8.Dancing with Desire

Warning: Semi-graphic scene.

258 AC

The Young Prince

To his great dismay, daybreak saw Aerys blearily drag his legs to the training yard instead of remaining abed. As a prince of the blood, he had always enjoyed a leisurely morning, waking up whenever he felt rested enough and turning to training later in the day. But here he was, not of his own choosing for once—not today, nor the previous three mornings.

Thwack!

The sword was like a viper, lunging at his joints with frightening precision. The shield in his left hand felt useless; when lifted, the blunted blade immediately struck at the top of his shin—half an inch below the knee—rattling his leg even through the greave. It would leave a bruise, too. Aerys had won many such trophies across his limbs and torso from the previous three days. When he lowered the shield, it was his head and neck that suffered a storm of blows.

This was punishment, plain and clear, and he could do nothing but endure it. 

The blunted sword was unyielding, coming in swift and fierce. Swifter and fiercer than him or any of the other squires he had faced. Aerys tried to strike back, but the opening only saw his side mercilessly swatted. Stifling a grunt, the prince huddled behind the shield, lodging his shoulder behind the inner lining in a half-crouch. 

His foe slammed into the shield, sending him sprawling on the packed earth. 

Aerys tasted copper on his tongue as he blinked at the sky above. The pink, sunlit clouds swayed in an uneasy but enchanting circle, much like the drapes of a lady’s parlour. Gods, how he missed his feathered bed. He would trade the world for another good hour or two of sleep without thinking twice.

“Get up,” his father’s wheezing voice echoed from above as he came into view, visor lifted. His usually pale face was reddened with exertion and glistening with sweat, with two eyes now harsh and cold like jagged amethysts. “Or do you prefer to go without wine and spiced food?”

‘I would rather not eat at all,’ he wanted to say, but no words left his mouth, only ragged gasps. Aerys lacked his sister’s stubborn grit to starve himself out. Rhaella’s newfound determination still surprised him to no end, since he had thought his sister a meek child who would obey their parents’ every command, no matter how stifling.

But him? Just the thought of going the evening without a juicy steak or a roasted pheasant made him shiver. And it shamed him to be lesser than his younger sister.

“If you think it shameful, try harder,” Jaehaerys said, taking deep, slow breaths. Was he rea— “And I’m not reading your mind, Aerys. Your thoughts are written on your face as plain as day.” 

“I just don’t know what the aim of this senseless punishment is,” Aerys huffed, dragging himself back to his feet. “I learn nothing, and it’s like you take some perverse joy in smacking your sleepy son around each dawn. I have never seen you lift a sword before, and now…” And now you do so only to punish me.

Jaehaerys’s eyes softened. “I take no joy in this, son. Each strike that lands pains me as much as it does you.” 

“If it hurts you so much, maybe you should let Ser Maron train me instead?”

“So he could hold back in fear of offending the future king? I think not.” Aerys stifled a groan as his father’s gaze grew distant. “When I were but a boy, I wished to be a great swordsman.”

“But your body is—”

“Fragile, yes. As those born a moon too early, I was cursed with a weakness that would not leave, no matter what I did. Others could eat and drink and make merry as they wished, but the moment I ate the wrong thing or stood in the wind for too long, my health would crumble. Three minutes against any knight worth his salt or a skilled squire would see me breathless and my heart hammer painfully against my ribs, threatening to burst. And yet, I dared to dream of it. I still do.” 

“But you spar with me for near an hour,” muttered Aerys, reluctantly lifting his shield. 

“Because you are weak,” Jaehaerys said bluntly. “You have far more talent with the sword than I could ever hope for, and a body better than mine. Better than most, even. Yet you squander it all for baser pleasures, thinking it’s not worth pursuing merely because you think you can never reach the heights of Daemon the Rogue Prince or Aemon the Dragon Knight.”

The young prince averted his gaze, unable to face the disappointment in his father’s eyes. It cut deeper than any sword ever could. “…When did you get so good with a sword, father?”

“Good? I’m barely passable. Every second dawn, I trained in the ballroom since I was little—out of sight and away from the cool wind that could see me bedridden for days, though there is no danger of that now.” As if to confirm Jaehaerys’s words, a warm, fluttering breeze came from Blackwater Bay, caressing Aerys’s skin like a lover. “It is half a torture for my body remains fragile and limbs thin, no matter how much I swing my sword. Yet I grit my teeth and see it through, training at daybreak so long as I have the strength to get out of bed. I am already ill of health, and any further display of weakness is fatal for a crown prince like me.”

Aerys wanted to say that a prince or a king had no need to fight. But the words would not leave his mouth. His grandsire had fought in three Blackfyre Rebellions. King Maekar had perished in the Storming of Starpike when the Peakes had revolted, too. 

