A/N: First, some background info: Aegon and Dany are ruling Westeros together by the end of 301. The first cries for aid come from the Nights Watch in 299—Stannis answers during this time.
Ever since I posted NMS, people have been asking for Jon and Aegon's meeting at the Wall. Originally, I just had an explanation all of 1200 words long in the next chapter of NMS, but then I realized that I too wanted to really -see- their meeting, and thus this story was born. So thank you everyone who encouraged me to do so.
Good things come to those that ask. (^.^)
It is close to two months into their joint rule that he and his new Queen first receive a desperate call for aid from the far, far North. From the Nights Watch in fact, a brotherhood that he only has the barest awareness of, and seems to suffer from a vast difference of perception among the members of his court, depending on whether they or their families hale from either north or south of the Neck. The Southron lords laugh and call it an open prison for rapers and killers, while those of the North swear that it is an Order whose call should be respected and answered with all haste.
Aegon supposes that the fact that the Lord Commander is said to be the last remaining son of the North's beloved Lord Eddard Stark doesn't hurt their fervor. Indeed, within short order, there are subtle hints that Eddard Stark's son should be released from his vows and allowed to take up the seat of Winterfell. Daenerys and Lord Connington are rendered livid by the suggestions, their hatred of all things Stark nursed by long years of exile.
If she wasn't married to the Lord of the Vale, Aegon imagines that they might have demanded that Sansa Hardyng be dragged into King's Landing and executed for her father's crimes as well. He is glad to be spared from sharing their all consuming hatred, as he can see how it eats them both alive. He has given thought to to perhaps acquiesce to the Northerners' request simply to thwart their blood lust and prove that he is above it himself.
But then Missandei reads the letter aloud to the court and suddenly the few Northmen present start to shift uncomfortably as the details of the letter are made public. They remain silent afterward. He thinks that perhaps they are embarrassed to have spoken so glowingly of the man only for him to be revealed as a lunatic.
Their new southron lords, on the other hand, laugh and jest about the superstitious Northmen; so addled with cold that they have been jumping at Snarks and Grumpkins and sending out ravens that read like the ravings of a madman for more than two years.
The prolonged time that the ravens have been coming strikes him immediately as odd, but their rule is young and they cannot afford to publicly give too much credence to something that their whole court deems beyond ridiculous. Not only might it make he and Daenerys appear inexperienced and naive, but with reports of such a fantastical nature, they could open themselves up to questions of their own sanity. An unfortunate byproduct of their family's history and the sheer number of infamous and highly public incidents of Targaryen Madness, his own grandfather's disastrous rule and end merely the most recent. Add on to it the stubbornly remaining whispers that even his father, the lauded Silver Prince, may have been showing signs of madness when he took Lyanna Stark… Well, let's just say that he and Daenerys have their work cut out for them when it comes to proving which side the coin has landed on for them.
Aegon has grown up under the shadow of his father's beliefs in a mystical 'Prince that was Promised', Jon Connington having waxed on at length about Prince Rhaegar's determination that Aegon was this legendary figure. He himself does not put any stock in it, and thinks that possibly the whispers are right and Rhaegar Targaryen did have a measure of the Targaryen Madness—albeit a very tame version in comparison to his father Aerys. Aegon cannot allow his own reputation to be tarnished by rumors that he lives according to some delusional prophecy or gets worked up over things that go bump in the cold nights up North.
These are the primary concerns that prevent him from pursuing the matter of the strange message from the North despite his curiosity. Daenerys herself, with her immense hatred for all things even remotely Stark-related, certainly had no interest in going to the aid of a group that followed a Stark bastard, last they'd heard. Strangely enough, while the raven they had received did bear the name of Jon Snow, Eddard Stark's bastard son, the man had neglected to title himself beyond his name. To his best knowledge, Stark's bastard was elected Lord Commander within the last couple of years. When he later brings it up discretely with the maester, the man corroborates his supposition and confirms that until the last few messages, Jon Snow has indeed signed as Lord Commander, Jon Snow.
It is curious, but Aegon writes it off quickly enough as the man having been ousted peacefully from his position and relegated instead to a place of steward to the new Lord Commander. Although why the unknown man would not at least sign official documents himself rather than leave a steward to do it, he cannot fathom. Perhaps as an attempt to humble and remind an impertinent former Lord Commander of his new place by having to write and send out the same ravens as before, but without his lofty title.
Whatever the case, he determines to put the matter firmly from his mind and focus only on solidifying both his marriage and his rule. They have taken the South and hunting down the remnants of the Lannister men and their few allies is simply a matter of patience and good intel. Otherwise the South is at peace and he and Daenerys at last sit the Iron Throne—alternating who physically sits upon the throne daily because they are both loath to cede absolute power to the other. In time, the North will bend the knee and give up their aspirations of secession, but now is not the time to march their weary army straight back into another battle. First they will secure everything south of the Neck.
Ravens from the Wall continue to come to King's Landing, and though he largely ignores them, he does acknowledge with a small measure of amused respect that Jon Snow is at least a stubborn man. His undaunted dedication to his beliefs is admirable, however mad he must be to talk of corpses rising from the dead and creatures from children's stories. Aegon even begins to look forward to these messages as a source of entertainment as the tone and language of each grows increasingly scathing and insulting.
Nonetheless, busy as he is, he does not notice that the ravens experience a lull in the fourth month of his rule. Not until, late in the afternoon one day, he is informed that a man of the Watch is there in the Keep requesting an audience with the King and Queen—and a maester, oddly enough.
When Missandei comes to tell them, he and Daenerys are sitting in his solar eating an early dinner together while discussing an incident that occurred earlier in the day. Aegon raises a skeptical brow in the direction of the window, through which the orange light of the dying sun can be seen bathing the city.
"It is nearly nightfall," he scoffs, "Tell him to seek a bed in the city and come back for an audience during the morning court."
Missandei's brows furrow and she looks to Daenerys. "He says that he needs the contents of a large metal box he has brought with him from the Wall to be examined by a Maester before dark and he insists that it is imperative that you and His Grace witness the event. He swears that you will understand when you see it."
"And what was in this box?" Daenerys asks.
"I did not see," the girl replies, "It was thoroughly chained shut. He had it carried into the Throne room though."
He and Daenerys share a look, neither of them pleased that some Nights Watchman believes he can compel the King and Queen of Westeros to go scurrying about simply on his word, but… He admits that he, for one, is curious and he sees in Dany's eyes that she is as well. The worst that could happen is that the man turns out to be crazy like the former Lord Commander, Jon Snow—
"What is his name, Missandei?" he asks sharply, "Is it Jon Snow? That madman who won't stop sending ravens about fairy tales beyond the Wall?" Madmen are only amusing from afar, and if that one has traveled all the way to King's Landing, Aegon is tempted to clap him in irons just to be on the safe side. Thankfully Missandei shakes her head.
"He did not give a name, Your Grace. But he is an older man—much too old to be Jon Snow."
He hums thoughtfully and meets Daenerys' gaze with a shrug. "What could it hurt to indulge him? It sounds serious enough and if it isn't, he can maybe be made to waste some of his own time—in the cells."
His wife gives an elegant little shrug of her own and stands. "Well then, if we're going to meet him before sunset, we best go now. And Missandei, have a maester meet us in the Throne room as well, I suppose."
They go down together, each donning their crowns, and enter the room to find a solitary figure sitting on a large metal box. Iron, his mind supplies absently as his gaze sweeps over the man's gray hair and shaggy beard. Too old, indeed, to be Eddard Stark's bastard, who is supposed to be younger than himself. The man appears greatly fatigued as he stares anxiously out the windows, concerned perhaps about how fast the sunset fades. When he sees them approach, he clamors to his feet and greets them with a distracted "Your Grace" and begins immediately to unlock the thick chains around his box.
