-turvy with Mother. Dragons become pigs, boys become dolls. In this world, we look after our own, but his sister will kill him and Aemond one day, apparently. Family means everything, unless it's time to eat each other alive instead.
Her hand strokes him roughly. It hurts--it's a punishment, after all--but it feels good too, like things often do with Mother. Her hips move against him oddly, distractedly; she's nothing like the whores he's bedded, she doesn't know what she's doing. Four children and she doesn't know what she's doing.
If he was brave enough he'd touch her, show her what he knows, try to help her feel good. But that would make her upset, and besides, he's not sure his limbs would work correctly if he tried. He feels disjointed in his own body, drifting out of it to float around the room.
She's still talking, more stuff about duty and honor and family and sacrifice and all that rot. He's going to forget it anyway; he always does. Every memory he has of her is full of holes, ragged gaps where the maggots squirmed out.
"Your sister seeks to disinherit you," she whispers. "Mocks you every day of your life, spawns bastards to steal your throne, and you let her. You eat away at our house like vermin, and she will kill you for it."
How will she do it? he's tempted to ask. Will it be a beheading, a burning? Will Rhaenyra slit his throat in the night or throw him out the window, put a pillow over his head while he sleeps? If she's gentle about it, he might not mind that much.
And Aemond--Aemond is dragonless, which makes him meaningless, and they all know that even if Mother pretends not to. She could ship Aemond off to Oldtown with what's-his-name, the other brother, if she really wanted to, keep him safe, but she doesn't. She keeps him close, she keeps them both close, because she loves them, she does.
Mother doesn't touch Aemond like this, though. He's too good for it, too sweet, too pure, like Helaena. She restrains herself around them like she tries to restrain herself around Aegon, guilty, fearful, until he summons her back with oinking sacrifices and little-brother tears, a vengeful goddess descending from above.
From his place near the ceiling, he watches her straddle him, smooth green skirts hitched up like a tree sprouting from his bones. Her cunt rubs against his cock, just a little--too clever to let him inside, to risk whispers of moon tea when they all know damn well Father hasn't been capable of fucking anything for years.
Aegon wants to flip her onto her back, fill her up, keep her warm. Rest his cheek on his stomach as she swells, the way Jace and Luke have done these past several months, talking to the baby growing inside their mother in chirpy happy voices.
Jace's hand on his hand, tugging, trusting. Mother, can Aegon feel, too? Rhaenyra never would have let him near her stomach if her sons hadn't asked, but she'd nodded regally, and her skin had rippled under his hand like ocean waves, vast and unknowable and so wonderful it hurt.
Mother's nail scrapes along the head of his cock, and tears come to his eyes. Aegon can't feel them, but he can see them staining the boy lying on the bed, trembling in his mother's arms. Gems in a crown, melting down his face to bury in his skin.
She touches him like he wants to rip his cock off, and sometimes he fantasizes about her doing just that. Ripping his cock off, and Aemond's to boot, cutting cunts between their legs and stitching wombs into their bellies, wrapping them in silken gowns and braiding flowers into their hair, pretty little princesses for their nephews to fuck instead of fight.
He'd be such a good daughter, better than Helaena; he'd never flinch from her touch, he'd lean into it, offering himself up like they say Rhaenyra used to. He'd give her fat happy grandchildren, squalling like piglets, make Jace breed him over and over again until they got one with red hair.
Mother's thumb digs into his slit and he cries out, but she kisses him before the noise can escape, swallowing sound like babes swallow milk. Her lips tremble against his, and Aegon wants to stroke her hair, tell her it's alright, Mummy's here, but she'd just think he was mocking her.
"I won't let her take you," she whispers against him, pumping his cock with every word. "She doesn't get to take anything else from me, not ever." Like he's a toy Rhaenyra could steal, something precious and breakable and hers.
Aegon grinds against her in response, faster, faster. His cock scrapes painfully against the rippling folds of her dress, or maybe the folds of her cunt, it feels all the same to him at this point. She's green down there as she's green everywhere else, a woman opening up into a forest.
He's walking through that forest with her, hand in hand, two steps for every one of hers. Walking towards a stone amidst the trees, an altar like they used to sacrifice for the old gods. There should be an offering there, pink and squealing, but try as he might he can't find the pig.
Then she pushes him on his back and he thinks, oh, the pig is a dragon is a boy. There's a knife in her hand and her eyes are so soft and tender, tender as the blade dragging up his chest, tender as the point sinking through his throat--
"Mummy," he whines, spasming into her hand. He can't tell if it hurts or feels good, the lines are too twisted up to tell, and he's not sure it matters either way.
Mother pulls away with a noise of disgust, hurriedly wiping her hand off on his thigh. Aegon squirms at the warm drip of his own seed, staining his legs like it's been spilled into him instead of the other way around.
He lays on his back, staring at nothing, breathing gently. It's important that he doesn't look at her; he doesn't want to see the revulsion in her eyes, or worse, the guilt. The shame that haunts her after they do something like this, until she can't even meet his eyes, until he has to fuck up again just so she'll look at him.
She smooths the hair out of his face, wipes the tears from his eyes. He wonders if she'll bend down to kiss his forehead, but she doesn't seem to trust herself enough for that.
"Get dressed," she says, voice soft and gentle. The bed creaks as she pushes herself to her feet and leaves him there, closing the door gently behind her, like he's sleeping and she doesn't want to wake him up.
Aegon stares at the ceiling for a very long time, not really thinking about much of anything. There's a distant buzz as flies come to investigate the seed staining his leg, wings fluttering against his skin like tiny heartbeats.