Heat flooded across his face. The shame burned hotter once his eyes flickered to the training sword fallen to the side. He had known all of this, but… it had been easier to shirk the effort in the training yard. It had been easier to seek a woman’s warm touch than the sweat and bruises and aches that came with training. Far more enjoyable, too.

His father pulled down his visor and stepped back, blunted sword pointed at Aerys’s chest. “Again. Get in stance. I will match you in strength and speed this time.” 

The young prince palmed his fallen sword and stood up, less reluctantly this time. 

All his previous excuses rang hollow in his ears, now that he had seen his sire so skilled despite his frail body.

‘I will work harder on my swordwork,’ he swore, getting into stance. ‘And not a lick of wine or women until I win at least once.”

For five days, they ran him ragged. The beatings had stopped after that talk, shifting into proper training. When it wasn’t the training yard, his grandsire would let him sit by the Iron Throne with the councillors, listening to petitions and how the realm was run. His mother would take him to pray in the Great Sept, or Uncle Duncan would train him with lance, spear, and bow, and teach him hunting. Or even ride through the city to show him the work of the gold cloaks. From dawn till dusk, tasks were piled up on Aerys’s shoulders.

There was no time or strength left for quick thrills with some pretty maiden, and his wine had been replaced with lemon water, all raw and bitter and without the pleasant warmth of dry wine. The only pleasure afforded to him was food, though the young prince could barely take relish when his tired fingers struggled to hold a fork during dinner.

As harsh as this hellish gauntlet was, Aerys saw the growth of his skills. It was not some great leap in ability, but small things that had previously stumped him no longer did, like footing, timing, and riposte. And he could finally beat Steffon twice in a row, winning more rounds than he lost. 

Aerys suspected the newfound success would be short-lived. His younger cousin gritted his teeth and tried harder, then lingered for longer in the yard, training with his uncle Harbert, a skilled knight and master of all weapons of war.

His father had fallen sick halfway, and the knowledge burned in Aerys’s mind like a hot coal. 

“Never have I seen Prince Jaehaerys train for so long,” Ser Rolland Darklyn had said to him the morning his sire had grown ill. There was no accusation in the words, but they still felt like a stab in his chest. 

He had gone to his father’s quarters and was met with the numbing smell of herbs and poultice. The armoured warrior that had bludgeoned him in the yard for days was gone, replaced by a thin, shivering man who couldn’t get out of bed. His face was paler than chalk today, drenched in sweat as the acolytes fed him some herbal concoctions.

If Aerys had not been half as stubborn or proud, it wouldn’t have come to this. Even the cold looks his mother and grandsire gave him at dinner couldn’t compare to the burning guilt in his heart, searing his every breath. 

By the sixth day, Aerys’s hellish tutoring finally loosened, though he suspected it had to do with his sister’s approaching birthday. A prince could not come to a ball with a bruised face. It’s not that they struck him there deliberately, but the sparring with Steffon and Ser Willem Darry had grown far fiercer—the master-at-arms was dead-set on training wrestling and fisticuffs at least once a week.

On the seventh day, nobody dragged him out of bed before daybreak. Yet Aerys woke up regardless, only to stumble to the window and see the first signs of dawn bleeding into the sky in dull orange. There was no training this morning, only a mock joust for all squires past noon, so he staggered back to the feathered bed, trying to salvage the last vestiges of sleep. He failed.

Half an hour later, a restless Aerys found himself fully awake, shuffling into the kitchen for a quick bite. The cook, a jovial man the prince had not seen before, gave him a generous serving of whatever he liked. And for the white cloak shadowing him, too. The young prince was then led to a small parlour nearby, where supposedly his uncle Duncan had liked to dine in his youth.

Aerys was not surprised in the slightest when Steffon met him in the hallway with a sleepy nod. Before long, his cousin joined him with a double platter, eager to shove fistfuls of sausage and eggs into his bottomless belly. Though he would never speak it, the prince was jealous—the more the young Baratheon ate, the taller he seemed to grow and more muscled for it. 

“No wine this morning?” Steffon said after washing down his bite with a tankard of watered-down ale. 

“None.” Aerys had not forgotten his vow from that day. No more wine, and no more women. His father might have gotten ill and their duels cut short, but Aerys still failed to win a single bout against him. 

Though his face darkened as his cousin stifled a laugh when Aerys reached for the honeyed milk. 

They ate in silence, and the piles of food on Steffon’s plate were swiftly disappearing. Though he still ate gracefully, forking each bit of sustenance with practised poise without spilling a crumb.

Once satisfied, his cousin smacked his lips together and grabbed a napkin.

“So, what did you choose to gift your sister?” 