Only, it looks less like a box, to his eyes, and rather more like a coffin.
Ser Rolly and Ser Barristan, members of he and Daenerys' separate Kingsguard and Queensguard, step between them and the Nights Watchman warily. The man pays them no mind, does not even seem to notice their reaction, and shoves the last of the chains off after a brief struggle to untangle them. He begins to speak as he pries up the lid.
"Good, I worried you'd be too late to see it before it wakes. The dead too far south of the Wall aren't affected, but once one has been raised, no matter how far you go, it doesn't lose the taint. Lord Snow—oh damn it, the damned thing feels like it's been welded shut—Lord Snow, though, he ordered me to bring one of these as evidence, what with the whole South apparently thinking we're a bunch of simpletons pissing ourselves over shadows up at the Wall. I was worried it might stop moving after a I got too far from the Wall, but I'll be damned if it doesn't wake up every fucking night. (*) Ah...Beg your pardon, Your Graces."
The black brother gets the lid off with a final heave just as the maester Daenerys sent Missandei after walks in the room. A strange smell makes itself known in the air now, one that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end for some reason. He doesn't recognize it and he can only describe the smell as...cold—if cold could have a smell.
They all draw close cautiously to see the mysterious contents and Aegon immediately curls his lip in disgust upon perceiving that his estimation of the container being a coffin was truer than he realized.
"Proof, you say?" Daenerys scowls as they both step away, their sworn shields' hands now on their swords. "The only proof this constitutes is that the Nights Watch really is full of madmen. Guards! Get this atrocity out of the Throne room and arrest this man while the King and I decide whether to send him back to the Wall or execute him."
Aegon slants her a wry look for how she takes utter control of the situation without so much as glancing at him, something they will eventually have to work out if they are to rule successfully together. But before he can say anything to her, the pale corpse begins to writhe.
"The fuck?!" he hears Rolly swear, the sound almost eclipsed by the ring of swords being drawn from their scabbards as Aegon finds himself and Daenerys forced away and surrounded by guards. He cranes his head to see over their shoulders as the corpse struggles ineffectually against the ropes and ropes of chains that bind it.
"It's held tight," the black brother pipes up then. "But if it gets loose, know that the only thing that can kill a wright is fire. You can chop it to pieces and the pieces will just keep trying to kill you."
"Seven have mercy," Aegon breathes out in horror, pushing the guardsmen out of his way so that his view is not obstructed. Rolly tries to protest, but Aegon just shakes his head silently to signal the man to stand down. He will not get any closer, but he has to see this...wright with his own eyes.
Eyes… Dear merciful gods, the creature's eyes! They glow an icy blue, like candles set inside shards of sapphire. They are not beautiful though, imagery aside, they are sickening and unnatural. Just the sight is enough to make it feel as if a chill has set into the very marrow of his bones. The face they are set in is wasted and rotted half away, leaving little doubt as to the truth of the creature's former state of death. And yet, despite the advanced rot, the only thing he smells is that awful coldness that first materialized when the coffin lid was removed.
He knows Daenerys has joined him when he feels her nails digging into his arm, but when he looks to her, she seems unaware of her action as she stares in open horror at the ghastly creature.
"Burn it," she gasps, eyes never leaving the corpse and its macabre, though thankfully silent, attempt to escape. Several of the men dash to the walls, retrieving torches or candles, whatever fire they can lay hands on quickest, but Aegon holds up a hand and orders them to halt. Daenerys' head whips around and she stares at him disbelievingly. Instead of answering her, he looks to the black brother standing casually aside, a torch sconce in easy reach, Aegon notes.
"How long will it stay...awake?"
The man looks surprised. "All night, Your Grace. Until the sun comes up."
Aegon bites his tongue and watches the wright, calculating, before nodding decisively and addressing his Queen.
"The Nights Watch has obviously been telling the truth all this time, and these monstrosities—" he gestures to the wright, "—must be destroyed down to the very last. According to the Lord Commander, the wrights have masters beyond the Wall. We must not allow these...Others and their creations to terrorize our Kingdom any longer."
His Queen's eyes have turned to steel by the end, her previous panic replaced with deadly resolve. He takes her hand in his and she squeezes back firmly.
"It is time to take the North back."
If there are benefits to having a bunch of kowtowing sycophants, it is that they are so very eager to be of use to the "Rightful Targaryen King and Queen" now that he and Dany have sundered their forces with their combined armies and the dragons. When summoned, the Lords and Ladies of the court positively clamored to be the first to arrive in the Throne room despite the late hour. Men and women had poured in, some still in their finery while others looked as though they had hastily changed out of their night clothes, but all of them staring with varying degrees of—mostly false—adoration at he and Daenerys as they stood in front of the Iron Throne together.
Once the nobles had caught sight of the Nights Watchman, not exactly a feat considering that the man still stood with his iron coffin before the throne, many of them had smirked; unsure why they'd been called to see the spectacle, but eager to enjoy the show all the same. The moment their gazes were captured by the closed iron coffin, rocking back and forth on the ground behind him, many of them had lost their smug looks and instead begun throwing he and Dany apprehensive expressions.
The shadow of their mad Targaryen ancestors is a hard one to escape, he supposes, and it is something that will never be far from the minds of the people of Westeros.
So, once the stream of their subjects had finally ebbed and he could see all of he and his wife's military commanders were present, Aegon had nodded to the Watchman to begin. The man proceeded to give a considerably more eloquent appeal than his previous attempt, though still addressing his apparent superior only as 'Lord Snow', oddly enough. The moment a pair of guardsmen reluctantly removed the lid of the coffin and exposed the abomination inside was marked by terrified shrieks and a sudden panicked recoil that left dozens of people flailing on the floor.
At the time, he'd noted with some humor, dimmed and overshadowed as it still was by his own horror, that one of the southron lords who always mocked the loudest about Northmen pissing themselves in fright, had himself been sitting in a puddle of his own making. The northern lords were as alarmed as any of their southron counterparts, but it had fast been joined by a pronounced sense of vindicated pride that they hadn't been shy about voicing. Their esteemed lord's son had proven himself before the entire court in King's Landing—all without having ever setting foot any farther south that the Wall itself.
Then had come the hard part; convincing these people to follow him into the North to face an army of these creatures and their terrible masters.
But eventually, months of bellyaching by his men and southron nobles dragging their heels later, the combined might of the Iron Throne marched out from the south and into the heart of the north. Luckily, they make good time once they are on the march proper, the North having been weakened through years of war and long winter so that the entire region is ready to fold at the right pressure.
He has found that a trio of dragons tend to always apply just the right pressure.
By the time the ruins of Winterfell fall to their control and they set up a loyal regent as the interim Warden of the North, the incandescent fury of both Lord Connington and even his wife—whose anger is most often punctuated by the roaring of her dragons above them—has reached previously unfathomed levels. With Jon Snow now absolved of suspicions of being addled minded, the volume and frequency of the northern lords' requests for the legitimization of Eddard Stark's bastard grow with every day, it seems.
While he himself is not against the idea—pending, naturally, a chance to meet the man and take his measure first—his Queen and Lord Hand are as enraged by the suggestion as they've always been. Lord Connington now turns an unhealthy shade of purple every time Jon Snow's name is so much as hinted at. No matter the context. As for Daenerys, well, he thinks he'll have to confine the Stark bastard to his quarters for a while after they arrive just to avoid a hungry dragon "mistaking" him for one of their meals.
The day they arrive at the Wall is actually the night they arrive. As the—breathtakingly impressive, he notes, even when seen only by the light of a half moon—wall of ice looms ahead of them, he is engaged in yet another debate with his livid Hand and a seething Daenerys. Sparked, as many others before, by yet another unsubtle probe, this time from the newest northern lords to join them, as to whether Jon Snow will be released from the Nights Watch. Aegon confesses—to himself alone; he does have his pride—that even he is growing weary of hearing nothing from these men without their conversation starting and ending with the name Jon Snow.
As they absorb one northern house after another back into the broader scope of the Seven Kingdoms, it seems that there hasn't been a single one who, upon learning of their ultimate goal of converging at the Wall, doesn't have a burning desire for a Stark being raised up in Winterfell. Even if that Stark must be released from an oath held sacred here in the North, and even if that Stark must be relieved of the surname 'Snow' before he canbe a Stark.
Aegon finds himself almost jealous—certainly House Targaryen does not hold this sort of absolute loyalty from any of the houses of Westeros, much less an entire Providence of noble houses and small folk alike. The Dragons must always fight for the right to rule, must always prove that they still have the mettle to conquer and hold their Kingdom. When they do not, the other houses of Westeros turn on them quickly and try to eat them alive.
And yet, here in the North, it was the northern lords themselves who crowned their four and ten year old lord as King in the North. They spiritedly went to war under the banner of their boy King, and even when Robb Stark blundered and became The King Who Lost the North, still these men want to raise up his brother in his place. Yes, House Stark has its enemies among its own banner men, but even these men are outliers and the sort that everyone knew were treacherous all along. It makes him perhaps believe what people say: that the men of the North, the descendants of the First Men, are a different breed of man from the rest of Westeros.
His Queen and Lord Hand are less sanguine about the matter and tend to look upon the ardent Stark loyalists with, at best, thinly veiled mistrust and even contempt. Lord Connington is particularly guilty of this kind of blind prejudice, still too full of rage over the events of 18 years ago to let it go. It is a trait that, now that Aegon is King, he has felt he must distance himself from, even at the expense of wounding his foster father's feelings.
Aegon simply cannot feel as Jon Connington does, his anger has always been the sort that burns through him as a cleansing fire and does not sit and fester and rot him from the inside out. When his anger is roused, he cannot deny that his temper can be foul indeed, but after it has passed, he finds that he can always think more clearly, the obstacles in his mind having been purified in the fire. He is not vengeful, or the type to nurse old hurts close to his heart, pulling them out in the quiet hours to admire how their sharp edges can make him bleed. It is simply not in his nature.
He is sorry to say that this cannot be said of either his foster father, or his aunt. Daenerys does not have Jon's bitterness, but she does have the bad habit of never letting go of a slight and never forgiving a betrayal. He understands that Dany has lived a hard life. A life of trusting people, only for them to let her down and even at times reveal themselves to have been her enemy all along. Each time her heart has taken such a wound, she has grown more callous, guarding the gentle heart she denies she has all the more fiercely.
Her true problem though, as far as he can tell, is that she is as mesmerized by prophecies as his father is said to have been. While Rhaegar obsessed over the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised, Daenerys relies on a fortune told by a mystery shadow-binder woman she met after the birth of her dragons. Daenerys even admits that the paranoia the woman, Quaithe, she calls her, instilled in her has greatly influenced her decisions over the years. She has never revealed the full contents of Quaithe's warning to him, but sometimes Aegon gets the feeling that there may have been something about him mentioned in it.
There are times when he will catch Daenerys staring at him with an intensity that momentarily startles him as her eyes seem to try to penetrate his soul and take the measure of his worth. Once or twice, he has even experienced a chill go down his spine, wondering if he has failed her mysterious test and she will order her dragons to devour him. Rhaegal will not betray him, he is reasonably certain, but he has no such rapport with the other two as he has developed with the green.
Drogon absolutely would obey his mother's command, and Aegon isn't sure that Rhaegal would come between his brother and the human that he simply allows on his back with minimal fuss. The green might protect him, as it has from human threats in battle, but he has also seen the way Rhaegal and Viserion bow to their brother's superior size and volatile temper. He would prefer not to ever have to test that theory, but Daenerys' attachment to prophecies might prompt her to act irrationally, if indeed she suspects him because of her shadow-binder's words. He would like to think that they have overcome their initial problems with each other and can rule together in a way that they strengthen one another. But sometimes…
He doesn't think he merely imagines her general contentment in their relationship, both as co-rulers and in their marriage. While they have been engaged in a near constant fight for dominance in both, it is hardly a bitter struggle that leaves them feeling resentful. They test one another, pushing limits to see how far their partner will allow themselves to be pushed, but there is a remarkable lack of true animosity present in their interactions. It was harder in the very beginning, their personalities both too strong for either of them to bow to the other, but over their year or so of marriage, they have come to a somewhat comfortable compromise of giving and taking.
As regards to their marriage bed, they do often enjoy sharing a bed, fruitless though they both know the exercise to be. Lovemaking between them is done simply for the pleasure of it, and he assesses that neither of them leave their marriage bed unsatisfied. Although Daenerys has kept her lover Daario Nahris, Aegon has come to the conclusion that her stubbornness regarding the mercenary has more to do with standing her ground, rather than a deep affection for the man.
He plays with the idea of calling her Daenerys the Defiant one day, just to see if she will laugh at the reference, or act defensive and scowl. He thinks he has a good enough read on her by now to hazard a guess that she will react with laughter, appreciating the jest and not taking offense.
But then will come one of those deep, inscrutable stares, and Aegon suddenly is sure of nothing in regards to his wife's true feelings. She is giving him one of those looks right now, as a matter of fact, but he is too caught up in rebutting Connington's frankly ridiculous view of Eddard Stark'sson's culpability in the fall of House Targaryen to do more than make note of it.
"I fail to see how your aversion to the man is any better than Robert Baratheon," he says the name as if pronouncing a vile curse, "deciding that my sister and I were dragonspawn and thus deserved to die. Snow would have been a baby when his father rebelled, my lord. No more guilty of Robert's Rebellion than my sister and I."
Connington recoils, stung to have Aegon compare him to the Usurper, of all people, no doubt, but he swiftly recovers and likely would continue to stubbornly stick to his opinion if Aegon allowed him. He is sick and tired of this repetitious argument playing out day after day until he thinks he will scream if it is brought up one more time.
As it happens though, Aegon is saved from another half hour of ceaseless arguing by the sounds of a battle they have unknowingly stumbled upon in the dark.
A rank of Unsullied march in a protective formation around them and one of Aegon's loyal Golden Company commanders and his men have been given charge of the advance guard, so by the time they arrive at the scene of the action, the fight is well over, though the aftermath is sobering enough. A good dozen or more corpses litter the field, each engulfed in a blaze of fire, while a handful of ragged, black-clad men with torches tend three of the fires.
At first he thinks all the pyres belong to slain wraiths, but then realizes that the bodies the black brothers linger over are actually their own men, freshly dead and not prone to easily burning. The smell of cooking meat draws horrified noises from several of their less battle-tested men and lords, though he cannot say as it does not affect him as well. He is simply too accustomed to wearing a mask of indifference to allow his own revulsion to show.
Aegon can hear when each segment of their men fall silent behind as they ride past the scene until they must seem an army of ghosts approaching the Watch castle. The only sounds are that of the horses clomping noisily through the snowy landscape and the bellows of a secluded few commanders as they lay out orders to the men. All of the idle chitchat and laughter that has followed them thus far is gone, the men nervous about what they will find at the castle proper. A call goes up for torches to be lit, and as the mass of fire doubles, then triples around him, Aegon imagines they must look like a hoard of fireflies from the top of the Wall.
The rest of the ride is somber.