Aerys froze, almost choking on a mouthful of milk. 

“I am considering my options,” he lied smoothly. “What did you get?”

“A fine glass mirror from Myr with a frame of carved goldenheart,” Steffon said, puffing up his chest proudly. “The thing is gorgeous—the reflection is as clear as the waters of a mountain lake and would not glint in the sunlight like polished silver does. At least not too much. I would have grabbed a second for myself if the first one didn’t drain most of my allowance.” 

Aerys let out a snort. “So eager to admire your ugly mug?” 

“Now now, not all of us are as pretty as a princess or as rich as one.” There was no bite in those words, though. There never was—Steffon Baratheon was a boy with an easy smile and a big heart.

Next was a dreadfully long and twice as boring session in court, where Aerys’s ears grew numb listening to complaints. His eyes grew numb, too, for those who came to court were often ragged and dirty. A gathering of motley, half-drunk peasants had come to complain that Rosby had seized their lands and mud-brick huts without cause, wine merchants whinging about the unfair tariffs, a pair of washerwomen accusing the gold cloaks of extortion, and countless others.

Aerys grew bored before long. Most were lying—or twisting the truth to a degree where it was scarcely recognisable in a vain attempt to get the king to decide in their favour.  

His mind wandered towards his sister, who had come to the court for once. She was as beautiful as all those with Valyrian blood were, though still a girl, yet to truly flower into a woman. By her side were the new gaggle of ladies. And gods, proper ladies they were! Melony and Genna were just as fair and looked like proper women, buxom and narrow-waisted, even though they had yet to come of age.

Just the sight of them made Aerys’ breeches tighten.

His sister’s ladies were out of reach, though. He suspected Rhaella knew of his jaunts, and while she never said a word of complaint, she kept all of them close, always within her sight. That’s why he had taken Janna as his paramour. A demure novice with a full chest and an innocent smile that always fanned his lust. 

But he had sworn not to indulge in such pleasure. Not anymore. Still, it was hard to turn his thoughts around, but by the time the Fisherman’s guild came to petition the Iron Throne for a new pier, Aerys finally forced himself to think on the gift. 

Rhaella was his sister and future wife-to-be, and snubbing her with no gift would be a scandal. Not as big a scandal as giving a thoughtless gift. He could always purchase some bolts of Myrish lace and pink Qarthian spidersilk, and Rhaella would love it. She loved everything pink. 

That wouldn’t do. He had already given such gifts on her last four namedays, and he had not been betrothed then. Now, he had to give something… bigger. Or at least rarer. 

Then, he remembered the fretful glances his sister threw his way while he wasn’t looking. Rhaella thought she had hidden it well, but Aerys could tell she was afraid—she shrank back into herself when he entered the room since the betrothal had been announced. And since that mishap at Harrenhal’s godswood, her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly when he was there. 

She had avoided him, too. The sorrowful glances and the avoidance made him think she had discovered his trysts and was angered for it. Perhaps even frightened. Aerys could see why a marriage could be scary for a young maiden. He was jittery at the idea himself, even without mentioning the restrictions that would chain him. 

He needed a gift to reassure his sister and help her muster her confidence. Perhaps even restore his proper image of an older brother and future husband. A promise of words would sound empty, no better than wind—especially if Rhaella had caught wind of his dalliances. 

Looking back, fucking that Terrick girl in a hidden alcove right after the public announcement had been a mistake. But the wedding feast the previous night had got him too pent-up, and his mother had watched him like a hawk, dousing any chances for a quick thrill. His deed that day had been as subtle as a drunken bear in a travelling mummer’s trope. 

He shouldn’t have fucked the Terrick girl after she had become Rhaella’s handmaid, too, but he still did more than once. And gods, it had felt glorious. Shy face or not, her hands were bold and eager, and her dripping quim had been as tight as a vice and just as welcoming. 

Subtlety or not, just the thoughts made him so hard it ached. 

Fuck.

He needed to fuck. 

And not lick of wine or women.

Gods, why had he sworn it off? Because… because of his own shame. But the idea of a half-naked maid squirming in his embrace was hard to dispel. Harder to resist when she was in your hands, moist and willing, too.

‘Think of old Anella, Aerys,’ he urged himself, summoning the image of the head washerwoman, a stout old thing with a face that could frighten a ghost.

It worked. The desire guttered in moments, replaced by shame. The vow had been done in the silence of his mind, but Aerys knew that if he broke it… once he broke it, the second time would come easier. And then the third and the fourth, until the vow was shattered to a thousand pieces and his own word would be less for it. He would not disappoint his father again. A prince of the blood would not be ruled by his baser pleasures.

Alas, no matter how hard he wracked his head, no idea for a gift came to his mind just yet.