A mood which turns swiftly to horror when they reach Castle Black and find it overrun with dead men. Not merely inert corpses, horrifying as that would have been, but the bodies of slain Nights Watchmen risen from the dead, their eyes glowing blue set in faces not yet rotting. A scattering of men, dressed all in black and wielding swords in one hand and lit torches in the other, fight not on the ground level, but on the meager raised porches and paths of the 'castle'. It becomes evident swiftly that this is in fact the wisest strategy, as it makes the wrights come to them in threes and fours instead of as a monolithic swarm the way the creatures do when they attack the arriving army. It takes several minutes of sheer terror as many of the men forget and must relearn that swords and arrows do nothing to stop the unholy menaces before a strong voice from the direction of the castle yells out that they can only be slain by fire.
Minutes of controlled chaos later, the main yard is free of the creatures except for as merrily burning lumps of flesh on the ground. By the time the creatures are all put to the flame, the surviving black brothers stream down towards the ground at a run. There cannot be more than a dozen of them.
And yet, Aegon realizes, the sounds of fighting continue, and the men of the Nights Watch are dashing towards a tunnel in the ice. Aegon orders the men forward and leaves his wife behind as he maneuvers out of the protective formation to join the onward march to the other side of the Wall. It quickly becomes apparent that this is where the true battle lies, the wrights in the castle yard and in the woods having simply forced their way through or slipped past the black brothers during the mayhem.
There must be five dozen—or more—of the undead, and less than half that number of still living Nights Watchmen. Despite this, the black brothers more than hold their own as they move together like a well oiled war machine, methodically taking down the creatures with torches and, oddly enough, gleaming little daggers. They do not use the daggers on the wrights, and suddenly Aegon remembers the black brother in King's Landing telling them of the Others; the White Walkers. While the wrights must be destroyed by fire, their masters can only be killed by dragonglass and dragonsteel.
Aegon had forgotten, though thankfully not before order an excavation of the dragonglass deposits on Dragonstone. The first shipments of daggers and arrowheads, as requested by the black brother, would have left shortly after they themselves, and Aegon abruptly wishes that he had inquired as to the availability of these items. If these men feel most comfortable while facing an army of creatures double their own only if they have a tiny dragonglass dagger in hand, then there must be—
There.
Dear gods...
Suddenly, as if a fog has overtaken his sight, he barely sees the wrights, his attention caught by a trio of tall pale figures that glide across the battlefield, striking down men with preternatural ease, gleaming swords of something like ice cutting through the air in their wake.
A ragged cheer goes through the Nights Watchmen when they catch sight of the Targaryen army, but the White Walkers are not intimidated. The creatures turn to advance on Aegon's men, who quickly begin to cry out in horror as their swords shatter like brittle glass rather than parrying the icy blades. His men fall, only to stand again moments later, their eyes glowing blue like the wrights as they turn on their comrades. He begins to panic.
We have precious little Valyrian steel and no dragonglass, his mind reels. I wield Blackfyre, but my men have no way of killing these 'll allbe slaughtered!
He curses himself as a reckless fool for leading his men into this battle without properly outfitting them for their foe, but before he can come up with a better idea than a strategic—cowardly, his men will say, and he dreads that they could be right—retreat, a massive wolf, pure white but for its startling crimson eyes, flies out of the assembly of black brothers and takes one of the figures down. A man bursts out after the wolf, a longsword in hand rather than a torch and dagger, and he swiftly stabs the Other, causing the creature to melt away before their eyes.
Aegon experiences a fleeting taste of relief at this evidence that a normal blade somehow can slay the creatures, but then realizes, as his men continue to engage the other two nightmarish figures and continue to be slain as easily as untried green boys, that the man's blade is in fact not normal at all, but one of Valyrian steel.
It is complete, utter pandemonium, and Aegon sees that the only way to end it is to destroy the pale beings before they can...turn anymore of his men. So he spurs his terrified horse forward, Blackfyre drawn and ready in his hand, and rides towards one of the White Walkers. He changes his course towards the third creature once he sees the dark-haired man from before engage the one he had originally picked out, and ends up being able to intercept a killing stroke meant for one of his men with Blackfyre. The being, standing nearly as tall as Aegon sits upon his horse, wheels around in seeming surprise at finding another opponent who can match its blade.
Aegon, meanwhile, is thanking the Seven that his gamble paid off. Blackfyre can match their cruelly gleaming ice-swords, now it just remains to be seen if he can match the White Walkers themselves.
The creature is fast, faster than any opponent Aegon has ever fought before and stronger than its tall, thin frame would suggest. It is all he can do to keep from being run through himself, and his poor, terrified horse is almost more a hindrance than a help as the beast shies away from the White Walker, nearly making him miss a parry when it dances nervously away.
I have to get off this horse before the damn thing gets me killed, he thinks, heart pounding.
Easier said than done, he realizes as the White Walker chases after him as his horse attempts to escape. Trained and battle-tested warhorse or not, the beast refuses to come close to the Other and finally it just ignores Aegon's struggles to guide it and turns to run.
His back is completely exposed.
He just manages to throw himself from the saddle before he hears the agonized screaming of his horse as the White Walker's icy blade slices into its flank. He rolls to his feet and scrambles to right himself and find Blackfyre as the wright's pale master glides around the writhing horse, completely composed except for a terrible smile beginning to pull at its bloodless lips. He spots his sword laying abandoned on the ground halfway between he and the White Walker. Without the sword, he knows he will not survive, but there also is a distinct possibility that he will not be able to so much as lay hands on the sword before the White Walker reaches him.
He will just have to chance it.
He steels himself and dashes forward into the jaws of death, hoping that luck and the Seven will be on his side so as to allow him to dodge its teeth.
But it isn't the Seven who save him.
It is a tattered black cloak.
The White Walker snarls, one long fingered hand coming up to snatch at the heavy cloth that has somehow ended up over its head, quite effectively blinding it, and Aegon seizes the opportunity to take up his fallen sword and drive it unflinchingly straight into the creature's heart.
It isn't like killing a man, Blackfyre's blade seeming to suffer no resistance at all as it slides through the frozen flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter. The creature stiffens for but a moment before it simply dissolves into watery sludge that pours down Blackfyre's blade and is so cold that Aegon thinks his hands may be in danger of frostbite where the stuff soaks into his gauntlets.
He startles badly when a man that he hadn't seen approach him seems to simply materialize beside him and reaches down to take the black cloak. The man shakes the sopping cloak out briefly, but swiftly seems to give it up as a lost cause and ends up throwing it back to the ground with a sound of disgust. When he turns, Aegon is arrested by a pair of dark eyes that pass over him curiously before the man gives a slight nod of acknowledgment and leaves as quickly as he appeared. It would be too dark to follow his progress except for the fact that the white wolf from before veritably glows in the moonlight as it trots obediently alongside him, and after a moment, even the wolf disappears into the throng of bodies.
With the only White Walkers in evidence now destroyed, the tide of battle turns without the foul creatures there to swell the ranks of their dead thralls. All the same, by the time they are finished, Aegon's hands ache with the cold, though thankfully the frostbitten sensation has abated and he has hope that he will not need a maester to look at them.
His own horse dead and put to the flame, Aegon confiscates another horse for the trip back through the ice tunnel as he returns to Daenerys' side. His wife notices the change of horse and his disheveled appearance with a delicately raised brow but asks no questions, for which he is grateful.
He sees the dark-eyed man again, the giant wolf at his side a dead giveaway as he trudges back through the gate, one of the last men through before the portcullis creaks ominously and slams closed. He stands apart from the rest, boldly approaching them while paying no mind at all to the burning corpses around his feet.
Ah, my valiant rescuer, Aegon thinks wryly.
Now that Aegon can actually see him properly with better light than that of the moon, he notes that he is tall, with a head of dark curls that fall long around his handsome, if scarred, face. Once he is closer, the long face and gray eyes are all the further physical evidence that Aegon needs to have a good guess as to who exactly this man is.