Court concluded for the day, and Aerys went to the field for the mock-jousts, spending hours knocking others off their steeds—and occasionally getting knocked down himself. By the time it was over, Aerys had won himself a few more purple aching trophies across his body, though none to his face this time.

The shadows were growing longer, and it would soon be time for supper, yet Aerys had yet to think of a gift. Reluctantly, he went to his uncle to ask for advice.

“I’m afraid I cannot be of much help, dear nephew,” Prince Duncan said dryly. “I was never any good at picking gifts. Though I suggest you look through the royal treasury.”

“Gold and silver make for a poor gift, uncle.”

That had pried out a bark of laughter. “Ah, I see you’ve yet to venture into the treasury—there’s far more than mere coin, and gems scuttled away in those vaults. The House of the Dragon has hoarded rare gifts, unique curiosities, and priceless artefacts for centuries. Ever since Visenya, some queens—and sometimes even kings—had a love for oddities and queer crafts, and many a skilled craftsman tried currying favour and seeking royal patronage through such gifts.”

It wasn’t until the next evening that Aerys finally managed to procure his grandfather’s reluctant permission that he headed to the treasury.

The royal vaults were deep beneath the Great Hall, entered by a secret walkway behind a deep tapestry. Pairs of silent guardsmen watched Aerys with wary eyes as he threaded down the winding steps, descending deeper into the darkness, guided by the head Keeper of the Keys. 

“Those who guard the vaults take a vow of silence, my prince,” said Jeremy, a bow-legged man with balding hair and a stony, joyless face that looked like it had never smiled. 

Before long, they dove into a twisting hallway. The dark was somehow deeper here, and the air was pleasantly cool. 

The Keeper of the Keys halted before a great arch of steel with a solid-looking door of bronze. From it, the three heads of the Targaryen dragon snarled at him, inlaid in rose gold. Jeremy pulled out a keyring with keys in odd, twisted shapes and started plugging the holes one by one, twisting them open. The door had seven keyholes of differing shapes and sizes, from as small as the tip of a nail to a pigeon’s egg, and each time one was unlocked, Aerys could feel the ground rumble softly as if something great was shifting underneath. And perhaps it was, knowing this was built by the orders of King Maegor. 

Finally, the door swung open with a heavy groan, the bronze revealing itself to be a whole foot in thickness. This one had a sole guard who looked so old he could topple and die any moment. But his eyes were sharp, reminding Aerys of a vulture.

The Keeper of the Keys took a hanging lamp from a nearby sconce and lit it by sharing the fire with a dry pine splinter. 

“You have two hours, Prince Aerys.” Jeremy gingerly handed over the newly lit lamp. “Your grandfather agreed to let you take a single item of your choosing, so choose wisely. If you linger for too long, your lamp will burn out.”

Aerys stepped inside, suppressing his unease. The air inside was cool and tinged with beeswax but otherwise stale and dry, like an old tomb. In a way, it was one, the resting place of all the wealth of House Targaryen. The only tomb the House of the Dragon had—their dead were all given to dragonfire, and when the dragons had perished, normal flame. 

An amused slip of laughter rumbled from his chest. Or perhaps it was a hoard, the hoard of the dragons, where all their wealth was kept. 

It was no great chamber, but a maze of wide, interlocking hallways with a vaulted ceiling hewn from granite.

The mountains of gold and silver he expected were nowhere to be seen. But everything else made his eyes light up, and Aerys could not stop looking.

There were iron-bound chests filled with coin, but they were placed in an orderly fashion. Some were cracked open, revealing rubies glinting with crimson in the flickering lamplight. Tattered banners of enemies vanquished by House Targaryen lined the walls. Standing vigil at the crossroads were ornate armours of blued steel and gold inlay, each unique and carrying the coat of arms of a different defeated House. 

Aerys curiously inched to a bench, where the sceptre of Daeron the Good was tossed aside, as if it were some common trinket. Then he spotted a shelf glinting with gold and gems, where the crowns of the past kings were lined. Beneath were delicate glass-door cabinets that revealed rings, necklaces, brooches, and fine jewellery that would drive most ladies to jealousy. Some of them were even of dragonsteel make, though quite small.

Curious gadgets and trinkets made out of bronze, silver, gold, and metals of every colour that Aerys had never seen before filled a whole hallway. Mysterious crystal spheres, brooches hung from sconces and dotted across benches. Great horns and spikes of dragonbone were piled up in one corner, each grim and foreboding. He could even see old playboards of weirwood, a curated stack of ebony, and rare furs and leathers tossed over varnished racks. There was a full armoury with halberds, war picks, gilded axes, and swords aplenty, and while all looked of masterful make, none was Valyrian steel.

“How can I even begin to choose?” Aerys murmured, groaning. “Ser Michael, what do you think?”

The white cloak snorted. “A kingsguard knows little about wooing a princess or giving gifts. My work here is to protect the king and serve him in all things.”

The prince’s smile turned sly. “Yet I heard plenty of tales about a young owl knight wooing many a maiden.”

“Those times are behind me,” Ser Michael Martyns said lightly, though Aerys would bet the man was laughing beneath his helmet. “Just a dream of things long past, and I barely recall the faces of these fair maidens, though those I do remember were won not by gifts but by a well-placed smile.”

‘Of course, he couldn’t help,’ Aerys thought bitterly. The White Owl was an old knight in his sixties, and more than half his life was spent in the service of the white. Even if he wasn’t, the white cloaks served the king, and the king only.

Shaking himself, the young prince turned his attention to a pile of jewellery. Aerys lost count of how many trinkets passed through his hands, but nothing pleased him. As unique as each earring, choker, or ring was, it was easy for a prince to get—unless he picked one forged from dragonsteel. But those were sinister, grim-looking and too dark for his sister’s taste. Even so, a sparkling necklace was not the gift Aerys wanted to give. Too common for a princess of the blood. He needed something that would give Rhaella a measure of courage. Something special and heartfelt that would ease any doubts in her heart.

Just as the lamp began to flicker and the light thinned, Aerys yelped, jerking away his hand from a heap of golden ornament. Scowling, he sucked on his prickled finger, ignoring the sting of copper tinged on his tongue.

“Be careful, my prince,” Ser Michael wheezed from the side, trying to stifle his laughter. “His Grace will have my head if you met your end to a pile of ornaments.”

Aerys gave him an annoyed huff and made for the Good’s sceptre. Waving it about like a stick, he stirred about and aside the layers of rings, trinkets and necklaces, revealing something that didn’t belong amidst the jewellery. 

“I think I found my gift,” he said, mouth curving with amusement.

Ser Michael cleared his throat, and his words came weighed by doubt, “That doesn’t strike me like something a princess might fancy.” 

Palming the new gift with caution, Aerys laughed. “Fret not. I know just the thing that will make her love it.”

The next three days passed without any further disturbance, though the tutoring and training kept the young prince exhausted and tied up. He scarcely stole an hour to venture into the city, eager to make final preparations for the gift. He kept the vow to himself without faltering.

Then, preparation for Rhaella’s name-day feast and ball began, as new faces flooded into the Red Keep. It was as if the castle itself stirred awake, with each room, hallway, and quarter receiving redecorations no different from the previous crimson drapery. His grandmother could be seen at every corner, commanding the whole effort with the tireless persistence of a woman half her age. Noble ladies and knights from the Crownlands had flocked to the Red Keep, and jugglers, bards, and singers were a common sight in the yard outside. 

Many new and old faces came—all dolled up with powders and oils and perfumes. All of them were pretty, and most were eagerly trying to catch his gaze even though he was betrothed. His betrothal was long known, and by now each lord and lady from Sunspear to the Wall must have heard of it, but that did not stop those advances. If anything, it was as if the knowledge turned these maidens all the more eager. 

Giggles, fluttering lashes, and coy smiles swarmed Aerys without respite, wearing his self-control thin. On the fourth day, the temptation grew too dangerous. Hours had passed, and the tightening of his breeches would not go away, and even the image of Anella no longer helped. ‘Just once,’ Aerys told himself. ‘One quick tryst and I’ll hold to my vows afterwards.’

But as eager as he was, he knew better than to bed the first pretty face that came his way. Jealousy and the wrong entanglements could turn dangerous. The wrong paramour could kill a man—Laenor Velaryon had shown that easily enough. Married women were not worth the trouble, and maidens with dangerous fathers and brothers were to be avoided. 

So, Aerys played the part of a polite prince, turning down all such attempts for the day. Once evening came, he turned to the small royal sept to cleanse his mind. As usual, he found it half-empty. The pious, much like his mother, preferred to gather on Visenya’s Hill, at the Great Sept of Baelor, for a prayer with the High Septon. The rest only swore by the Seven when asked, but otherwise paid no heed.

The new septon—a bald, sleepy-looking man gave him an easy nod and guided him into a private praying room with a small statue of the Warrior carved in the likeness of the Conqueror. Here, the walls were thick, and nobody would disturb him while he was praying. Nobody, unless he requested it.

“Send Novice Janna to serve me refreshments.” He could already imagine Janna coming in with those white robes and innocent face, her pale fingers reaching down to unlace his breeches.

The septon let out a long sigh, clasping his hands together. “I’m afraid Novice Janna is no longer with us,” he whispered, muttering a prayer under his nose.