Eddard Stark's bastard comes right up to Aegon and Daenerys where they still sit astride their horses, their features and crowns no doubt informing him of their identities as easily as Aegon was able to guess his. Even by only the faint light of the moon and flickering torches, Aegon can see the grim cast to the Northerner's face, as if internally steeling himself for a duty he finds particularly unpleasant. When he falls to one knee and bows his head, the frown makes a little more sense.
"Welcome, Your Grace," Jon Snow says tersely, shoulders tense as if waiting for an axe to fall on his head.
Aegon, meanwhile, feels his blood stir at the sight—along with something else, as he is greatly startled to note—and it is left to Daenerys to reply to the man's begrudging salutation as Aegon processes the...unexpected effect the man has on him. As it is, he can do little more than stare mutely at the dark-haired man.
What is wrong with me? He asks himself, unsettled by his body's powerful reaction to the younger man, and all of a sudden actually glad for his cumbersomely thick clothes and the heavy cloak that his body all but vanishes under. He barely hears Daenerys' response or Jon Snow's inviting them inside to speak in the castle's great hall.
Dismounting without cluing in anyone in regards to the condition that seeing the handsome Northerner on his knees with that pouting mouth twisted downwards has left him in is an uncomfortable experience, and one he can honestly say is a new one for him. His body simply doesn'tspring sudden, unexplained arousals just because a pretty face kneels in his presence—he shudders to think how embarrassingly his coronation would have gone if it did.
Focusing instead on his lingering annoyance for the man's insulting 'rescue', Aegon is able to will away the reaction with enough success to trust that he'll not end up embarrassing himself in public. With that in mind, he speeds up, outstripping Daenerys for the moment to fall into step with the gray-eyed Northman.
"I didn't need your help," he says, even though in his mind he's calling himself a terrible liar. "I could more than handle the White Walker without you intruding."
The man side-eyes him with those dark eyes, blankly but for a trace of scorn he can just detect in them. His cock stirs again—Dammit, what is going on?—but he also bristles in offense. Before he can say anything though, the man speaks, his voice hard and brittle.
"When you fight the Others, forget any notions you have of honorable battle," he says, eyes narrow. "There's no glory in death by the hand of an Other. There is no honor in being enslaved and turned on your comrades. They don't just kill you—they kill you and turn you to their cause. So you kill them first, and you kill them fast, by whatever means necessary, and with whatever dirty trick will do it."
There is outright contempt in his voice by the end, but Aegon finds that he is no longer offended. This man is a survivor, he sees now. This man has learned the hard way not to let "notions of honor" get in the way of his mission or his survival.
"Well said," Aegon acknowledges with a nod. The other appears surprised by his easy acquiescence, but buries it quickly and turns his head away so that his dark hair blocks Aegon's view of his eyes.
Daenerys comes up beside him then, hooking her arm through his and giving him a curious look, to which he shakes his head faintly. She doesn't look particularly appeased; she is used to getting things her own way and having people jump to answer her every query. But while she may be Queen, Aegon is also the King. He does not bow to her every whim, nor she to his, and so instead of demanding an answer, she lets it go with just a displeased frown.
It is inside the Keep, sitting at a long table across from Jon Snow as he explains everything he knows of the White Walkers, that Aegon has the sudden and entirely inappropriate thought that he is indeed the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. For why else would this Stark, bastard or no, light a fire in his blood so thoroughly that even as he describes horrors the likes of which Aegon has scarcely dreamed of, his trousers feel like torture and he has trouble focusing on anything but the movement of Snow's pale pink lips.
Oh, come on! He snarls to himself.He's not thatattractive! His squire's prettier and less scarred on top of it. Get a grip, Aegon!
Meanwhile, Snow says nothing of the delay, and instead is all business, explaining everything that has happened to this point and describing the masters of the awful shambling dead. For all his dourness, Aegon can tell that Eddard Stark's bastard son is actually profusely grateful for the aid and makes an effort to welcome them as graciously as he imagines the man can manage with so few of his men alive.
Steel-gray eyes flicker to meet his own indigo throughout, the action seemingly independent of their owner's control, and Snow's eyes widen almost imperceptibly as he catches Aegon staring at his mouth. Snow's speech stumbles momentarily, and once he recaptures his train of thought, his eyes stick unerringly to Daenerys alone seemingly by sheer force of will alone. Aegon thinks he sees that pale complexion redden some, but it may just be a trick of the dim lights and his own imagination. But no, Snow's sudden need to hide his face in his long hair as he "thinks" cannot be mere coincidence.
Well, well. Maybe I'm not the only one losing my mind here.
When their discussion is finished, Aegon having missed most of it, they all stand and Jon Snow, his bottom lip red from being bitten repeatedly, offers the King and Queen quarters in the King's Tower. His chambers, if Aegon is not mistaken. For while Snow indeed still has not introduced himself as Lord Commander, and seems to hold himself largely apart from the rest of the black brothers, there is no other man that appears to hold the position.
Curious, he muses, rounding the table to follow the man's lead.
Daenerys declines the shared chambers, choosing instead to keep a separate, rather smaller set, where no doubt, her lover Daario Nahris will join her shortly. Aegon is not bothered. He knows that she is barren and there will be neither bastards nor trueborn children from her side of the bed chamber. He prefers to have her content rather than faithful and disgruntled by having her affairs cut short.
Besides, he has himself been struck by a most delightful itch. One that he fully intends to scratch.
Despite his—rather blown out of proportion, he freely admits—reputation when it comes to women, Aegon has had men before, he's simply much more discreet about bedding them than he is with women. There exists a certain stigma in Westeros where 'sword swallowers' are concerned, and Aegon has no desire to add that particular headache to his load when he already has quite enough as it is just with the running of his kingdom and keeping his wife content. But he enjoys men just as much as, and sometimes even more than, he does women.
Women can become very, very attached, even when they swear they will not, and of course, with women, he has to worry about fathering bastards. Men tend to be better at separating their feelings from the act, and ergo, rather less likely to start tearfully declaring their everlasting love and running away nosily sobbing when they are rejected. And, naturally, a thickening waistline on one of his former male lovers does not make him nearly break out in hives. Overall, if not for the stigma, he is of the opinion that a man makes a better paramour for a King than a woman. Certainly a much less complicated one.
Which is why, when Snow tries to back out of the room after surrendering the key, Aegon shakes his head and waves him further in with a lazy twist of his hand.
"No, no, Lord Commander. Stay awhile. I insist."
Snow closes the door, but remains stubbornly where he is. "I'm not Lord Commander anymore," he says, expression wary. "I was...mutinied against almost a year ago."
"And yet, you live? And you still keep these chambers? Quite unusual for a man that has been ousted from his command." Aegon replies dubiously as he sits in one of the two chairs by the fireplace. The fire is already merrily crackling in the hearth and must have been for some time with how warm the room is despite the temperature outdoors. Aegon gratefully strips the gloves from his hands and shrugs his heavy cloak off to drape over the back of the chair.
Once he is comfortable, he leans back to watch Jon Snow's reactions carefully. Beyond merely unusual, it is almost unheard of for men to mutiny only to leave the man they've mutinied against alive and still in possession of many of the trappings of his old position of power. Just what is Jon Snow trying to pull with such a bizarre story?
"There were extenuating circumstances afterward, Your Grace," Snow answers, expression going abruptly flat and his tone on edge. He looks ready to leave, hand groping the door handle restlessly. "Will that be all, Your Grace?"
"No," Aegon replies a little sharply with brows raised. "I believe I asked you to stay. So stay, Lord Snow."