“What?” Aerys shifted, clenching his fists together. 

“Princess Shaera came six days past, forced the Novice Janna to drink a cup of moon tea, and sent her on a ship to Gulltown to swear to the silent sisters there.”

She dared?!

A rush of hot red rage coiled inside his chest, like a serpent. But it had nowhere to strike. The sting in his palm jolted him awake—his nails had drawn blood.

Of course, she dared. His mother would dare to do far worse. As the king’s daughter and the crown prince’s wife, few things could stop Shaera Targaryen once she set her mind to it. 

Worse, Aerys knew he was in the wrong. It was unseemly for a betrothed prince to have paramours, and each one was a slight to his fiancée’s good name. An insult to his sister. Novices of the Faith were supposed to remain chaste before they placed their vows, swearing off men, though neither he nor Janna had cared for any of that when they were half-naked and neck-deep in the throes of passion. 

The young prince left the royal sept with a fierce frown, having given no prayers. The flame of desire was burning brighter than before, though now tinged with anger. 

Had someone betrayed him? 

Was it Steffon? Or perhaps Tywin? No other knew of his new lover.

Though it could be his mother growing suspicious after his frequent visits to the royal sept. No doubt each white cloak would dutifully report his presence here, drawing her attention.

Aerys went to sleep that night with a fire in his loins, but he had nowhere to vent his frustrations. For a long moment, he was tempted to use his hand to find release, but it felt beneath him, especially when he was in a castle of maidens eager to be conquered by his royal charm.

The following morning, he failed to find release, though not for the lack of trying. He slipped out of bed before daybreak, only to be met with disappointment. Alyssa was ill, and the other handmaidens in Maegor’s holdfast were too homely to catch his eye. Those who weren’t had been… sent away by his mother after Aerys had bedded two. 

Aerys was half-tempted to sneak into the Street of Silk like the day he had lost his virginity. Tywin would doubtlessly join him for it again. If nothing else, the heir of Casterly Rock knew how to be subtle and as discreet as a ghost, and to this day, no one in the Red Keep knew of that venture. A few might have suspected something was amiss when Aerys had lost his sworn shield that day, but they did not know for certain. A fact that saw the Ser Morgan dismissed with disgrace, and a white cloak shadowed his steps ever since.

It made a repeat far harder, though not impossible.

But common whores alone would not do for someone of his station. If he were to bed a whore, the young prince would only accept the very best. The Silver Rose, a pale, delicate beauty with a buxom body that had no equal. She had been his first, teaching the younger him the ways of pleasure until he was reduced to a quivering mess on the sandsilk sheets.

But a night with Rosalyne cost a small fortune and had to be purchased at least half a moon in advance, for the courtesan would be your companion for the whole day. The first time had been Tywin’s gift for his name day. Now, Aerys knew he could find whatever man had purchased her services and buy it out, but…

Today, Rhaella turned three and ten. A feast demanded his presence, as did the ball afterwards. 

On any other day, Aerys could try to sneak out, but not today. The early morning training session helped him vent his frustrations, but the desire lingered in his belly like an ember, ready to burst into flame at the first prod.

By late noon, the young prince dragged his feet to the Great Hall. The air inside was heavy with the smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread. Long tables of varnished oak were sprawled across, enough to seat nearly a thousand men, and they were abuzz with the ceaseless chatter of hundreds of guests talking. Hurried servants danced between, bringing platters and trenchers laden to the brim with steaming courses.

Beneath the windows hung the black, bony skulls of the dragons on the backdrop of black and crimson—the three-headed dragon of their house, the biggest of which was as large as an elephant from Essos. Though Aerys didn’t care to admire them, for they had long lost their charm after seeing them each day.

Beneath the stairs of the Iron Throne was a raised platform where Aegon and Betha were already seated at the helm, joined by their children and all other lords of importance. A pang of guilt rippled through his chest at his father’s absence, even if Jaehaerys had always been slow to recover from any illness. Aerys glanced about but found no smiling face on that table, just blank-faced noblemen and women, each talking in hushed tones. Doubtlessly, it was a boring talk of the Blackfyres and the brewing threat in the Disputed Lands.

Over half the seats were empty—and were likely to remain so, for a princess’s name day was not enough to pull the mercurial lords from their dreary castles. It was not as if his own name-day had a greater pull.

Aerys made his way to the table just below, where Rhaella stood as the maiden of honour in a gown of pink satin, surrounded by her ladies, all looking like swans. Down the other seats were the heirs and lords.

His sister was seated to his right, Steffon to his left and Tywin on the next seat as heirs of a highlord, and he had the pleasure of being faced with Melony of Lys and Genna Lannister right across him. 

He stifled a curse when he laid eyes on them, finding their crimson collars cut far lower on this day, giving his gaze a feast he needed the least right now. Both were troublesome, coming from powerful Houses. As if to strike a blow to his ego, the Lyseni maiden barely spared him a glance, but Genna Lannister… was smiling brightly at him, and her green eyes undressed him without an ounce of shame. 

The gods were testing his patience today. 

Swallowing, Aerys averted his gaze, looking at his sister. She was too slender compared to both maidens, still as flat as a boy. With time, she would doubtlessly grow into a fine Valyrian beauty, but her softer smile rose no flutters in his loins, and for once, Aerys was fine with it.

Once the Great Hall was sufficiently filled, his grandsire rose, goblet in hand, and the murmurs grew quiet.

“Today, we feast for my granddaughter, Princess Rhaella Targaryen,” he said loudly, words echoing down the marble walls. “On this sacred day, may she know long years, bright days, and the love of her kin and kingdom. Raise your cups to her, my lords.

A cheer rippled through the tables as goblets laden with wine lifted in toast. In the gilded cup before him, the servants had poured a generous serving of just as golden vintage, the finest sweet wine from the Arbour. Aerys took a swallow of the golden liquid and almost moaned in pleasure. 

Gods, how he had missed this. 

But the sweet tang quickly grew bitter as he recalled his vow. He had yet to win, yet here he was, drinking easily. Surely, his sister’s name-day didn’t count? Just this once wouldn’t hurt.

Grandmother stood then, gracefully gathering the skirts of her black and red gown as she descended to the lower table.

“And now, it’s time for the gifts,” Betha Blackwood declared, her voice hoarse but no less powerful for it.

She came in, kissing the cheeks of his sister and presented a pair of pale weirwood combs, as white as a bone and inlaid with what looked to be First Men runes in silver. Next were Duncan and Jenny—though his uncle merely kissed her hand, while Jenny pulled her into a deep hug, uncaring for courtly etiquette. Rhaella still squealed in joy at the fine shawl of pink Norvoshi wool she presented.

The small table on the side meant for the gifts grew brighter and heavier as boots, necklaces, rings, tiaras, brooches, and bolts of fine fabrics swiftly piled up. 

After giving his pristine silver mirror, Steffon eased back into his seat and elbowed Aerys. 

“Go on,” he whispered furiously. 

Clearing his throat, Aerys stood up and gave Rhaella his brightest smile.

“May my sister live a long and fruitful life,” he said loudly, as he grasped her pale fingers and laid a soft kiss on her knuckles. A shadow passed through Rhaella’s face, making his chest tighten.

His smile didn’t falter when he pushed the small box lined with red velvet into her hands.

She pushed the lid open and gasped. The delight dancing across her purple eyes told Aerys all he needed to know.

Pale fingers grasped at the pale hilt of varnished weirwood as she clumsily lifted the dagger and pulled it free from its small sharkskin sheath. “Is this…?”

“Yes, Valyrian steel,” he said with a slight smile, eyeing the rippled blade. It was the dark, smoky steel forged by the fires of the Freehold, but the waves of dark clashed against deep pink, giving the whole blade a purplish hue.

This was the only gift Rhaella had not sent away to the pile, placing it by her elbow instead. 

The next guest to give a gift was Maegor, who swaggered to Rhaella’s side, though his usual bitterness in his eyes was absent today. With hair cropped close to his shoulders and a doublet of fine purple silk slashed with black, he almost looked like a dragon. Almost.

“Cousin, I wish you much happiness,” he said, beaming a wide smile. His tone was far more polite than usual, though probably because he had yet to get drunk. When his lips lingered on Rhaella’s hand for half a moment longer than appropriate, Aerys wanted to do nothing more than snatch the Valyrian steel dagger and shove it in his smiling face. Thankfully, his cousin was swift to retreat before his patience ran thin. 

“Never heard of Valyrian steel with a pink tint,” Steffon said from the side, eyeing a steaming venison pie with interest.

Tywin let out a quiet snort as he pulled up a mallard leg from the trencher. “Must have cost a small fortune to find a smith that can infuse colour into dragonsteel.”

“Only Master Qeyn knows the art on this side of the Narrow Sea,” Aerys said, speaking only when Rhaella was busy taking a gift from a Rosby, and quiet enough so only his friends could hear. “Though it’s the dagger that is special.”

“I’ve seen many a dagger and knife of dragonsteel. Rare, yes, but not half as rare as swords and axes.” Tywin cocked his head at Rhaella’s gift. “This one looks no different from any other save for that pink tint.”

The prince snorted. “But those other daggers were never wielded by the Conqueror.”