Gray eyes flash at the mockingly pronounced title, and Snow's pretty mouth pinches into a scowl. But the man does reluctantly let go of the handle and finally obliges Aegon by coming fully into the room. At a gesture from Aegon, the man takes a seat in the other chair, muscles clearly tense, even through all the leather of his armor. He stares resolutely into the fire, his hands remaining clenched in the fabric of his trousers.
Aegon hides his smile at the hint of petulance and instead takes the opportunity to openly appreciate the view while the Stark bastard ignores him. He really is quite attractive, scars aside, and his glowering only makes Aegon want to put the sullen bastard on his knees and fuck his pouting mouth all the more.
"I admit I'm curious," he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip and catching the other man's unwilling attention. The action holds Snow's eyes only until they flick up and notice Aegon watching him back, after which, the man whips his gaze back to the fire. Aegon smirks and continues speaking.
"So tell me about these...'extenuating circumstances', Lord Snow. How did you survive this mutiny? Did they decide you were too pretty to kill in the end? Afterward, did they regret their rebellion and grovel at your feet, asking you to forgive and forget?"
To his own faint amusement, the lingering edge of mocking in his voice appears to greatly nettle Snow; his gloved hands clenching into fists on his knees, heedless of the thick cloth of his trousers threatening to tear in his hands. He remains obstinately silent though, even as Aegon can see the fury flash in the single visible gray eye.
Oh? Struck a nerve there did I, Lord Snow?
He supposes it wouldn't be out of character for the infamous murderers and rapers of the Nights Watch to turn on their pretty commander and rape him rather than kill him. It's disappointing, all the same, even if only because now he's rather sure that seducing the man will get him absolutely nowhere.
Snow shows signs of a reciprocal attraction, yes, but a man that's been violently gang raped is unlikely to be open to following through on such an enticement as a casual tumble with another man. Especially as it appears that Snow still holds great indignation in his heart over the vile circumstance. And Aegon has never been the type to just demand 'royal privilege' and essentially rape the man himself.
What a shame, he sighs to himself. Goal ruined, he is ready to dismiss the dark-haired bastard—and consequently spend a miserable night alone but for his left hand—when the man speaks.
"It wasn't like that," he bites out, "They did kill me—I have the marks to prove it. I laid dead for two days before the Red Priestess resurrected me."
Dead. For two days.
Red Priestess.
Resurrected.
...What?
"What?"
He realizes that he has echoed his last thought aloud only when he hears his own voice, horrified and incredulous all at once. His erection is gone as gone can be, thankfully, but otherwise he's aware that he probably still isn't the image of kingly dignity with his mouth hanging wide open and his eyes huge with shock.
Snow shrugs. "Her powers are potent—it's her visions you can't trust."
Aegon isn't sure what to say to that baffling statement and so he ignores it in favor of something else the man said.
"And you have marks still, you say?" Aegon asks as he tries to wrap his mind around it. Snow nods and so Aegon says, "Show me."
It is nothing less than a command, and by Jon Snow's startled look and flushing face, he knows it. "Show me," he repeats, standing and gesturing impatiently for Snow to follow suit, which Snow does after several seconds of hesitation. Gray eyes meet his, the man perhaps gauging how serious he is, but once discovering that the answer is 'completely serious', he begins loosening the buckles of his leathers and shucks them into the chair.
Underneath, Snow wears only a quilted doublet, abominably thin by Aegon's standards for such weather, but then again, this has been Jon Snow's home for years. Perhaps he no longer feels the cold. Gloved fingers stall on the carved-bone buttons, and so Aegon reaches out and undoes them himself. Snow's breath hitches and he can see him staring at him through apprehensive eyes, but Aegon simply finishes the last one and tugs the tunic open.
Incongruous with the otherwise somber mood, the first thought that comes to Aegon's mind is to wonder if Jon Snow has ever heard of the concept of blocking. To say he has never seen so many scars in his life would be a ridiculous claim, though he is fairly certain that he can say he's never seen so many on someone so young.
A number of silvery pink lines litter the pale skin, most of them small, the size of daggers of varying sizes, though a few are wider, nearly an inch and a half wide. Aegon can tell the difference between the wounds caused by a slashing sword, and those caused by straight out stabbing. These are mostly of the latter; the wounds showing signs of a blade having punctured the flesh, only to be torn harshly from it. Several are clustered around his belly, and must have pierced any number of vital organs there. But Aegon spies another, larger wound further up his chest and pushes the shirt off Snow's shoulders entirely to better see. He cannot help his loud inhale through his clenched teeth.
Larger than the others, and all the more gruesome for it, someone evidently stabbed Jon Snow right over his heart—and then twisted the blade as they ripped it out. A mortal wound even without the others.
"Gods be good..." Aegon says with breathless dismay.
His hand seems to move of its own accord, and when Jon Snow gasps in response to Aegon's bare hand covering the terrible scar, Aegon thinks he is just as surprised by his actions as Snow. His eyes are only for the pale canvas of scarred flesh, but he can feel the Stark bastard shiver, his tense muscles trembling under his hand. He feels warm and alive enough to Aegon, but he doesn't doubt the man's story—not with these mementos. And that is what they are; everlasting reminders of a heinous betrayal.
The wounds have healed to thick, rigid puckers of skin that look and feel as if they've had a year to heal, and Aegon wonders with morbid fascination at the...mechanics of Snow's resurrection. They are prominent under his fingers, the ridges easy to follow by touch alone, and he's certain he could make them out even in the pitch dark. That would seem to imply that they took their time healing, at least on the outer, skin-deep level, for surely his punctured heart and organs could not slowly heal without the trauma killing him again—could they? Do the normal rules of nature even apply in such a circumstance where magic has interrupted the natural order?
Strangely—maybe even a little alarmingly so—the plain unnaturalness surrounding Jon Snow's resurrection proves insufficient in cooling his blood for long, and Aegon finds himself audaciously skimming his fingertips down Snow's chest to rest instead on his taunt belly. Ostensibly he is simply interested in touching the rest of Snow's scars, but he doesn't bother lying to himself. It may be depraved of him, but as he imagines mapping these marks out in the dark with his hands while he presses this man back into soft sheets, his arousal makes a demonstrable return.
I am on the verge of spending in my trousers like a greenboy over scars—scars! He thinks disbelievingly and with not a little self-disgust. If I didn't know better, I'd think this 'Red Priestess' had put meunder an enchantment.
He swallows roughly from the surge of heat that has blossomed in is belly and steps around the man, hand trailing along in his wake and leaving Snow shivering under it. He halts behind him and puts his hands on both lean, muscled hips, right where the swell of a woman's would begin. But Jon Snow is no woman, and instead of the cushioned handholds he is used to with them, he feels only honed muscle padding the slender hips over his bones. It is different, but no less pleasing, and he uses his grip to turn the man until the glow of the fire illuminates his back.
Snow goes easily, not fighting him in the least, though he is still very tense, and Aegon gets the feeling that Snow does not often allow a man to stand so close to his unguarded back. Which, considering what Aegon has just seen, he does not blame him in the least, and actually finds it encouraging that, even with his quite justified reservations, Snow is showing himself willing to be handled with such grace. But the burgeoning smile on his lips quickly dies as he sees straightaway that there are a plethora of scars there as well, maybe half a dozen like the distinctive stab wounds on his front.
"There was a commotion in the yard, and when I went out to try to calm things down, they surrounded me and just started...stabbing me," Snow says in a raspy voice, looking over his shoulder warily like he's worried that Aegon might take it in his mind to put some more there.
In deference to Snow's evident leeriness, Aegon forces himself just to hum thoughtfully and instead thumbs a puckered scar that he recognizes as an arrow wound. A very messy arrow wound.
"Did you remove it yourself?" he asks.
"Remove what, Your Grace?"
Aegon snorts and taps the wound. "The arrow, what else? The scar's quite a mess, like you had to reach over your shoulder and rip it out on your own at a nasty angle."