His cousin slowly turned his head towards him. “Aerys, did you pink the Dragon’s favourite dagger just for your sister?”

At his tight nod, Steffon’s chest shook as he tried to swallow his guffaw, and Tywin shook his head in exasperation. 

Before long, all the gifts were given, and the bards started singing merry tunes that did nothing to uplift his mood. Aerys took to the dishes with relish, picking a serving of auroch steak slathered with gravy. He kept lifting his cup, and his sister snatched the pitcher from a nearby servant and refilled it, giving him a soft, calming smile that only made him want to drink more. 

He wanted to pat himself on the back for his magnificent gift. Rhaella must have truly loved it.

The world slowly grew hazy as he downed cup after cup after cup. His sister dutifully kept refilling it, so it never grew empty. For once, Steffon and Tywin had grown quiet, both solemn. When at a table, both of them focused on the food as if it were the only thing that mattered. Down the table, sons and younger brothers of lords were weaving unlikely tales of grand fights against terrible brigands and boasting loudly of their latest conquest. 

His gaze started to wander back across the table. Melony gave him a calm, amused smile as if he were still a snot-nosed brat, which lit a fire in his loins. Then, she turned to the young Joanna and started a dreadful talk about gods and priests. Genna, on the other hand, giggled, the sound as sweet as the tinkling of a bell. When she lifted her goblet, some of the wine spilt into the cut of her dress, disappearing betwixt those two glorious valleys.

Aerys licked his lips.

“Brother, you’re drunk.” Rhaella’s voice came from his right, soft but no less admonishing for it. 

It only made him drink harder. Smiling sadly, his sister poured him wine again. How dutiful. Always dutiful—that was all there was to his sister.

Soon, his bladder groaned with protest. 

The world swayed when Aerys stumbled out of his chair, but he managed to steady himself enough to slip into the back gallery a few yards away without attracting much attention. Or so he thought.

The walls looked like they were floating, and the corners were doing an odd dance as he tilted his face. Still, he gave a nod to the guard in the hallway and finally relieved his bladder.

“You’re drunk, my prince,” a soft voice said as soon as he stepped out. It was not the kingsguard’s quiet gruff but a maiden’s gentle voice, melodic and soft, sending a fiery shiver down his spine and straight into his loins. “Let me help you.”

Genna Lannister’s smiling face swam in his vision. Her lips were so deliciously plump and kissable, and suddenly, Aerys leaned in to steal a kiss. Her mouth met his, just as fiercely, and a fierce struggle ensued. 

When they parted, her face was flushed red, and a giggle slipped from her puffy lips. “Oh my, someone is eager.”

When the pair of soft hands pulled him into a small side room, Aerys did not resist. Something distant whispered in his mind, telling him this was unwise, but the young prince paid no heed. At this moment, the only thing that mattered was the flush-faced, needy maiden across him and his rising desire. Genna’s hands fumbled with his trousers, growing uncertain, and then he knew she was a virgin.

Perfect. He would teach her the joys of being a woman.

Aerys graciously helped her along—helped her hike her own gown too, and took another taste of her lips.

Everything was sweeter than he imagined. He took his pleasure with abandon as the golden-haired maid greedily sought out his mouth. First to silence the pain, and later the pleasure once it came. 

Time lost its meaning as the two continued rutting like beasts in heat. The first release came like a salvation, easing the knot in his chest. But once was not enough to put out the fire in his belly, so Aerys went a second time, and even a third.

And then, the door slammed open. 

A wave of gasps rippled, drawing his attention.

What were Lords Rosby and Staunton doing there?

Was that a Darklyn and a Thorne?

“Make way,” a colder voice cut through the tense silence, and the crowd parted to let the king through. A pair of harsh violet eyes found him, still joined together with Genna, and it was like someone had dunked a bucket of cold water over Aerys, sobering him up on the spot.

His mother was there too, by his side, face deathly pale and mouth covered with a hand. 

Genna, a breast still bare, squeezed between his fingers, chose that moment to cling closer to him, as if trying to disappear into his embrace, and his grandfather’s expression grew darker.

This was going to be trouble. Far more trouble than he had ever gotten into before. And then, there was Rhaella, standing just by Grandmother’s side.

There was no disappointment or anger in her eyes, just… vindication and a sharp sense of triumph. And it sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Author’s Endnote: Whew. This is slightly more explicit than what I’m comfortable with writing (especially considering both are children), but the scene sorta of demands it, and swapping the PoV at the end feels like it would break the whole build-up. Anyway, I removed the mention of the plan in the previous chapter. Writing Aerys was a delight towards the end.

Anyway, if you think this is too explicit, lemme know in the comments, and I’ll see what I can do about the matter.