"Oh. No," Snow laughs and his mouth twists in a humorless smile. "But I did fall off a horse with them still in my back."
Aegon cringes just imagining it, and then, sure enough, sees a second scar of the same type on the other side of Snow's spine.
"She got me again in the leg," Snow says quietly, warming to Aegon's inquiry, perhaps. "And probably would have punched me full of a few more if I hadn't been riding away as fast as I could at the time."
"She?"
Snow hesitates. "One of the wildlings," he admits at last. "I was returning to the Wall after infiltrating the wildling camp and discovering they meant to attack the Wall in force. She caught up to me and tried to kill me."
"Well she certainly made a good attempt at it," Aegon comments, sweeping his fingers back over one of the arrow marks. "If this one had been just a little further to the right, it would have pierced your heart."
Inky curls fall forward, leaving the knob at the top of his spine and his neck exposed when Snow's head bows forward at that. "I know," he whispers lowly. Aegon thinks he sees the way of it now.
"Ah," he says, head nodding as a piece of the puzzle clicks in with the rest. "She was your lover," he continues, just to see Snow's reaction. A flinch.
Aegon has lived surrounded by hardened war veterans for years, their scarred bodies living testaments to both their greatest victories and their most humiliating defeats. Jon Snow's body, on the other hand, seems to be nothing if not a monument to the most painful of betrayals.
Snow refuses to open his lips to either confirm or deny though, and Aegon does not press. Instead he circles back around so that he stands almost chest to chest with the Stark bastard, causing the other man to shift uneasily, but refuse to be the first to back away. Steel and amethyst match and Aegon moves closer so that he must tilt his head slightly in order to not look down his nose at the shorter man. Snow doesn't retreat even as Aegon can see the conflict in his eyes and feel the shakiness of his breath against his own skin.
So headstrong, even as youstare down a King, Aegon thinks, mostly amused but with an underlying—and growing—hunger. I wonder how well you'll keep that up while I'm making you scream. Will you glare at me then—or beg me for more? I wouldn't put it past you to do both.
His own resolve falters at the image such thoughts evoke in his mind, and he at last forsakes their battle of wills in favor of a more…pleasurable clash. As it is, he barely has to lean in at all to close the tenuous distance between them to take the other man's lips in a deep kiss.
Snow jolts and gasps into Aegon's mouth, but the King just grabs a handful of the man's hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him in. The dark curls are thick and silky in his fingers, and Aegon can taste the ale that Snow must have drank earlier on his tongue as he plunders that beguiling mouth at last. Snow shudders in his arms and Aegon swallows a moan when he feels an answering hardness against his thigh where he has slipped it between the dark bastard's legs to rub teasingly.
When Snow moans into his mouth and his still gloved hands clutch the front of Aegon's shirt, all he can think of is how he wants to have Snow first; whether he'll get him into the bed first, or just take him on the floor here in front of the fireplace.
But alas, it is simply not meant to be, it seems.
"Wait!" Snow gasps, head jerking back and to the side, heedless of the hold Aegon still has on his hair. "I can't, Your Grace. I just can't."
Breathless and with his mouth red and shiny and just begging to be kissed again, he is unspeakably tempting to Aegon's eyes at that moment. But he is also full on shaking and there is a wild look in his eyes that Aegon is used to seeing in the eyes of men about to bolt in terror out of Rhaegal's path of death and destruction. Reluctantly, he decides to have mercy on his prey and give him some space—not release him entirely, dear gods, no, but at least allow him time to catch his breath and calm himself some.
With that in mind, he uses his hold on Snow's waist to turn him around and maneuver him back into his own seat. It is large enough, he can set his knee between Snow's and bracket the man in with his arms on either side of his head. Snow's eyes are squeezed shut, but his breathing is still fast with panic, so Aegon lightly strokes his fingers over the pale skin soothingly and shushes him like he would a skittish horse.
"There now, deep breaths. Shhh… You're fine, just breathe deep," he murmurs, cheek pressed against one of Snow's so that he can feel the dark-haired man's every quavering breath against his neck. The sensation does nothing to quell his own desire, rather the opposite, really, and he is painfully hard by the time Snow's heartbeat slows. He draws back a little and looks directly into Snow's eyes as long lashes flutter and the gray irises are almost entirely hidden by blown pupils.
"Now tell me," Aegon says huskily, "Why can't you? Do you have a lover? Is it your wildling woman?"
Snow shakes his head slightly in a negative, and so Aegon kisses his mouth once more, almost chastely as compared to before. "Then why?" he persists between soft, closed-mouth kisses.
"I'm not—kiss—attracted—kiss—to men—kiss—your—kiss—grace—kiss—I'm sorry." Snow answers, though contrary to his words, he doesn't try to escape or push Aegon away. Aegon huffs a laugh and smiles into one of his kisses as he lets his hand trail down Snow's naked chest and gently cup the man through his trousers.
"This rather says differently," he whispers against gasping pink lips and massages the thick bulge of Snow's cock through the fabric of his trousers. He is rewarded by the further spreading of the muscular thighs his knee is planted between and a sharp roll of Snow's hips up into his hand. And yet, despite his clear enjoyment, Snow turns away once more with protest.
"Just a—uh!—a...a physical reaction," he pants. "It means nothing. I don't bed men."
"Ever?"
Aegon likes the sound of that, actually, and rewards him with a generous squeeze that makes the man keen.
"Ne—eeverrr. Oooh gods, please, no more. I—I can't..."
"Very well," Aegon sighs and stands up. Snow is obviously surprised by the abrupt stop, and cannot quite stop his hips from bucking up into the disappearing pressure once more. He looks absolutely mortified by his reaction, but Aegon can also detect something like disappointment in his handsome features too. Like he perhaps didn't think his protests would result in the complete removal of all of Aegon's attention at once and now regrets it.
You are like to drive me mad, Jon Snow, he thinks cheerfully. But I promise I will return the favor—in full.
"That's it?" Snow asks, as if waiting for the trick. "Just like that?"
Aegon shrugs and pastes on a put upon expression. "That's it," he confirms. "I'd like to bed you, I won't lie. But it's not as if I'm going to rape you if you're truly unwilling."
Jon Snow turns scarlet and looks down into his lap, dark curls obscuring his face.
Gotcha.
"I didn't think you were going to..."
"Look at me," Aegon interrupts him sternly. Snow jerks his face back up and Aegon can see the arousal and embarrassment warring on his pretty face. "Look me in the eye," Aegon commands him. "Look me in the eye and tell me that you don't want this. Do that, and I'll apologize for infringing on you so egregiously and then you can leave. I'll never mention this again, or attempt to seduce you. Just look me in the eyes and tell me you're not interested."
A filthy, filthy lie, of course, but if he has Snow figured out as well as he thinks he does, that never has to be revealed. The way the dark-haired Northman has reacted to him so far, he feels reasonably confident that the man protests for the sake of protest. He's a virgin to a man's touch and unsure of his own desires. Though if Aegon had to guess, he'd say it wasn't for lack of trying by his fellows in the Watch. Jon Snow is too pretty not to have been propositioned a dozen times over since he joined.
Which prompts Aegon to wonder how young Snow was when he joined the Nights Watch. He must be around 18 or 19, and yet rose to the rank of Lord Commander several years ago. The thought of a 15 or 16 year old Jon Snow being here, among these men, softer and more innocent, with no scars to mar his looks… Frankly, Aegon is a little suspicious of Snow's claim of both not being raped by his black brothers and never bedding a man.
The steel-colored eyes match his and Snow's mouth opens, but he says nothing and eventually closes it.
And now you're mine. You just don't know it yet.
Aegon allows himself to gloat inside—he can almost taste his triumph—but he allows nothing of his inner exultation to show on his face. Snow reacts badly to mockery, he's learned in his short time with the man, and though the last thing in the world Aegon wants to do to Snow right now ismock him, he's not blind to how a smug smirk on his part could be misinterpreted by the man. And so he keeps his face smooth and allows the silence to drag on for several more increasingly uncomfortable seconds. Uncomfortable for Jon Snow, that is. He is greatly enjoying the awkward scene, himself—even if he can taste blood in his mouth from where he's bitten his cheek too hard trying to keep his expression carefully blank.
Just when it seems that Snow has worked up the nerve to say something, Aegon snatches up Snow's discarded tunic and presents it to the man.
"You can go," he dismisses him curtly and revels internally at the taken-aback look that Snow gives him. "I see you're not ready just yet, so think it over and we'll speak again later."
Snow takes his tunic, and when he stands he turns his back to hide the thunderstruck expression that he can't seem to wipe off his face.
It is a gamble, sending him away like this. He could come back the next day, having processed every thing and decided that he really doesn't want to share Aegon's bed. But that being said, Aegon honestly does not foresee that happening. Snow rather strikes him as a man who needs desperately to let go. The stresses of power and command have worn the Stark bastard down into the ground and he is very plainly tired of having to be strong and in control. Once he can convince him just to try giving the reins to Aegon, he's certain that the man will learn to crave that sort of release. And Aegon looks forward to being his sole source while he is at the Wall.
Besides, Aegon, contrary to popular opinion, is capable of playing the long game. Somewhat. Not that he intends his seduction of Jon Snow to go on much longer than it absolutely must in order to get the man in bed, but he's not opposed to taking his time and doing a proper job of it. He knows—just knows, in his bones—that he wants more than a single messy tumble with the man.
He feels...drawn to Jon Snow, almost the way he felt drawn to Daenerys when he first met her. With Daenerys he's sure it was the draw of family, helped along by the fact that his aunt's reputation as the most beautiful woman in the world was by no means an exaggeration. But that does not explain why he can hardly keep his hands off this Northern bastard, pretty though he may be under the scars.
And then, with a jolt, it occurs to him to wonder if this is how his father felt when he first saw Lyanna Stark. The famed wolf-maid of the North who drew his father's eye away from his mother, and over whom a war was fought.
That is...a terrifying thought, actually.
But an undeniably thrilling and, dare he say, pleasing one as well.
There have been skeptical whispers about Aegon ever since they first made landfall in Westeros. Even he has heard them, try as the whisperers have to be subtle, and though he shows nothing—proclaims nothing—but absolute belief in his own bloodline…
Even Aegon has his doubts.
He has wed Daenerys Targaryen, thus solidifying his right to rule and reunifying his sundered house, but though he sits otherwise uncontested upon the Iron Throne with as beautiful a woman as has ever lived by his side and sharing his bed, his triumph cannot help but be tainted by a single insidious question. Is he truly Aegon VI Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, or is he, as the rumors that refuse to die away claim, a Blackfyre usurper that has finally stolen the throne?
He isn't knowingly a Blackfyre, this he does know, but then he didn't know he was Aegon VI until Lord Connington told him when he was ten. And Lord Connington himself admits, very grudgingly, that he didn't come into custody of Aegon until he was near five, and had hardly ever seen him at all when he was still a babe in his mother's arms. With such bias and so many holes in his history, Aegon long ago decided that Lord Connington, loyal as he always has been, is not as… reliable a witness as some might think on the matter.
The man is as a father to him more than anything else, and Aegon is reasonably certain that if it were to be revealed that Aegon was in fact nothing more than the son of a Lysene whore, Lord Connington would still fight for Aegon's right to be King. It is a less comfortable feeling than Aegon would have imagined it to be, and it does nothing to quell the nausea that sometimes strikes him when his doubts prey too heavily on his mind.
But this? This instant, burning desire he felt upon meeting the bastard Stark? This is the first real feeling of genuine kinship that he's ever really felt for the man who has only ever been a story to him before. He has been taught to play the harp and sing; taught to be courtly and charming; andtaught to fight and hold a lance in the same manner as the larger-than-life spectre in his life that is Rhaegar Targaryen.
Sometimes it feels as if his life and experiences have been carefully manufactured so as to turn him into Rhaegar Targaryen's mirror image. Just the idea shakes his belief and makes him doubt himself. Would he bear any resemblance to his supposed 'father' if he hadn't been carefully molded his whole life to be as much like the man as possible?
This feels like the answer. Jon Snow feels like the answer—to that question and a hundred others that have plagued him. And judging by Snow's own bewildered reaction, Aegon surmises that such an immediate, visceral attraction is as unusual on his part as it is for Aegon.
Which is precisely why he wants to do this right, even though he's certain he could have him now if he just pushed a little more. But no, he will let Snow stew on his offer and return with his mind clearer and, with any luck, a little more ready to surrender on the morrow.
When Snow finishes redressing, he stops a moment to look upon Aegon once again, his dark eyes wary. It is then that the silver-haired King notices the fine job the other man has done of putting himself back together.
It almost...irks him, he realizes bemusedly as he finds himself frowning at the almost complete lack of evidence that Snow was only minutes ago moaning and thrusting his cock up into Aegon hand. As the other begins to head to the door, Aegon makes a snap decision and catches hold of him. Jon Snow turns startled eyes his way, but does not protest when Aegon pulls him around and crowds in close.
"Just once more," Aegon whispers against his lips, waiting until Snow's lashes flutter closed of their own accord to place a hot, lingering kiss upon them. He keeps his own mouth closed, not wanting to push Snow too much, but kisses him so passionately otherwise that he might as well have. His hands bury in Snow's whirlwind mess of curls and the man's own hands grip Aegon's sides in response. He lines their cock up as best he can—Snow is a little shorter than himself—and while he does no more than that, he can feel the powerful effect that the action has on Snow as the other man shudders again and groans against his mouth.
When he draws back, Snow is as thrown off balance as he was when he'd first begun panicking, and his appearance just as appealing. Nonetheless, Aegon forces himself to let him go rather than shove him up against the nearest wall and finish what he has started like he is dying to. Snow steps back with dazed gray eyes and a crimson flush covering his face. The man unconsciously wets his lips with his tongue, but thankfully for Aegon's ability to control himself he immediately retreats shakily out of the room. He throws Aegon just one more overwhelmed look before the door closes, and afterward Aegon lets his head fall back and groans ruefully.
So close! So fucking close!
He could have spent tonight fucking the handsome Stark bastard, but now instead he's sentenced himself to that same miserable night alone with his hand that he'd bemoaned earlier.
"Dammit!" he swears aloud and then makes himself a promise as he walks to the bed, loosening his laces as he goes.
Tomorrow, he vows, taking his cock in hand with a moan.Tomorrow, for sure. He'll either be ready tomorrow or I'll go mad tomorrow. Either way I'll be put out of my misery.
When he spends over his hand just a few minutes later, he is picturing Jon Snow's mortified blush and the way his scarred belly trembled under his hands. His Kingsguard stationed outside can probably hear him as he shouts his completion, but Aegon spares no thought for embarrassment as he lays back, chest heaving and the vision his mind has conjured up still wrecking havoc on his control.
Tomorrow.
A/N: Oh Aegon, I think you're maybe just a little overly optimistic there. Maybe. We'll see. (^.^)
Now, now, put those knives down everyone, I promise it isn't over yet. You will get your smut, and lots of it.
* This doesn't seem to actually be necessarily true, as several times in ASoIaF, the wrights remain dead instead of rising. Like the ones Jon put in the ice cells and wanted to study when they rose at night. Only they never did, for some reason. But I wanted some dramatic way for Jon to lose his patience and convince the new King and Queen to get their butts and their dragons to the Wall.